Page 1 of Hunted by the Headless Horseman (Roars and Romances #5)
BELLE
When you know chanting that old spell from your grandmother’s antique book is a terrible idea—but you’re Belladonna, a girl who lives for pumpkin spice, Halloween, tragic Gothic romances, and a little thrilling chaos.
What could go wrong?
I toss the end of my red scarf over my shoulder.
A gift from Mimi.
She passed a year ago.
September is hard. But October? It blusters in with promises of renewal, harvest, and the dark, eerie aesthetics that come with living in a small town on the edge of the Appalachian Mountains.
Twirling on my brown vintage leather boots, I trigger a little whirlwind of fresh autumn leaves and the delightful crackle of acorns.
Nine years of building my wardrobe from frumpy to fabulous—after a childhood trapped in itchy, boring dresses, skirts, and turtlenecks to avoid “tempting”
the boys. Now, I dress for me. A lovely palette of autumn cottage-core, romantic boho, dark academia, ruffly chic, and all the cozy wool pieces I’ve hand-knit.
Basic or not, my fashion comes with a “look but don’t touch.”
And if the boys have temptation issues, they should take it up with Jesus, who had some choice advice about cutting off offending appendages.
After fiddling with my necklace of citrine, moonstone, and rose quartz, I clutch the open book, mouthing the words of the haggard pages.
Fall brings visitors, sure, but after I close the bookshop that doubles as my vintage, witchy emporium, the twilight hours are mine to hike the familiar paths around my home…and read by book clip light.
I take a deep breath, ready to chant. October 1st is the perfect night. And if I summon something haunted, I’ve got sage, salt, and garlic in my pockets. Mimi’s black tourmaline ring and my obsidian-amethyst bracelet should help, too.
“By night’s embrace and shadow’s thrall…”
I open in my melodic voice, “I conjure thee, come heed my call.
From haunted grounds and graves unmarked,
Let the Horseman now embark.
Rise from death, through mist and mire,
Bound to me by ancient blood and fire.”
Hmm…
I look around, pursing my lips, eyeing the thick foliage around me.
What did I expect? Some tingling chill to sweep up my spine? A sudden cold gust rustling the trees to crack their branches? A mournful gull’s call?
With mischief in my veins, I go for broke and use my ring to cut the tip of my finger and weep a few drops of my blood upon the pages. Why not?
Pressing the wound till the blood stems, I tuck a few of my long mahogany red curls behind my ear, secure my sunshine yellow beret, and shrug.
Oh, well…it’s getting darker.
Guess I should get home anyway.
I take the long way.
These woods are mine.
I’ve walked these paths for nine years.
Even if I were to get lost, I know how to survive in the forest.
Of course, I’ve thought of exploring more.
Maybe find some mystic hollow with a ring of mushrooms, or a haunted cemetery, or maybe an abandoned, Gothic mansion.
But Mimi raised me to have a good head on my shoulders.
She said she didn’t need to fret over my too-big heart.
She simply nurtured it after it was neglected for far too long. It aches for her every day.
As I make my way down the trail winding back to the bookshop, a slow, strange fog curls through the trees like it has a mind of its own.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, praying to the heavens.
My breath leaves in short gasps—less from fear and more like a dark, ominous thrill.
It’s like I’ve completely forgotten that I have a heart syncope!
The ground beneath me trembles, and then I hear it: a deep, rhythmic pounding that grows louder. Hoof beats.
My heart picks up like it’s timing to the hooves, wondering if it will drive itself to a telltale-like madness.
As the hooves get closer with a sudden gust of wind tearing across my back, I clutch the crystals at my throat and slowly turn?—
—and choke on terror and awe.
Out of the fog, a massive, shadowy stallion appears, a rider upon its back. He looks like he’s stepped right out of a Gothic novel—clad in a vintage steampunk three-piece suit, complete with a black leather jacket that screams dark, mysterious, and maybe a little bit deadly. Like a more modern version of Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights.
