As promised, here's the next chapter, and it's a long one!

Not many changes here, mainly Enola's reaction to the Horseman's attempt at possessing her. Also, this time, she reaches the cell after the Horseman tells Ichabod that Katrina is being held for him, which causes a few changes in the last part of the chapter.

Everyone, give a big round of applause to my Beta Reader, Fate Magician, thanks to whom you can enjoy a mistake-free chapter!

The title is a line from the traditional American folk song Oh Death. One of the most famous versions is Ralph Stanley's in the Coen brothers movie O brother, where art thou? Of course, there's also Jen Titus' version in Supernatural (season 5, episode 21), which I recommend you listen to if you haven't. You can easily find it on YouTube.

Cold. I was creeping around her heart, drilling into her mind in dark misty tentacles. Slowly freezing her whole body. Alive like a foreign presence inside her.

Enola was struggling to keep her dinner inside her stomach and it was a good thing she didn't need to breathe because an iron hand had closed around her chest. The Horseman's presence inside her was so forceful it numbed her, and she could barely hear Abbie and Ichabod or feel their hands on her arms and shoulders. An uncontrollable spasm threw her head backward, eyes rolling and mouth wide open, as words that were not hers crawled up her throat.

"Crane, her eyes are turning black!"

Abbie's panicked shout pierced Enola's daze. Wh-what? her torpid mind slurred.

"What the hell's going on?!"

"The Horseman's trying to use her as his voice!" Brooks answered.

No shit! That's what Enola would have snapped if she hadn't been trying to swallow back Death's words. There was indeed something the latter had not anticipated: she was very stubborn, verging on pig-headed. Therefore the Horseman's attempt to control her infuriated her. So much so, that her eyes blazed red and her fangs grew. She fought with all her strength and all her anger to tear her limbs from their cold-induced stiffness, to shake off the icy spider web trapping her thoughts.

Move.

She first managed to close her mouth, clenching her teeth to imprison the alien words behind them, and her fangs cut her gums. The taste of blood in her mouth was like a slap in her face as the predator in her awakened and reared at the attempt to control her. Shuddering, she pushed herself up on her feet. Her vision was blurred but she could sense the dark presence standing behind her. Hands were holding her but she pushed them away, staggered around, tripped and crashed into the Horseman's hard chest with a gasp. She had to grip his red coat with her trembling fingers to steady herself. And now the hardest part.

"Stop it."

Her voice was but a croaky murmur from her fight to subdue her vocal cords to her own will.

"Stop this–"

She broke off as her voice skidded into a deep, unearthly tone that seemed to come from beyond the grave. Her red eyes flared at her loss of control and the next sound to roll from her throat was a feral growl. In your dreams. She could still feel his stare, so intensely focused it was almost burning her.

"Stop. This. NOW!"

She had roared the last word, yanking on the Horseman's coat… and something fell from it, hitting the stone floor with a metallic clinking. Whatever it was had to be important to him, because his presence vanished from Enola's body and mind, and so brutally that the vampire's head reeled. She would have collapsed if not for the Witnesses supporting her. The weight of his gaze had vanished.

"Enola, are you okay?" Abbie asked worryingly.

The vampire coughed to clear her sore throat before answering in a still slightly hoarse voice.

"Yes, I'm fine."

Actually, she felt like an overcooked strand of spaghetti but she wasn't about to admit it in front of the headless bastard. The worst part was that she couldn't even retaliate properly: between the UV light and what had just happened, she couldn't have won a fight against an underfed kitten, much less ripped the arsehole's heart out of his chest with her bare hands. Even a measly rib-cracking punch was too much to ask of her jelly muscles, for God's sake! She had never felt this powerless, not even when she was still human! It only fueled her red-hot ire towards the creature she no longer considered as a mere adversary, someone she fought simply because he was on the other side of the board in the war against Moloch, but as an enemy who had every fibre of her being bristling like so many angry cats when she looked at him.

"Perhaps you should step away from him," Ichabod remarked, pointedly flicking his gaze towards the inviting shadows.

Obviously he had understood the source of Enola's earlier distress, and also her wish that the Horseman remain unaware of her vulnerability to sunlight. Just with that he rose in her esteem by at least thirty points.

