Bleak
Chapter Two
"The great care and effort Sherriff Corbin put into the research is to be commended," Crane said as he closed the journal. "Such thoroughness and intelligence; such dedication." His fingers ran the short length of the book's spine, the awe apparent on his face. "Simply remarkable. Though I wish we were closer to establishing a pattern to the atrocities Henry has summoned." He leaned forward, placing the leather bound book on one of the many stacks of folders now littering the floor, regrouped in an effort to determine a design. "We are certainly due some sort of reward for our persistence." He smiled and sat back. "Wouldn't you agree, Miss Mills?" Abbie listed to the side, her head meeting Crane's shoulder with a soft thump. "Miss Mills?" As he reached across his body and swept a section of dark hair from her face, he found her eyes closed. "Lieutenant," he scolded softly, a small smile touching his lips. "It appears I am not the only one wearied."
Crane shifted gently, turning to face Abbie as he stood. Slipping his arms under her knees and her shoulders, he lifted her body and carried her to the bedroom. Carefully, he steadied a knee on the edge of the mattress, balancing their combined weight as he placed her in the middle of the bed. Once certain he had sufficiently covered her against the chill of the night, he knelt in front of the fireplace. Using three small logs from the metal box to the right of the brick-covered opening, he built a tripod over the mound of slowly dying embers in the hearth. He grabbed the poker and prodded the pile of wooden coals, releasing their blistering warmth.
"There," he said quietly as the flames took hold of the splintered surfaces of the fresh wood, hissing and snapping as they indolently came to life before him. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, studying Abbie's face as the warm, orange glow of the fire played across her skin. Her features were calm, serene in a manner of which he approved but did not often see. Though Crane had possessed a few details regarding his function as a Witness, Abbie had held no such benefit. Helplessly, she had watched her world fall apart around her, with no understanding of its meaning. Despite the delinquencies and destructive coping mechanisms that littered her early years, she found the power within herself to choose the right path, to shift the balance of negatives in her favor, to become stronger than her fear… "To trust a strange man from a different time," he whispered. He reached forward and brushed a thin lock of hair from her forehead, the tips of his fingers tracing the arch of her eyebrow. He was selfish, he supposed, silently stealing these rare moments, grounding himself in the strength she radiated even in slumber.
Ichabod, sleep.
Crane looked around the room, his brow furrowing. Katrina? Her voice resonated throughout the silence of the cabin, seemingly close. Yet in the same step, it hinted of a dream long forgotten. He released a quiet, annoyed sigh as his reverie rushed to the forefront of his thoughts. Blame, forgiveness, love, distrust. The lieutenant was correct; he was exhausted. With each passing day, the whirlwind of emotions regarding his wife left him twisted and tattered; exhausted as the lieutenant correctly deduced. Katrina had promised no more surprises lingering between them, but Crane had so many questions. The lie told and secrets withheld led him to fear the myriad of possible things she could yet reveal.
The time had come, Crane decided, to look beyond his heart, his wants for his union, and make the ostensibly impossible decision. He returned his gaze to Abbie. She had stated earlier in the evening that she needed him by her side, his attention on the role of Witness, if they were to prevail and secure a future for the ones they loved. He owed her every bit of constancy. He needed pause, a moment, days or months – years if necessary – to focus on one cruelty at a time. The confounding state of his marriage did not take priority over Moloch's malevolence.
Ichabod. Sleep.
Katrina's voice sounded again, gently more demanding. Crane fought to remain focused on the lieutenant, the crackling of the fire, anything that would keep his eyes open and his nightmares at bay. It was a battle he could not win. His eyelids fluttered and his fatigue-plagued body surrendered to the call.
SH
Henry marveled at the hand-painted roses and gold scalloped patterns that lined the teacups and saucer. The designs were as stunning now as he imagined them at the time of their creation. Once a probable integral part of life in the late eighteenth century, the antiques now seemed sorely out of place amongst the rotting and dilapidated manor. Only a handful of cups and dishes survived the passage of time, hidden from sight on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinets. The rest, Henry supposed, had been broken by vandals, stolen by looters.
