Band of Demons (The Sanheim Chronicles, Book Two) (13 page)

“We should go to bed,” Quinn said.

“And sleep?” Kate asked.

Quinn smiled again.

“I may have had something else in mind first,” he said. “It’s only 4:00 a.m. The night is young.”

“Sure,” Kate replied. “Besides, I have an idea so we can get another lead.”

“Do tell,” Quinn replied.

“It’s simple really,” she replied. “We just need to find out who is making the graffiti.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Quinn asked, but he thought he knew the answer.

“It’s time for the Headless Horseman of Loudoun County to ride again.” 

Chapter 12

September 22, 2007

The figure raced through the woods, moving quickly down the path. A small sliver of moonlight filtered through the trees, but the forest remained almost completely dark. The only sound was the pounding of horse hooves on the dirt and the scurrying of animals that fled ahead of him.

His horse changed directions in a flash. His cloak flew out behind him as he moved through the trees and across a field.

To anything in his way, he was a terrifying figure. He rode a black horse with red eyes that seemed to flash each time one of its legs hit the ground. The man riding the horse was dressed in an old, decayed uniform that smelled of rot and ruin. A sword rested in a dirty scabbard by his side. But his most distinctive feature was not in what he had, but what he lacked. The figure that blasted across the field rode with direction and purpose, but had nothing but air where a head should be.

He couldn’t see or hear. How could he, when he had no eyes or ears? He should have been rushing blindly anywhere.

But the Headless Horseman sensed everything in and around his path. Every tree, every stone on the ground was known to him. He sensed a small raccoon in the trees as he blew past. He knew the carcass of a deer rotted in a nearby stream as he jumped over it. He felt every sound that was made by the creatures in the darkness as each vibration reached him and bounced off again.

The Headless Horseman saw nothing and heard nothing, but knew everything.

Somewhere inside of him, he knew his name was Quinn O’Brion. He remembered what it was like to walk, to touch, to feel and to love.

But none of that mattered now. Instead, he felt the wind rush past him and the fear of every living thing that beheld him. He fed on that fear like a glutton. It made him faster, more powerful—unstoppable.

The Headless Horseman rode through the darkness.

*****

They called themselves the 20164 Posse.

Stefan had come up with the name himself, naming his “gang” after Sterling’s zip code. He was pretty proud of it. Sure, it was no MS-13, a name guaranteed to strike fear in the hearts of certain people, but it would do. Everyone had to start somewhere.

He watched Ricky finish spray-painting the Wachovia Bank branch in Cascades. The kid had talent. Stefan wasn’t sure what the symbol meant—he doubted Ricky did either—but a job was a job.

He wasn’t sure why the guy had hired them and he didn’t care. But this was his fourth paying gig in less than a week—all to paint a freaky symbol on a wall. Clearly, they were making a name for themselves.

“Come on, man, let’s go,” he called to Ricky.

It was cold and there was something in the air tonight. He was happy for the money, but it would be better if they finished up before the cops—or anyone else—showed up.

“Just a little more time,” Ricky responded and he didn’t even look up.

Stefan had to admit he was getting nervous. They had done this three times already and it was only a matter of time before the police became more interested. The actual level of gang activity in Sterling—or the whole of Loudoun County—was limited to the occasional stabbing at an out-of-control party. But that didn’t stop the media and politicians from being insanely interested in the topic. If Ricky and he got caught, Stefan was sure he would be trotted out as the latest symbol of gang violence, despite the fact that the worst he had done was spray paint a few buildings.

Stefan was, of course, already finished. Ricky always wanted to linger over his paintings, like they were being admired in an art gallery. But Stefan eyed his watch and worried.

“Come on, Ricky,” he said again.

He should have worn a jacket. It was colder than he thought it should be in September. It felt like just a few days ago it was still summer break. But now fall was coming on strong and there was a chill in the air.

He hopped up and down on his feet.

That was when he heard the sound. At first he couldn’t believe it. Who the hell would be riding a horse out here? He knew there were a lot of rich folks out west, but Sterling wasn’t like that. It was home to mostly working class families and maybe a few yuppies over in Cascades. Certainly not people rich enough to be riding horses.

“Yo, Ricky!” Stefan said again. His voice was insistent enough that he got his attention.

“Hang on to your panties, man,” Ricky replied. “I’m almost done.”

“The horse?” Stefan said. “Don’t you hear the horse coming toward us? Come on.”

“Who cares? Cops don’t ride horses, remember?” Ricky said.

 “I’m going, man,” Stefan said. “No way am I getting caught.”

“Go if you want,” Ricky replied absentmindedly. Then, under his breath, he added, “Pussy.”

Stefan wanted to scream, but he held his ground. Fine, they would both be caught by the police. See what Ricky called him then. What was the worst that could happen? Could you go to jail for graffiti?

The sound of the horse became even louder and Stefan had to brace himself not to start running. It would be fine. It probably had nothing to do with them.

But he was wrong about that.

A moment later, the horse and its rider came bursting through the parking lot. Stefan didn’t even wait to see if it was coming after him. He took one look at the cloaked figure and started running.

Only when it was nearly on top of him and he turned around in panic did he recognize what it was. Stefan screamed.

In answer, the figure seemed to laugh. The sound bounced off the walls of the nearby buildings and echoed in Stefan’s head.

Stefan tripped and fell to the ground. He looked to see where Ricky was. He had some desperate hope that Ricky might save him. But when he looked toward where he had been moments ago, there was nothing there but the symbol. Ricky had taken his stuff and gone.

Stefan didn’t think about their gang aspirations, how the two had pledged to stick together in this exciting new enterprise of their lives. He was too frightened. Instead he realized that his last hope had fled. He was a dead man.

