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?
Title: Crane
Author: Stacey Rourke
Genres: New Adult, Paranormal
Publication Date: May 26, 2014
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.
Stacey Rourke lives in Michigan with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and two giant, dogs. She loves to travel, has an unhealthy shoe addiction and considers herself blessed to make a career out of talking to the imaginary people that live in her head. Mark your calendars! Her latest literary adventure, Crane, will release May 26, 2014. She is currently hard at work on the continuations of this thrilling Legends Saga, as well as other literary projects.
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