Page 72 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
“It’s—”
A map,he finishes.
My heart skips a beat.
Before we can do anything, Mortimer jumps onto the table,his little paws pattering. I laugh softly as my cat nudges my Headless Horseman’s hand, purring when Jack scratches his cheeks and his neck. He may be the sweetest cat ever, but it’s clear I am now the spare human. Despite how I rescued him and feed him, Jack is his chosen one.
All right, away with you, feline,Jack chuckles, picks up Mortimer by his scruff, and lowers him to the floor. The cat still rubs against his chosen one’s legs.
Jack opens the map carefully, spreading the old parchment across the table.It’s the manor, he says softly, recognizing the layout. I touch the edges, my thumb brushing the location of the carriage house.But this wing—he taps the far west side closest to our special room—I’ve never seen it before.
A hidden wing. My mind races with possibilities, but before I can speak, Jack turns to me.I’ll go. You stay here and close up the shop. We can meet at the Halloween festival with Mrs. Kravitson after. She offered to accompany you, right?
I nod, my mouth dry as I try to focus. Anxiety presses in on my chest, but I slow my breath and my quickening pulse. I can still hear customers. “Okay, I’ll see you there.” I glance at the clock. It’s later than I thought, and the festival will be starting soon. I swallow down my anxiety, forcing a smile. “I’ll just…make sure everything’s locked up and join you.”
The streets will be full of people for the grand parade. A nighttime Halloween and Harvest Fest with performers in masks, luminaries everywhere, and naturally…parade floats. Dozens of people compete for the best—and often spookiest—float with the prize of $10,000. It always draws a crowd. Crowds that come from miles.
The Covenant would be foolish to make any moves tonight. By tomorrow, the curse will be broken. Jack will be mine. Jackismine. My husband.
Gloved knuckles brushing my cheek, Jack summons me, his hand straying to my waist.Nothing will keep me parted from you, Belladonna Moore,he says, no doubt reading my thoughts and my emotions.Tonight, I will prove it in moreways than one.
I scrunch my brows, confused, but his knuckles drop, and he removes his hand, flexing the muscles.
After a quick fuck against one of my bookshelves to restore his head so he may search more effectively, Jack makes his way to the kitchen and the back door.
Gathering my composure, I try to steady my hands as I pick up the book, head into the main bookshop, and tuck it under the counter.
I turn toward the front, expecting to see Mrs. K busy with the last of the customers, but the small shop feels strangely empty. The soft lighting seems dimmer than ever. I call out softly, “Mrs. K?”
Silence.
No customer remains. Suspicion preys on my nerves. My assistant is gone, too.
Outside, I can make out the luminaries and silhouetted bodies a hundred yards away or so. Since Belladonna’s Bookshop is located at the edge of the town, it’s directly on the main parade route—but at the end. The crowds are scarcer here, preferring to watch closer to the center of town.
A cold and hollow sensation spreads through me. Anxiety returns tenfold. And hope is a delicate thread as I step out into the shop front, peering past the shelves, but she’s nowhere to be found. The front door is slightly ajar, and cold air seeps through the crack.
That’s when I hear the distant sound of shouts. Angry shouts and a scream or two pierce the night. From what I can make out, bodies have gathered in the street. The sound of breaking glass cuts through the night. And in the center of the street, a large fire roars. Too large.
Panic rises in my throat as I hurry to shut the door, lock it, and set the alarm. I search all over the bookshop.
Mrs. Kravitson is gone.
I rake my hands through my curls, nails digging into my skull. Clutching my throat, I remember Jack’s words:“First, you must take care of your heart. When you put yourself first, you put me first. Your heart is my heart.”
Touching a palm to my pounding heart, I take deep breaths, perform some grounding, sensory techniques, and hurry behind the counter to grab my scarf and hat.
Just as I wrap the scarf around my neck, I sense a presence behind me. The energy in the air has seemed to shift, growing colder. Icy claws scrape along my spine before tap, tap, tapping, tapping.
“My long-lostwife.”
Terror rips through me. That voice! My heart ricochets, my mind reels, and I’m spiraling into a panic attack. Every blood cell in my body congeals while my nerve endings catch a black and horrifying fire.
I speak ten billion prayers in my mind, pleading to the heavens that he’s not here. He can’t be here. An earthquake rips through me at the sound of his boots approaching like the thundering of my heart. But I can’t move. Frozen in my helplessness.
Invisible razor blades slash at my throat when I feel him behind me—his cold shadow and his raging heat. I clench my eyes, battling tears as the man I hate most fingers a few of my curls. It feels like my lungs are bleeding from broken glass.
“More beautiful than ever. Can hardly damn breathe at your beauty,” he says, voice deep, dark, and velvety, beguiling as he always was.
