Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
I kept walking, the drug starting to leave my system. The August air was sticky even at night, but it felt fresh in my lungs, and I was taking gulps of it as I went, as if I hadn’t taken a breath in weeks. I knew it was a matter of time before the opium wore off completely and I would have to face the ruins of my life again, but for now, I was fine. I was an anonymous man with no future and no past, just footsteps echoing down the empty streets of New York City at three in the morning.
But then my footsteps were joined by another.
Coming closer, closer.
I whirled around and saw nothing there.
Nothing except the movement of a puddle, as if something had just splashed through it.
I walked faster after that, breaking a sweat, and I feel nearly sober now. I’m just a minute from my hotel room, and though I have this nasty feeling at the back of my neck that I’m being watched, I feel I might be safe once I’m inside. My room is just a dirty hole-in-the-wall, but at least I’m surrounded by other dirty holes-in-the-wall.
“Ichabod,” a female voice whispers from behind me. It’s like it reaches into my chest and grabs my heart, stopping me dead. It sounds so much like Marie…
“Ichabod Crane,” the voice says again, but now it sounds rough and low and vaguely sinister.
I slowly turn my head.
There’s a cloaked woman standing behind me.
She doesn’t have a face.
No eyes. No nose. Just a thin line for a mouth.
Lord Almighty.
“Ahh!” I cry out, trying to bury my scream and failing, raising my arm as if to shelter myself from the sight of her.
But with the pass of my arm, I see her again, and now she does have a face.
Of course she does. For heaven’s sake, I think I smoked too much tonight.
“Ichabod Crane,” she says once more, and now her voice changes yet again. It’s lighter, softer, and when she takes a step into the light of the gas lamp, I can see her more clearly. She’s old but of an indeterminate age, with smooth, even white skin with deep lines framing her eyes and mouth. Her lips are red and wet, like she just bit her lip, and her eyes are a bright green flecked with gold that seems to dance under the light. It’s her eyes that make her seem younger than she is.
She also has an aura about her that I can’t place. It’s constantly shifting in color, disappearing completely at times.
Witch, I think to myself. She’s some sort of witch.
“You’d be right about that, Mr. Crane,” she says.
My eyes widen.
“But you shouldn’t look so scared,” she goes on. “After all, you’re a witch too.”
I dare to take my eyes off her for a moment and glance worriedly around me. The street is empty and bare, save for a rat scampering near a drain, and my hotel is just at the end of the block. I wonder if I can get there before she can stop me. I don’t know how she would—I’m at least a foot taller than her, but witches aren’t to be trusted.
“I won’t stop you,” she says. “But you might want to listen to what I have to say, Mr. Crane. I’m afraid it involves your future and an opportunity I hope you’re not too daft to refuse.”
I’m tempted to push her away. To walk to the hotel and slam the door in her face. Or, hell, perhaps turn around and head right back to the opium joint. Lie down on the mat with a pipe and let all of this dissolve into a dream.
“What sort of opportunity?” I find myself asking, my tone wary.
“A financial one,” she says. “A rewarding one. You see, I’m a recruiter for a prestigious college, and we’re looking for a teacher with your background.”
I choke on a laugh. “My background?”
“Yes,” she says simply. “We know you went to medical school in Chicago and that you were all set to graduate with flying colors until you abruptly quit. We know you went on to teach at an academy in San Francisco, where you met your wife. And we know of the tragic circumstances, of which I’m sure you need no reminding, that led you here to New York City…and what your life has become since.”
I stare at her, absolutely befuddled. “You got a hold of the police records?”
“You couldn’t blame me for learning all I can about a potential employee, could you?” she says. “But no, there is no record to speak of. You’re not the only witch that can see someone’s past. I know what your hands can do when you put your mind to it. All that I need to do to see someone’s past is hold something they’ve touched.”