The kettle on the stove hissed an airy rustle as Henry placed a teabag in each of the two cups he had readied on the countertop. Such a small gesture, sharing tea, yet it yielded opportunities. The night Katrina had returned, he had offered her a cup. She had been hesitant to accept until he clarified the prospect that accompanied the warm infusion. It was an opening, he had explained, between mother and son, a chance to repair a devastated bond. During the following nights, he showered her with stories of his life. He shared only happy moments, allowing her thoughts to feed the guilt he knew flowed within her veins. He talked of all that fascinated him, the wonders of a new time discovered upon his resurrection. They discussed at length how he learned of his powers, how he honed them.
Yet Henry was no fool. Though he believed Katrina's interest genuine, he also believed her return a bold act of espionage. Moloch's orders all but assured no cause to worry where Katrina was concerned, but he could not silence that small voice that whispered over his shoulder reminding him that Katrina was just as conniving as Henry himself. The game she played, however, was just that: a game. One he sought to win. He would play his cards; he would continue to behave as the adoring, dotting son, because he knew she would bend to the notion of his redemption long before he would bend to her seemingly reevaluated allegiances.
"Abraham." Henry lifted his head and smiled as he sensed the presence of the horseman. "How are you this evening?"
"Do not bore me with pleasantries," Abraham said. Henry chuckled and turned to face his visitor.
"Hmm. Right to the point. I like that." He pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his tan cardigan. "I have a task for you," he said.
"A task?"
"I need a lamb," he started. "A…sacrifice. To summon the next demon." Abraham nodded.
"Where shall I find this lamb?"
"There are several groups on the north side of town. Vagabonds no one will miss." He smiled. "Any one of them will do." He lifted his arm, holding out the paper. "It's a small area, just outside the city limits," he explained as Abraham approached and took the paper.
"It will be a day or two until our victim is discovered," he said, studying the roughly drawn map.
"Plenty of time for the coming storm to voice its destruction."
"Very well." Abraham refolded the paper as he met Henry's eyes. "Where is Katrina?" The kettle released a high-pitched whistle and Henry returned to the stove.
"Tending to the host," he answered. "She will be joining me shortly."
"Have you told her?"
"No." He carefully poured the required amount of hot water into each of teacup. "And I have no intention of doing so. She is not ready to see what is in front of her."
"What will happen when she learns the truth?" Abraham asked angrily. "We need her trust, Henry. We must tell her." Henry returned the kettle to the burner and pierced the horseman with an angry stare.
"Katrina will learn the truth when Moloch decides the time is right. Those are our orders; we are not to deviate."
"Abraham?" Both men turned towards the doorway. "Will you be having tea with us?" Katrina asked as she approached them.
"Not tonight, my love." He took her hand and gently kissed the back of her fingers. "Perhaps another time," he smiled. Katrina returned a wide grin. "Sleep well, Katrina." He turned to Henry, nodded tersely before leaving the room.
"Ah, Abraham," Henry chuckled. "Always up to something." He placed both teacups on the table and pulled out a chair, motioning for Katrina to sit. "I am delighted you are here, Mother."
"As am I, Jeremy." She smiled politely as she took her place on the chair. "There is a…favor I need to ask of you."
"Please, ask," he encouraged, sitting in the chair next to hers. "Ask anything at all."
"I wish to visit Frank Irving," Katrina said as Henry began to lift his cup. The warm rim stopped just shy of his mouth. As the smile fell from his lips, a quaint one tugged at hers. "Tomorrow."
SH
With a final burst of energy, Crane bellowed and lunged towards the demon, his sword aimed at the beast's heart. The blade pierced its sickly grey skin and skewered its body with a repulsive swish. The creature released a ghastly scream and collapsed to the ground before him.
