Crane by Stacey Rourke
Legends Saga Book 1
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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Excerpt
Chapter One
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.
About Stacy Rourke
There is nothing worse than being put on the spot and asked to talk about yourself. For me it brings back that inevitable moment in a new school when the teacher would ask me to stand up, introduce myself and tell the class something about myself. I was always worried I would blurt out something stupid that I would get teased for. Something like, “My name’s Stacey and I like pickles!” Then for the rest of the school year I’d be known as the Pickle Girl and let’s be honest, no one wants that. So to avoid such a faux pas I will simply say that I love to write. It allows me to get my crazy out just enough that I can function as a normal member of society.
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