Painted Velvet, Part Four

[gundamnymph]

"Painted Velvet" part 4/5?

By GundamNymph

Ichabod/OMC

Disclaimer: Don't own Sleepy Hollow.

Summary: After returning to New York, things start spiraling out of control for Ichabod and his destiny. His friend's are now the only things standing between him and his mother's own fate, in more ways than one.

Warnings: Slash. Fluff. Blood. The Hessian :P



Timothy, in all his stubbornness, did accompany him on his rounds the following day. They borrowed horses from Stilles again and Dorian had been found already waiting for them by Ichabod’s bags after breakfast.

True to Timothy’s guess, all three remaining coven members had been alive in the morning when they arrived. Two of them said to visit George, the acting leader, and HE sent them to the edges of the city.

Ichabod stifled a sigh, still worried about his friend. Sure, there was a nice rosy hue to Timothy’s cheeks, but the man was naturally tan and his skin was rather pale at the moment. The flush on his cheeks could be from the cold instead of good health.

The older man HAD certainly eaten well that morning, though. Then again, Roslyn was ALWAYS talking about Irish appetites.

There was another thing to ponder over: his near kiss with Timothy. It puzzled his mind for hours, even when he tried to forget it for just a moment. Did the other man really feel something more than friendship? Had they really been on the verge of something special, something that would last?

Hardly anyone had ever glanced his way before and only one or two people in his entire life had been attracted to him.

To his knowledge, anyway.

Jonathan and Pamela always had said that people were easily attracted to him, it was just that he was hard to approach. There was something different about him and not just his quiet nature.

Due to past experiences, Ichabod wrote those kinds of comments off as nothing more than consoling words. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t dream.

And there were other thoughts that were bothering him. Like how he had changed, or at least everything around him. It was like a new world was open to his eyes now. Ever since returning from Sleepy Hollow it seemed as if magic and spirits were everywhere.

It was a little disturbing, sending his thoughts back to Roslyn and her words. Could she be possibly right about him? Had he finally found a destiny? A purpose? Something no one else could do?

Woods were coming into their sight fifteen minutes after they had left the city and he shook himself free of any unwelcome thoughts.

There was something familiar about those trees. A warm sense of Deja Vu; like when visiting home after many years. The trees were barren of leaves, the dark gray bark twisting and gnarled. Had he been ten years younger, these would have been the perfect climbing trees.

“I’m assuming those are the woods that George Weathervane mentioned?”

Ichabod nodded, distracted once again by his new family member as Dorian poked his head out of his uniform and blocked his view. He rolled his eyes at the kitten, more than a bit irritated. “Why couldn’t you have stayed home with Romeo and saved poor Viggo?”

Timothy snorted. “No one can save Viggo from him. Romeo’s had it in for the poor bastard ever since Rosie adopted him. Personally, I think it’s the animal equivalent of hero worship. Roslyn always said that Romeo was in love with him.”

Ichabod’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Interesting.”

A crooked grin settled on the other man’s face. “Don’t I know it. I don’t know WHY she named him Romeo if he didn’t want a Juliet. You should see how all three act when Hugo’s there. Roslyn gives them voices and it’s like listening to a love triangle from one of her stories.”

The slight man guided his horse away from a bubbling creek, deep in thought. “Caroline mentioned that to me once. She said it’s very entertaining. Hugo and Romeo are in love with Viggo, and Viggo could care less; but he watches out for Romeo, implying that he really DOES care…for Romeo.” A bright smile lit Ichabod’s face. “It would certainly explain why Romeo is the only one who can get really close to Viggo and why he’s always getting into fights with Hugo.”

Both burst out laughing as they passed over the tree line, Dorian mewling his agreement. Ichabod looked over to see how his friend was faring and caught his gaze. The smiles slowly faded from their faces as they stared at each other and it was only when Achilles knickered that they turned their gazes back to the Indian trail ahead.

Warmth rushed over his body and there was a pleasant tug in his stomach as Ichabod watched a crow in flight. His ears burned a little in embarrassment, but it was like there was a comfortable blanket of calm settling over him. Perhaps Timothy felt something strong for him after all, those glances certainly didn’t imply anything fleeting.

Damn. Don’t get your hopes up, Crane; he thought to himself.

He had been a little nervous when George explained where this woman’s home was, having flashbacks to the Crone’s hideaway, but this was a small cottage with an adorable chimney puffing smoke into the air. The two raven haired children chasing each other in the front yard brought back pleasant memories from his own childhood.

The slighter constable was almost completely complacent when he dismounted, not bothering to tie off Achilles’ reins, trusting the horse not to wander.

A petite figure emerged from the hut, wild red hair streaming down her back. “Ah, constables. I’ve been expecting you. George sent you, didn’t he?”

For some reason, Ichabod felt no unease with this revelation as he looked into those glowing tea brown eyes. “Yes, madam. He said you could help us.”

The woman nodded her head, beckoning them inside as she shouted to her children. “Remember! No running off or visiting Neville!”

“YES MAMA!” came the reply as the giggling children darted into the woods.

Inside it was warm and toasty, a welcome thing after being outside for so long in the middle of winter. The tiny woman urged them to takes seats as she took a pot off the fire. “I’m so glad we’ll be having an early spring this year. I’m getting tired of telling those two to stay away from Neville’s pond.”

Timothy raised an eyebrow at her. “Neville’s pond?”

She gave him a sad smile as she sat down across from them. “Neville is a ghost. He drowned in a pond deep in the woods a long time ago. Sweet little black boy. Takes care of my children when he can. He was a lot of help when my husband was murdered.”

Ichabod blinked, unease beginning to settle over him again. “M-murdered?”

“Yes, murdered. A few hunters didn’t like him keeping them from their prey. Shot him in the heart. Right in front of Stephan, our other son, no less. Cockless bastards.”

