Chapter 6

Wiesbaden, County of Nassau-Usingen, Hesse, Holy Roman Empire of Germanic Nations

December 1799

Chris had been standing completely still and barely breathing for ten good minutes outside the gates of the Schiller residence.

His family house had not changed in all those years, except for the garden that looked somewhat neglected, even under the sprinkle of recent snow. That was strange, as he remembered his mother being very demanding about the aspect of the garden, regardless of the season.

His mother... His father... How would they react in seeing him? Would he make it and pass off as their grandson? And, above all, were all of them still there?

Daredevil, who craved hay and a good rest, gave him a push to snap him out of it.

At that moment, a young man came to the gates. "May I help you, Herr?"

Chris did not recognize him, of course. The youngster could have been no more than eighteen.

"My name is Christoph Schiller. I am the Barons' grandson."

Upon hearing his name, the boy's face changed color and his eyes went wide.

"Oh Gott sei Dank!" the boy exclaimed, opening the gates and bowing before Chris, who didn't like to be revered and gently pulled him up by the shoulders.

"Who are you, kid?"

Right on cue, a feminine voice called from the front door. "Who is it, Otto?"

Chris's heart started to race as a short, chubby woman in her late forties came closer to them. Her dark brown hair was tied in a bun, and her olive green eyes were lively and piercing. The lifelong self-neglect and hard work had not damaged her natural beauty. As she caught up with Otto and looked up at Chris, she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Inga..." Chris breathed. He noticed that the woman had gone pale and started trembling, and he quickly composed himself. "Er, you must be Frau Inga Berger... I am Christoph's son. I have just arrived from America to meet my grandparents."

The woman, Inga, had been Chris's very first childhood friend, as she was born a couple of years before him, in that same house too. She was the daughter of Gudrun, the former housekeeper, but they had remained very close without ever giving a damn about their social differences. They knew each other like the back of their hands. Inga was tough, self-controlled, extremely efficient and trustworthy. Chris had seen her cry only twice in his life: the day he left for America, and now. He almost felt like crying himself upon seeing that stronghold of a woman aged and sobbing.

"Come on, Frau, you make me feel bad if you cry..." he said, trying to calm her down.

Inga held his face in her hands and hugged him tight. "Don't Frau me, urchin. You think I can't recognize you? Just tell me how can this be," she told him among sobs.

Urchin. She had called him that nickname since he was very little, due to his spiky black hair.

Touched, Chris returned the hug, and whispered in her ear, "Shhh. If you let me in, I'll explain everything."

The house was exactly as he remembered it. White walls, blood red curtains and dark Baroque furniture. The sofas and armchairs in the wide living room were of red damask, and the fireplaces were of ornate cast iron. The walls sported paintings and a remarkable exhibition of swords, Eastern European sabers, Asian katanas and Arab scimitars.

His home. A home that suited him.

"While you freshen yourself up, I'll make dinner," Inga said. "The... Master should be here later tonight or tomorrow. He went out of town."

"You mean my father?"

Fresh tears started to well up in Inga's eyes, and she looked away. "Follow me in the kitchen."

While Inga cooked, she told Chris the terrible tragedy that had erased that branch of the Schiller family from Wiesbaden.

"Your parents died twelve years ago. They got sick and died in a few days. We never understood what it was. And you... You never came back. Your army reported you as missing, because none of them had seen you since Seventy-nine and your death was never confirmed. In the meantime, your parents got into trouble, and after their death, this house, the lands in the country, and all the workers – including me and my family – became property of Martin Bormann, the judge."

"Bormann!" Chris thundered. "Our own administrator!"

"Yes," Inga said, her face gloomy. "He played dirty, I'd bet my head. The Schillers had no heirs left, so it was an easy job for him to gain everything. And now, this house has become a brothel: Bormann enjoys himself with parties, alcohol, drugs, and prostitutes, both females and males. The workers are constantly vexed and exploited for each little whim. Life is a nightmare here, Chris. I'd gladly strangle that Bormann and then bring him back to life only to strangle him over and over again."

Chris didn't realize he was clutching the table with both his hands until he felt the wood give under his iron grip.

"Many Hessians never came back from America," Inga went on. "Those were awful years. But I never lost my hope. I knew you were too strong to be defeated. And here you are."

As Inga finished cooking, she called out for her husband, Benno Schuster, and their son Otto, the boy Chris had met at the gates.

The little family started to get busy in serving Chris his dinner in the dining room, but he insisted they had dinner all together in the kitchen. He had never had such a pleasant meal in all his life. When he used to take the meals with his parents, they sat several feet apart from each other and they rarely spoke. His parents weren't exactly the affectionate mom and dad, and Chris had always been very lonely, which did no good to his psychic balance. And now, sitting with the humble Schusters at the small kitchen table, eating, drinking and chatting as if none of them had a care in the world, for the first time in his life Chris didn't feel like a monster. He felt like a child with a family that loved him.

He knew that he could entrust his own life to those beautiful people, so he told them everything about his weird, incredible experience in Sleepy Hollow. They listened, bewitched, and gasped when he showed the thick scar on his neck.

"I know it is hard to believe," Chris concluded. "But Inga knows it's me, and she remembers that I have the exact same face I had when I left Hesse, in March 1776."

He was right. Inga knew him too well: he was definitely not raving.

"You... you are back from the dead..." she breathed. "I knew nobody could defeat you."

