Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Katrina. Kat.
Kat.
There it is again.
That voice.
Unlike any voice I have heard before. Low and guttural and yet also a whisper. It makes my scalp prickle, sending sickly shivers down my spine.
Then I hear a thump. Another thump.
The sound of footsteps inside the house. They echo, shaking the floorboards that reach under my door. Whoever is out there is coming straight for me.
They stop outside my door.
I try and sit up, pull my sheets over my body, but I can’t.
I can’t move at all.
I’m stuck, frozen, paralyzed. I can only stare as the doorknob turns.
I gasp, but no air moves. It’s like I can’t even breathe.
The door opens slowly, inch by inch, with a low, long creak.
Until it reveals a man standing on the other side.
He is seven feet tall, and he has no head.
I open my mouth to scream.
I can’t.
I try to get out of bed.
I can’t move.
I can only watch in pure, utter horror as the man places something down by the door and slowly walks across my bedroom toward me. This giant man in a black cloak that seems to blend with the shadows. This man with no head.
Unlike the other times I had seen him—in the void, on the trail—I don’t get the sense that he’s looking for someone else. Instead, I know he’s looking for me.
Katrina Van Tassel, he says, his voice flowing through the air and over my body like the wind. It settles over me, a physical thing, ripe with desire, and I see him reach down to his crotch, stroking something large and long and dark as sin.
I open my mouth to cry out, but nothing, there’s nothing. My scream is choked in my throat, and I can’t even breathe as he stops in front of me. With a raise of his other hand, the bedsheets are ripped right off me, leaving me exposed in my nightgown.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t defend myself; I can’t call for help. I’m prey caught in a trap, and he’s the hunter coming to finish me off.
It’s like he was saving me for last.
He’s at me now. Heavy, cold hands on my thighs, and I pinch my eyes shut and try to pull up whatever power I have inside me, whatever means I have to get over this enchantment.
I think of the energy between Crane and me.
I think of its power, of how infinite it made me feel. I focus on that.
And then I use that energy to open my mouth.
And I scream.
The sound reverberates off the walls, and suddenly, I can move. I’m scrambling backward on the bed until my back hits the wall.
And the headless horseman turns to leave. Slowly, as if he’s not in a hurry, not afraid of being caught.
He strides out of the room, picking up the thing he left by the door, and then he’s gone into the house, past the fire, and out the door.
And I’m getting to my feet, I’m grabbing a knife I keep in the drawer of my desk, and I’m running after him to make sure he’s gone, so I can lock the door, as if that will keep him out.
I nearly slip before I reach my own door, something wet and slick beneath my bare feet.
I look down at the floor and see a trail of blood, his footprints still in it.
Chapter 28
Crane
The clock in the library strikes midnight, but it feels like I’m just getting started. I have a stack of books at my side, a bottle of red wine with a metal goblet, and a row of candles lighting my desk like a beacon in the dark. It’s taken me most of the night perusing the stacks, trying to find the right books that can help me figure out Brom, and after rummaging through a few duds, it finally seems I have the most promising ones.
I lay them out in front of me on the desk and have a sip of wine. There’s an old tome called Blood Magic and Other Rituals, one called How to Communicate with the Dead, another called Personal Exorcisms, another worn one called the Book of Verimagiaa. I pick up the one on blood magic first since that’s been on my mind all week. This particular book has an English title but inside is written in Greek. I don’t know Greek.
I sigh and bring out my anointing oil from my pocket, rubbing it on my wrists while I close my eyes and repeat the polyglot spell, which gives the magic wielder the ability to speak and read any language, a godsend when you’re a teacher. Then I open my eyes and turn the page.
A cold breeze comes at my back, making the candles around my desk flicker, threatening to go out. I whip around in my seat. Beyond the glow of my candles, the library is completely empty and dark, the moon hiding somewhere behind the trees. Generally, the library is closed to students after nine p.m., but exceptions are made for teachers. Ms. Albarez, the librarian from Mexico City, said that I could stay here all night if I wanted to, and it might end up being that way. I don’t plan on leaving until I get what I came here for. All my lesson plans for this week have taken up too much of my time as it is. Being a professor at this godforsaken school might be my job, but Kat and Brom have become my obsession.