Mortimer walked alongside Wilmer, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his slacks. After Katrina’s visit, Mortimer had dispensed with the notion of a nap. Instead, he had paid a visit to the local blacksmith, who had sold him a saber much like the one Mortimer had used during his stint in the cavalry. He wore it now in a scabbard at his hip. He favored edged weapons to guns, finding them far more worthy of trust. You rarely stabbed someone by accident and as far as he knew, a sword had never jammed at an inconvenient moment. If there was a killer loose in Sovereign City, then Mortimer’s questions might drive them into action. It never hurt to be well armed in those cases.
“I told her I planned to speak to all the pertinent individuals in the case. Given that both Icahbod and Brom were at his house that evening, I think I need to speak to him.”
Wilmer looked up into the twilight sky. Stars were already in abundance and the sounds of crickets filled the air. He had changed clothes since Mortimer had seen him last and he now wore an outlandish costume: bright blue leggings, knee-high black boots, and a crimson shirt that was fastened with gold buttons. He looked like someone’s caricature of a musketeer. “If all your cases are like this, you should have gone into police work. It would have been less dangerous.”
“Most of the time, it’s not this exciting,” Mortimer admitted. He had shared dinner with Wilmer in the boarding house. The roast mutton had been seasoned perfectly and he knew that rumors of Mrs. Hendricks’ culinary skills were not overblown.
Wilmer pointed off at a covered bridge leading out of town. It was in the opposite direction from the route that Mortimer had taken upon his arrival. “That’s where poor Samuel was done in. All that was found of him was his hat… though there were bits of broken pumpkin alongside it.”
“Pumpkin? That’s odd.”
Wilmer shrugged. “It’s a strange thing, indeed.”
“On the way back, could you show me the cemetery where the Horseman supposedly rests?”
“Are you putting more stock into our legends now?”
“Hardly. But if there’s a killer who fancies the stories, he’s likely to haunt the area.” Wilmer laughed, leading Mortimer to frown. “This is serious business. I mean to find out what happened to Samuel Hale. Alive or dead, my employers need to know.”
“I admire your perseverance but I’m not certain you’re going to like whatever answers you find.”
Mortimer reached out and touched Wilmer’s arm, stopping in the street. Night was falling fast, giving everything a slightly unnatural appearance. Wilmer’s pale skin now seemed to glow with a faint blue tinge. “I appreciate the hospitality you’ve shown me but I begin to wonder why you’re doing so.”
Wilmer paused and the humor left his face. “I’m sorry, Mortimer. I don’t mean to tease you. I’ve always been an outsider here. My parents moved to Sovereign when I was six years old. My mother and father fell right into place, becoming one of them. But I was always different, always getting into trouble, never finding the right things to say or do. Look at me — do I look like someone Katrina Von Drake would associate with? Or those men in the tavern?”
“You were with a group of them…?”
“Sometimes they buy me drinks when there are no girls around.”
Mortimer looked away. “I see. And so you’re helping me because I’m an outsider.”
“Yes. And the fact is, you interest me. I get the feeling that you’d look into all this even if you weren’t being paid to do so. You’re like some hero in a fairytale, come to right wrongs and free the people of Sovereign City from the spell they’re under.”
“I’m no hero.”
“We’re going to have to disagree,” Wilmer prodded. “Now, I’ll be your guide and your friend, but you’ll have to accept that sometimes I’m a fool.”
Mortimer grinned. “Something else we’ll have to disagree on, I think. You may be many things, Wilmer, but you’re never a fool, I’d wager.”
The two men resumed their trek though their conversation was less free than before. When they came within view of the Von Drake estate, Mortimer put a hand to stop Wilmer.
The farm was ablaze, the main house and the largest of the barns both sending thick plumes of smoke into the air. Mortimer broke into a run, quickly leaving the slower Wilmer in his dust. He reached the front door quickly, noting that it had been shattered. It lay half open now, chunks of wood upon the ground. He pulled off his jacket and quickly tied it around his head so that it hung over his nose and mouth.
Stepping inside was like moving into a lit oven. Expensive curtains and tapestries were like kindling now and Mortimer cautiously moved further inside, calling out Katrina’s name. A section of ceiling collapsed to his right and Mortimer began to feel his lungs filling with smoke. He wouldn’t be able to stay in this place for long but he also didn’t want to leave with the Von Drakes possibly inside.
A figure emerged from the flames and for a moment Mortimer thought it might be Katrina’s father, for the silhouette was distinctly male, though something about it was not quite right.
Mortimer realized what was wrong with the image a second before the figure came fully into view: the figure wore a Hessian uniform, complete with heavy winter jacket, but it lacked a head. Where a skull should have been was nothing but air, though a foul wound on the entity’s neck left no doubt as to the authenticity of what Mortimer was seeing.
The Headless Horseman raised the sword he held in his right hand and Mortimer quickly unsheathed his own, barely getting it out in time to parry a thrust that would have decapitated him.
There, in the midst of the raging fires, Mortimer did battle with a creature straight out of a nightmare. The smoke was clogging his lungs but Mortimer pressed on, doing his best to not only stay alive but to drive back his attacker. As another section of the ceiling collapsed, Mortimer whirled about and jumped over a fallen beam. He ran to the door, knowing that if the Horseman didn’t kill him first, then the smoke and fire surely would.
His feet were in the doorway when he felt a strong hand grip him about the collar, yanking him back inside. He twisted his head around to see the Horseman’s sword raised high. The edge of the blade gleamed in the firelight and then it descended, leaving behind it nothing but pain and darkness.
This is not a decision entered into lightly. It is a tremendous gesture of faith that are you are about to receive.
The Voice had sounded impossibly loud, filling every available space in Mortimer’s head. All around him was darkness, so complete that he could see nothing of his surroundings.
You will have three years in which to redeem your soul. Find those who are unfit for the world of mortals and destroy them: man or demon, the enemy of the innocent is now your enemy. You will put them into their graves and shovel upon them the dirt that symbolizes their eviction from this plane of existence.
On this day in 1796, you will be called back to this place and you will be judged for a final time. If your soul has been made pure, you will find your reward. If your soul is still tainted black… Your suffering will never know an end.
Do you accept these terms? Do you want to live?
Mortimer said nothing for a moment, his mind struggling to conceive of what was being offered. He remembered facing The Headless Horseman — and of the monster’s blade falling upon him. Had he died? Was this the Afterlife?
A sense of desperation settled over him. There were so many things he still wanted to do — so many places to go. This couldn’t be the end!
Before he even knew it, he was screaming at the top of his lungs, “Yes! I accept!”