8. Chapter 8
Victor Crane
The apple orchard stretches out before us, empty and quiet under the silver lined canopy of the sky.
Rows of gnarled trees stand like silent sentinels, their branches bowing low under the heavy weight of ripe fruit.
The sharp, sweet fragrance of fermented cider and cool air fills the space and it's a peaceful contrast to the loud rustle of the corn maze, like a small pocket carved out just for the two of us.
Catherine’s hands tighten on the pommel of the saddle as I slow Brom to a sedate trot, steering him down the center aisle between trees still bearing ripened fruit.
“It’s so beautiful out here,” she says, her melodic voice muffled by the pumpkin rind.
“It is,” I reply. “Though I have to admit, I think I now prefer the quiet. I've had enough unexpected excitement tonight to last me a century.”
I feel the quiet shift in her posture as a silent laugh shakes her shoulders before it leaves her mouth. “You mean you weren't expecting anyone to land on your pumpkin tonight and send you on a wild hunt to get your head back?”
“I definitely wasn't expecting you,” I say, letting the memory of her falling on top of me cause a smile to pull across my crude lips. I can still recall her shock vividly, and how she fainted dead away at the sight of Brom and his fire display.
“Well, it wasn't intentional, but I can't say I haven't had a good time,” she teases.
“I’m glad,” I murmur, reaching up to pluck a low hanging perfectly round and succulent looking apple from the branches and hold it out.
Brom immediately snatches it up with a wet and eager crunch. He tosses his head happily as he eats and I let the reins fall as I wrap my arm around Catherine to keep her steady.
My gloved hands frame the cool thick rind of her pumpkin mask. “I think you’ve hidden behind this long enough for one night, my pretty girl,” I tell her.
“But it’s like my armor,” she whispers, her hands gripping my forearms. “If anyone sees me out here…”
“No one is going to see you here,” I reply, my fingers finding the base of the carved shell I made for her.
“The supernatural crowd around here has more to celebrate this year than ever with the ghoul de facto leader having found his mate, so they'll be busy carousing all night and will be too engrossed in the village to even wander this far. You're safe here.” With a slow, careful tilt, I slide the hollow pumpkin off her shoulders. “We’ll bring it with us in case you need the disguise later.”
As the mask comes away, she blinks her pretty blue eyes at me and a smile pulls at the corners of her lips as she meets my own hollow sockets. My gods, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The sweet scent of her melds with the smell of apples and suddenly, the quiet grouping of apple trees seems smaller and more intimate somehow.
Catherine opens her mouth to speak, but a loud and wet snort cuts her off.
Brom tosses his big head and his dense hooves pound and stamp impatiently against the damp grass.
A brilliant flash of red and orange light explodes through the small orchard as a tiny plume of fire erupts from his nostrils.
The sudden heat is swift and the scent of baking apples fills the air as he turns a honeycrisp apple a deep, bubbling golden brown right before our eyes.
“All right,” I say, a low chuckle thrumming through my chest as I fasten her disguise to the saddle and hop to the ground.
“I see someone is getting impatient. If we don't get to picking them, he’ll start making his own baked apples right on the branches, and trust me, the local owner gets remarkably upset when his trees are toasted.”
Catherine looks up at the roasted apple and a bright tinkling laugh breaks from her lips. “I thought you said he’d be eating his oats all night. He ought to be full.”
“He’s a growing boy, aren't you, Brom?” I say in his defense, though the tone of my voice carries nothing but affection.
She turns in the saddle and leans forward with her arms open for me to help get her down, and my attention focuses on the small thread glowing between us.
She smiles, and just like that, I’m lost.
So much has happened tonight, but I know without a doubt that her smile is brighter than any moonlight I'll ever see and it makes my insides twist into something I've never experienced before. I want her. Almost as much as I’ve pined for my head back all these years.
The realization is startling, to say the least.
“Then I guess we better start picking before he turns this place into a bakery,” she says as I set her on her feet.
We spend the next few minutes frantically harvesting the low hanging fruit and tossing apples into the air for Brom to catch mid fire-breathing.
After bribing the giant beast with no fewer than three perfectly caramelized and candied apples, and half the supply of sugar cubes Catherine managed to hoard in her pockets, the stallion finally lets out a smoky and contented sigh.
“I think he's satisfied now,” she murmurs, wiping a stray trace of sticky sugar onto her black skirt.
“For now,” I mutter back. “Up you get.” I lift her up onto the saddle and quickly move in behind her, allowing Brom to adjust to our combined weight before moving.
I gather up the reins in my grip and glance past the neat rows of the orchard toward the edge of the property.
The border of the Hollow is marked by the old county fencerow, a formidable barrier of stacked stones and heavy oak timbers.
On a normal night, it's a line that no one crosses, but tonight, it's the only thing standing between us and getting my head back.
I lean down slightly and my shoulder brushes against Catherine's dark hair. “Ready to see what this boy can really do?”
A jolt goes through her at the suggestion and when she turns to look up at me, her gaze shines with excitement. “Are you sure he can clear that?” She gestures toward the old fencerow and I don’t blame her for asking. It is tall. For a regular horse.
“Whatd’ya say, Brom?” I ask, watching as his horse ears twitch forward. “You may have to ask him nicely,” I tell her when he whinnies.
Catherine leans forward over Brom's big neck and rubs the flat of her hands against his gleaming coat. “All right, big guy. If you get us over the fence cleanly, I'll bring you a whole basket of apples and sugar cubes tomorrow. Deal?”
