Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The Horseman
Bones don’t make for a comfortable saddle, but after being locked away for so long, I’d take screaming pain over darkness and confinement. My muscles awaken fully as I ride. Alive. I’m alive and ready to hunt for any guilty vermin my nightingale deems worthy of punishment.
Horace whinnies beneath me. His strides are larger than ever before as he pushes himself to run faster and faster. It seems we’ve both been desperate to stretch our legs.
The men gawking at Emeline whirl toward the sound of Horace’s hooves.
There are six of them. Six chances to shed blood and flex my killing muscles.
Metal shrieks as I draw my blade. Four of the men flee.
But two stand frozen in shock . With my sword raised high, I cut down the first man.
He’s a hardy bastard, but my pent-up rage and unspent energy lend me unbelievable strength.
My sword cuts through him as easily as if his neck were a dainty daisy stem.
His head tumbles to the ground, tongue lolling out of its slack jaw.
Blood pounds through my body, hot and loose, settling in my fully erect cock.
If only there were a way to have Emeline while I slaughtered, to bury my cock between her thighs while I hunted down each man.
She would look too perfect squeezed into the saddle before me.
Each gallop jarring our bodies, forcing my cock deeper.
Blood spraying across her bare chest as I hacked and slashed at my victims.
I expect Emeline to scream, but her gaze doesn’t follow the severed head where it lands.
She watches me as I cleave the skull from the much shorter second man.
He had sense enough to run once I killed his companion, but his frightened footsteps only carried him a few feet away.
The second head hits the forest floor with a thump.
Emeline is breathing heavily, mouth parted, nipples peaked. Having a naked, gorgeous woman watch me dismember the men of her village is a turn-on like nothing before. I need to finish with these fools and return to her at once.
The scent of her cunt practically floats to me on the dark night breeze.
The mouthwatering aroma of her becomes weaker as I leave her behind, seeking out the four who ran off.
Horace covers the ground easily, his skeletal form moving like a ghost through the trees.
The first man to see me coming chooses to sacrifice his neighbor.
He shoves the man next to him down. I don’t even slow.
My sword tip drags through the neck of the man where he lies screaming. One swipe and his head rolls free.
The man who shoved him is weak, his character flaw beaming in the moments before his death. Humans are so quick to turn on one another.
His scream is ear-piercing as I shove my sword between his shoulder blades.
I’ve chosen a spot above his heart, ensuring his death is not instant.
Lifting him up, I skewer him, his legs still running midair.
I let him writhe and cry as I near the fifth victim.
As I close in, I flick my sword forward, flinging the man’s body off and using it to topple a lanky figure with surprising speed despite his non-athletic gait.
The injured man keens as he pins his friend to the ground. Horace turns sharply. We make a tight circle around the two, carving a path that catches both heads.
There’s only one man left. His heavy breathing gives him away.
He’s wheezing, the kind of sound that only forms when you’re fighting to hold back a scream but breathing too heavily to keep it properly trapped inside.
He’s the tallest of the group. His legs cover a surprising distance.
The small collection of Sleepy Hollow homes comes into view as he trips across the tree line.
I can’t have him knocking on some stranger’s door and thwarting me from keeping my promise to Emeline.
My arm cranks back. I grunt as I launch my sword.
It hits my target, slicing through his abdomen and pinning him to the nearest tree.
He screams, wailing in pain. I don’t want to draw Itrimort’s attention until I’ve recovered my full strength.
I make quick work of this one, yanking my sword from his abdomen and slicing his head free.
My blade beckons me, slick with fresh ruby blood. Raising it to my mouth, I drag my tongue along the edge. Crimson coats my mouth, making it momentarily visible. Almost as sweet as Emeline.
Now to collect the heads, and then give my nightingale something to sing about.
Emeline
“Horseman?” I creep through the forest, excitement bubbling through me.
He held true to his word. All six of the Lamb’s Golden Light members who were hunting for victims this evening have been disposed of.
I barely glanced as I passed through the worst of the carnage, but managed to count six headless corpses.
Where are their heads ?
I thought I’d be appalled. The guilt that should consume me whole for orchestrating such an event is blissfully absent.
The small voice of my past self whispers in the back of my mind.
‘None can pass judgment but God.’ Perhaps that’s true.
But all I’ve done is allowed The Horseman to expedite the process in delivering them to him for the judgments. I’ll get my own judgments in due time.
“Horseman? Where hast thou gone?” I arrive back at the summoning circle but find it empty.