"Good idea," the young woman ground out, viciously glaring at the Horseman. "Before I tear his heart out."

It was an empty threat of course, but he didn't know that. Unless he had spotted her shaky hands. At this thought, Enola balled her hands into fists to hide their tremors, turned on her heel, her back as stiff as a coffin lid… and stepped on something thin and hard. She looked down and frowned: the something was the silver chain of a necklace. Is it what fell from the Horseman's coat?

"Is something wrong, Enola?" Ichabod inquired.

"No, it's just…"

She bent down and picked up the silver chain: hanging from it was a magnificent emerald roughly the size of a quail's egg and set in a delicate silver bezel.

"This fell from our guest's coat when I grabbed it," she explained. "Oddly enough, I'm quite certain it doesn't belong to him. Although, who knows?" she added with a smirk, which earned her a heated glare from said guest.

"This is not possible…"

Ichabod's whisper was filled with confusion and incredulity. Enola turned her eyes to him, and he was staring at the necklace as if it were a ghost from his past, some terrible memory he'd thought buried suddenly given form and substance.

"Crane? What's going on?" Abbie asked, visibly concerned by the haunted look on her partner's face.

Wordlessly, Ichabod reached out for the necklace and Enola gave it to him.

"You know it, don't you?" she deduced. "You've seen it before."

She was answered by a series of sickening cracks accompanied by a strangled sound, and her eyes widened at the sight of their cause.

"Uh, guys…" she trailed off, pointing at Brooks.

They turned around just in time to see him lower his head—which had been thrown back a second before—and stare at them with utterly black and empty eyes.

"It belonged to Katrina," he uttered with the same deep unworldly voice that had, for a second, escaped Enola's mouth only minutes before.

The UV lights had gone out.

Although Enola had been extremely relieved to feel strength flow back into her muscles and her skin heal completely, she was quite worried about this new turn of events. Sure, now she was able to fight the Horseman if the chains gave way, but she couldn't exactly spend the rest of her days down there, keeping him inside the cell. Besides, she was certain that this was only the beginning. Whoever had killed the lamps still had to neutralize the spells protecting the cell, and the way things were going, she had no doubt that they'd succeed. Unfortunately, the only thing she and the Witnesses could do right now was to wait and see, so she pushed her concern to the back of her mind and focused on Ichabod's story about his friend's death.

"Well, shit," she said when he fell silent.

Ichabod lifted a skeptical eyebrow at Enola's deadpan comment.

"No offence, Ichabod, but your friend sounds like a complete tosser," she went on. "As if money and gifts gave him a right over Katrina... And instead of blaming someone who had nothing to do with her decision, maybe he should've taken a good look in the mirror because at this point, I'm pretty sure 'hyprocrisy' was literally written all over his face. But I guess he was too arrogant for that. Plus, what kind of idiot starts a duel in the middle of enemy territory during a crucial mission?"

"I think he could no longer reason," Ichabod commented in a mild attempt to defend his late friend. "He was too furious for that."

A distracted hum was Enola's only answer as a terrible idea had just crossed her mind. If I'm right, Ichabod's going to be devastated… No, no hasty conclusions. But that would explain much.

"Enola? You okay?"

Abbie's voice roused the young vampire from her bleak musing. She shook herself up and focused on what she needed to ask to confirm her intuition.

"I'm fine, I was just thinking… Ichabod, you said Abraham was killed by Hessians, right?"

"Indeed…"

"And the Horseman was believed to be just another Hessian mercenary?"

"Yes, why?"

"I have a hunch but I need to know a few things before I share it," she explained. "I suppose Katrina gave her presents from Abraham back to him when she broke off their engagement?"

"Of course, but I do not see what you are trying to get at."

"One more thing: when did the sightings of the Horseman begin?"

Ichabod looked as if he had just been struck by lightning, which made Enola bite her lower lip with a certain sadness. It seemed she was right after all.

"No… No, it– it cannot be," he stuttered, shaking his head, trying to refuse the horrible idea Enola was suggesting.

"Did you see him die?" she insisted nonetheless.

Ichabod opened his mouth but no sound came out. He closed it, averted his eyes from her. Well, I have my answer. On his face, stubborn incredulity was fighting dismay.