Brom gives a sharp snort and squeals loudly, his body tensing with violent energy. He doesn't have to be told twice. I shift my weight in the saddle and press my boots into his flanks as the stallion explodes into a powerful gallop.
The wind roars in our ears, the chill cutting like a knife, so fierce Catherine shrinks back into me.
The apple trees blur into dark and shadowy smudges on either side of us while the enormous timber and stone fencerow looms ever closer and closer.
Catherine squeezes her eyes shut, her knuckles white against the pommel of the saddle.
Brom coils his monstrous hindquarters and launches into the air. For one breathless, weightless heartbeat, the ground disappears completely as we’re suspended in the moonlight, floating high above the boundary line.
A moment later, Brom’s heavy hooves strike the ground on the other side of the fencerow, and we’re now across the county line. Brom’s landing is smooth and graceful, his power and prowess carrying both of us cleanly across the high obstacle as he absorbs the impact without a single stumble.
A breathless, high pitched laugh escapes Catherine and her grip loosens a fraction as she opens her eyes. I hear her intake of breath as all the joy in the air vanishes while Brom begins a slow and cautious walk.
Directly ahead, the forest is so thick and dense no moonlight can pass, and instead of a tranquil ridgeline, the crowded oaks twist violently against one another as if fighting to take over the sky, and tucked right in the middle of the angry woods is the old cemetery.
Weathered and crooked tombstones peek out from the overgrown weeds, and it's clear from the grounds the old cemetery has long been out of use, forgotten and left to rot like my pumpkin patch.
The cozy, sweet smell of the apple orchard is gone, replaced by a musty, decay filled reek of damp ground and moss.
Brom’s ears pin back against his head and a warning puff of smoke escapes his nostrils.
“Well,” Catherine mutters under her breath as she takes in the old witch’s stomping grounds. “This definitely isn't as cute and cozy as the village.”
I chuckle. “You think the ghoul village is cozy?” A full belly laugh escapes me as I think on how offended the ghouls would collectively be at this wisp of a woman finding their home cute and cozy.
I bring the stallion to a halt at the edge of the dark, dense woods. Sliding off his back, I land silently in the overgrown ground and turn to lift Catherine down. The moment her feet touch the grass, I grab the carved pumpkin from the saddlebag and hand it to her.
“The veil is much too thin tonight. You’ll need this and it’s possible she’ll be awake,” I tell her. “All manner of ghosts will be about and you'll have to wear it. If she senses a mortal soul, she’ll try to attack you. But don't worry, she can't touch you with me here.”
Catherine doesn't balk or hesitate. Made of stern stuff, she takes a big, deep breath of the cool night air before carefully sliding the thick gourd over her head until it sits easily on her shoulders.
I pull Catherine tight to my side as we step onto the overgrown path leading to the cemetery. My boots crunch softly against the crisp leaves, and with each rustle, more of the weightless, drifting dead rise around us.
The sound brings the ghosts' attention to us almost immediately. A dozen or so of the wispy, diaphanous, pale figures glide through the air over the old and crooked tombstones, their dead and hollow gazes locking onto Catherine’s movements.
The air temperature drops to freezing, cold enough that I can hear when her teeth begin to chatter at my side.
Translucent, decayed fingers grasp and grope through the air, a swirling vortex of gray and slithering bodies as they move and crowd around us in unison, drawn closer still by her unmistakable warmth and life force.
I underestimated how very hungry they’d be to feel any life at all so far from the village. The emaciated shapes seep closer, their eyes nothing but hollow sockets burning with a dull, putrid yellow light.
One particularly old spirit, its face twisted into a permanent, grim scowl, drifts silently into Catherine's path and leans his translucent head close.
His frozen and malicious intent coils against the rind of her pumpkin as if testing her disguise and searching for the telltale heat of her soul.
I hesitate, knowing if I react with too much force, they’ll all be on us in an instant.
Beneath my arm, Catherine is frozen in place and not breathing.
She trembles in my arms even as the ghost's icy presence tests the limits of the protective supernatural magic, but after a moment, the ghost seems convinced she's just another creature of the night as it drifts away with a hiss toward the many headstones in the distance.
Glancing back over my shoulder to check on Brom, I see he's uninterested in the ghostly creatures and instead has been distracted by some wild clover as he meanders off into the deep shadows of the wood outcropping on his own.
“Let’s keep moving, it's not much farther, and then we can leave this place,” I mutter low enough that only she can hear, guiding her through the old home of the dead.
We make it a few more steps when another silvery white silhouette of a tall, gaunt spirit drifts close and I watch as its spectral nose flares as if searching for the scent of warm and living blood. Shit. Not again.
“Oh God, another one,” she whimpers.
Her fingers convulse and clamp down on my forearm this time with a hard, white-knickled grip. She's terrified out of her wits, her heart as frantic as a running rabbit, while I try to rub slow, smoothing circles across her back.
As much as I want my skull back and intact, the way she shudders twists something in my insides long forgotten.
After this night, I'll make sure she's never scared again. If she’ll allow me. But for now.
The spectral ghost sniffs precariously close to the pumpkin’s eye sockets and I lose my temper.
“Lose something, phantom?” my voice is a growl as I allow my flame to increase to a strong, violent, crackling, crimson.
A blast of pure heat rolls off my shoulders as I shove against the chill of the graveyard and force the ghost to hiss in retreat.
It recoils backwards as the wispy of its body begins to singe and smoke.
“Stay close to me,” I whisper to her. “They can't touch you while you’re with me. I’ll keep them at bay while your presence keeps me anchored here.
It’s already past midnight, and I know it’s frightening, but we’ve only hours before daybreak now. ”