"Ichabod!" He turned, his eyes finding the angry scowl of a red-haired woman. "No!" she screamed. As she ran towards him, he fell to his knees. The bitter dampness of the snow filtered through his trousers, clutching his skin with a searing sting. Help me, he mouthed, his voice unable to form the sounds. The woman ran beyond his position, ignoring his pleas for assistance. He dropped to his right and rolled onto his back, struggling to catch his breath.
Crane woke with a start, his heart racing beneath his ribs. In an attempt to calm himself, he took several slow, deep breaths, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. When the effort failed, he turned his focus to the ceiling. The light from the fireplace and the intense brightness of the moonlight that filtered through the curtains gave him a clear view of every darkened not, every discolored mark, on the wooden planks. His mind fell into the familiar pattern, an arrangement at which he had stared for the majority of each of the previous six nights. It was a puzzle, an abstract array that distracted him, pulled his concentration from thoughts of Katrina. Though it did not help him find any amount of peaceful slumber, it allowed him munch needed moments of succor.
As he slowly regained his composure, Crane began to register the warmth along the left side of his body. Turning his head, he discovered the lieutenant peacefully sleeping against him. Her head rested on his chest, her arm across his abdomen. His arm lay beneath her body, comfortingly curled around her lower back. He took her hand and lifted it to rest higher on his body. The torpid, relaxed smiled that graced his lips as his fingers softly enveloped hers disappeared as quickly as it manifested, as Crane could not remember how they came to be nestled against each other under the comforter. An obscure panic settled over him through his somnolent state and he wondered if their place in the cabin was reality or if they remained in Purgatory, trapped in another of Henry's illusions. Was everything they had experienced in the previous months another guise, another attempt to gain information?
Abbie shifted, stretching slightly along Crane's side, and his thoughts of Henry dispersed. Gently, he tightened his hold around her body, brushed his thumb along the backs of her fingers until she released a content sigh and relaxed against him once more. Turning his head to the right, Crane took in the state of the fire. He surmised he had not been sleeping long as the flames still shone brightly. Eventually, the logs would need attention, a restructuring to maintain their burning potential. Crane elected to stay buried beneath the bed linens until a bolstering of the fire was necessary. He was unwilling to cause a disturbance that would wake the lieutenant.
Ichabod, sleep.
SH
Katrina woke just before the season's late sunrise. With Abraham hidden in refuge from the nearing sunlight and Henry presumably in the final stages of his slumber, the manor was still, undisturbed in the early hours. Katrina opted to watch the day come to life from the quiet vantage point on the worn, green velvet sofa in the living area. As the orange orb made its slow ascent over the tree line of the surrounding forest, the beams formed a square of light through the window frame. It crept along the floor, inching anxiously closer to her until it covered her body, allowing her to bask in its warmth.
Looking around the sunlit room, Katrina felt a heavy sadness settle over her heart. Frederick's Manor, once a place of sanctuary bustling with the vibrancy of life, was now broken, ravaged by time and the absence of joy. It had accommodated many who desired to start anew, to live the good, fulfilling lives they deserved. Now, it held nothing but death, housing two horsemen of the apocalypse who used the edifice as a base of operations for plotting and executing the destruction of humanity.
However grim its current appearance, Katrina trusted it again would be a place of love and healing. As it was in the past, it was still a beacon of hope in present time. Katrina found no coincidence in Henry's occupancy of the building. Frederick's Manor was the place of his birth, the place where she and he shared the strongest moment of their bond as mother and son. Claiming the manor was an attempt to regain the affection stripped from him early in life. Every part of her being believed somewhere beneath the infected pieces of Henry's soul lived her son, a son who desired and deserved redemption.