"Abraham was not an evil man," he declared. "Short-tempered, perhaps, and proud, but not evil. He would not have sold his soul to Moloch."

"Not even out of pure rage and hatred?" Enola pointed out. "Not even for a chance of taking revenge? Believe me, it's extraordinary how strong and violent emotions can push you into making a life-toppling decision; how they can prevent you from reasoning properly…"

She closed her eyes for a brief moment to push back the painful memories her words were bringing with them.

Betrayal. Crushing despair. An alley in the night, clogged by shadows. Her knees weak as she took a few steps forward.

"You're speaking from experience?" Abbie deduced in a soft voice, having noticed Enola's unease.

The vampire's lips were pressed together in a thin line, her brows furrowed, and she was gripping the edge of the small table so hard her knuckles were white.

Although she was probably controlling herself not to shatter the wood.

"Yes," the vampire confirmed, her eyes snapping open.

She focused on their present problem and locked up the bad memories at the back of her mind. I'll deal with them later… much later. Perhaps when the Horseman switches his coat with a T-shirt that says 'Free Hugs'.

"Are you suggesting that Crane's friend… is the Horseman?" the police lieutenant went on in an incredulous tone.

"Makes sense," Enola replied with a shrug. "How else do you explain that he has Katrina's necklace? Or that he defied Moloch's orders to wait for Ichabod?"

"You think he was blinded by his desire for revenge?"

"Yes. Ichabod, you okay?"

The latter was staring at the Horseman through the window as if he was trying to reconcile the image of the creature in front of him with the memories of his friend. Enola went and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey… I hope you're not blaming yourself for his choice," she said softly. "If it's really him, I mean."

"She's right Crane," Abbie added. "If the Horseman really is your friend, it's not your fault. He made that decision, not you."

He only pursed his lips in an answer and Enola held back an annoyed sigh. Please don't start talking about–

"I violated his honour," Ichabod declared grimly.

Aaand bingo. Anger flared in her chest at his archaic reasoning and she scowled, her upper lip automatically curling up. She had always been annoyed by men's excessive sense of honour in some of the books she had read, and being directly confronted with it did nothing to improve her opinion. Not that she thought that honour wasn't important, but in a reasonable amount. Duelling someone over a stupid insult wasn't a sign of honour but of an inflated ego and definitely not reasonable. And so is duelling someone over a decision he didn't make or even prompted, for that matter.

"Oh for God's sake!" she burst out. "That's so eighteenth century! Abbie's right, people make their own decision! You did not force Katrina to break off their engagement, you did not start this duel in the middle of enemy territory, and you did not compel him to sell his soul!"

She was yelling now, and she was pretty sure the Horseman could hear her—noise insulation hadn't been Jefferson's primary concern when he had designed the cell—but she didn't give a damn. Nor did she care about Ichabod's shocked expression at her sudden anger.

"It's not his honour you wounded but his– his fucking macho bourgeois pride!"

"Calm down Enola!" Abbie intervened, grabbing the young woman's arm, and the latter had to rein in the instinct to shove the Witness' hand away. "Besides, we don't even know for sure the Horseman is Crane's friend."

The vampire clenched her teeth and pushed back the urge to let her human mask drop. Control yourself, she chided herself. Ichabod doesn't deserve to be yelled at. Count to ten. Or rather fifty. She took a deep breath and released it slowly, forcing her anger to subside gradually, but it wasn't enough. She suddenly felt as if the surveillance room had become a lot smaller.

"I need some air," she mumbled, running a hand down her face. "I'm going to fetch a weapon, just in case…"

She trailed off and gestured towards the turned-off UV lamps.

"We've guns stashed in the tunnels," Abbie informed her.

"I wasn't talking about a gun. I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't worry, I can find my way out. I'll follow my own scent."

And with these words, she exited the surveillance room, crossed the cell with a glare at the Horseman, and disappeared through the round main door which she carefully closed after her. The Witnesses exchanged half-amused, half-impressed glances.

"Well, she has a temper," Ichabod commented with a lopsided smile. "If she had been with us the day Abraham died, she would have hurled the worst insults at him, and her shouting would have alerted the enemy before the duel had even begun."

"Yeah, and then she'd have vented her anger on the Hessians," Abbie smirked. "But seriously, I just hope she'll control herself better than that in the future," she added with a frown. "I don't want her to screw up a mission because of a fit of anger."