The shorter man nodded, a little startled at the profanity coming from one with the sweetest face. “I met him. I believe Hestia Johanson is fostering him.”

A bittersweet smile lit her aging face as she leaned over and petted Dorian, who was peeking out again. “Yes, she was. What a sweet little thing. Katarina is taking care of Stephan now. Hestia was killed last night.”

“What? When?” Timothy asked.

The woman sighed, tying her hair back. “Oh, that fucking cult got her as she was walking home from a meeting. If I was only a bit stronger with no children to look after, I’d curse them all before sending them to hell. I’m glad that she will be the last for now, though.”

Ichabod frowned at her, having a hard time processing everything. “Mrs.?”

She grinned. “You can call me Bonnie, sweetheart, but the last name’s Salvatore. Even though I’m sure the records still say McCullough.”

He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Salvatore, what do you mean ‘the last’?”

The redhead gave a grim smile. “The cult has finished gathering the elements for the spell. They will start the chant tonight and finish tomorrow afternoon. By then, they will have the means to find the source.”

Timothy leaned forward. “What do you know of the source?”

Bonnie sighed, sitting back in her chair. “They will find a human, connected to all three realms, including a fourth, the Twilight. He will have monstrous power, but be reluctant to use it. A man with a tragic past and a pure heart, who comes from prophetic dreams.” She looked at Timothy right in the eye. “And there will be a claim in him. Of elemental design, to bind him, in one way or another.”

Ichabod was looking between the two of them, alarm creeping up on him as Timothy’s eyes became dark. “Do you know WHO he is?”

She glanced at Ichabod, grave brown eyes sweeping over him before returning to his friend. “You will know who it is when the time comes.”

“Will we be able to stop the ritual in time?” the older man asked, face as grave as hers.

She nodded. “It is most likely you will, but there is always that other ten percent.” She turned and looked at Ichabod. “You may not reach them in time, unless you use all resources available to you. That is how you’ll have the best chance. I know you are frightened of this thing awakening inside you, dear, but it WILL help you with the trials ahead. Now, I can’t say anything else, so you’d best be on your way.”

She ushered them out the door. “Your men will find poor Hestia tomorrow, along with another casualty. Those people who you thought were robbers?”

Timothy and Ichabod frowned at her as they nodded. “Yes?”

A small smile quirked her lips. “They WERE robbers, but for a good cause. They were looking for items and ingredients to counteract the ritual, but some of them don’t exist anymore. Oh, and Mr. Crane?”

“Y-yes?”

“Don’t fear any of those left in your family. They mean you no harm, but be wary of their good intentions all the same. You don’t want to be leaving the city. Have fun at the opera tonight, boys.” And then the door was closing in their bewildered faces.

Ichabod and Timothy looked at each other, both raising their eyebrows and slowly started to grin. Dorian peeked out again, a bit bemused, and mewled his agreement.

“What do YOU think?” Timothy asked.

Ichabod cleared his throat as he grabbed Achilles’ reins. “I really have no idea.”

Then he mounted the horse and even Timothy was amazed at the grace with which his friend managed to do this. Dark eyes looked inquiringly at him and he realized he had been staring. He took his own horse’s reins and mounted, guiding the animal back onto the nearly invisible trail.

Those dark eyes were still on him, worried. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Barely even a sting.” Timothy stared resolutely ahead, but could sense when those eyes narrowed. The man had a fine tuned sense of his friend and knew every little movement he made, even twenty feet away in another room. Ichabod’s presence was always like heat at the edge of his vision, always so close, but just out of reach.

“And your lungs?”

“Fine.”

“Do you feel cold at all? Any bad circulation?”

Timothy sent Ichabod a not entirely friendly look and earned himself a reproachful glare. “I’m FINE, Dr. Crane. I’ve been through much worse. Besides, I thought I left all Mother Hens back home?”

Ichabod’s nostrils flared indignantly. “I’m just concerned, is all. You could have easily died that night and it’s a miracle in of itself that you’re away from bed. Riding a horse in the dead of winter.”

Amusement lit Timothy’s eyes. “Aye, but it’s not the DEAD of winter, now is it?”

Ichabod looked at him, a little confused…until Dorian popped his head out from his warm coat and mewed. He looked in the direction of those small blue eyes and saw a hare dart across the snow, a fox not too far behind it.

“All right. NOT the dead of winter, but you’re changing the subject,” he declared.

Even now, Ichabod could begin to sense the life around him. The trees dormant like all the other plants, the water beneath the ground only stilled till spring. Animals were in a deep sleep, only darting out now and then for food and water. But everything WAS alive.

Even the snow, every little snowflake sparkling with energy.

The cold didn’t freeze things to death, it changed them into works of art. The cold itself was alive, as any flame or puddle of water. It was a bewildering realization and the new sensations made him distracted.

“Ichabod?”

“Mew!”

He blinked, looking at both his friend and kitten, er, Familiar. “Y-yes?”

The term Familiar reminded him of the change he was going through, then the cause. It seemed his father was right after all. Well, about his heritage anyway.

His father.

The older man’s liquid brown eyes narrowed in concern as memories of the last two nights, carefully pushed to the back of his mind, rushed forward and hit his mind like a ton of bricks. He actually swayed in the saddle and Timothy quickly pulled his horse closer, catching up Achilles’ reins and staying both horses.

A firm grip on his shoulder brought him back to reality and he looked into his friend’s worried eyes.

“What is it?”

He blinked, unsure how to react. “My father.”

Those wide brown eyes were startled, “Your father?”

Ichabod frowned at his friend, realizing that he didn’t know. “The man that was choking me. That you shot?”

