"Tomorrow. War will ride tomorrow," Crane said. Perhaps if he said it softly enough, she would not hear and it would not be true.
She looked up from the map of Sleepy Hollow she had been intently studying for hours. "Tomorrow's Fourth of July," she said. "The parade. Whole town will be out. Are you sure?"
With all his soul, he wished he were not. "Apart from the obvious symbolism of Independence Day, the fourth day of July has been fraught with War for centuries." He pushed the computer with its list of gristly days toward her. "362, before Christ: the Battle of Mantinea. During the Crusades, the Battle of Hattin. The Siege of Belgrade. In my own time, the Battle of Kaskaskia. Two battles during your Civil War. World War the First, the Battle of Hamlin. The death of a Russian Caesar. Battles on all continents during your Second World War." He looked at his notes again in disbelief. "Twice? How it is possible you had wars that spanned the globe entire twice within thirty years?"
"You're going to hold me personally responsible for wars that started decades before I was born? Seems fair." The absurdity managed to coax a small smile from her, a sight he had rarely seen these past days. The situation in Sleepy Hollow had grown ever-more dire. Violence reigned in the streets. She worked far too many hours, and told far too many tales of injured compatriots. Detective Morales still lay in hospital from injuries sustained during a brawl at the secondary school. She did not blame him, but they both knew that his reticence was putting innocent lives at risk.
He hated himself for that, of course. But he could not yet act, for there was still one insurmountable problem: He did not know if War could be killed. Half-mortal, Jeremy had called himself. But Katrina had been all-too mortal, alas, and certainly Ichabod was deeply human, without the smallest touch of magic about him. Yet something had sustained Jeremy for those aching years in the ground. The witches believed him dead, yet somehow, he clung to life.
Ichabod could not bear the thought of somehow restraining his son once more, sentencing him to an eternity of cruel captivity. But neither could he permit Jeremy to continue his present course. The result was an endless paralysis of research and self-loathing that served no one.
"Okay, so a lot of bad shit went down on July Fourth throughout the years," she said, quite unaware of his turmoil. "Bet that's true of almost any day on the calendar. War happens a lot."
The facts. Yes. The more Ichabod could ground himself in facts and separate himself from emotion, the more he could bear this sorrow. "An excellent point. However, the conjunction of the stars—a rare combination of Mars rising, with dominant influences from Jupiter and the moon-lead me to believe the Horseman will be at his most potent then. He will not hesitate to act."
She laughed, letting her weary head fall into her hands. "A This Day in History calendar and a fucking horoscope. That's what we're basing our battle plans on."
"Admittedly, it sounds absurd. But we have made do with far less evidence."
"True enough." She stood, stretching above her head. Her shirt rose with her arms, revealing a distracting sliver of smooth stomach. There had been precious little time for romance between them—stolen kisses, brief but fulfilling moments she had described as hitting second base-- but it would keep. If he perished in this battle, at least he would know that he had, for a few blissful days, held her heart.
"We must make inquiries with the interim captain and begin the process of canceling the parade." He did hate the thought of calling off a celebration of his friends and compatriots, yet sacrifices must be-
"Save your breath. No way it's gonna happen. People would say we're 'letting the terrorists win.'" She rested one haunch on the edge of the table, shrugging.
"Surely logic and reason will prevail. The parade could be rescheduled," he suggested.
"You'd think. But what I can do is call in a threat. Won't cancel things, but it will double police presence and keep some people at home." Her face grew uncommonly soft, and his stomach soured as he knew what their next topic of discourse must be. "How you wanna play this?"
"This is no game," he snapped, banging his hand against the table so the books jumped. But she did not flinch from him, did not return his misdirected anger with a cutting rejoinder, though he had no doubt she had one at the ready. Instead, she stepped toward him. He wrapped his arms around her hips and buried his head against the curve of her waist. For the barest moment, she stiffened at his touch. "Forgive me," he sighed.