Enola was running. Not at full speed though, she didn't want to cross the cemetery too fast. She relished the cool wind on her face, focused on her steady breathing, on her muscles' effortless working, on the way moonlight discoloured the tombstones and gleamed on the wet grass—anything to keep the painful thoughts at bay.

She'd have to apologize to Ichabod: she hadn't meant to snap at him like that. She hadn't been angry at him, but at Abraham van Brunt for his pride, his inflated ego, his machismo… the utterly foolish, life-ruining decision he had made out of anger and vengefulness.

And here we are. Painful thoughts… Kick them down the front stairs and they'll come sneaking round the back.

She knew exactly why she had been so irrationally angry at Ichabod's friend—because, really, what he had said two and a half centuries ago shouldn't affect her that much. It had reminded her of her own naivety, her own rash emotional choice. A choice that had ended her normal life—hell, ended her life—on the promise that she would never be alone in this. A promise broken a little over two years ago. And now she was alone to watch her friends and family wither and die while she remained untouched by time… Physically, anyway. Psychologically… She refused to think of her mental state after several centuries—or even after one century—of life. Well, of undeath.

Enola bit her lower lip. Now was not the time to wallow in self-pity. She needed to grab her sword and come back to the cell, fast. Without the UV lamps, the Horseman was getting stronger by the minute—silver lining: she was back to full strength too, which meant she could finally get her revenge for his earlier stunt. She switched to vampire speed and, when she reached her block of flats, she got in the same way she had left: through the window. She rushed into her bedroom and threw herself on her knees to grab the sword carefully tucked under her bed. It was a jian, a Chinese long sword, its twenty-four-inches-long, subtly tapered steel blade protected by a rosewood scabbard decorated with wrought brass fittings. Its characteristic brass guard was shaped like two short wings pointing backward, and its rosewood handle could accommodate both her hands and was finished with an acorn-shaped wrought brass pommel.

It was a gift from—her lips tightened—the vampire who had turned her—'Because I'd like to see you try to decapitate a vampire with a gun,' he had said. His training, coupled with the Krav Maga classes she'd been taking for years at her mother's insistence—'Paris isn't the safest city in the world, sweetheart.'—had made her quite the fighter.

She swatted the memories away before jumping to her feet and rushing back to the tunnels at full speed.

The fighting had already begun: gargoyle-like creatures were popping out everywhere and their screeches were echoing in the tunnels. Enola strapped her sword to her back and rushed towards the gunshots. She arrived just in time to cut down a demon lunging at Abbie with a swing of her blade. The creature exploded in a cloud of thick black dust.

"I'm just in time for the fun, I see," the vampire grinned.

"I don't know if I'd call that fun, but yeah, you're just in time," the police lieutenant replied.

She had switched into full soldier mode: alert, her eyes scanning the tunnels, ready to react immediately at an attack.

"I take it you're Enola?"

The latter turned towards the person who had just spoken and came face to face with a young dark-skinned woman apparently of Abbie's age, her long curly black hair tied in a ponytail.

"That's me," the vampire confirmed. "And you are…?"

"I'm Jenny, Abbie's sister."

"Oh. You don't look very much alike."

Which was true: Jenny's face was much squarer than Abbie's, but they had the same big brown eyes, currently filled with the same hard determination. Jenny was holding a gun too and, given her stance, she was a skilled fighter as well.

"Anyway, it's nice to meet you," Enola went on.

"The feeling's mutual," Jenny answered with a small smile. "By the way, you'll have to tell me how you got involved in this mess."

"Of course. Now, it's not that I don't enjoy our little chat, but we've got arses to kick, right?"

"Indeed," Abbie chimed in. "Enola, could you go to the cell? Ichabod's still in there, and if these creatures are here, I guess it means the Horseman's free too."

"No problem," her partner promised, all trace of humour gone from her face to be replaced by cold focus. "But I'll need directions."

A few of minutes and half a dozen gargoyles later, Enola threw open the round door of the cell and charged in… only to stop dead after two steps. Ichabod and the Horseman were pointing swords at each other, the human staring at his enemy with sheer hatred—Death's weapon looked ridiculously small and frail in his large hand, the young woman noticed. Her noisy entrance distracted them, prompting them to turn to her—get the Horseman away from Ichabod, now! her mind yelled.

