by Noir, Mila
They were headed to the clearing where the last body had been found, the cop Anton was accused of viciously murdering. Seemed drastic and overly morbid, but it was the only place they could think of that he might actually meet them at. It also happened to be very close to the Windy Bridge, which Anton didn’t think was accidental. As for drama, this killer liked to behead people while pretending to be a mythical horseman. Some might call it poetic. He thought it was just fucking crazy.
He took Taylor’s hand and she squeezed it.
He hadn’t told her, but Susan had slipped him something before they left—her gun. He’d promised Taylor they’d catch whoever it was, but he didn’t trust that it would be that easy. Especially if it was Nick. Given everything he’d done so far, there was no way Anton thought the guy was going to go anywhere willingly. He thought Taylor was being naïve on this point, but she wanted to believe this could be solved without any more violence. Anton doubted it. Nick hadn’t had an ounce of kindness or empathy in him in high school and he clearly hadn’t learned any since. The guy was willing to kill his own friends. It was obvious they were dealing with someone both entirely unhinged and unbelievably calculating. Anton had a feeling Nick was willing to do anything to anyone to avoid getting caught.
Meanwhile, Anton had realized something about himself in the last twenty-four hours—for Taylor, he was absolutely willing to kill.
And he was more than ready to take down Nick, the Rider, or anyone else who tried to hurt her again.
***
A few hours later and Taylor was thinking that, surprisingly, waiting for a psychotic killer to show up and admit to all their nefarious crimes could be…boring. They’d made a little camp for themselves and not hidden from any prying eyes. And yet… nothing. She was seriously thinking about giving up and trying something else altogether when, finally, they heard the distinct sound of boots walking on dry leaves. She was still holding Anton’s hand and trying not to be cold. It wasn’t quite working.
Taylor could feel Anton was getting restless. He probably wanted to ditch this plan and go find Nick, but since they didn’t know where he was, that wasn’t likely. And then she heard the crunching sounds. She felt him tense beside her.
A tall dark figure strode into the clearing, cloak swirling, hood hiding the face. A strange sound come from it, like laughing through a box. Taylor realized it was a voice shifter and tried not to laugh.
“What are you, Darth Vader? Give me a break,” she muttered. Anton elbowed her and gave her a look.
“I know you’re there. Come out so we can finish this,” the voice warbled.
Taylor had an insane urge to start giggling. She knew it was gauche but she couldn’t help it. They’d officially hit absurdity DEFCON 1.
Taylor stood up suddenly, getting out of Anton’s well-meaning grip. She strode forward, sick of the entire affair. This guy was going down.
“I know it’s you, Nick. Congrats, you burned down my house, nearly killed me in my car, framed Anton, and now you look like an extra from a bad B 80’s sci-fi movie. And I’m over it,” she said as she walked forward, brandishing her phone.
“The police know about you,” she said. She heard Anton cursing up a storm behind her. The figure hadn’t said anything since she’d come out.
“I mean, seriously, these theatrics? Did you actually think you’d get away with setting people on fire? Beheading them? You’re some kind of serious whack job,” she continued.
“Shut up,” the figure said.
“Ah, there we go. The classic line from ye old Rider, ‘Shut up.’ Very old-timey,” Taylor scoffed. She was making him angry on purpose. Angry people did stupid, rash things. And she needed to keep him there long enough for Powell to get there.
“You were always a mouthy bitch,” it said, then took the hood off. Nick de Marco stood there, not looking all that great, truth be told. He had a nasty fresh burn on one side of his face.
“Oh, did you hurt yourself setting my home on fire? Poor you. A real tragedy,” she said. His face twisted, which made the fresh burn scar even more frightful.
“And I’m going to do the same to you, and then take off your pretty head. You and your boyfriend,” he said, taking out a gun. Taylor froze, but she knew Anton had her back. Somehow.
“Where is he? Did he ditch you already?” Nick sneered.
“You wish,” she said.