She wove clumsy fingers through his hair, and he selfishly permitted the moment to stretch on, as if he could gain some measure of her indomitable strength and will by their very contact. But far sooner than he would have liked, he pulled away and climbed to his feet. "We will play this intelligently. Jeremy is our goal. We must brook no distraction. No matter what evil he perpetrates, we must remain focused, for if we can reach him, all else will cease."
"Just promise me you aren't gonna try to do this all on your own. No cowboy stuff. We're in this together, and if you try to go all vigilante, it's gonna end badly."
"Another time, you will have to explain to me what vigilantism has to do with cattle herding." He spread the map of Sleepy Hollow before them. "In the meantime, be so kind as to summon Miss Jenny. As you say, we are all in this together."
Sleepy Hollow burned.
Flames licked at buildings, devouring wood and shattering ancient brick. People ran in stampeding droves, abandoning strollers and clutching wailing children as they ran from the carnage. They pushed and shoved; some were sucked into the red, white, and blue undertow of the mob. Abbie stepped on something—someone, a hand, she thought—but she was swept away before she could help.
They'd thought the popping sound had been from firecrackers, until the windows blew out of the antique store. Then the store next to that, and the next, like exploding dominoes. They hadn't planned for this. The street swarmed with cops; the Apocalypse Trio was armed to the teeth with blades and guns. But there was nothing to fight. And no sign of Henry.
"Keep moving. Do not run. Walk quickly and keep an eye out for your kids," Abbie shouted over the chaos. Everyone ignored her.
"There! The church!" Jenny yelled as they pushed upstream against the panicking masses. Abbie squinted through the smoke; but there, in the white church hung with bunting, just off Main Street, she could just make out a shadow in the bell tower. A lone figure watching the shitshow below.
Crane. She'd lost Crane. How the fuck do you lose a giant? Maybe that was for the best, maybe the two of them could do this without him-
Fuck. There he was, racing ahead of them toward the church. He must have spotted Henry before Jenny, and was going to do the stupid thing they'd specifically talked about not doing. Why was she even surprised?
The crowds thinned as Abbie and Jenny elbowed their way toward the church, as if Henry were herding everyone away from him. Maybe he was. The thing was, they didn't even really understand Henry's goal. Was he out for revenge? Was he just a sadistic fuck, broken by his time in the ground? Or was this all part of a larger apocalyptic game plan? Abbie just didn't know if they were dealing with a rational person or a crazy one. She guessed it didn't matter now.
Crane reached the church gate ahead of them, the sword on his back bouncing. But just as he stepped over the threshold, the ground started to ripple like water, the gravestones tilting. He skittered to a stop, and the sisters slid up behind him.
Abbie had seen enough horror movies to know what was coming next. "Swords," she said, pulling her own short blade from her jury-rigged holster. "Guns aren't gonna help."
"Won't help with..." Crane's question dribbled away as the first hand popped out of the ground, finger bones waggling as they felt the air for the first time in more than two centuries.
"Fuck me sideways," Jenny said, pulling the gleaming ax from her back.
"We stick together. Watch each other's backs. Just keep pushing toward the bell tower," Abbie said. More hands now. Some clattered with rings, and Abbie tasted acid in the back of her throat. "Let's go, before they all wake up." Crane touched the back of her hand, so quick she wondered if she imagined it, then drew his own blade.
They ran, Jenny on point, Crane and Abbie flanking just behind. Fingers snagged at their ankles, and they stomped them like spiders. The first full body broke free—stretched, leathery skin, a tattered dress, and gaping eye holes. It moved fast, faster than a fucking skeleton should have been able to move (how fucking fast should skeletons be able to move? Abbie wondered with an edge of hysteria). Jenny decimated its torso with a giant sideswipe, but now there were more, pressing around. The trio hacked and kicked, bones flying through the air.
They fought for every step they took. A skeleton with a broad-brimmed black hat tore four gouges into her cheek with his rotting finger bones; she knocked off his skull with a swing that would make Ichiro Suzuki jealous.