Timothy’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I can’t believe that bastard was your own father. How…” He had known that Ichabod’s father had killed his wife for being a witch, but not that he had been a Reverend. And he just couldn’t comprehend how someone would WANT to kill the man next to him. For all Ichabod’s strengths, he was still gentle and timid. He seemed so fragile at times. Like a glass sculpture, beautiful and colorful and bright, but needing to be handled with care. “How are you?”

Those dark eyes were a bit dazed, making a surge of guilt go through Timothy.

“I…” Ichabod looked at him, at first he seemed lost, but when his eyes met Timothy’s, they focused. “He was always cool towards me as a babe and as I grew up, I feared him. After my mother was killed, I purposely forgot WHY I felt so anxious or skittish around him. Even now, I don’t remember what I told myself about her death. Probably an accident or a sickness.”

Ichabod looked off into the trees and thicket. “I was proud of my accomplishments in school and tried to do things that he might be proud of. He never was. Never cared about anything in relation to his family, regardless of his teachings. I always felt ugly around him. Clumsy and despised. He wanted to kill me, Timothy. I guess you could say he got his wish for a little while.”

Timothy’s breath was caught in his throat and his eyes were burning at this confession. Tears were flooding and threatening those dark eyes as Ichabod recalled his childhood, and it made his heart ache. And though he was grateful that he had killed the bastard, he hoped he hadn’t earned his friend’s spite.

“I guess what upsets me is that he was still my father and I couldn’t love him. Couldn’t change his mind. And I just…” he bit his lower lip, “I just wish that I could have had another father. A different one. One that cared. I often wished that as a child.”

Timothy gripped his shoulder tightly, comfortingly. “There’s nothing you could have done, my friend, and you shouldn’t have felt otherwise. I saw a lot of his type in England. Witchhunting was a fierce profession, one that left behind families or tore them apart. I know for a fact that you’re not alone in your pain. I knew someone whose uncle killed his sister-in-law for witchcraft and one man killed his own brother in the papers. Most of those murders were for profit, though.”

“And my father did it because he felt it was right. It was his duty. His destiny.”

“And you have your own destiny. Maybe that is why you had to grow up as you did.”

Ichabod nodded distractedly, Dorian purring in deep sleep beneath the cape. The little rascal had tried sleeping under the uniform’s hat (that Ichabod hated to wear), but he had nearly fallen out after the chase the other day.

“Perhaps.” He gave Timothy a sharp look, “But you did the right thing, Tim. Don’t let yourself think otherwise. I am only just beginning to deal with this after all these years, by no fault of yours. Just my own.”

A small glow settled in Timothy’s stomach at the nickname and he winked. “If you say so. Now,” he released Achilles’ reins and started his horse forward, “according to Mrs. Salvatore, we have an opera to watch tonight.”

Ichabod’s lips quirked.

***

Masbeth greeted them with a frazzled look in the parlor. He was already dressed in fine clothes, rich burgundy and charcoal. Some servant had combed his hair neatly, making the lad look adorable and well groomed. Both guessed that he had been ready and waiting for quite some time.

Timothy grinned at the boy as he took off his cape and hat. “They still getting ready?”

“Yes, sir,” the lad shifted from one foot to the other nervously.

Ichabod fought back a small laugh as he removed his coat, dark eyes twinkling. “How long have they been up there?”

Masbeth’s blue eyes went wide, happy that they understood his pain. “Hours! I was starting to worry, but Caroline told me Roslyn is always like this.”

The Irishman looked at his friend as he headed for the kitchen, and food. “Katrina the same?”

Ichabod followed the older man into the warm room, a trailing Masbeth behind. “I never received such an impression. She would always dress lovely, but from what I witnessed when I was living under her father’s roof, never took more than forty minutes.”

Timothy raised an eyebrow as he picked up a basket of leftover sandwiches and greeted a cheerful Ophelia. “Hmm. She’s been really close to Rosie since you’ve arrived. I think my sister must have gone and corrupted her.”

Ichabod took an offered sandwich, stomach queasy from neglect all day, and glanced at Masbeth. “What do you think, Master Masbeth? You’re the one who’s been escorting them around.”

The young lad beamed at his new title. “I’d say they’re becoming great friends. It’s like they’re soulmates or something, sir.”

Timothy started choking on his late meal and Ichabod had to pound on his back until the food went down the proper way. “WHAT?”

Masbeth fidgeted nervously. “Soulmates, constable sir. They were talking about it earlier. I’ve never heard of the term before, but Miss Katrina has. It was a very interesting conversation. Is something wrong, sir?”

Ichabod had a tingling sensation at the back of his mind. He knew that term himself. He just wished he remembered what it was. It was as he was looking at his friend’s dazed expression that he remembered. “It’s nothing to worry about. Apparently he’s only heard one version of the term.”

Timothy gave him a sideways look as Masbeth’s face became curious. “What other versions are there?”

“Well,” he handed the basket over to his friend, hoping to distract him with tasty meat and cheese. This WAS kind of embarrassing, talking about love in front of his friend. “I don’t really recall WHERE I know this from. It’s just one of those things that’s been popping up in my mind lately. Perhaps my mother told me…”

Timothy was eating again, large eyes riveted on him as he spoke to Masbeth. “There are basically three different versions, but it varies with each individual. The first is a romantic bond, where the two are meant to be lovers. The second is family, where you find a close sister or brother inside or outside blood relations. And the third is usually reserved for friends, so strong in their bond, it’s more like they’re one and the same. Make sense?”

Masbeth nodded. “It does, but I still don’t understand why Constable O’Hara would be upset. Isn’t love a wonderful thing?”

Ichabod cast his friend an amused look that was met with a scowl. “Timothy here, is FAR too overprotective of his baby sister. It’s nothing more than that. And perhaps a bit of jealousy?”

Timothy snorted around his food, walking out of the kitchen with the last of the food. Masbeth shared a look with his former master, wondering, yet again, what was going on with those two.