And of course, the rider has absolutely, positively, and unequivocally no head.
I can’t rip my eyes away. He stops the horse a few feet from me, his whole body facing mine as the horse stomps one hoof. It feels like his sightless gaze is pulling me in, and I know I shouldn’t like it so much.
It’s not just an impressive Halloween costume. There is no head whatsoever. But it doesn’t stop him from commanding the night like he owns it. His presence is powerful, intoxicating, and dominant. It sets my blood on fire.
Holy Hecate! All right, get a grip, Belle. He’s literally headless. Congratulations, you did it, you summoned a headless horseman who’s probably got all the manners of a disembodied phantasm with no manners. Just breathe, and maybe try not to faint before he decides to make you his next fatal trophy.
But my pulse quickens, a mix of excitement and something more confusing, something deeper.
“Well, aren’t you just the epitome of dark and mysterious?”
I chime, my snark still strong despite the chill carving through me.
He tightens his grip on the reins. The horse stomps quicker.
Sweet Sleepy Hollow of a reality check!—I should not be gawking like some fan girl with a Bronte complex.
Instinct kicks in, and I bolt, sprinting into the woods as fast as my legs can carry me. The fog thickens, disorienting, each step pulling me into unfamiliar territory. The paths I know like the back of my hand have vanished. This isn’t just any fog. It’s like the whole damn forest has transported me to another dimension—a darker, creepier one.
“Welp. I always wanted to get lost in a haunted forest,”
I mutter, pushing through the dense mist and the branches clawing at me.
“Cross that off the bucket list.”
My heart races, not just from running but from the prickling sensation like spider legs skittering all over me. The air itself feels different, heavier, like I’ve crossed into some place out of a ghost story.
No matter how fast I run, the hoof beats grow louder. Panic grips my chest, tightening with every breath. Breathe, Belle. Just breathe. But my heart is pounding too fast, the familiar dizziness of my tachycardia setting in. My vision blurs at the edges, and my poor scarf catches on a branch, tearing away from me. Mimi’s scarf. My beret is long gone.
I turn just once toward the sound of a snorting horse. Sacred Samhain, he’s just off to my left, three feet at most.
Remembering my herbs, I reach into my pocket and chuck the sage, salt, and garlic at the rider behind me. He doesn’t even flinch. Why did I think that would work? It’s not like he has a head.
Lunging through a nearby thicket, I hurry as fast as I can, pushing past the brambles and brush. Too fast when I trip over a log, right into a muddy creek.
“Bloody devils, seriously!?”
I practically screech, cursing the offending log and scrambling to my feet, my upper half completely soaked.
The hot breath of the horse drifts across my back.
And then, he’s beside me. The Horseman reaches out with his leather glove, grabbing me by the back of my neck. I can’t even scream before I’m lifted off the ground like I weigh nothing. The world jerks away, tearing my breath with it.
I squirm, try to fight, but his grip is firm, strong, powerful, but not rough. I’m too petrified to turn around. All I’m aware of is the too-rapid pounding of my heart, the strange gentleness of the muscled arm around my waist, and the unexpected warmth of his chest pressed to my upper back since he’s a good head taller than me.
My vision spins, blurring around me from my tachycardia.
“Not the kind of pickup I was looking for tonight,”
I slur, semi-conscious as my vision fades.
The world around me spins—fog and trees whirling into shadows. Too fast. Pulse shredding my veins. The sensory overload pushes me past my limit.
I still feel the powerful rhythm of the horse beneath me, the solid strength of the Horseman holding me steady. And I can’t know why, but an odd sense of calm washes over me, like maybe this isn’t the end of the world after all.
Where is he taking me? All I can see is the dim gloom of autumn branches. And in the distance, I swear a great house looms closer as a silhouette and tiny flickers of light.
What is he going to do to me? If he was going to kill me, wouldn’t he have already?
My eyes roll to the back of my head as I mumble, “Where’s your jack-o’-lantern?”
Everything goes black.