Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Emeline
He’s much larger than his picture indicates. Without a head, he already stands taller than any man in town. Even the horse, in his bone form, is huge. The Horseman is adorned in all-black, just as in his drawing.
Everything is the darkest black. From his boots and trousers, to his gloves and long black shirt. A fierce cape billows out behind him. The extravagant garment ends in a high collar where his head should be. From the neck up, there’s nothing.
“Why have you called me forth, nightingale?”
I jump at the sound of his voice. I had wondered how we would communicate since he doesn’t have a mouth.
The deep, silky tone is not the demonic sound I was expecting.
Screeching, bellows, gravelly nightmarish snarls, maybe.
This voice? It’s soothing, melodic, wrapped in masculinity.
The church has always said demons are meant to tempt you. It’s working.
My tongue is sealed to the roof of my mouth.
“Are you unable to speak? Surely not, for I heard your song, sweet nightingale.”
I swallow, trying to lubricate my dry throat.
My lips move, fighting to remember how to form words.
“I am in need of your assistance, Horseman. Our most trusted figure has been corrupted by an entity. Brought forth from this very book. I fear Reverend Statton is lost to its evil. He’s turned the men of the town to his side.
They seek out innocent women, claiming them to be witches. Many have died already.”
“And which demon, pray tell, did your foolish Reverend bring forth?”
Quickly scanning the pages, I find the one stained in Reverend Statton’s blood. The word comes out as a nervous whisper. “Itrimort.”
“Itrimort?” The Horseman bellows a laugh. His horse whinnies its own sound of amusement.
I can’t imagine what’s so funny . “Such terror and evil is not a joke. I speak the truth.”
His horse throws its bony head back, whinnying again. The Horseman pats its spiny neck, still chuckling. Are these two mocking me?
“You summoned me, but did you not try to use your magic to stop their deaths first?”
I scoff. “Magic? I have no magic.”
“And yet you summoned me here.”
My lips part as that fact sinks in. “I simply read the spell.”
“Do you think a spell is but a sonnet of pretty words? That any can speak them and raise me?”
“Reverend Statton was able to raise the Itr—that thing. Without magic. He is human, like me.”
“The Itrimort only requires blood to be summoned to the world of the foolish and proud. Simple-minded mortals will forever choose to spill their blood for power. Greed bleeds through the veins of every man, woman, and child. The Itrimort does not require magic because he sits teetering just on the edge of this reality. Fueled every few years by the blood of another. He is always closer than you’d think.
I, on the other hand, have been in the deepest depths of a hell like no other for centuries.
Something as simple as a blood exchange would never be enough to allow me to rise. ”
I sit with this information, unable to argue. If he’s certain of the need for someone with magic to summon him, it would mean I’m different. Different is dangerous in Sleepy Hollow. Different is what got all those girls murdered.
I don’t want to think about that. “Will you help me?”
The Horseman steps to the edge of the circle, leering over me.
“I require three things in exchange for my services. First, you will offer me a taste of yourself. I am parched and weary after so many years of imprisonment. In fact, I expect to be paid in flesh for each wicked deed you request me to carry out.”
Paid in flesh? The idiom a pound of flesh comes to mind. He’s going to take something from me every time I ask for his help. Will he take my fingers? My eyes? Will he carve the fat from my hips or the tongue from my mouth? I shudder, wrapping my arms tightly around myself.
The Horseman continues, “Second, you will grant me a visible body and head.”
This time I protest, “I don’t know how.”
“The book,” he asserts . “There are all manner of spells bound in its pages. You will find and complete the appropriate spell needed to give me a visible form. Third, you will perform the same spell once more to give Horace a natural body as well.”
“ Horace?”
“My horse.”
The horse stomps its feet, releasing a huff of annoyance.
Horace the horse. A bit ridiculous of a name for a demon’s pet.
I would have expected something ferocious-sounding.
Bloodletter or Night Terror. Horace feels somewhat human and gives me a glimpse of the stallion he may have been before darkness stripped him of his braided mane and fuzzy muzzle.
I mull over my options. I’m not interested in having my blood drained for him to drink or my body butchered for him as payment. If there were some other way. Something else I could offer.
He cuts off my thoughts before I can speak them. “All three requests are non-negotiable.”