Roslyn came down shortly after while he and Masbeth were chatting about horses. Her dark curls were piled up artfully on her head and her dress was gorgeous, lengths of dark whirling colors and lace with detailed embroidery. Dangling earrings shined on her earlobes like twin stars and her posture was like one of royalty. A small, dainty tiara graced her forehead.

She raised an eyebrow at them as she held her opera glasses aloft. “What do you think, Mr. Crane, Mr. Masbeth?”

Masbeth gave her a wide grin, eyes awed. “BEAUTIFUL!!”

She smiled at him gratefully as Ichabod nodded his approval. “Thank you, dear. I see that the clothes fit?”

The boy nodded bashfully. “Yes they do, ma’am.”

“Wonderful!” Then she turned to Ichabod. “I assume my brother is getting changed? And when are YOU going to change, love?”

Ichabod looked down at his clothes, the very same he had worn to Sleepy Hollow. Roslyn scowled. “Oh, no. You are NOT going to the opera dressed like that! You need to dress properly to fully experience it!”

He hid a grin, thinking of his friend’s dressing habits. “And Timothy is going to dress properly?”

The woman gave him a sly grin. “But of course. Ichabod, dear, you forget who you’re talking to. Now, go find William on the forth floor. He should have something that will fit you, okay?”

Before he could even agree or protest, he was ushered up the stairs without a glance. It was hard not to believe Roslyn, the woman had a resolve and determination that could make any grown man cry. He vaguely wondered what Timothy would look like, as he had never seen his friend in anything other than his uniform and comfortable clothing.

***

Indeed the servant had a suit that fit him, one that was still simple and mostly black, with a hint of dark blue and a little silver embroidery. It made him feel overdressed, but it could have been worse.

He walked down the stairs to the second floor and saw Katrina descending as well. She was lovely in her full skirted dress of sea foam green and periwinkle blue, her fair hair pulled sweetly away from her face. A small choker rested in the hollow of her throat, a pretty little moonstone that caught his eye.

Her eyes lit up as she saw him, and couldn’t resist the urge to hug him. “Why, you look wonderful!”

He blushed; again, feeling overdressed. “And you look beautiful. Shall we?” He offered her his arm and escorted her the rest of the way down the grand staircase.

Timothy was waiting with his sister and Masbeth when they reached the bottom of the stairs, and he felt his heart jump painfully at the intense emotion in his friend’s eyes. The man was dressed richly in black, burgundy and charcoal with shining accents, looking handsome and elegant. Another O’Hara looking fit enough for royalty, complete with gloves and everything.

Katrina smiled at them all, complimenting everyone on their clothes. Timothy’s eyes were still locked with his, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow while Katrina nearly pranced over to Roslyn, gushing over her jewelry.

There was the oddest look in his friend’s eyes. A disheartened and lost one that left his mind reeling with concern and worry. But there was also something else in those eyes. Something that swept over his form, leaving a pleasant tingle in his spine that burrowed up into his stomach.

Then the look was gone from Timothy’s face and his friend was smiling brightly. “Don’t you clean up nice!?”

“You look wonderful, constable sir!” Masbeth’s piped up, awed at his former master’s transformation.

Katrina was grinning at them all from Roslyn’s gloved elbow. “That’s what I told him, but I don’t think he believed me. Personally, I think we should drag him out more often.”

Roslyn agreed as Masbeth looked on, blue eyes dark with furious thinking.

“Well, our carriage should be here. Let’s go. The play starts in an hour.”

Katrina smiled at her hostess. “What’s playing?”

“Cinderella.”

***

Cinderella was amazing.

The actors held the audience's attention and not only were most talented singers, but raised the rafters with their clear voices. The costumes were pure art, as well as the backdrops in the candlelight. All five of them sat in a balcony next to the High Constable, horrible man, really, and his wife.

Masbeth was mesmerized from the beginning and Ichabod had to smile at the boy. So much had happened to him in the last year, it made his heart lighter that they could still put such a smile Masbeth’s face. Dorian was cuddled in the boy’s lap, having sneaked in with Katrina’s help (“You might need him, Ichabod. He IS your Familiar.”).

Even with the amazing play, one moment he was watching the Prince chase after the mysterious belle from the ball and the next he was waking up from another vision, just in time to see a herald arrive at the step-mother’s inherited mansion.

He looked around the balcony, white faced. Masbeth was still watching avidly with Katrina, but Roslyn and Timothy were looking at him with worry. He whispered to Roslyn that he was all right and that he was just going to take a breath of fresh air, and she passed the message onto her brother. The worry didn’t leave those liquid brown eyes, however.

He stood and left, careful not to stand in anyone’s sight for too long. And then he was outside, wandering the hall towards an outdoor balcony.

Eyes.

He had seen eyes this time. His mother’s eyes. A somewhat comforting if disturbing thing, he thought as he neared the exit.

He reached for the twin doors before him, but they opened before he could twist the knob and then he was looking into those very same eyes.

His mother.

The woman was dressed simply, but elegantly before him in bronze and black lace. Her dark brown hair was pulled away from her face, but left to hang down her back. There was a half smile on her face. A grin that was very familiar to him. And those eyes, so like his own, were wistful with the thoughts of what could have been.

However, there were differences. Subtle and exaggerated. This was not his mother as he first thought and he stared at her, waiting for her to make the first move.

The smile faded slowly as she looked him over, sadness and bitterness welling up in her eyes. “Little Ichabod.” She even sounded a bit like his mother.

“Yes?” he asked warily. “Do I know you?”

She sighed, looking at the crystals on the metal railing, testing them with her finger. “No, we’ve never met. I’m your aunt.”

Memory came back to him, as well as his senses. “You’re the one who was at my apartment building?”

She gave a fleeting smile. “Yes. I was. With my husband and his brother. They came with me in case your father was there.”