Abbie was just steps away from the relative safety of the church when she heard Crane's shout. He was mobbed with skeletons (fuck you, Henry), the monsters pressing in too tightly for him to get anywhere with his sword. He was forced to shove and kick at them, but there were so many: they pulled at his clothes and plucked at his skin, leaving bloody pocks behind.
Abbie attacked. Shards of bone flew into her face. Her nostrils were filled with the musty funk of the grave. She was on autopilot, all thought pushed out of her head but one: Save Crane. She hacked and she tore until there was nothing left between them.
"Your face," he said weakly, raising a hand toward her blood-slicked cheek. Like he wasn't currently covered in dozens of wounds of his own.
"Will heal. Get in the fucking church. Jenny!" she called, snagging him by the forearm and dragging him along.
"Go! I'll hold the door." Jenny was covered in powdered bone, her hair almost white with it. But she was perfectly in control of the situation, not a scratch on her. And maybe for the first time ever, Jenny looked completely at peace as she jerked her ax from a yellowed skull. Like this was exactly where she belonged.
"Be careful," Abbie warned as she shoved Crane into the church and yanked the door shut behind them. They stood in the darkened narthex, rasping for breath. "You okay?" she asked.
"Not in the slightest. And you?"
"Nope. You ready?"
He took a minute to answer, closing his eyes. What was he seeing back there? Imagining Jeremy as a baby, trying to find even a trace of a happy memory? Or was he getting mad, getting ready for what they had to do, calling up Henry's face as he'd poured grave dirt on top of him? Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it, because he opened his eyes and nodded. "Yes. Let it be done."
They crossed the echoy sanctuary, expecting a sea monster to rise out of the holy water or something similarly fucked up. But all was quiet as they found the staircase to the bell tower and began to climb.
Crane led the way, taking the tiny-treaded stairs two at a time. She followed as quick as she could, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded in her ears. She could do this. He could do this. They would be okay. They had to be.
They paused at the top of the stairs. Abbie swapped her sword for her gun, and felt for the familiar weight of the handcuffs at her belt. She wished she'd brought leg manacles, too, but fuck it. Too late now. If they couldn't kill him outright, this would have to be enough. Crane glanced back at her, his eyes as wide and frightened as they had been the very first time she met him, a man utterly lost. And all she could do was nod at the door. "Do it," she whispered.
He threw open the door, took one step inside, and collapsed like a sack of potatoes. Just whomped to the floor. Henry stood just beyond, watching them with polite interest. Abbie didn't stop to think. She just pulled the trigger, again and again.
Click. Click. Click.
"Were you looking for these?" He opened his hand, and her bullets pinged out, one after the other. "The tools of War are mine to command."
Disappointing, but not surprising. Keeping her eyes on Henry, she knelt beside Crane. Checked for a pulse. She found one, surprisingly steady, in his shredded wrist. "What did you do to him?"
"He is sleeping, for now," Henry said mildly.
"Make him not fucking sleeping," Abbie gritted, hovering over Crane's body.
"In good time. We have much to discuss, you and I." Henry stood at the edge of the belfry, outlined by the fires of Main Street. And he just looked so...Henry. The lumpy oatmeal sweater. The horn glasses. She guessed she saw it now, the resemblance. He had Crane's long, aristocratic nose. His height, too. Katrina was harder to see, but maybe something about his eyes.
Not that it mattered. He was not their son now; he was a psychotic piece of shit.
"We have nothing to discuss. You betrayed us."
"I betrayed him," Henry said, nodding toward the crumpled man at his feet. "I would have returned for you. But you cleverly sprung the trap before I could do so. Again, no thanks to this worthless creature. Even now, I permit him to live out of deference to you."
"Because you blame him for your shitty childhood? He didn't ask to be put in the ground any more than you did." She shook Crane, slapped lightly at his cheeks, but he just slumbered on, even letting out a gentle snore. Jesus.
"I did not draw you here today to discuss him. Truth to tell, he is of little consequence to me now. I see that he is only a distraction from my higher purpose."
"Ending the world?"
