Chapter 25
We choose to set the trap in the ballroom, a grand space with a white marble floor and wall-length French doors leading to the garden.
I haven’t set foot in here over the last week, and I find myself impressed when I do.
I can just imagine the original Katrina Van Tassel spinning around in her lacey dress, being dipped and twirled by her soldier under the crystal chandelier.
Although considering what happened to him, maybe that’s a bad omen.
The sun has almost set now, turning the sky a deep, bruised purple.
The ballroom is filled with a sweet scent, where Ichabod kneels on the hard floor, carefully pouring a thick line of salt and herbs in a large but precise circle.
Meredith busies herself arranging the crystals and candles that I got from Poppy.
My father stands apart from us, his eyes watching but not seeing.
I’m about to cross the room towards him when movement at the door catches my eye. Toby. I’m not sure how much he knows, just that Meredith told him to wait upstairs for us. He hovers in the doorway, but when he notices I’ve spotted him, he moves cautiously inside.
“I think I should stay down here,” he says evenly. “I can help.”
Meredith’s head snaps up. “Absolutely not.”
Toby scowls. “I’m not a kid anymore. Let me help.”
“Listen to your mother, Toby,” my father strides across the dance floor towards his son. “What will happen here tonight is very dangerous. We’re not exactly sure how it’s all going to play out. I need to know that you’ll be safe upstairs, out of harm’s way.”
He lays a hand on Toby’s shoulder and squeezes it.
Toby looks to me, silently asking for support, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen this paternal side of my father. It almost makes me want to look away. Besides, I agreed with Meredith that Toby should be as far away from this as possible.
Toby opens his mouth to argue again, but my father cuts him off. “Upstairs, Toby. And no matter what you hear, don’t come down until sunrise.”
I see Toby deflate. He turns sullenly and heads back towards the ballroom entrance.
“Fine. But if you all die, I get to say I told you so,” I hear him mutter under his breath as he passes me.
Ichabod stands, dusting his knees. “That’s the last of the salt. I think we’re all set. Are you ready?”
Nope. Not even a little bit. But I glance at my father and then nod.
We each take up our positions outside of the salt circle, waiting. My palms sweat where I hold the packet of matches.
The house is silent. None of us speak. But the silence doesn’t feel empty, it feels charged.
I check my phone for the time. When the sun set, we had turned off the ballroom lights, so only the flickering candles making up the ritual circle remain.
Meredith is clutching some dried sage that she found in the kitchen.
My father stands beside her, as if carved from stone.
Ichabod is tense at my side. I can’t even begin to think about what he must be feeling, lying in wait to face the Horseman, to protect the man who tried to sacrifice him. His fingers twitch and reach for mine.
Then we hear it.
The distant thunder of hooves.
The Horseman is here.
Outside, a low, guttural snort.
Without warning, the French doors fly open, snapping back on their hinges. An icy blast sweeps through the room, rattling the windowpanes, and glass shatters. The candle flames dance violently and threaten to snuff out. The unnatural cold sweeps through the room, chilling me to my core.
And there he is. The Headless Horseman. Nightmarish, silhouetted against the moon behind him.
His broad shoulders rise and fall with each heavy breath his horse takes. One hand is wrapped tightly around the reins, and the other holds that monstrous sword.
The stallion, just as terrifying, paces back and forth on the patio just outside the ballroom. It snorts, breath misting in the cool air.
I don’t understand. Why isn’t he charging?
The Horseman pulls the reins and the great horse stomps. He turns, and I can sense him searching for my father — considering. Slowly, the horse steps over the threshold, over the shattered glass and into Van Tassel Manor.
Meredith whimpers and my father steps forward, careful to stay outside the salt circle.
“We don’t have to do this,” he yells. “You can all run.”
But his words have triggered something within the Horseman. He pulls his steed around once more, and it steps towards my father. I see his gloved hand begin to raise the sword.
“Katrina, now!” Ichabod shouts.
The Horseman crosses the salt line. My fingers fumble with the matches, lighting one and throwing it down into the circle.
The second the flame makes contact, the herbs catch, sending an acrid smoke twisting upwards.
The flames snake their way around the salt line, meeting and completing the circle.
I hold my breath. The candles flare, their flames turning a deep, unnatural red.
The air inside the circle seems to shimmer and distort, like heat rising from the pavement.
The dark horse rears up, hooves kicking wildly. The Horseman tugs on the reins, trying in vain to turn the horse around, to back away. But the magic holds. They are trapped.
Relief floods through me.
The Horseman leans forward menacingly, his horse grunting and stamping. But the salt line holds. The beast paces inside his cage, the Horseman swinging his sword at the invisible walls of his prison. But the circle stands.
Ichabod sags next to me. “It actually worked.”
Meredith nods, but she looks tense. “What now?”
My father doesn’t look any more relaxed now than he had before. He’s staring up at the Horseman with a pale face, his hands clenched at his sides.
“We figure out how we can end this,” I say.
“But how long do we have?” Meredith’s voice is barely above a whisper.
Inside his prison, the Horseman twists this way and that, clearly looking for a way to break down the defences. The horse, agitated, stomps hard enough to send hairline cracks racing through the stone floor.
“We need to think of something fast,” I say, not wanting to admit that Poppy couldn’t be sure how long the trap would last. I’m hoping it stays secure through the night, and that at least gives us one more day to find something useful, something more permanent.
The monstrous black stallion snorts again and tosses his great head.
“Any ideas, Dad?” I shout across the circle.
He opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off by the Horseman pulling the reins so hard that his mount rears up, blocking my view of Dad and Meredith. His hooves hit the marble again, and the cracks widen. The fissures twist across the floor.
And reach beyond the salt line.
The candles flicker violently.
My stomach drops.
The horse stamps once more, and the vibrations knock one of the crystals onto its side.
It rolls away from the circle.
The unnatural red flames burn brightly for one second more. Then snuff out.
I feel a rush of pressure, and then it’s gone. I know the magic has vanished.
“No,” I hear Meredith breathe in the silence that follows. None of us can move.
The Horseman throws his shoulders back, raising the sword high above his non-existent head.
He advances. The horse crosses the circle in barely a few steps. The sword swings, aiming for my father.
I’m rooted to the spot, but Ichabod reacts faster. He lunges across the room, trying to intercept the blow. The steel sword flashes in the moonlight, then slashes across his shoulder, cutting straight through his jacket and into flesh. He hits the floor with a pained cry.
“Ichabod!” I make to move towards him. I can see the blood already seeping through his clothes, covering his fingers as he clutches the wound.
“Katrina, stay where you are!” my father warns.
I falter.
The Horseman twists towards me.
I look around to see if there’s something, anything I can use as a weapon. But what can stop something like this?
Across the room, my father stands straight. He doesn’t run.
The Horseman turns, ready to strike a second time. He doesn’t hesitate. The blade slices cleanly through my father’s neck, severing his head neatly from his shoulders. Blood splatters across the white ballroom floor in a dark, shimmering arc. He collapses, lifeless.
I scream. I’m vaguely aware of Meredith screaming with me.
The Horseman stands still.
Something in the air shifts. The Horseman shudders, and the air around him pulses.
Before, he still had a slightly smoky, translucent quality. But now he and his horse stand fully formed, solid.
Regenerated.
But he doesn’t come for us, not yet.
Instead, he turns sharply, grabbing the reins of his demonic horse tightly. The beast rears up once more. Then with one last look at us, at me, the Horseman gallops towards the broken doors, and disappears into the night.