Ichabod tensed, giving her a sharp once over.

“He never liked our family very much. Always saw me as an annoyance. Then I found out he killed my big sister and knew he’d be after us as well.” She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “Hyacinth. That was your mother’s name, but he didn’t like it. It sounded too heathen for him, and he had her change it to Cynthia when they married. Hyacinth Persephone Halloran. Mother loved the old Greek myths.”

In his mind, Ichabod was seeing his memories and older dreams replaying. Of his mother and himself, by the cottage, with lots of hyacinth growing nearby as they danced in the tall grass.

“I had to change my own name so I wouldn’t be hunted. By your father or anyone else. Names based on nature’s life aren’t very common. I was known as Rowan. Now it’s Roseanne. Grandmum would be turning in her grave right now.”

He was remembering something else. His mother, taking about Rowan. He had always thought she was talking about the flower tree in the corner of the garden, but now…

Those eyes, so like his own and his mother’s, were watching him carefully. “Her powers are passing down onto you, aren’t they? You’re going through the Awakening.”

Ichabod stared at her, trying to figure out if she was friend or foe. As odd as it was to see an estranged relative, there was a familiarity between them, like a bond he never knew existed. All of his instincts, the ones that Katrina had been teaching him to use, were coming alive and telling him to trust her. On her authenticity, anyway.

She sighed a bit shakily. “I thought so. Look, Hyacinth may have been the oldest daughter as well as the strongest Carrier in generations, but she was also innocent, naïve. She never embraced the power or learned to control it. It made her kind of…a daydreamer. Here she felt all of this power, this connection to all things, but she didn’t know how to use it or center it around her. Instead, she became separated from reality. Am I making sense?”

So far, everything she was saying was making perfect sense. Too much sense. “Yes.”

She walked over to him, resting one hand on his shoulder. “Look, honey, my point is that you need a teacher and while I’m no expert myself, I can get you started. My sister and I were never that close, but I loved her dearly. I never got to meet my nephew, but I can already tell you’re a great man.” She smiled timidly up at him. “Come with me and my family back to Vermont, we can get you started and then help you go from there.”

It was then that Bonnie’s prediction and advice came back to him. The idea that someone could help him get through this was warming and tempting. To actually discuss and KNOW what was going to happen to him in the months coming…and then there was the fact that she was family. Someone who could love him as his mother did.

Then the door behind them opened and he remembered just why he would never leave New York. Large liquid brown eyes looked around the balcony, and started as they fell upon his aunt. “YOU?!”

Rowan smiled politely at him, raising one eyebrow. “Yes?”

Timothy joined them outside, standing just a little in front of his friend, as if to protect him. “You’re the one who shot Reverend Crane.”

Ichabod turned to stare at his aunt. “You’re the one who fired the first shot?”

The brunette’s face was grim, but not filled with regret. “I was. Your father had been hunting me for a while, regardless of my name change. Had I not shot him, he would have not only killed me, but my family as well. Including you, Ichabod.” She glanced at Timothy. “I would say that’s self-defense, constable. Perfectly legal.”

The older man was looking from face to face as the two watched each other, confusion growing.

“Will you come back home with us? Robert would love to meet you and mother is still hanging in there. She always wanted to meet you. Hyacinth was her favorite daughter. And Vermont is the perfect place for you to start practicing...learning?”

Timothy grew alarmed at the turn in the conversation, fearing that something was happening to ensure his friend’s departure from New York, for whatever reason. And if this woman WAS family as she seemed to be, there would be no way Ichabod could resist…

“I’m sorry, Aunt Rowan, but I can’t. I have a family of my own here. I also have promises to keep, as well as a job. My powers, as everyone likes to put it, have caused me little to no trouble so far. And if I should need anything, there are plenty of witches in this city to help guide me to some degree.”

Timothy felt his heart lighten as the woman searched her nephew’s face.

“All right, then. Cardinals were Hyacinth’s birds, but mine were of a different sort, Blue Jays; take care of yourself and if you ever need anything, you’ll know how to contact me.” She paused, studying his face. “I guess you won’t need a teacher, anyway. You seem far more perceptive than my sister.” And then she turned and left them, her slim figure disappearing through the twin doors.

“Was she really your aunt?”

Ichabod looked at his friend before gazing out at the lights below them, the faintest blush on his cheeks. “If my instincts are anything to go on, then yes. She is.” He sighed, feeling oddly drained. “She also knew things…”

“Things?”

He bit his lip, tracing the freezing icicles with his bare fingers like his aunt had done. “Yes. Little things I never understood about my mother until now. Like why she sometimes didn’t answer to Cynthia. Why she talked about Rowan as if it was a person. Why she was so distant…”

Timothy hunched his shoulders against the cold, burrowing his hands deep into his pockets, breath fogging in the air. “It sounded like the opportunity of a lifetime. Why don’t you go? I thought you always wanted to know more about your mother.” God, he could not believe he was encouraging his friend to leave.

Ichabod sighed, leaning against the brick wall, not at all cold. “I know all I really needed to know about my mother. She was a kind and generous person, who loved her son with all her heart. She had a tremendous power that has been passed down onto me and though she was in love with someone else, she stayed true to her betrothed, even though it killed her in the end. She’s already taught me all I need to know.”

Ichabod looked over at his bundled up friend. “How is the play?”

“Finished,” Timothy grinned. “Rosie is talking to Mrs. O’Connell right now and Katrina is glaring daggers at the High Constable, while Masbeth is looking at all the artwork. And little Dorian is hiding in Katrina’s dress, hissing madly. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he made a very good impression with them.”

There was the faintest of smiles on Ichabod’s face. “She’s just protective of me. However silly it sounds.”

