Page 58 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
Landing without a sound, I crouch in the dirt, scanning the area. The foreboding weight of the place presses down on me, the sense of being watched never leaving my skin. It seeps into my bones and chills my blood. The wind carries a faint metallic tang, a hint of blood and iron. It’s enough to make any man shudder.
Not even the Devil would embark into this place.
Staying low, I move toward the building, a central meeting house judging by the view beyond the windows. I carefully avoid the patches of light and the security cameras.
Through the windows, I see shelves lining one wall, filled with worn leather-bound books, jars of odd, preserved substances, and old, tarnished brass instruments, probably used for some ritual. A skull—a deer, by the looks of it—sits on the top shelf, with darkened, hollow eyes that seem to watch over the room.
Moving toward the end of the building, feeling my blood quicken, I listen intently to the muffled voices inside. One window is cracked, offering more. Every nerve in my body is on edge, malice coursing through me. I am a predator, a ghostly presence that no living man can sense unless I reveal myself.
One glimpse inside shows a faded tapestry on the wall, one stained in blood like a relic.
Several men have gathered around a rectangular wooden table. I glower at the deep royal purple robe the one at the head wears like he’s some monarch. Judging by his position and age, I’d wager it’s Thaddeus. The sheriff is in uniform, but the others wear a simple black robe. All robes bear the Covenant insignia.
If he were a skinny little weasel, it would be better. Unfortunately, Belle’s former husband is no skinny weasel.
He’s a wolf.
His features are chiseledand sharp with high cheekbones and a strong, angular jaw. Full and well-defined lips and his straight, aristocratic nose give him an air of authority.
Despite his cold and calculating nature, hands calmly folded on the table, there’s a magnetic quality about him that draws people in. Thaddeus can bend people to his will with one narrow of his piercing, icy eyes, which could cut anyone to the core.
He’s well-built, tall, broad-shouldered, and sits straight and high as a king, commanding all other presences.
“You failed me, Jeremiah,” he says in a deep, resonant voice like a distant, rolling thunder as he turns to the man at his left—the true skinny, little weasel. The inferior man mumbles something I can’t make out, but the sound of his voice confirms he’s the one who attempted to take Belle. Jeremiah.
Thaddeus lowers his brows halfway, enough to create shadows around his eyes but exuding a chastisement—not anger. “You and your men couldn’t handle a single girl. Belle is mine by right, by blood, flesh, and the word of God himself. She belongs to me, and I’ll not have some masked interloper come between us.”
Other men around the table concur, lowering their chins in respect.
A menacing energy lingers beneath the surface of his magnetism. When he turns his head to the other side of the table, the faint scar on his cheekbone proves he’s seen his share of violence. And enjoys displaying it.
Cold fury laces through me, but I keep it contained, slowing and calming my breaths as he continues. “She is my wife, my first-blood bride, and my Covenant womb-bearer.” His voiceis daggered, hardened, resolved. “She will soon learn there’s no running from me. Not in this world, not in the next.”
I clench my leather-clad hand, forcing myself not to act. I grip my cane with my other, no doubt wearing out the glove.
“Thaddeus, I swear, we tried to bring her back, but this…this man, he wasn’t human. He moved like a ghost—like he was in two places at once. I saw one of my men die, saw the blood, and yet…his body vanished like smoke.”
Jeremiah’s fear is palpable, and a smirk tugs at one corner of my lips. The sniveling coward is shaking in his robe.
Thaddeus presses his lips into a tight seam. A neatly trimmed beard frames Thaddeus’s jawline, hinting at years of experience and influence. Well-maintained, the beard only adds to his aura of authority and control.
“I’ve seen things in these mountains,” Thaddeus says darkly. “Black things, ancient things. But none of them are blacker than me. Belle’s blood is mine, and I’ll carve my name into her skin and soul if I have to. If that masked fool thinks he can take her from me, he’ll learn thatIam the devil in these hills. If I can’t have her, no one will.”
The urge to charge in and tear Thaddeus apart roars through me like a raging lion, but my teeth grind hard enough that it grants me a jolt of grounding pain.
“She’ll learn to love me. She’ll remember who she belongs to, or I’ll make her beg for death before I ever let her go.”
Arrogance and power define him. I saw it in every goddamn noble I robbed during my highwayman days. He’s combed his thick, dark hair back smoothly, a slight wave that gives him a polished and effortless look. He takes great lengths to preserve his appearance…and expects others to notice.
One of the men at the table, a wiry, older member with a grizzled beard and gaunt cheeks, leans forward. “Thaddeus, how can you be sure she’s the one to grant you a child? You’ve had multiple wives. You’ve gone through the rituals, the prayers, but you’ve never given us proof.” Skepticism is written all over his features, but one withering glare of Thaddeus and the man shrinks, ready to fold himself in pieces until he disappears.
Thaddeus narrows his eyes before he sweeps into a stand, retrieves a thick, worn leather-bound book from his robe, and slams it down on the table with a force that startles all the others.
My breath catches in my throat as I recognize the book—the summoner’s tome that served as my lifeline’s road back to living. Belle holds the original. This must be the copy, the one Cassandra Kravitson referenced, hidden in their treasure box. Somehow, Thaddeus discovered it and must have studied every word of Elizabeth Holloway’s medical notes, including the one regarding Belle’s abortion.
“This,”—Thaddeus announces, stabbing a finger at the book, his voice low but carrying a dominance, one that demands absolute obedience,—“is my proof.” His fingers, long and pale, trace the worn cover, reverent and possessive. His knuckles are rough and rugged, more signs of his practiced violence. “This book holds the history of Belle’s sin—her greatest transgression. It is her punishment, her destiny, to bear my child. She took a life from this world—one that was to be mine—and for that, she will answer. I have nothing to lose. The stakes are highest for me.”
His sudden intensity cows all the men, particularly when he begins to circle the table with a predatory grace. His eyes never leave the book as he goes on, “It was a deep sin against me, against the Covenant, and God Himself. She committed the most grievous of offenses by denying me what was mine—my blood, my legacy, my future.”