Ichabod did not share her belief; he did not agree that they could save their son. Ichabod had never been one to trust on faith alone. He followed his heart, his feelings, to a point, yet in the end, he always needed something tangible. Even during the war as he had begun to suspect something wicked lurking beneath the surface of those around him, he could not commit to the idea until he came face to face with the evil itself. Katrina needed to offer proof of Henry's ability to transform and that proof rested in their conversations. Henry no longer scowled when she called him Jeremy, responding to his given name in a natural manner. He no longer called her Katrina, but called her Mother. He answered her questions about his childhood without ill judgment of her actions and offered stories of his later years without her askance. Katrina could secure a connection with her son and use it to show Ichabod that he and Henry no longer needed to despise each other. These awkward and tense encounters could become a loving and trusting relationship, freeing Henry from his evil bonds.
Katrina stood and made her way to the nursery, following the soft coo that wafted through the manor. The sheer curtains that covered the nursery's windows diffused the bright sunlight, bathing the room in a soft, white glow. The glow brought a peacefulness to the room, a serenity found in no other part of the dwelling. To Katrina, it was another sign that good would prevail and overcome the evil surrounding Sleepy Hollow. She stepped to the side of the crib and smiled as she picked up the chubby, pink-skinned baby. As she cradled him in her arms, he lifted his fingers to his mouth and sucked on the tiny digits.
"I'm sure you are very hungry," Katrina said quietly. "After all, you did sleep the night through." She gently swayed from side to side, humming softly as large, blue eyes stared at her. She had a connection with this child, one she could not fully explain. He was her child, born of her body in the most perverse of ways, but her child nonetheless. He was in need of rescue, in need of someone to guide him to the right path, to protect him from evil's grasp. She was the one he needed. Katrina could not fulfill the plans she had relayed to Abbie; she could not kill this child, could not murder this innocent being. "I will keep you safe," she promised. "Moloch will not take control of you as he has Abraham and Jeremy."
SH
He dropped to his right and rolled onto his back, struggling to catch his breath. The pain in his chest radiated from his extremities and spit stars in front of his eyes. Help me, he mouthed again. The cold sensation surrounding his body began to fade, a dark mist to fill his vision. The sounds around him hushed, allowing the quiet yet unbalanced beat of his heart to fill his ears. I am dying, he thought. Help me.
Crane flattened his palms against the slickness of the shower wall and dropped his head. He released a long breath as the hot water rushed over his shoulders and flowed along the muscles of his back. Another dream had overtaken his subconscious. It had tortured him with an indescribable pain while he slept; left him to wake in a sweaty tangle of bed sheets. He was positive he had screamed as he suddenly sat up on the mattress, gasping for breath all in the same movement. He had tried to compose himself quickly, certain the lieutenant would enter the room to address his cry. Yet as reality came to power and the agony of the nightmare drifted towards the outer edge of awareness, he found himself receiving no visitor.
Turning off the water, Crane stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. He dried and dressed, absently watching the light clouds of steam that floated around the small bathroom. As he finished tying the drawstring of his trousers, he lifted a hand and pressed the edge of his palm against the fogged mirror above the sink, wiping away the sheen of condensation. The appearance of the man reflected echoed Crane's mental state, abused and worn. He was grateful Abbie had woken and found her way out of the bedroom before his disturbed stirring. She was already greatly concerned about his well-being and witnessing his nocturnal anxieties would only further trouble her.
Crane turned his eyes from the mirror to the floor. His tatty exterior was not the sole cause of Abbie's worry. His temper had been quick to flare over the previous days and he found himself snapping at her without justification. She conveyed all of the signs of understanding the duress he suffered, but he did not deserve the gift she bestowed. He had no reason to be angry with her, no reason to act towards her in such a manner. He needed a few nights' time to regain regularity of his sleep cycle, to put the nightmares and the temperament behind him, to alleviate that portion of Abbie's care. Facing the mirror once more, he straightened his posture. He and Abbie were partners in this war, partners in this life. Though he would gladly carry her in her time of need, he would not allow himself to be her burden.