Timothy’s smile widened. “It’s not silly at all, my friend. In fact,” he turned to look at all the lamps lighting the city, “it makes perfect sense. The both of you are so fond of each other, anyone can see that. Even a dense brute like me.” Silence for a moment. “You two looked great together this evening, by the way. Rosie was speechless herself when you two came down the stairs.”

Ichabod blushed brightly as he cleared his throat. “She IS shining rather brightly tonight, but I suspect it’s for a different reason entirely.”

One bushy eyebrow raised in question and he gave an answering grin as he looked up at Timothy. “I’ve been listening to my instincts lately, like everybody has been telling me.”

“Yeah? What do they tell you?” his friend asked with a shaky smile.

Was it him, or were they getting closer? Ichabod pushed the thought away as he beamed up at his friend. “She’s in love.”

Something tensed in Timothy’s face, and it made his stomach do pleasant flip flops. “With your sister.” The expression softened, but then a cheerful scowl set itself on the protective face. “And I do believe Roslyn returns the feelings, though they are not as obvious to her as they are to Katrina.”

Timothy sighed. “Well, at least I won’t have to worry about some man taking advantage of her. And this will give me the perfect excuse for having her stay in the mansion. Both of them.”

Ichabod grinned, pearly teeth gleaming in the dark. “You both have already grown quite fond of them. Katrina and Masbeth.”

The taller man nodded. “Aye. It’s rather hard not to. And as I recall, we grew quite fond of you on the spot.”

That evil blush was returning to his face and he wished he could stare it down. He was receiving all this power, and yet he couldn’t even control his own body.

Ichabod cleared his throat. “Yes, you did. I remember thinking that you were playing a joke on me, and yet you continued to prove otherwise. I haven’t had such a…”

“A what?” Timothy asked, shifting just a bit closer.

Feeling his face heat a little more, he dared to look his friend in the face. “…good friend in a long time. I was always a loner by nature, but it feels great to be able to trust someone again. And with Roslyn, Katrina and Masbeth now, it’s like a family to me. I’m not…I’m not being too brazen by saying such things, am I?”

An easy smile came to his friend’s face. “No way in hell. You forget, it’s been a while since the O’Haras were a family, and you’ve helped Rosie and I get closer then we’ve ever been.”

Their eyes were staring into each other again, dark caramel and liquid brown, and Timothy had just enough bravery to cup Ichabod’s cheek. He felt justified when the lightest of shivers went through the slight body before him.

“Tell me something, Ichabod,” he whispered. “What else have these instincts been telling you?”

He looked up at Timothy, thinking back on when they had almost kissed. “I saw something,” he said softly. “I don’t have a name for it yet, and I can barely see it, but it’s there.”

“What?” Timothy asked.

Ichabod looked dazedly at his friend, on the verge of seeing ‘it’ now as sensations and emotions raced over him. The tiredness was fading away with every caress Timothy bestowed on him, leaving him shivering with energy. “I don’t know, but it…connects us.”

Something shifted in those liquid browns and then Timothy was leaning down, hands falling to Ichabod’s narrow waist and pulling him closer. Their lips were brushing, breaths making each other’s lips tingle in the frosty air and both felt an electric bolt go through them.

And then the balcony doors opened, spilling light out onto brick, snow and railing. Ichabod and Timothy darted apart, hearts racing, feeling for the world as though they had committed some heinous crime.

Roslyn’s mouth had been opened to speak, Katrina finishing a question beside her, when they saw the men jump away from each other. Katrina stared at the guilty expressions and flushed faces, before her mouth slowly turned into a small ‘o’, golden eyes wide.

“Oh.” Roslyn spoke for everyone when she realized what had nearly happened. “DAMN.”

***

“This is getting bloody ridiculous!” Roslyn ranted. “I have been trying to get those two together for months! I can’t believe I fucking ruined it! Bitchless so-”

Katrina watched her pace back and forth, letting her spill her frustration. The woman could be as vulgar as her brother with the proper influence. No doubt Timothy would be scolding her if he wasn’t busy helping Ichabod downtown with one of the corpses.

“They were kissing! Or at least, on the VERGE.” Roslyn looked at her guest. “I’m sorry to be so rude, but…THEY WERE SO BLOODY FUCKING CLOSE. Shite.”

The blond nodded her head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure there will be other chances. It’s not like there IS a time limit, right?”

The tall woman sat down on a sofa and stared sadly at one painting. “I often think there is. Timothy has gone through so much, and so has Ichabod. I feel like they have only a few chances before it all goes to hell. I’ve already ruined one or two, and God knows how many were ruined because of my brother’s loud mouth.” And then there was a lovely string of curses following this sentence, some sounding Gaelic.

Roslyn sighed, picking at a blanket’s corner that rested on the couch beside her. Then she looked up at her guest, eyes dark with bitterness. It made Katrina gasp and hurry over to her, kneeling at her feet and looking up at her in concern. “What is it?”

“I hate to burden you, Katrina, but sometimes I think this family is cursed. Truly and well cursed by some higher powered wanker who’s balls are bigger than their head. Who knows? Maybe the selkies thought we got away too easily and decided to make us properly pay.”

“But you aren’t guilty! You said so yourself! You were framed.”

Roslyn looked down at the young woman trying to comfort her. “They don’t know that. And I don’t think they want to. Would YOU want to know that someone you trusted, an elder no less, betrayed you? And that you blamed an innocent family who did nothing other than show you kindness? No, Katrina, even if someone were to show them proof, they would ignore it. Their hearts couldn’t take it. It would kill them. Better to kill a few humans than make an entire race die out.”

Katrina didn’t know what to say and just ended up hugging her friend.

***

“Well?” Timothy watched Ichabod tinker with his tools. “What is it?”