“Whatever, he’ll fuck off without you eventually. Everyone knows the Quinns are bad news. Besides…” And here his face became some kind of evil, horrifying mask. “The police aren’t coming. I’ve created a…distraction. You’re alone,” he said.
“No. She really isn’t,” Anton said, and stepped out, holding a gun—from where Taylor had no idea. Probably Susan. If they made it out of there, she was going to have words with her. Mostly “thank you.”
“I think you’d better put yours down, Nick. I’m a better shot,” Anton said.
“Are you? I’m a cop. I was trained to hit my targets,” Nick said.
“Maybe. I heard you mostly coasted. God knows why anyone ever let you get away with anything. You’ve always been a creepy fucker,” Anton said.
“The dirt I have on people in this town, I could’ve ended up police chief if it hadn’t been for that fucking Coulson skank. I’ll just start over somewhere else. People are easy. You just find their weaknesses and exploit them,” Nick said, waving his gun hand.
Taylor kept an eye on it and suspected Anton was, too. Nick might be trying to sound blasé, but she could see the sweat on his forehead. Unfortunately, she didn’t know what the hell to do about the gun pointing at them.
“Sounds like a really great way to go through life, Nick. I’m guessing you missed a few things most people learn in kindergarten. Such as not killing your classmates,” said Taylor.
“Just because you got a makeover and some fashion sense doesn’t mean you should piss me off, slut. You clearly haven’t learned anything since high school, since you’re sleeping with the guy who humiliated you. God, that’s still funny. Even the yearbook called you ‘Blueberry’ after that,” Nick said. Taylor felt herself getting angry, but she kept it under control. That was the past. And he was still just a shit.
“You are such fucking scum, de Marco.” Anton sighed.
“Me? A fucking Quinn is calling me scum? Your father beat the shit out of you, was a drunk loser, left you and your mom…and your grandfather? A gambler who had two families. And you, what are you? A small-town mechanic who only sleeps with married women and former high school skanks with low self-esteem.” Nick laughed. His aim wasn’t bad, Taylor thought. But Anton stayed cool. She loved him more in that moment than she had ever loved anyone. It was time to get Nick to make a mistake.
Taylor started laughing. Peals of it, loud and long and hard. She laughed and laughed, her sides hurting.
“What the fuck are you laughing at, bitch?” Nick asked, eyes narrowed, gun hand trembling slightly as it swung in her direction.
“You. You think reminding me I was unpopular in high school is going to hurt my delicate feelings? I lived it, asshole. There isn’t anything you can say or do to me that can hurt. You killed those girls, and you were so afraid I’d remember, you actually made sure I did. You fucked up there. I’d completely forgotten. You’re just a sad, pathetic wannabe who decided to murder all his friends because a lady wouldn’t sleep with him. That’s one fragile ego you’ve got there, Nick,” she said.
“Taylor…,” Anton said, as the color rise in Nick’s face. What the hell was she trying to do? Get them killed?
“You should listen to your fuck buddy. I won’t mind killing either of you at all. The only thing I’ll be sorry about is not being able to take my time. But I’ll still get your heads,” Nick said.
“You know, you’re disappointing. I was really hoping it would turn out to be the real Rider. A ghost going about righting wrongs. But instead it’s just a washed-up high school football player. I mean, you’re psychot
ic, obviously, but you’re also a coward,” Taylor said.
“Jesus, Taylor…,” Anton hissed. Nick was getting more and more angry, pacing with the gun pointed at them, back and forth, like a deadly pendulum. Taylor thought Anton had probably overstated his ability to shoot. It must’ve been quite a long time since he’d handled a gun and it was dark. The more she thought about their “plan,” the more she felt like one of those protagonists who did something really stupid just to advance the plot on a TV show.
“At least I’m not a city skank who stuck her nose where it doesn’t belong,” Nick said. Taylor shrugged like it was the least interesting thing she’d ever heard.
“Then you shouldn’t have sent me that clipping. It’ll make quite a story. And you can’t frame Anton with me around,” she said.
