Page 32 of Beneath Hoof and Hollow
“Only thee who hath summoned The Horseman may release him. Blood must be given. Magic must be paid. The Horseman shall not return until all commands have been obeyed.” I shout several commands at once, “The Horseman will tend to my needs, day and night. The Horseman will use his dark gifts for more than mere fright. The Horseman will obey me until my dying day. Roaming the mortal world even after I’ve gone away.”
Jamming the quill into my thumb, I draw a thick drop of blood to the tip.
The final line of the spell is being illuminated. It’s almost too late.
My skin burns as I press the freshly wounded flesh to the parchment next to my addition. Magic zaps through me—that’s all it can be. The walls creak, voices screeching from the shadows. Did it work?
Clutching the book, I race back toward my home.
Itrimort and Fierdon are staring at one another, both bloodied and wounded. When I shove through the door with the spell book in hand, Itrimort’s glare cuts straight through me.
“Impossible.”
Fierdon pulls me to him. “I must finish this.”
“I did what I could. I hope it was enough to save you.” My voice is wobbly and quiet .
He asks me softly, “Are you attached to this home?”
I have many memories here. The times I spent with Leed. Good, bad, beautiful, and sad scenes play out in my mind. The dark times outweigh the light now.
“No.” This house is but a shell for my wounded heart, clinging to the air-starved pieces of my former life.
“Good.”
At first, I attribute the trembling beneath me to my own, unsteady limbs. But as dishes rattle in their cabinets and books tumble from their shelves, I realize the house itself is shaking.
Itrimort’s slitted eyes dart around. “Horseman—” his words are cut short.
Vines funnel up from the floor, bursting free and consuming the entirety of the room we are in. A mass the thickness of a tree stabs straight through Itrimort’s abdomen.
He stares down, lips pursing. Instead of dropping dead, he rips the mass free. The hole in his middle seals up. Fierdon strikes again, sending vines through his chest, stomach, and legs.
Again, Itrimort rips them free and heals.
“Fierdon?” What he’s doing isn’t working.
More vines impale Itrimort, so many that it slows his ability to remove them all at once. Fierdon turns to me.
“We don’t have the time nor ingredients to perform a proper banishment spell.” His words are difficult to hear over the writhing greenery still rocking the foundation of the home.
“Then what are you doing?” I watch again as Itrimort removes the vines piercing his internal organs and heals himself.
“I need to completely destroy his vessel. They’ve fused so much. I’ll have to get creative.”
“Enough of this,” Itrimort hisses. He raises both clawed hands in the air.
Fierdon shields me with his body just as the walls and roof are blown off.
My screams pierce the night as I’m ripped free from Fierdon’shold. Scaled hands grip my waist. How did Itrimort get behind me? Glancing over my shoulder, I find all traces of Reverend Statton have vanished. A dark, lizard-like demon has consumed the entirety of his human form.
He squeezes me tighter. The scent of burning flesh assaults me. I gag, struggling against his hold and gripping the book for dear life.
“You should have taken the trade. Her heart belongs to me, now. You’ll watch her die and then roam this world alone.”
Those razor-sharp claws settle just before my chest. Pain burns through me as they puncture my skin.He’s going to rip my heart out.
The hand burying into my chest abruptly stops. The palm swells as scaly fingers are overtaken by a quickly growing protrusion. His skin splits, and a deep green pumpkin blooms outward. There’s an ear-splitting shriek as a second pumpkin grows from his other hand.