My hands fly over my mouth, silencing a shriek when I round a large tree and come face to face with six heads.
Pale, bloody faces twisted in terror, with hinged mouths and vacant eyes stare back at me from the wooden posts they’ve been mounted on.
The Horseman’s victims. I stumble back, tearing my eyes away.
My heel catches on something damp. At my feet lies a pile of bloody clothing. I passed six bodies in the woods and all of them were still clothed. If this now-crimson attire doesn’t belong to a victim…it’s Fierdon’s. Is he walking around with no clothes?
“Are you pleased, nightingale?” At the voice behind me, I spin so fast the forest swims across my vision.
There’s nothing there.
“Over here.”
I whip around.
Still, I can see nothing.
“Where are you?” I turn, slowly spinning. “Fierdon?”
The next time his voice sounds, it’s from directly above my left ear. “Here.”
The invisible weight of Fierdon’s large hands presses against my hips. He pushes, guiding me backward until I’m pinned against a tree.
“The sound of my name on such plush, wicked lips is as sinful as it is maddening. Say it again for me.”
I can’t see him, but I can feel him. Feel the firmness of his fingers and the heat radiating off his body. Without any clothing on, he’s completely invisible. A press of something hard against my belly sends his name spilling out of me. “Fierdon.”
I blindly reach for him, feeling for anything to steady myself. My hands land on what I imagine are biceps. The muscles bulge beneath my fingers. Curiosity bests me and my hands go exploring, gliding over more of his translucent form. Strong shoulders, firm, toned pecs, the rippling of carved abs.
“Keep going,” Fierdon rasps against my cheek.
My movements slow as I reach tapered hips. Brushing my fingertips inward, I move closer to the warmest spot on his body. His abs flex and shudder as I reach the firm place jutting up from between his hips.
I’ve never explored Leed like this. We often don’t even remove our clothes fully. I stare down as my finger traces the length of his shaft. He groans.
Now I’m shuddering. I reach a raised area. Is that a vein? It pulses against my touch and I snatch my fingers back.
Fierdon growls, gripping my hand and putting it back on his erection. This time, he encircles my fingers around him. I still can’t see the cock itself, but the circle my fingers make as they’re wrapped around his girth has my eyes popping wide.
“All this from the excitement of murdering and maiming?” I ask, thinking of Leed. How he got off on the suffering of those falsely accused girls.
Fierdon chuckles, and the sound seems to take physical form, molding into a wicked, tangible thing that drags between my thighs.
“No, pet. All this”—he tightens his hand over mine, sliding it up and down his shaft—“is because I knew you were watching.”
Being unable to see him means I’m caught off guard once more when his other hand slides between my legs.
I’d like to think in this crazed situation I would be strong enough not to give in to the erotic touch of a demon so easily.
As my head falls back against the tree, eyes shutting and legs widening, I realize Fierdon must have cast some spell of his own.
“Feel how wet you are?” His fingers slide along the outer seam. I do feel it. I’m self-conscious of the way the liquid pools there, dripping over fingers I can’t see.
“Sorry.”
Fierdon’s movements halt. “Oh, sweet nightingale, how little you know about pleasure.” His finger presses inside and some of the pressure between my thighs is instantly relieved. “How much I have to teach you.”
I give in fully when a second finger joins in.
“You liked watching me murder those men.” He’s right. There was an unexpected thrill watching him. Not because he was killing, but because he was delivering justice. And he was doing it for me.
There seem to be more places within me to touch, areas that did not exist before this spell-filled eve.
The sensations are so foreign. I feel like an observer to my own pleasure, watching from high above as invisible fingers steal my sensibilities and replace them with the raw need to be devoured by touch.
I’ve never been so aroused. When Fierdon used his mouth before, I was still in such disbelief. The pleasure caught me by surprise. I didn’t allow myself to really enjoy it. This time, I submit to every touch, stroke, tip of the finger as I’m thoroughly explored like Fierdon’s life depends on it.
Being touched while aroused is so different than doing it purely out of duty.
Submitting whenever Leed’s needs were to be met wasn’t terribly unpleasant.
There’s something about a masculine body, heavy atop you, making sounds of lust, that triggers the feminine desire to be protected and claimed.
But I would never say that the actions were meant to do something pleasant for me.
Right now, Leed’s past wants and actions vanish from my thoughts. I have needs I never knew existed, and Fierdon is stroking some part of me that’s making me see the burning light of the sun in the dead of night.