She threw herself at him at full speed, and her shove sent him crashing into the brick wall which cracked under the impact. Chunks of brick and mortar fell to the ground in a pattering shower as the Horseman collapsed and she grabbed Ichabod's arm to pull him back.

"You were right, Enola," the Witness declared without taking his eyes off the Horseman who was—much to Enola's satisfaction—struggling to heave himself up. "This is Abraham."

The vampire only nodded, feeling it wasn't a good time for the 'I told you so' line.

"What is the situation in the tunnels?" Ichabod asked with concern.

"The others are fighting demons," she answered in a strained voice, also staring at the staggering Horseman. "They were fine when I left them. Any idea how the demons found us ?"

"We can thank Officer Brooks for that."

What?! Enola spared a glance at the undead policeman cowering at the foot of a pillar. He was clutching a strange golden disk, thick and embossed with crudely shaped skulls. For a moment she wondered where he had been hiding it—she knew neither Abbie nor Ichabod would have been foolish enough to let him inside the cell without searching him thoroughly. Then she noticed the dark slime covering his fingers and staining the front of his shirt—is that what's left of his blood? That means he pulled it out of– ugh, okay, that's gross.

"What's that thing he's holding?" she asked with a disgusted scowl.

"It's called a Thracian Phiale," Ichabod explained. "It's used to lift hexes... such as the ones that protect this cell."

Her upper lip curled up and a low growl rolled in her throat as anger boiled in her veins. She glared at Brooks with narrowed eyes and if looks could kill, he would have been reduced to a smouldering pile of ash.

"On second thought, it's your heart I'm going to rip out," she snapped.

The former policeman gasped as his eyes turned black again, and the eerie voice came out of his mouth in a deep chuckle that sent a cold shiver rippling down her spine.

"I am afraid it would be useless. Only Moloch can allow him to die."

"Oh, that's fine," she growled. "I'd rather save my strength to deal with you. I owe you one, after all."

Her eyes filled with red and, without warning, she let out an inhuman shriek, her mouth distended into a gaping maw edged with sharp fangs. The sound echoed in the cell and Ichabod felt a shiver rake down his back as it drilled into his ears like nails scraping a chalkboard, whipping up his fight-or-flight instinct. It was a challenge, he understood, a 'what are you waiting for, come at me' mixed with some 'let's see what you're made of'. The Horseman seemed to pick up on it and carefully took his guard, the memory of the last time he'd underestimated the vampire obviously still fresh in his mind.

"Not so big now that you're facing someone who can actually hurt you, are you, Abraham?" she mocked. "Picking on people you're sure to beat—Katrina must've been impressed. Is that why she dumped you?"

It was a low blow but she didn't give a damn. What mattered was that it had the intended effect: the derisive insult combined with the name of his former fiancée and the impudent use of his own human name sent him over the edge. He launched himself at her, every precaution forgotten, but Enola simply stepped aside with a twirl and a savage laugh and stuck her foot out, tripping him. For the third time that night, he ended up sprawled on the ground. He rolled on his back… and then Enola was on him—literally. She had sheathed her sword and was now kneeling astride him, pinning his wrists to the ground, all fangs and red eyes.

"I think ripping your heart off is an appropriate punishment for trying to use me as your personal hand puppet, don't you?" she snarled.

She knew that she was being cruel, but right now she didn't care: bloodlust was singing in her, louder than it ever had, drowning out her conscience. Show him just how dangerous you are, her most vicious side hissed. She raised her right arm and the Horseman immediately took this opportunity to clamp is now-free hand on her shoulder and try to push her off him, but he might as well have been shoving a wall for all the good it did. Then her hand started to change—growing larger, taking on a slate grey hue from her wrist up, her nails turning into claws—and as it did, the metallic taste of thrilled anticipation filled her mouth. She could already feel the flesh give way under her fingers, hear the ribs crack… Her prey arching under her only fuelled her exhilaration. Somewhere on her left, Andy muttered something in German but she didn't pay any attention to him and prepared herself to strike–

"Watch out !"