"So there is a damn Hell down there," Benno said.

"And witches, and angels, and demons!" said Otto, excited like a little child.

Chris smiled at them, then he was serious again. "You have to promise me that nobody, nobody ever, must know of this. Not even the other workers. Besides, I don't know who would believe you. For the record, I am my son."

"I'll be decapitated and cursed for eternity if I tell a soul," Benno said, crossing his heart.

"I won't tell anyone," Otto quickly added.

"You know you can trust me," Inga said finally.

"Great," Chris said. "Now, you said that Bormann will be back tonight, or tomorrow, right? Because I have a surprise for him."

And his eyes gleamed with murderous hunger.

Judge Martin Bormann came back to his new home after midnight. Ah, the old Schillers. They should have paid more attention to whom they were dealing with – and trying to screw with. Plus, it had been a blessing from Heaven that their only son Christoph had chosen to go and get killed in the New World.

Because Martin Bormann was sure as hell that, after over twenty-three years, that sick bastard was dead. Otherwise, everything would have been extremely difficult: Christoph was damn smart, and tricking him was impossible. He would have inherited all of his folks' goodies and nobody would have been able to snatch them from him.

Moreover, the guy was as strong as an ox, had amazing reflexes, and was incredibly skilled with every type of weapon. Bormann had seen him knock out a whole group of rogues with the only aid of a stick.

But there was something else that Christoph had, something that Bormann had to shamefully admit he had always been scared of...

Christoph Schiller was downright insane.

Now, the sly judge didn't know why the young Schiller had appeared in his thoughts out of the blue. He didn't even know why he suddenly felt this icy stab of fear into his chest, and he didn't like it. Goddamn it, Christoph was dead! He had been for so many years! Stupid irrational fears!

"Good evening, Herr Bormann," came a powerful, deep, slightly raspy voice from the living room.

Bormann winced and stepped backwards. "Who the hell is it?" he said, his voice trembling.

"Hell, indeed. Where you belong."

From the living room doorway, Bormann could see a black-clad arm that ended in a masculine, alabaster hand holding a glass of wine, peeping out from behind the high-backed armchair. Then, the mysterious man drained the glass and placed it on a small table.

"If this is some kind of a joke, you got the wrong person, fellow," Bormann said, in a miserable attempt to sound threatening.

Without replying, the man slowly rose from the armchair. When he faced him, Bormann felt the same stabbing into his chest he had felt earlier, only fifty times stronger.

That couldn't be true.

Christoph was alive. And he had not aged. There were no doubts anymore: that man was not a creature of this Earth.

"Relax, Herr Bormann," he said, advancing towards the judge. "I am not the one you're thinking... But I am his flesh, blood... and bad temper."

Bormann didn't know whether to look at the man's eyes, at his sharp teeth, or at his sword. "You're his son..."

"Precisely. I have already sent a message to the Prince. He will enjoy your face after he sees my father's last will. But now... time for confessions."

Chris drew his sword and pointed it under Bormann's chin. The judge could feel the deadly metal stinging his skin. A tiny movement, and his throat would be history.

"What did you do to the Barons?"

"Nothing!" Bormann whined. "They died from disease!"

Chris plunged the blade a bit deeper, and the judge felt his airpipe go tight. A rivulet of blood ran onto his white necktie. The judge burst into tears.

"I... I had their wine poisoned. Something with a slow effect, to avoid suspicion. There, I told the truth! Please, don't kill me!"

Chris felt the surge of power into his whole body, fueled by the judge's fear. Just a quick movement of the arm, and he would have cut Bormann in two. He started to see the familiar red screen of murderous lust before his eyes. His breathing shortened, turning into a series of low growls.

… stronger weapons than your sword and your axe...

Suddenly, Chris remembered the Angel. No. He couldn't. If he killed Bormann, blood would be on his hands again, and his soul would switch back to black. He had only one chance.

"Stop crying, you pathetic son of a bitch," Chris snarled. "I have already had the guards called. You'll die in prison, like a worm."

Wiesbaden

December 8th, 1799

Dear Mary,

as promised, I am writing you from my old Hessen.

It felt very strange to come back here. It feels even stranger when I remember the dark state of mind I was in when I left my home to fight in America. I hope to be able to tell you about it personally, one day.

Upon my arrival, I was very happy to find my only friends, whom I refuse to call servants even if they work for me. I found out that my parents have been murdered twelve years ago, and that my house and my lands had been confiscated; but thanks to your precious help with the Last Will, I easily gained everything back. You were right, and your shrewdness will always surprise me.

For the first time, I feel responsible for my house, my lands and the people working here; only now I am seeing that my parents have committed a lot of mistakes over the years. Actually, they have made a ghastly mess, and they have paid a high price for it. And now, I must absolutely fix everything up. I have always lived confined into my mind, with the hatred I felt towards the world, the loneliness, the hypocrisy. Maybe it was the influence of that Angel, but I have opened my eyes to find out that there are people who need me; and I hope this knowledge will give a new meaning to my bloody life.

But, enough talking about me. Are you doing well in the old Hollow? I do not like those people, and neither do you, but knowing how resourceful you are, I should not worry too much. Whether you have decided to settle down your life there, or anywhere else, or with anybody, my offer is still standing. Should you need me, you know where to find me.

All the best,

Chris

P.S. If that night you were looking for my forgiveness, you have it. I will not regret it.