His friend glanced at him, hard to do with his contraption covering his eyes, and then looked back down at the cloth he held. “Some kind of oil, but I’m beginning to think it was just part of the ritual. All I can tell so far is that its from a plant or flower of some kind. What really grabbed my attention, however, was the dirt on her shoes.”

The taller man stopped fiddling with one of Ichabod’s ‘toys’ and walked over to squint at the mud encrusted on the witch’s heels. “Why?”

There was an odd purple paste on one portion of the red mud and it was slowly turning acid green. Another of Ichabod’s experiments. “See that reaction? It’s not a rare type of dirt, but it certainly isn’t found around here. I’d say that this is from Australia.”

“Australia,” Timothy repeated. “As in the continent? Where England sent all her prisoners?”

Ichabod nodded.

“HOW did dirt from Australia get here?”

“I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps we should check with the ship yards and see if anyone’s come from there in the last few months?”

Timothy nodded. “Should be no problem. I know a guy down there. Great man, though he’s a bit of a snarky bitch.”

Ichabod raised an eyebrow at him, but nodded. “We can go after work. They should find Ms. Johanson’s body any minute now and I want to check her out as well.”

The older man nodded. “I’ll go check with Fuller and Stilles right now. They’d know.”

And then he was gone and Ichabod removed his headgear, feeling cross-eyed for a moment as his vision adjusted.

The woman’s mouth was open in what would have been an ear piercing scream and there was no sign of a gag. Wherever this murder had taken place, it was where no one could hear such a scream, or where no one would care.

The blonde’s green eyes were still opened wide in pain and Ichabod looked at them, a chill freezing his spine for a moment.

His thoughts raced as he traced the wound that killed her, that gave up her life’s essence as well as her power. “Why is it so hard to find this source? Why do they need so much power? Is he protected somehow?”

Mrs. Salvatore had mentioned a binding in the source’s blood. One of elemental design. For some reason, his thoughts turned to Timothy and the silver and scarlet blood in his veins.

***

“Are you SURE you’re not cold? Ichabod! The entire harbor is frozen over!”

And it was snowing so hard, it was a dangerous whiteout around them. It was a miracle they could even see each other on their way to the docked ships.

The younger man gave a wry grin, glancing at his shivering friend. “I’m fine. Barely even feel a refreshing chill. Are you sure you’re not just putting on a three act play?”

He couldn’t hide a laugh when his friend glared at him and growled, “That’s the thanks I get for being worried?”

Ichabod shook his head in his amusement, looking ahead to the harbor. “Well, according to you and everyone else, there’s no need to worry. After all, I’m turning into some all powerful being.”

It was a moment before he realized Timothy had slowed their hurried pace. He turned to look back at him as his friend stopped completely and looked at him seriously. Ichabod’s eyes darted about and his hand reached for his pistol, worried as he asked, “What?”

Something was troubling the older constable, that much was evident, as stared at Ichabod in furious thought. “How long were you in contact with your mother’s spirit?”

He blinked in surprise, totally caught off guard. Weren’t they in a hurry? “The dreams started right after I entered Sleepy Hollow.”

Timothy was staring off into space, eyebrows drawn low over his eyes in a frown. “And when you captured the Hessian’s skull, would you say you temporarily became his master?”

He had never thought of that, as much sense as it made, but what did it matter? “I suppose.”

“And that would have caused a temporary bond between the two of you. Perhaps you might even still have it if he’s indebted to you for returning his head.”

“Timothy, what is going on?!”

He looked at Ichabod, staring at the angelic face through the heavily falling snow.

That was three realms, and as he thought of the other night, Timothy’s heart sank. Ichabod had died, connecting him to the Twilight realm, even if he had come back. Bonnie Salvatore’s words had started coming back to him the moment Ichabod had mentioned his awakening power.

Why hadn’t he seen it before? It was so obvious to him now. Ichabod’s change had been staring them all in the face since he’d gotten back from Sleepy Hollow. He was a man who had a tragic past with the purest of hearts, who was most likely having ‘dreams’ and not telling them about it. Roslyn had never liked to tell anyone about hers, and as stubborn as Ichabod was, he was sure to keep that from them all, but Timothy knew the signs.

Everything except for one thing fit, but Timothy knew that it didn’t have to fit until the cult started hunting for the source. It also told him what he needed to do.

“TIMOTHY. What is it?! Are you okay?”

He walked over to the slighter man, taking in every detail from the snow blanketing the dark hair, to the light flush in his cheeks. There was no one to stop them now, and he was NOT going to pass this chance up. Not when it was his last.

He rested his hand on one slender shoulder, looking seriously at his friend as he leaned close. “Do you trust me?”

Those dark eyes blinked, startled. “I do. But…Tim…WHAT is going ON?”

“Give me your hand.”

Ichabod automatically did so, his face still questioning. Timothy half expected to see the slender hand pull away when he brought out the penknife, but his friend’s eyes only widened a little. Ichabod still didn’t pull away when he dragged it across his own palm, his friend only gasping as blood welled up on the tan skin.

Then the silver blade was set against his own pale palm, somewhere between the little scars dotting the skin, only a hint of Timothy’s blood on the very edge. The blade didn’t move from where it rested as Timothy bled onto the ground, feeling highly reluctant to hurt this young man. But then he looked into those wondering eyes and remembered why he was doing this. To save this incredible creature he had fallen in love with.

He quickly cut the palm open, being careful not to drag the blade too deep. The urge to press a rag to the wound was overwhelming, but he fought it, knowing this was necessary.

His eyes were stilling looking into Ichabod’s when he pressed the palms together, and a jolt of electricity hit them both as their blood began to mingle. He flexed his fingers, squeezing tight and Ichabod returned the hold, eyes lowering to half mast as pure power surged between them. This jolt a little more different than the half kiss last night. It was complete magic.

It wasn’t unlike static shock, but more arousing than it was painful and it shot through their body’s to their very souls.

