by Barry Reese
“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!”
So be it, replied The Voice.
Chapter V: Endings… And Beginnings
Gravedigger jerked away from the Horseman, the images of the past fading as quickly as they had come. Mortimer Quinn had been a Gravedigger! The truth of that was almost overwhelming… It confirmed the existence of The Voice, of Josef’s stated history about the continual nature of the role.
And it implied that Josef was not the only one to successfully redeem his soul, for Mortimer Quinn had written his book in 1800, four years after his spiritual deadline.
“Katrina’s father was a member of The Sons or Daughters,” The Horseman said. “I was dispatched to deal with his enemies… first Hale, then Brom. Finally, he sent me against his own daughter, who had turned against him.”
“But Quinn defeated you.”
“Only for a time. I cannot be permanently beaten. Not even death can hold me.”
Gravedigger danced forward, wielding her blades expertly. She delivered a series of deep cuts that would have incapacitated any normal man… but the Horseman merely stood his ground.
His response was as quick as lightning. He stabbed at her with his sword and the blade would have pierced her stomach if it hadn’t been for a perfectly timed throw, one that sent a lawyer’s briefcase hurtling between the Horseman and Gravedigger.
Both combatants turned towards the door, where Li was standing there with a grin on her face. She looked like a little girl who had just won first prize in a contest of some sort.
“Yes!” Li screamed. “I did it!”
“Get out of here!” Charity warned, blocking another swipe of the Horseman’s blade.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her!” Cedric said, moving into view. He tugged at Li’s arm but was unable to contain her.
“You go!” Li shouted at Cedric. “I have work to do!”
Gravedigger sighed, parrying another thrust. She loved Li but the girl was going to get herself killed one of these days. Still… she had to give her credit for the assist.
The Headless Horseman broke off his assault as Li hefted a chair and tossed it at him. It bounced off his shoulder but the distraction was enough for Gravedigger to take advantage. She raised both her knifes and jumped into the air. Again, she brought the blades down but this time, she went straight for the ruined stump where the Horseman�
��s head had once been. The blades bit deep and jets of the inky-black blood spurted from the wound.
For the first time, the Horseman thrashed about in obvious pain. His ghostly voice quavered and he threw all his weight against Gravedigger, knocking her aside. Then, with both knives still embedded in his body, he turned and ran towards the third-floor window. He crashed through, tumbling out onto the slanted roof and knocking aside shingles as he fell. He catapulted off the edge of the roof and landed beside his steed. The horse was pawing at the ground, smoke drifting from its flared nostrils. It was black as midnight, with glowing red eyes.
The Horseman reached up and yanked Gravedigger’s knives from his body, tossing them aside. He then sheathed his sword and climbed into the saddle.
Gravedigger watched him from the window, his dark form vanishing in the night.
“Aren’t you going after him?” Li asked.
“To what end? I just figured out how to hurt him… but I still don’t have a clue how to stop him.” Gravedigger turned from the window and looked around the room. Body parts and blood had painted the scene in shades of horror.
Cedric was standing there, surprisingly calm. Charity wondered if he was in shock. Noticing her stare, he asked, “So… Is anyone going to tell me what the hell just happened?”
***
Mitchell applied gauze to Charity’s wounds, ignoring the way she hissed in pain. “I hate seeing you like this, luv.”
“Like what?” she asked, pulling her shirt back into place. She was used to being half-naked in front of Mitchell by now but she tried to maintain modesty, for his sake more than hers.
“Angry at yourself.” Mitchell sat back and regarded her. He was wearing a black shirt and a pair of pressed slacks. They were seated together in what passed as a first aid station in their shared home. It was a room that had seen altogether too much use in recent months. “You did the best you could.”
Charity brushed a strand of dark hair out of her face. Mitchell was struck again by how beautiful she was. It seemed wrong that she wasn’t being wooed by scores of handsome men – instead, she was risking life and limb on a nightly basis. “I screwed up. Again. I only saved one person’s life – one! Everybody else died.”
“If Max Hendry had succeeded, he’d be young again and he’d have The Headless Horseman at his beck and call. You prevented that.”
“And now the Horseman is out there in Sovereign… without anyone to reign him in.”
“So you’ll figure out a way to stop him.” Mitchell reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. He gave it a paternal squeeze and added, “Fighting bad guys isn’t all you need to be doing, though. You’re supposed to become a better person, remember? That means making friends, forming a family.”
“How am I supposed to do that when everybody close to me is at risk?”
“Maybe that’s something you have to figure out.” Mitchell stood up and began putting away some of the medical tape and gauze that he’d been using. “Li and Cedric are waiting for you downstairs.”
Charity grinned. “I’ve got to stop collecting helpers. It’s starting to get crowded around here – though I guess it’s good that Cedric has inherited Hendry Hall.”
“Cedric wants to help,” Mitchell said.
“He wants to get into Li’s knickers,” Charity said with a laugh.
Mitchell smiled in return. “I like it when you do that. You should try it more often.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Laughing.”
Charity rose and stretched her back. She avoided looking Mitchell in the eye as she said, “You’re a good friend to me, Mitchell. I know I don’t say that often enough. If you hadn’t been around after Josef died, I’m not sure what I would have done with myself.”
“I’m glad to be here, luv.”