Ichabod's warning came too late, or rather, the gargoyle-demons appeared too suddenly. Enola raised her head just in time to have half her face slashed by a clawed grey hand: the impact flung her away from the Horseman with a cry of pain. Through the eye that wasn't covered in the blood flowing from her forehead, she saw the demons grab the Horseman and Brooks.

"Tell Abbie I'm sorry!" the latter pleaded.

And then, in a cloud of white smoke, they were gone.

"I suppose that could have been worse."

"Indeed. I have no doubt that, without your intervention, Abraham would have killed me. I thank you."

Enola waved a dismissive hand with a smile.

"There's no need to thank me. We're partners, right? That's what partners do: they watch each other's back."

"How very true," Ichabod approved, smiling too.

"Though I should point out that you looked ready to lunge at him. The clever thing to do would've been to run."

"I know... But what he said about Katrina... It infuriated me. And speaking of fury," the Englishman went on, his gaze suddenly piercing, "would you really have... torn out his heart?"

Enola pursed her lips guiltily and resisted the urge to look away just so she wouldn't see the horrified disgust that was probably about to darken his face—but it didn't happen. Instead, he only considered her intently, waiting for her explanation, and a burst of gratitude warmed her still heart.

"So you actually tried to do it after all," Abbie commented, her tone woven with curiosity.

"I lost control," the vampire admitted in a sigh, turning her ring around her finger. "I wanted to make him pay for trying to control me and, well... It got out of hand. I'm sorry, it won't happen again."

"Yeah, well, personally I don't care what you do to him," the lieutenant said, a dark gleam in her eyes. "Not after what he did."

She was talking about Sheriff Corbin's death, Enola guessed. She couldn't blame Abbie for wanting the Horseman to suffer: Corbin had been a father-figure to the young woman and she knew that she'd feel the same way if anyone killed one of her parents. Still...

"I don't want to become the kind of monster that tortures her enemies," she declared firmly—Ichabod's features relaxed and he smiled approvingly. "Don't get me wrong, I despise him and I'd destroy him myself if we knew how, but I will not torture him. I'll get my revenge by foiling his and Moloch's plans."

"Yeah, I get it," Abbie sighed with a wry smile. "No stooping to their level, right?"

"Well, I'd like to keep what's left of my integrity."

At this moment, the lights came back on in the Archives with a short buzz and Enola squinted with a grimace as her sensitive eyes adapted to the sudden change in luminosity. She noticed that Ichabod looked a little disappointed as Abbie blew out the candles on the table they were sitting at.

"Truth be told, I prefer candlelight," he declared, lifting the cup of tea Enola had made to his lips.

"It sets a certain mood," the lieutenant conceded with an amused smile.

There was a beat of silence that was broken by the creaking of Enola's chair when she leaned forward and rested her forearms on the table.

"At least now we know the Horseman's weakness," she ventured in a soft voice, well aware that it wasn't a pleasant thought for Ichabod.

"Katrina," the Englishman ground out, a grim shadow falling over his face and his grip on his mug tightening. "My wife."

"You're right," Abbie agreed, a calculating look on her face. "I mean, he was willing to go rogue and kill you, to sell his soul to trap her, and now–"

"And now she's being held as a goddamn prize," Enola spat the word with a disgusted scowl, "until he can claim her. I'm guessing that's after Moloch raises hell on earth."

Ichabod's face hardened with a mixture of anger and determination.

"Katrina's soul will never belong to the Horseman," he vowed. "Not while I still draw breath."

Enola reached out and gave his arm a light squeeze, looking at him with a promise in her eyes.

"Don't worry, Ichabod," she said. "No one here will allow it. We're with you."

"Yes, we are," Abbie approved, her voice and eyes firm.

So... Thoughts?

Yes, I changed Enola's katana into a sword, mainly because a katana had only one edge, which calls for a very specific combat style. When both sides of your sword can cut, I imagine you can do pretty much whatever you want… I'm no expert.

I also made Enola less willing to inflict pain on her enemy because, well, she's not a sadist. This change will become a little more obvious later, when she fights him again.

What's the deal with her hand, you ask? You'll see. All I'll tell you is that it has something to do with the shapeshifting I mentioned two chapters ago.

Right, next stop: Purgatory! Drop a review, will you? I always like hearing from my readers.