The Headless Horseman dropped off his mount and drew his sword from his scabbard. A ringing sound reverberated in the night air.

Stefan didn’t understand how this was possible. The thing facing him was from a made-up story. But he didn’t doubt for a second it was real. He had no thought that it might be someone dressed up as the Headless Horseman, either. The ghost was—somehow—here and about to kill him.

 “Please,” he said, and he held up his hand as if it could block the sword strike he knew was coming. “Please no.”

The Horseman stopped.

Tell us what we want to know
, a voice in Stefan’s head said.

He didn’t wait to figure out where it came from.

“Yes,” he said out loud. “Whatever you want.”

Who hired you to paint the buildings?

“I don’t know,” Stefan said, and the Headless Horseman took another step forward. “No, please! Please! I don’t know. I would tell you if I did.”

Describe him to us
, the voice said.

All at once Stefan’s mind was a complete blank. He tried to think of what the man looked like, but he couldn’t. The Horseman took another step and held his sword high in the air.

“I don’t remember,” Stefan croaked. “I’m trying.”

Just picture him in your mind
, the voice said.

It took a moment but Stefan did it. It was a week ago when the man approached him. Ricky and he had just spray-painted their first stop sign and Stefan had at first assumed he was caught. It was a cop.

But the man hadn’t been a police officer. Instead, he had been some lunatic religious nut. Brown hair, blue eyes, average height, but otherwise indistinct in every way. He had just wanted these symbols painted around Sterling. He had given Stefan seven of them.

“Just make sure they’re big and noticeable,” the man said.

Picture them in your mind
, the voice said.

Stefan thought of all seven immediately: snakes, bear, spider, flaming sword, a bow, a flute and a horse. 

The man had offered to pay. He had given $250 upfront with the promise of $250 more once the job was completed.

“How will you find me?” Stefan had asked.

“Don’t worry about that,” the man had said. “All you need to do is fulfill your end of the bargain.”

Stefan had taken the deal. Of course he had—who could pass it up?

It was only when he was walking away that he had regrets. The man had called him back.

“Oh, and Stefan,” the man said, and he realized the man somehow knew his name. “Make sure you follow through. I wouldn’t be… happy if you just took the money and didn’t make good on our little deal.”

And Stefan had believed him.

All this passed through his mind in a flash.

Good
, the voice said.

Stefan watched as the Headless Horseman moved suddenly, sheathing his sword in the scabbard. He turned and walked away, as if Stefan didn’t interest him anymore.

Stefan wasn’t sure what made him say it, why he was talking at all.

“I have to finish the paintings,” he said out loud.

Yes, you do
, the voice in his head said. He watched as the figure in front of him mounted his horse, which snorted.
But don’t mention us to him.
Or we will find you again.

The movement was so fast he never saw it. One moment he was staring up at the Headless Horseman and then fire exploded nearby. He looked to see a burning pumpkin on the ground nearby.

The Headless Horseman laughed, his horse reared up and he practically launched himself over Stefan.

Stefan, who was shaking all over, lay on the ground and wept.

*****

The Headless Horseman rode all night, moving from Sterling to Purcellville and then up toward Waterford, covering miles of roads, forest and streams without rest. 

Through it all, he was searching, moving with restless energy as he looked for signs of another horse and rider, one who was pretending to be him.

But the Horseman found nothing.

In Waterford, he rode through the quiet streets of the Civil War-era town, finally returning to Union Cemetery at the top of the hill above the town. The graveyard was old—long predating the War Between the States. Most of the stones had their inscriptions washed away by weather and time.

The moon hung high in the air as the Headless Horseman moved slowly through the graveyard.

At the edge of the cemetery, he saw her. She stood by the fence, looking out over the long field next to the graveyard. Beyond it, in the distance, stood Phillips Farm, where Quinn had fought and defeated the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow—and seized his mantle for himself.

The horse padded to a stop behind the woman. Its rider dismounted and moved to stand behind her. She didn’t look back, but continued to gaze ahead.

That’s where it all began
, she thought.

The Headless Horseman didn’t respond immediately. Words were difficult for him. He was a creature of emotion and power, not reflection.

I could see the boy’s thoughts
, she said.
Why? How?

The Horseman didn’t respond and he seemed uninterested, as if the mechanics of her situation weren’t important. She leaned back against him. He smelled like moldy earth and decomposition—and yet it didn’t repulse her. Quite the opposite, in fact.

What is happening to me? What am I becoming?

This time there was an answer.

Something unique. Amazing. Beautiful. Deadly,
he thought and his voice had a faintly German accent in her head.

She looked down at herself. Outwardly, she was the same Kate Tassel who had arrived here last year. And yet in the past week alone, she had been talking with ghosts, digging up graves and was now standing near a fictional specter. Ever since that night in the cemetery, she had gone to a different graveyard each evening, hoping to find another spirit that would help her understand.

She could
sense
them, that was the thing that taunted her. There were ghosts here, but not as many as she expected or hoped for. Despite her attempts to interact with them, there had been nothing like the woman a week ago.

And other than a brief flash into Tim Anderson’s mind—if that had really even happened—her mental powers had been restricted to Quinn and Lord Halloween. She didn’t understand how she had seen into the murderer’s mind last year. She had begun to wonder if it was a fluke.

Until tonight.

As soon as the Horseman arrived by the near-deserted shopping mall, she could sense the minds of both kids without any effort. When he approached the boy, Stefan, she had seen everything about him. It was just like it had been last year with Lord Halloween. Only this time it hadn’t been just one-way. She could ask him questions in her mind and heard him respond. With his help, she had seen the boy’s memories of the man who hired him.