5. Chapter 5
Catherine Van Tassel
None of this makes sense. Witches, magical boundaries, curses, and mate bonds with a man who looks like Halloween decor. It's definitely a crazy fever dream.
But the phantom warmth I feel where his hands just touched me is all too real, and so is the almost desperate and vulnerable edge he has to his story. I somehow believe him.
What else am I to believe when I just watched his body pick up the talking pumpkin and attach it as a head?
I take a slow, shaky breath as I grip the wool blanket tightly and my thoughts whir.
He’s been trapped here and headless for who knows how long, and my heart aches for him even if I'm terrified.
“I'll help you, Victor,” I tell him, my voice soft but calm and steady.
The candlelight in his gaze flares slightly at my words and his pumpkin face spreads into a huge smile at my decision.
“But I have to be completely honest with you,” I add, raising a hand to keep him from getting ahead of things when he jumps to his feet.
I swallow hard and try to pick my words carefully.
I don't want to hurt his feelings at all, but I have to be honest. “I’m not so sure about the mate thing. Like I’m human, and to be honest all of the magic stuff is a little overwhelming.
I promise I’ll help get your head back but I can't promise anything beyond that.”
His orange candlelit grin remains fixed on his rind, but I can't help but notice how the flame dims a bit as he studies me.
“Fair enough,” he says, his voice devoid of anger and full of gratitude. “Your help is more than I've a right to ask for, and the rest we can figure out later. The mate bond, if not tended to by us both, will fade with time.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you for understanding,” I murmur, letting out a small sigh of relief.
“After we get your head back, I’ll need help finding my car.
And probably a tow truck,” I mention. As much as I want to drive out of here ASAP when this is all over, my car is probably crunched against a tree somewhere.
“Deal,” the headless horseman says, agreeing to my terms. “I know these woods like the back of my hand, so it shouldn't be any trouble to get back to your car. There are only a few roads nearby after all.”
He steps back toward the crackling fireplace, putting space between us, but I sense the magnetic pull doesn't let up.
“Now then,” he continues. “Since we're going to be partners, how about I fetch you something warm to drink? You still look a bit frozen.”
Victor disappears into what I assume is the kitchen for a few moments, and I can make out the soft clinking ceramics that echo back to the living area.
When he returns, he's carrying a tray with a brown mug and a small bowl of sugar cubes. The sharp scents of cinnamon and baked apples fill the space as I find the cup brimming with steaming hot cider.
“Here you are,” he says gently, settling the small tray down onto the wooden coffee table near my chair and within reach. “Careful, though, it's hot.”
“Thank you,” I reply, wrapping my hands around the warm mug, letting the heat of it seep into my cold digits.
Taking a sniff, I smile. It smells like autumn.
I take a small sip, allowing the sweet and spicy liquid to melt through my chest, warming my insides.
I look down at all the sugar cubes, and my brow furrows.
“What are the sugar cubes for? I don't think I've ever seen anyone add sugar to their cider,” I say, pointing a finger down at the white blocks.
Victor nods his pumpkin shaped head and suddenly seems sheepish.
“Those aren't for the cider,” he says, a touch of humor in his tone. “Those are bribes for my horse, Brom Bones.”
I blink in confusion, lowering my mug. “A bribe?”
“We’ll need to take the shortest route to the county line if we want to beat the morning light,” Victor says, striking up his pacing before the fire again.
“But that route requires jumping a rather high stone fence at the edge of the property.
Brom used to love jumping it, but ever since the curse…
. well, he's been incredibly stubborn about jumping anything.
And I can't blame him when his ride doesn't have a proper set of eyes to guide him.
He just gets a bit nervous, that's all.”
A breathless laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The image of that massive flaming stallion being scared while the headless horseman bribes him with sugar cubes is almost too much.
“So,” Victor says, the flames in his rind flickering as I laugh. “We’re going to need every single one of those cubes to get him to clear that wall. Consider them a vital piece of equipment, pretty girl.”
Victor Crane
The steady beat of Brom’s hooves vibrates through the stirrups, a familiar comfort against the evening chill in the air.
Behind us, the warm glow of the hunting lodge is already fading into the dense treeline as we head down the old winding path toward the edge of the village.
By now, the supernatural have scattered to their respective haunting spots for the night, a bit further from here. Most head to the human metropolis, but some stay to celebrate in the village.
I keep Brom at a slow and cautious trot. I have to, as two slender, trembling, very human hands are wrapped tightly around my waist, gripping the cotton of my shirt as if her life depends on it.
Riding this way, I can feel every movement she makes and the magic of the mate bond hums between us like a bolt of lightning straight to my chest. Every little shiver that runs through her goes directly to my soul.