“What are you talking about? What clipping? He’ll go down for this anyway. Town bad boy kills former bullies and current lover. Then kills himself. Easy. We like easy around here,” Nick said.
“Except this entire conversation has been uploaded to a website and sent directly to Powell. So even if he’s not around now, even if you shoot us, everyone will still know,” Taylor said. Anton turned around, surprised. That’s when Nick struck.
He fired straight at Taylor, but Anton was moving in front of her. It played out like slow motion, the bullet hitting Anton in the shoulder, blood spraying, his body going down. Taylor was over Anton in a flash, but it felt like forever. She was holding her hands over the wound, blood seeping out. Nick was standing over them, gun pointing.
And then something flashed, and suddenly there was something very wrong with where Nick’s face had been.
His head was gone.
Taylor stared up as his body teetered, then fell. Behind him stood a cloaked figure, taller, shimmering around the edges, saber long and silver and bright in the dark.
It walked through the body, cloak billowing against the wind, hood high, eyes burning in the shadows. The air was colder, icy, like it had suddenly become winter between one moment and the next. It stopped in front of Taylor with a sound of unseen spurs clicking. Taylor looked up and suddenly felt…calm.
The figure pulled back its hood, and long dark hair flowed out like a black stream. A plain, stern, young face that Taylor could see through looked down at her with deep black holes for eyes in which two fires burned. The Rider regarded her with her head tilted, like she was examining a bug. She looked down at Anton, head cradled in Taylor’s lap, eyes shut.
“It’s okay. He’s…a good man,” Taylor said. The Rider nodded. She looked back at the body of de Marco with disdain.
“He was…not,” the Rider said, voice a soft sigh.
“Not at all,” said Taylor. “Thank you.”
“I did it for…balance,” she said. Taylor nodded, not entirely sure what that meant but still grateful.
“Things are…even now. You were needed,” the Rider said.
“You sent me the clipping? But how…?” Then Taylor shook her head. It was probably better if she didn’t try to suss that out. She was talking to a ghost—that was enough.
“Go. These woods are home to more than just myself,” the Rider said. And with that cryptic remark and a small nod, she walked off, through the body again, into the clearing, and away. Taylor heard the sound of hoofbeats, like deep echoes, and the whinny of something that was no longer a live horse.
“Taylor?” Anton’s voice was weak and he was looking up at her, struggling to sit up. She pressed on his shoulder and he gasped.
“That was pretty stupid,” she said, kissing him, tears flowing.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Nick…he’s dead. I don’t know what happened. Gun must have gone off in his face,” she said, lying a little. She didn’t want to explain the Rider and have Anton think she was crazy.
“Good,” Anton said. He sat up gingerly, his shoulder probably feeling like it had gotten ripped off. She saw the body, but not the head which had gone somewhere off into the darkness. Anton looked like he was in too much pain to notice it was just gone.
“We should get out of here,” he said.
“Yeah, I’ll help,” Taylor said. “I’m not sure we can explain this to cops. We’ll let Powell handle it. I’m sure he can spin it. Somehow.”
She helped him up and he leaned on her a little, then took her hand. They moved slowly out of the clearing, listening for sirens but hearing none. They were too far into the woods, and likely Powell wouldn’t know what had happened until morning. Taylor hadn’t been lying; everything was recorded. But she still didn’t feel like staying around in Sweethollow to deal with the fallout.
As far as she was concerned, the story was over. She’d never be able to prove it all, and it was too weird. A real ghost? Please. Her editor would laugh in her face, then fire her. She suspected she’d be finding a new line of work anyway. Investigative journalism was clearly not for her.
“Hey, Taylor?” Anton said quietly, breath streaming like smoke in the night.
“Yeah?” she asked, squinting ahead to see if she could make out the path. It was starting to get a little lighter, somehow, and her phone light was cutting the darkness enough to see a bit around them.
“I love you,” Anton said. She stopped, looking up into his face. It was strained with pain and had dirt smudges on it. His hair was wild. And he was more beautiful than anything she had ever seen before.