Timothy kissed Ichabod, pulling him close and fitting him tight against him. The younger man’s mouth fell open before his and he entered with an eager tongue, ecstatic to be finally able to do this. Ichabod’s tongue came out to meet his hesitatingly, and then with more confidence and passion as that electricity built up.

Something neither one had felt before was taking over them, and it wasn’t from the blood exchange or the power rush. It was something else entirely. So close, even Timothy could see it on the horizon, just out of sight.

The snow around them was melting into warm rain, pattering thoroughly onto them and Timothy was no longer cold all of a sudden.

Ichabod had started to tremble, making him pull the other man closer and kissing him harder. The kiss was returned just as eagerly, just as heatedly…and the rain around them disappeared into a pleasant mist, then all together. They now both stood in a large puddle where moments before they had been trudging through deep, wet snow with difficulty.

Soon the puddle itself was disappearing.

The slighter man was trembling even harder now, but Timothy couldn’t bear to pull away, having waited for this for too long. Ichabod didn’t seem to mind at all, until he pulled away a little before wilting wonderfully in his friend’s arms.

Timothy’s heart was racing, that electric tingle still in his skin from Ichabod’s touch and kisses. He felt like fainting himself, from such an intensity. He had never felt anything like this and it was as he stared down at the man draped in his arms that he understood what his friend had tried to describe.

A connection between the two of them.

He gently rested his friend on the ground near a building and then looked up, feeling the prodigy’s power rush through him. Ichabod’s face was relaxed in a forced sleep and Timothy felt guilt eat at him as he stared longingly at those delicate features. He raised one hand and lightly traced a cheekbone down to those lips, red from a desperate kiss. The older man leaned over and gave his love one last kiss on the forehead before standing.

Now he could lead all the bastards on a hunt. A hunt for the source they wouldn’t find, if he had anything to do with it.

Timothy walked away from the slight figure on the ground, knowing he would be safe, curling his hands in the air and sending out tentative vibes. The snow followed his gentle orders and covered Ichabod enough to hide him from prying eyes. Then he turned on his heel, walking towards the center of the city.

The power running through his veins, though only a whisper of what Ichabod held, was more powerful than anything he’d ever seen or heard of. It was most definitely the power of a source, of one meant for great things. A leader and protector.

He might even be able to take on this cult as he was, but then again, he thought as people in dark cloaks surrounded him, they knew they were after a powerful source. One they needed to be ready for and be able to contain.

Timothy didn’t have a chance. Not only were they strong, but they had a web of spells to weaken him, as well as two werewolves and a delicate young girl who was unquestionably not human.

They circled him like hungry animals, leaving no room for escape as a pendulum swung towards him, a crystal on a delicate chain.

The spells sent him to his knees and the werewolves piled on top of him, making him gasp painfully for breath as he detected a few broken rubs. The cultists drew near and roughly tied him up, leaving the leering wolves to carry/drag him through the streets of New York.

He didn’t speak a word, or try to shout for help, but he had to wonder where all the constables were.

Timothy found out when they reached their destination and he caught a glimpse of what was to come.

“YOU?!”

***

“Mrow.”

Ichabod felt pleasantly woozy and warm, even if he lay in a snow bank, he was still highly reluctant to open his eyes. Dorian gave a high pitched yowl, but only received a twitch from his master. The little kitten sat back on his heels, blue eyes flickering over the invisible energy darting across the man’s body.

The cat started swatting his master, but received no results. With a frustrated flick of his whiskers, he looked grumpily upwards at the building behind them.

Ichabod jumped awake as a soft crooning emerged from Abigail’s beak and Dorian had to hop away to avoid being smacked up against a wall. The man blinked rapidly, heart racing, as he looked frantically about, searching for what had woken him. His dark eyes fell on his new kitten, widening with disbelief.

“How did you get here?”

Hamlet’s eager bark answered him and then he remembered WHY he was resting in a pile of fluffy, wet snow and WHY he was alone.

Timothy.

That bastard.

What had he gone and down now?

Dorian mewled impatiently and he looked down at the cat, watching as he trotted over to the German Shepherd and climbed onto his back. Above, Abigail gave a cheerful chirp and fluttered her wings, ready for flight. Later, he’d find out how they got loose. Now he had to save his idiotic friend. From what? he could JUST guess.

Ichabod closed his eyes, knowing that his heart would lead the way, but he needed a fast ride to get there. The snow dwindled and died, and a soft whisper left his lips. “Achilles.”

He felt something open in his mind and he used it to push the demand from his mind and out. Opening his eyes, he saw a cleared path before him in the snow and the chestnut horse galloping towards him. He didn’t even wait for the animal to slow, grabbing the saddle horn and pulling himself onto Achilles’ back as he turned and raced back the way he came.

Hamlet ran after them with little Dorian on his back, but was soon left behind as he followed that connection and they neared the older part of the city.

Ichabod was beginning to understand Roslyn’s frustration with her rash elder brother.

***

Roslyn gasped painfully and doubled over, hands clawing at her wrists and shoulders.

“ROSLYN!” Masbeth and Katrina cried as they hurried over from the Library shelves. “What is it?”

The tall and proud woman suddenly looked weak and spent of her energy, face pale with pain as she wilted to the ground, hand over her heart. “Timothy.”

“What about him?” the blond urged as Masbeth looked about frantically with worry.

“He’s hurt!” she cried with inevitable despair. “THEY’RE KILLING HIM!”

Ophelia sat at the door to the round room, brown eyes dark with sadness as she gazed at her master’s sister and friends. Her graceful head was held low, neck arched in depression and tail limp. Hugo sat next to her, curled up against her for comfort and Romeo and Viggo were staring at their mistress with worry as they neared her timidly.

“They’re killing him,” she sobbed.

***

End part 4