The distinct and appreciated scent of coffee greeted Crane as he exited the lavatory. He smiled gently and moved towards the kitchen. Pausing in the entryway, he took in the site of his partner. Abbie's back was to him as she stood in front of the oven, stirring a panful of scrambled eggs. She shifted left to right, slow and subtle motions, her hips keeping a steady rhythm in time with the tune she was humming. Though he did not recognize the song, he knew it differed from the one he heard her singing after her woke. The thought of being privy to this part of Abbie's day brought a comforted smiled to Crane's face.
"Lieutenant," Crane greeted. Abbie looked at him and smiled as he offered a soft bow.
"Morning, Crane. Feel like eating?"
"I am afraid I have not yet regained my appetite," he apologized.
"Let's try that again." She set the rubber spoon on the countertop and turned away from the stove, hand resting on her hip. "Morning, Crane. Feel like eating?" Recognizing the look of determination in her eyes, he knew he was entering an argument he would not win.
"Yes, Lieutenant," he said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "I am simply famished."
"Good," she smiled again. "Have a seat." She pulled a plate from the cupboard and covered it with a hearty serving of scrambled eggs and two pieces of buttered toast. "It's nothing fancy," she started, putting and a fork next to the full, steaming coffee mug on the table. "But you need something in that stomach of yours."
"You intended to feed me," he said, eyeing the plate. "Your inquiry into my state of hunger?"
"Just trying to be nice. Sit." She filled a plate for herself then took a seat at the table. "Crane, I said sit." Holding back a roll of his eyes, he, too, sat down. "Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?" she asked. He lifted his eyebrows.
"There is a side of the bed from which to arise?"
"It means you're crabby; that you didn't sleep well."
"Ah." She laughed gently.
"Cranky Crane," she sing-songed as he forked a clump of eggs.
"Truthfully," he started, ignoring her joshing, "I slept more soundly last night than I have every night this week."
"So what's bothering you? Is this about sharing the bed?" she asked quickly. "'Cause you know it's not a big deal, right?"
"I am not troubled by sharing a bed with you." Abbie raised an eyebrow and smiled wickedly. "Must you always turn my meaning into inappropriate implications?" he asked.
"Yes," she laughed.
"I see no reason as to why two people cannot share a bed when there is only one bed to be had." The corner of his mouth quirked into a small smile. "Unless, of course, I need to be concerned about indiscretions on your part." Abbie laughed again.
"You're safe, Crane. Please, continue."
"What weighs on my mind is how we came to be in the bed together."
"What do you mean?" she frowned.
"You fell asleep as we read last night. I carried you to the bedroom, restored the fire and…" He paused for a moment, reflecting on the partial memory. "I heard Katrina instructing me to sleep. I woke little time later and heard her voice yet again, issuing the same direction." He looked at Abbie. "I realized I have not slept well as of late, but the sudden urge to close my eyes was far more than overwhelming." She nodded, absently pushing a section of eggs around her plate.
"You think Katrina…put a spell on you? Made you fall asleep?"
"Of all we have seen Katrina do, I would gather it's not out of her abilities to cause such a thing to happen." He offered an awkward smile. "I know it sounds absurd."
"It doesn't, actually." With a sigh, Abbie sat forward, resting her elbows on the table. "I heard Katrina, too. I wasn't tired, wasn't ready to turn in for the night, but when I heard her…" She shook her head. "The next thing I remember is waking up this morning."
"Perhaps we are too exhausted for our own good."
"Yeah, maybe."
"Besides, able or not, what reason would Katrina have to will us both into a slumber? In propinquity nonetheless?"
"Huh." Abbie sat back in her chair, tapping her fingers on the table as she looked away. I will tell Abraham that Ichabod had found his place in this time, with you by his side.
"Lieutenant? You have that appearance about you."
"Appearance? What appearance?"
"The one in which you are about to tell me something I will not fancy." He sat the fork on the table and clasped his hands in his lap. "And from your lack of agreement that the idea of Katrina putting us under a sleeping spell is one of ludicrousness, I do believe you are about to divulge something unpleasant."
"Sorry," she said with a shrug. "I have nothing for you." She held Crane's gaze as he studied her face. After a moment, he nodded and returned to his plate.