Ok, this is my first Sleepy Hollow fic, so wish me luck lol. All reviews are welcome, flames are funny and will be used to burn the wood to power my computer.
Enjoy!
It was dark. Completely. The kind of dark that poured into a place like treacle, and clung to the buildings, sticking in the alleyways like stagnant pools. It even clung to the air, making a thick fug of grime and dirt that obscured the stars, and lurked over the city like a malevolent cloud.
New York waited under the darkness, its noise quietening, if only slightly. Late night traders sold their wares up and down the streets, women in dresses that had more open space than actual material roamed the streets, and all manner of black-hearted villains crouched in the shadows, waiting.
A scrawny, dirty blonde-haired girl ambled down a side street. Her dress was of the revealing nature, and she swung a grimy handbag at her side, that looked as though it may once have been silk. Her scandalously revealed stockings were laddered and ripped, her blue shoes worn out and muddy.
Her face looked no better than the rest of her; a gaudy mix of red lipstick and pale powder. The eyes were topped in gold, but they were dull inside, with ill-concealed bags below.
A girl, in short, in a sorry state even for a prostitute.
The blade came out of nowhere. It was long, but unbelievably thin, like a rapier. It shot from an alleyway like a bullet, piercing her stomach and gliding through her as though she weren't there. With a spluttered gasp she plunged forward, her wrist cracking unpleasantly on the cobblestones. Once more, a thin dagger came racing out of the dark alley, this time skewering her neck, and lodging there, like Frankenstein's bolt. One more gurgle, blood seeping from her mouth to blend with her lipstick, and she was dead.
The only sound was that of the first dagger, the echo of it's landing fading into the night.
The first man to find the body was a tramp, strolling with his emaciated dog in the early hours of the morning. The police, who were far too busy with serious matters such as ordering new uniforms and inventing new torture machines, sent out someone expendable. No point wasting good officers, was there?
It was nearly ten o'clock by the time Ichabod arrived at the scene of the crime. He was rather disgruntled. Not only was he supposed to be on leave (the first week off he'd had in years he might add) but he was being set on a crime that could only end in his tattered reputation burning into oblivion.
And he had only just got back from Sleepy Hollow.
Katrina had begged him, very nearly on bended knee, not to go. She'd used words like 'to Hell with them' and 'what about 'the' arrangements?'. But gone he had. If anyone was going to solve anything it would be him, and you couldn't have people dying left right and centre in a civilised place like New York.
"Ah. They sent you, did they?"
It was a disdainful comment. A resigned one. Constable Harrow had never been one of Ichabod's supporters.
"Yes. They did."
Harrow looked away, muttering under his breath. He rubbed his frozen hands together, glad of Ichabod's arrival in one way;
"Well, I'll be off. See you next week."
"Next week?"
"It's my week off, this week."
Ichabod resisted the urge to say anything. Harrow was comprised of either pure muscle or pure fat; it was hard to tell under the uniform. Either way, any argument would end with Ichabod being crushed to death.
Harrow hopped into the carriage Ichabod had just left, and slammed the door behind him, glad to be away. Ichabod took a deep breath, and went to inspect the corpse.
A body, that had evidently never been pretty to begin with, despite constant efforts, lay in the road. Blood, dark red and clotted, congealed on the cobbles. In the cold grey mist of a New York morning, this and the bright red lipstick looked oddly out of place, while the clammy grey skin and remains of a pale blue dress blended in. The left hand lay at a distorted angle, the wrist broken by the fall. Ichabod gulped.
"These are the weapons."
Another constable, a n immensely tall, lanky individual, loped over, holding one of the knives on a piece of cloth.
"You must never move the weapons."
"You said not to move the body…"
"Well then doesn't it follow that nothing else should be moved either?"
"Look, you didn't say anything about any weapons…"
"Where was it?"
The man shrugged. He gestured with an arm that resembled two broom handles tied together with string.
"Over there somewhere, I suppose."
Ichabod sucked in his cheeks, shut his eyes and counted to ten. Eventually he managed a strained "Fine."