“I love you, too,” she said. And reached up and kissed him.
“Now let’s get out of these fucking woods, away from this fucking town, and make a new home,” he said.
Her laughter rang out into the night, bright and clear.
***
Epilogue: One Year Later
Taylor sat on the edge of her bathtub, humming a little and looking at the plain silver band on her left ring finger. It had been six months since she and Anton had “gotten hitched,” as he liked to put it, and the honeymoon was definitely still in full swing. They’d just gone down to the courthouse one day with one witness, Susan, and spent the next week in bed. Actually, they’d spent a lot of time in bed the past six months. They were making up for lost time.
They were living in Queens in a nice two-bedroom, the other one being her home office. But it might not be for much longer, depending on what the little pee strip said in a minute.
The last few months had been a whirlwind, and not just because she was married to Anton Quinn. Taylor had sold a manuscript about a small town with big secrets, including a haunted inn, to a major publisher. Her new agent had been thrilled. The advance wasn’t huge but the prospects were looking good, especially if they could get a media deal. She didn’t mention how much of the story was based on what had happened in Sweethollow. She doubted anyone up there was going to mention the similarities.
Taylor had quit her magazine job and started back with fiction not long after they’d left Sweethollow together. She’d never been happier. It felt good to be writing again, submitting to magazines, telling weird, strange tales for other weird, strange people. It was fun and exhilarating, like being with Anton. He made sure every day was interesting and every night was…full of passion.
Meanwhile, Anton was freelance tattooing and doing commissions and had a very happy group of shops in the city. Their apartment was covered in his new drawings, sketches, even some paintings. A lot of them were of her and probably not for public consumption. Sometimes she woke up to find him sketching her. The work had just started flowing out of him once they’d left Sweethollow. It didn’t surprise her. He’d finally let a lot of things go after everything. Now he was getting requests from all over the world for his work, including some galleries. They’d booked their first trip to Paris so he could meet with a client for next month. They were both excited.
Of course, Taylor might just have news to trump that.
Anton wasn’t the only one who’d left a lot behind in Sweethollow. She’d gotten a nice insurance payout on the house after Powell had h
elpfully called the fire an “accident.” Although she was sad it was gone, she knew it was just a place. And it was time to move on. She didn’t dwell much on the Rider these days, happy to leave the legend behind as well. Some things just couldn’t be explained, and it was better to keep your sanity than try to reason your way out of the inherently unreasonable.
Through the ajar bathroom door, she could see Anton’s sleeping back. He was naked in their bed and she could just make out the upper slope of his backside before the sheets covered him up. She wanted to kiss the spot at the base of his spine, trace the lines of his tattoo, and then whisper the good news in his ear. The damn strip just had to hurry up.
Finally, her phone timer went off. She closed her eyes, picked up the stick, then opened them. She stared for a moment, then laughed, trying to cover her mouth so Anton wouldn’t hear. She put it down and then crawled into bed behind him, doing exactly what she’d thought about.
Taylor started at his neck, kissing lightly. He made a few sounds but didn’t wake up. She made a trail down his back, loving his shoulder blades, touching his spine with her fingertips before her tongue followed. When she reached the top of his high, round behind, he groaned.
“Oh, good. You’re awake,” she said. He turned over, grabbing her by the arms, kissing her. He was hard and ready against her belly. His hands were already pulling at her underwear, slipping inside, touching her.
“Nice way to wake up, too,” he said and came up to nip her neck. He came over, pinning her to the bed, getting her underwear off, and thrusting into her in one smooth, knowing stroke. He pulled her bra down so that her breasts were propped up and licked at her nipples, starting a gentle rhythm with his hips.
Taylor wrapped her legs around him and met him thrust for thrust, bucking her hips spirally. When he finally touched between them, she shouted, biting at his shoulder, coming hard, a rush of pleasure between her legs like a dart.
She pushed him back, careful to keep him inside, and rode him, her body slick and ready for more. She arched as he gently pinched her nipples, body rippling with pleasure again and again.
