The Horseman is unending,
his presence shan’t lessen.
If you break the curse,
you become the legend.
Washington Irving and Rip Van Winkle had no choice but to cover up the deadly truth behind Ichabod Crane’s disappearance. Centuries later, a Crane returns to Sleepy Hollow awakening macabre secrets once believed to be buried deep.
What if the monster that spawned the legend lived within you?
Now, Ireland Crane, reeling from a break-up and seeking a fresh start, must rely on the newly awakened Rip Van Winkle to discover the key to channeling the darkness swirling within her. Bodies are piling high and Ireland is the only one that can save Sleepy Hollow by embracing her own damning curse.
But is anyone truly safe when the Horseman rides?
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If
his wife hadn’t let her ass grow to the size of a sofa, Vic
wouldn’t have to cheat. Shrugging his navy blue sport coat over his
shoulders, he stepped forward, allowing the hotel room door to shut
behind him with a soft thump. A smug smile curled across his face,
his chest puffing with pride at his own prowess—thanks in part to
those spiffy little blue pills his doctor prescribed. The heels of
his wing-tipped loafers clicked against the cement stairs, one
impeccably manicured hand running along the handrail as he descended.
The rusted metal rail squeaked its protest under the faint touch.
Taking its suggestion, he retracted his hand.
Why
he humored Karma by letting her drag him to this dive every week, he
had no idea.
Her
firm little apple bottom isn’t that great, he mused to himself,
snorting a quick, dry laugh.
Of
course it was. She made good money with it at the Sugar Shack
down by the airport. Grinding to R&B’s raunchiest hits, while
clad only in a sequin thong. She was a sweet, albeit naïve, girl
that believed if she stroked Vic’s … ahem, ego just the
way he liked, she would someday find a fat rock on her finger and the
title of Van Tassel behind her name. Hence her insistence on the flea
bag hotel. She had flipped her bleached blonde waves, batted those
ridiculous fake eyelashes, and pouted that she couldn’t be seen as
the “other woman” by the same crowd she would soon be rubbing
elbows with. As if he would ever let that happen. Karma’s
airbrushed nails and hooker heels would never fit into his
world. After all, in Tarrytown the Van Tassel name meant something,
and not because of the stupid legend the residents of the small glen
of Sleepy Hollow mercilessly clung to. No, as one of the founding
families they helped build this town. Meaning, here, he might as well
be a Rockefeller. A fact he reveled in and would never tarnish
with outward displays of his cheap conquests … no matter how well
she could wiggle.
Vic
crossed the parking lot, lit only by one humming street lamp, with a
wide, jovial stride. As he shook his keys from the pocket of his
slacks, thumbing the button to unlock the doors, his phone buzzed
from the breast pocket of his Armani shirt.
Snatching
it from its resting place, he tapped to answer. “Yello?”
“Don’t
you sound chipper for someone working late?” Yvonne slurred, the
only hint he needed that she’d already cracked open tonight’s
bottle of wine.
“Why
shouldn’t I be chipper?” he playfully asked, turning to glance
back up toward the room Karma had rented. A flash of her blonde locks
appeared from behind the stained drapes. He raised his hand in a
casual wave, but couldn’t tell from this distance if she returned
the gesture. “I just finished showing a multi-million dollar estate
that the buyers are very interested in, and now I get to head
home to my loving wife.”
“Yeah,
right,” Yvonne openly scoffed, her voice muffled by her glass as
she took another sip. “We’re the friggin’ Cleavers. Hey,
Cassidy is at the mall. I need you pick her up on your—“
Vic
jerked his head to the right, in the direction of the neighboring gas
station. Between the normal ebb and flow of rushing traffic, he heard
the distinct snap of hoof beats pounding over pavement. “What kind
of idiot would bring a horse out this close to the highway?”
“The
highway? Where the hell are you, Victor?”
A
moment ago the drum of the approaching rider had been coming from the
south of him, Vic was sure of it. Yet somehow, without so much as a
faltered step, it shifted to the north. “Stopped for gas, that’s
all.” Vic paid little attention to the lie rolling off his tongue
as he rose up on tiptoe and craned his neck to peer into the
darkness.
“Oh!”
Her momentary flash of accusation was all but forgotten at the
exciting prospect of fresh booze. “Are you near Gordon Bleau’s? I
need a bottle of Amaretto.”
Vic
stifled a cringe at the thought of his wife’s mixed drink induced
wandering hands. If he wanted to fend off an overly Botoxed hag that
reeked of booze, he’d go visit Nana at the home. Her old biddy
friends loved him, and putting in his time there helped secure his
spot in her will. “I’d love to, pet, but I’d hate to keep Cass
waiting.”
A
hot, snorted breath heated the exposed skin of Vic’s neck, tickling
down the collar of his shirt. He spun, his heart pounding painfully
in his chest, and pressed his back to the car door. Chills raced up
and down his spine, electrifying his entire body. Nothing.
There was nothing before him but that lone buzzing light and the
seedy motel. “Damn it! Punk kids!”
“And
they have a horse?” Yvonne’s giggle morphed into a hiccup. “You
better watch out, Vic. It could be one of those lesser known
equestrian gangs.”
The
lightning that flashed on the otherwise calm night was the only omen
Vic needed to spur him into action. Throwing himself off the car, his
trembling fingers fumbled with the door handle. Behind him, metal
hissed free from leather. Slowly—with a cold, hard fist of dread
clenching his gut—his head swiveled.
“Oh,” he said with a nervous lilt of laughter to the ominous
symphony of black before him. “That’s … good. You got me. I
really believed for a sec—”
Vic’s
anxious, cracking plea morphed into a scream as the figure pulled
back. The blade of their arched sword gleaming gold under the
yellow-hued light.
Victor’s
hands raised in the only defense he could offer. “No! Noooo!”
He
sucked in one last gasp as metal winged through the air.
“Vic?
Victor!” Yvonne screamed, panic clearing her alcohol induced haze.
“What’s happening?”
The only response she received came in the form of a ghostly whinny …
followed by a soft thump. Her shrieks were muted as the phone tumbled
to the ground—right next to Vic’s still rolling head.
RONE Award Winner for Best YA Paranormal Work of 2012 for Embrace, a Gryphon Series Novel
Young Adult and Teen Reader voted Author of the Year 2012
Turning Pages Magazine Winner for Best YA book of 2013 & Best Teen Book of 2013
Stacey Rourke lives in Michigan with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and two giant, dogs. She loves to travel, has an unhealthy shoe addiction and considers herself blessed to make a career out of talking to the imaginary people that live in her head. Mark your calendars! Her latest literary adventure, Crane, will release May 26, 2014. She is currently hard at work on the continuations of this thrilling Legends Saga, as well as other literary projects.
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