She's terrified out of her wits and completely overwhelmed by the paranormal world she didn't know existed until an hour ago, and yet she's still here. She didn't run. Thank the gods.
And she smells so good, like sunshine, and the feel of her arms around my waist fairly has my chest bursting with pride.
“Easy Brom,” I say, nudging him to the left to miss a low hanging old tree branch.
The stubborn horse snorts loudly as his ears pin back against his head.
He’s tense, as if he senses what's afoot, and how crucial the next few hours will be. Unfortunately we’re on a tight clock with not much to spare, especially now we’re adding my skull rescue to the mix.
Catherine’s hands tighten, and I know they must be getting tired at this rate. I shift slightly in the leather saddle, wishing with more than anything that I could turn around and give her the reassurance that she needs, but instead I keep my carved face pointing ahead, staring into the dark.
“We’re making good time,” I call back to her, hearing an old barn owl hoot in the distance. “The village is just past this ridge leading to the old stone boundary fence at the edge of the woods. It's a straight shot from there to the next county line.”
The grip on my shirt tightens as her small hands dig into the fabric for purchase.
“And you're absolutely positive the sugar cubes are going to work?” she asks. Her voice drifts up behind me, slightly muffled, and I grin. “I’m just saying, if this big horse decides to stop dead in front of the stone wall, I'm pretty sure I'm going to fly right over your pumpkin.”
A deep rumble of laughter shakes and rattles my chest. “Brom’s ego is almost as big as he is, and his sweet tooth is even bigger.
Just keep them in your pocket until we need them.
If he catches a whiff of those sugar blocks he’ll never leave your side.
But for candied apples, he’ll jump over the moon for you. ”
Up ahead, the trees begin to thin out, but instead of the sleepy valley I've come to expect each year, a sudden flare of unnatural light hits the underside of the tree canopy. I rein in Brom to a sharp halt and the horse chuffs a breath of warm steam into the night.
Down near the village entrance, the road is choked with a chaotic festival as all manner of supernatural creatures weave through the area with multicolored lanterns bobbing through the dark, accompanied by the faint sounds of music and rhythmic chanting.
The ghoul parade.
My pumpkin head tilts down as I silently curse to myself.
Tonight of all nights the veil is so very thin that if I bring her anywhere near there without a costume, any of the night’s supernatural scavengers will be sensitive to her human energy.
They'll spot her instantly and send our timeline to hell.
Her grip on my middle tightens again, as if she senses the sudden tension in my frame.
“What is it?” Her voice drifts up, a sharp edge of panic in her tone as she shifts her body, most likely to get a better glimpse of the glowing procession below. “Why did we stop? What is that?”
“There’s been a change of plans about your attire this evening,” I say, lowering my voice so the sound doesn't carry on the wind.
“That’s a ghoul parade. They celebrate with a festival almost every year now, and if they catch even a whiff of a human, they'll descend on us in seconds.
You can't be near them without a disguise, and we can't jump just yet.”
Before she can process what I've said, I swing my leg over the saddle and slide soundlessly to the ground, my boots hit the soft dirt. Turning back to Brom, I reach up and wrap my gloved hands firmly around her waist.
“Let go of the saddle,” I mutter, my tone urgent as I pull her down into my arms.
As soon as I've got her in my arms, Brom gives a sharp toss of his head, the copper bit of his bridle clinking loudly against his teeth.
Before I can make a grab for the reins, a blast of discordant music from the village road echoes up the ridge, and the sound might as well be a spark to tinder.
Brom lets out a loud, piercing whinny that shatters the quiet stillness of the woods.
A bright plume of orange fire billows from his nostrils and illuminates the trees near us in a bright flash of light.
He rears back and sparks fly from his hooves as he bolts into the underbrush, tearing a blazing trail across the meadow toward the lodge as the dark holiday magic gets the better of him.
“Brom, no!” I hiss, but the fire breathing beast is already gone. “Sorry, he's just a bit excited tonight, is all.”
Down the slope, the bobbing lantern lights have stopped moving and I realize the parade heard the blast and definitely saw the fire. Worse, they're coming this way.
“Victor, what do we do?” Catherine whispers, her voice wobbling as she clings to the back of my shirt.
A strong and static charge of raw magic shifts in the air as the parade of supernaturals lends their attention our way.
There's no time.
Slamming my eyes shut, I focus on the magic coursing through me and raise my hands to channel the energy and let my power manifest what it does best. Orange sparks and the strong scent of turning leaves swirl through the air as a thick skinned but hollow pumpkin materializes between my fingers, just large enough to cover Catherine’s head.
“Just trust me and put this on,” I murmur, and before she can offer a protest, I lift the gourd and slip it over her, forcing a crooked jack-o’-lantern face not unlike my own onto the rind.