The two of them descended the stairs, arm-in-arm. They found Li and Cedric in the study, enjoying drinks and laughing over some joke that Cedric had just told.
Li looked meaningfully at Cedric before turning her eyes towards Charity. She gave a conspiratorial wink that Charity knew all too well. Charity almost felt sorry for Mr. Hendry – he had no idea what he was getting himself into with this flirtation.
Charity stepped away from Mitchell and crossed her arms over her chest. “Both of you are in?”
“Of course!” Li replied, looking shocked that the question even had to be asked.
Cedric seemed less assured but his response was just as definitive. “I think this world is a lot stranger than I ever suspected… and I want to do my part to make it a little safer.”
Charity nodded slowly. She then clasped her hands together in front of her and said, “Then let’s do this. Mitchell, dig out the newspaper clippings from the past week.”
“Already done,” he replied, plucking up a folder off a nearby table. Handing it to Charity, he said, “I’ve taken the liberty of circling several articles that might be of interest.”
Charity opened the collection and noticed that there was a rapist active in Chinatown, a mobster had been gunned down in front of the Deja Hotel and a woman was wanted for questioning by the police, with regards to the poisoning of her husband.
“Lots of people have dug their own graves, from the looks of this,” Charity whispered. A slow smile spread across her lips. “It’s time to throw on the dirt.”
PART THREE: The Ferryman of Death
Chapter I: Charon
The assembled mobsters shifted uncomfortably. Sovereign City’s underworld had always been a strange thing, governed frequently by madman who bore silly names or outlandish attire. The Monster, Doctor Satan and The Burning Skull were all figures who had populated meetings like this one but it never got easier to take.
Morris Jones was known to most of his cronies as Dash, so named because he had some of the fleetest feet in Sovereign. It was said that if a job went sour, Dash was probably the only one guaranteed to get off scot free – no one, not Lazarus Gray or Fortune McCall – had ever managed to put his mitts around him.
Dash anxiously chewed on a toothpick, his right foot tapping a staccato beat on the floor. Standing before the group, which easily numbered three dozen of the roughest gangsters in the city, were two figures that looked like they’d stepped right out of one of those cheesy pulp novels that Dash devoured like fried chicken.
One of them was the Headless Horseman, dressed in a set of Revolutionary-era clothes. The Horseman’s sword hung at his hip and a gloved hand rested atop the hilt. The fact that the Horseman had no head was terrifying, of course, but Dash thought the smell that drifted from the man’s wound was far worse.
The other figure wore a hood and robes. His arms looked emaciated but it was the bits of face that occasionally showed that was truly frightening. His cheeks were sunken and his long beard was scraggly. The deep pits of his eyes shone with madness and his teeth were yellowed and crooked. This was Charon, who was just as frequently known as the Ferryman of Death. Dash knew the origins of the name, having been a voracious reader as a child. In fact, though he’d never admit it to his peers, he knew portions of Virgil’s description by heart:
There Charon stands, who rules the dreary coast -
A sordid god: down from his hairy chin
A length of beard descends, uncombed, unclean;
His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;
A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire.
Dash stared at the Horseman, feeling uneasy. It was strange how the guy had no head… It had to be a trick of some kind, but he was damned if he knew how the Horseman pulled it off.
Charon spoke up, interrupting Dash’s train of thought. The man had a calm, if somewhat aged, voice. “Gentlemen, thank you for answering my summons. I know that many of you are loyal to The Monster or the other crime lords in the city and that you do not want to offend them. Let me assure you that nothing we discuss tonight should do that.”
Dash didn’t think that was very likely
but he didn’t speak up. The Monster, in particular, was a stickler when it came to matters of trust. If he thought you were on the take from another mobster or, heaven forbid, the cops, he’d plug you full of lead and drop you off the pier.
“What I am proposing is that each of you act as a clearinghouse of information on my behalf. I have certain things that I want to keep tabs on – and if you come across anything related to those subjects, you pass them on to me and no one else. In return, I will pay you handsomely.”
Dash saw a number of people lean forward with interest. He retained his cool, though. He wasn’t getting excited about any deal until he knew what the subjects were – and how much he’d get paid for the info.
“I am interested in anyone selling objects of occult power,” Charon continued. “If you hear of something, no matter how ludicrous it sounds, you come to me. If it bears fruit, you will receive a bonus. I am also interested in keeping tabs on the various vigilantes in the city: Lazarus Gray, Fortune McCall, The Dark Gentleman, Doc Daye, Gravedigger, etc. If you hear that they’re out of town, you pass it on to me. If you hear that they’re adding new members to their ranks, I want to know. It’s that simple.”
“Whatcha gonna do with that information?” Lefty Malone asked. Lefty had lost his hand during a botched robbery a few years ago.
“I plan to carve out an empire for myself in this city,” Charon answered. “But it’s not one based upon monetary concerns like most. I want to own men’s souls.” The ferryman laughed but no one joined in. “Let me worry about such things – for you, it’s simply a matter of getting paid.”
“What’s his story?” Dash asked, finally finding his voice. He gestured towards the Horseman.
“He’s exactly what he appears to be – he’s the Headless Horseman of legend.”
“So if you’ve got some kinda spook on your side, what do you need us for? Can’t you use your magic powers to find out all this stuff?”