He smiled, a perfectly pleasant smile that made her skin seethe. "Not ending, Abigail. Changing. A common mistake. Did you know that 'apocalypse' means 'to uncover'? To brush away the dust of the old world and create something new."
"Seriously with the etymology? Guess you really are his boy," Abbie said.
Henry's eyes flashed darkly. "We will not speak of him. Do you understand?" She didn't, but she didn't want to risk Henry deciding to make his sleep spell permanent, so she nodded. "From the beginning, I have been interested in you. Very interested. You remind me of myself, in many ways."
"I am nothing like you. I am the anti-you," she said. She stood from her crouch. All she wanted was to stay by Crane's side, her hand pressed against his chest so she could feel every rise and fall and reassure herself that he was alive, but that would be dumb. No one was coming to save her; she had to figure out how to end Henry all alone.
"The child of negligent parents, heir to a supernatural inheritance we could not possibly comprehend. Misunderstood, cast out from the other children. Constantly hiding the fact that we were special, we were chosen." He took a step toward her; sparks drifted through the air. From below, she heard Jenny shout, and she was just desperate enough to send a prayer winging skyward.
"We bear the same scars of abandonment. Of loneliness. Of despair. But our suffering has made us righteous, and it has made us ready." His cheeks flushed with excitement, and he looked more alive than he ever had.
"Ready for what?" Abbie wondered if she could knock him from the roof. One good flying tackle, and she thought she could do it. She might go with him, but that would be okay. She figured that once he was dead, Crane would wake up and the skeletons would go back to being piles of bone. Everything would be okay. But when she tried to take a step forward, her legs would not move. Like she had on concrete shoes.
She was afraid.
"Ride with me," Henry said, fire shining in his eyes. "We lack but one horseman to complete our quartet. But you, my dear, you will complete our number. All your life you have starved. For affection, for love, for understanding. Unleash that hunger upon the world, and take up Famine's bridle. Yes, there will be pain at first," he said, as if he were assuaging her perfectly reasonable concerns about his perfectly reasonable plan. "But the earth must be scoured before our future may be revealed."
At least she knew now he was crazy. There was comfort in that, in knowing what she was dealing with. "I'm a Witness. I fight you. I don't join your fucking equestrian club."
"Why? Because he proclaimed you Witness? Your fate is in your hands, Abigail. I am offering you power. I am offering you family, among those who know what it is to be rejected. To be unwanted. But in our new world, none will ever be forgotten."
Maybe this was it. This was how it all ended. Fine. She and Crane would go down together, the way they were supposed to. Let God choose some other Witnesses to pick up where they left off. "You realize how you sound, right? We're talking batshit, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs-level crazy if you think I will ever join you."
"I knew from the moment I saw you, when you were a terrified child in the forest. I was half-mad-"
"Half?"
"-but I saw your greatness. That is why I sent the Seven. To inflict pain upon my worthless patriarch and to test you. Temper you. Forge you into something marvelous." He beamed proudly. "And you performed beautifully, my dear. Just beautifully." He extended his hand, his skin papery and almost translucent. "You are ready to assume your rightful place."
"Fuck my rightful place. Fuck Famine. But above everything, fuck you. Kill me, and let's be done with it." Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Death was the worst thing that could happen, right? It was once, one sharp, shining moment, and then it was gone, on to heaven or hell or nothingness. At least then the fear of it was gone. And she'd find Crane there, wouldn't she? God owed them that much. God owed them each other.
Henry just smiled. He turned his back to her, gazing out over his little kingdom. "Kill you? You misunderstand. Your choice is simple: You will ride, or he will die." A scream echoed from below. "As will she. But you, Abigail, I shall ensure you live for eternity, your years stretching into an infinite desert of misery until the sun burns cold and the sky falls to the sea. You think you have known loneliness? It has only just begun." He walked to the door back into the church, in no particular hurry. He nodded cordially. "You have two days. I look forward to your decision."
The door slammed. The gun fell nervelessly from Abbie's fingers. Crane gasped to consciousness. Through it all, the town burned.