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warnersister · 20 days

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Chapter 1 - The Return to Miramar

The Highwayman Series | Prologue | Chapter 2

‘No Entry – Construction (TRANSATLANTIC RAILWAY DUE TO FINISH 1869)’ the sign read and the frontman on his horse creased his brows into a tight and questioning line. “1869? But its 1863.” He said, voice in a questioning tone. “haven’t you heard?” his companion asked “east and west are racing to see who can build the most. Gonna be shut a while” he said matter of factly, while straightening out his mustache from where the Tennessee heat had frazzled it. The former grunted in response “this is our way though” “well were gonna have to go a different way hangman, don’t fancy getting Spitfire killed by a train” the other told him, motioning to the fine mare he was riding on. He nodded “yeah hornets too young for that, rooster you’re right. You know a different way?” hangman asked. Rooster thought for a minute, straightening out his mustache again, already bunching up under the springtime humidity – but this time, more in thought than in maintenance as he turned to look at his surroundings “already crossed Mississippi” he said, remembering when they’d crossed the mighty river – not wishing to back track on that path. “were gonna have to go the whole way round, through missouri – Kansas, take a left at colorado” “could we not go trough Texas?” Hangman asked, thinking of a shorter route they used to traverse a decade prior. Rooster raised his brows “aint Sherrif Simpson still after us?” he asked and his friend shrugged. “Already told the rest of ‘em to meet us in Louisiana and it’ll take weeks, months to get there if not, were good as dead if the Indians aint as hospitable again” there was silence for a minute “plus you’ve got a stache now and I’ve got this sweet bod, he wont recognise us” Hangman said, flexing while Rooster threw his head back and laughed loudly “bod ain’t as good as mine, bagman” Rooster said and the other shook his head “c’mon. Texas it is."

This route was fresh, recognisable but still; new-(ish). There were plenty of structures that were erected since they’d last abided there, especially in the Plains – a substantially belittled number of natives and much more Easterns who you could tell had no business being in Western heat – searching for green grass but getting tumble weeds in lieu. They’d reached their meeting point but a week later, reconsiliating with Coyote and Bob who’d been engaging in business up in the rockies, taking the strongest horses but only returning with one. “Hercules?” Hangman asked and bob shook his head “struggled all the way up, slipped, poor boy couldn’t handle it. Was cryin’ in the night he was. Had’a put him out o’ his misery” the four all bowed their heads and shook them in remembrance for their fallen companion. “damn” rooster said. “Well there's no way the two of ya can manage all the way to New Mexico on Chinook, let alone California” Hangman said. “we passed a ranch on the way down here in northern Texas, town called Miramar” Bob told him as Rooster and Hangman shared a look. “Ain’t that where we nearly got hung?” Rooster asked “sure is Brad.” Hangman thought for a moment “Good mares?” Hangman asked “the best” coyote said “young lady an’all. Mighty fine on the eyes” “guess we’re heading up North.”

The ride was slightly awkward with Coyote and Bob both on one horse, they changed primary rider every hundred or so miles – and it made it easier to travel at night, but still; a man wanted his own horse and Coyote was proud of Chinook, but the horse was starting to weary with some three hundred pounds on his back. But eventually they saw the sign. White lettering and red background, carved so deeply into old mahogany and almost illegible, but it was undeniably so: Miramar. So close you could almost make out Oklahoma, but far enough away and enough Stetsons present to recognise the contrast between what was and what wasn’t Texan territory. “where’s this ranch of yours, Bob?” Jake asked, swallowing harshly as he eyed the infamous town over his sunglasses; Bob pointed straight ahead, and adjacent to the Sheriff’s office, was an unassuming parlour attacked to a decently sized acreage of farm, a good seven or eight horses feeding off their dinner. “alright. Let’s get in and get out.” Jake said, instructing his horse to move forward as he did so. “you guys got history here or something?” Javy asked and rooster snorted “yeah something like that” “what happened?” Bob asked “lets just say he had a thing for the Sherrif’s daughter and he organised to hang him if he didn’t get out of town.” Rooster explained, recalling the events from what seemed like yesterday. Jake cleared his way as a way to get the lot of them to shut up. He still had the ring he was going to give her in his breast pocket.

They drew a lot of attention as they rode through town – strangers clearly dressed in travelling attire. But they were the Highwaymen, not pilgrims. Coyote hopped off the back of Chinook and Bob followed suit, heading to the girl who had their back turned to them, currently attending to a young pony who seemed to refuse to leave the refuge of her stables. “Excuse me, ma’am – any of these horses for sale?” “Uh huh the lot of ‘em” she’d replied, turning to the strangers to greet them as customers. Jake felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. “jake?” “hey, petal” he replied, unable to muster anything else as he looked at you, still as mighty fine if not more gorgeous than he day he’d hit the road with rooster. You looked to his left and nodded “Brad” “hey pretty” after the short and unsweetened reunion. “Y’all should get off my ranch. My daddy still has a right mind lynchin’ the two of ya” you say smally, turning to reattend to the horse. “Still?” Rooster asked with a smirk but Jake was taking it more seriously as you nodded your head to the stocks “meaner than the day you left” “sweetheart-“ “I aint talkin to you, Jake” you say and look at your feet “look, my horse passed in the rockies; was hopin’ I could but a new ‘un to get us to California. Got any up for the job?” Bob asked and you looked at him. “Uh, we got a few. Albatros is gorgeous and strong, but I don’t think she’ll last ‘till Cali.” You place your hands on your hips, surverying the pack “Falcon, he’ll get you there but no further.” You say “that there” you point at the strong, pale coloured horse in the back of the field “Lightning. God he can ride, got the strength of Zeus. He’ll get you there, hell he’ll get you through Mexico and back. But he’s my favourite, he’s gonna cost ya” Jake smiled “God he was just a young’un a few years back. My, he's grown” he says, recalling the day he’d gifted you the horse. He’d saved up all his money, didn’t even steal him, brought him all the way from New Mexico. Didn’t even ride him, he walked on foot – made sure the mare had his breaks and god your smile when you accepted him. His hair matched Jakes, so he’d always be there when he wasn’t. “You’re willing to sell him? After all this time?” you finally look at him, pain apparent in your eyes “you left, Seresin” that hurt “you bought him as a reminder. Don’t need no reminder of you, boy” you say “well ‘m here now-“ “exactly.” You cut him off and there is a silence.

“How much for Lightning?” Bob asked after a while. “Make me an offer.”

Prologue | Chapter 2

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sagemonsters · 8 months

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Though Hell Should Bar the Way

Summary: Bess is a night owl and a college student—a combination that turns out to be dangerous when she realizes she can’t make it back to her residence during an ice storm at 3am. After being saved by a strange, mute motorcyclist who is reluctant to remove his helmet, Bess is eager to uncover his secrets.

Status: SFW

Relationship: cis female human (she/her) x cis male dullahan (he/him)

Word Count: 2,200

Notes: this is a modern AU fanfic of Alfred Noyes' poem "The Highwayman"

Chapter 1 of 1

Bess all but screamed when someone tapped her shoulder in the small study cubicle on the fourth floor of the Holger Library. One of the assistant librarians, Alex, grabbed her half-empty Starbucks cup before Bess could knock it over as she recoiled, and her Beyoncé-induced study euphoria ended as that motion yanked her wired earbuds out of her ears.

“—Closing in five minutes, Miss Noyes,” Alex said.

“Right, yeah… What time is it?” Bess asked.

Alex set her Starbucks cup back down on the desk. “Five minutes to three o’clock in the morning,” he answered, and then looked down at his wristwatch. “Four, actually.”

Bess blinked, then dived for her phone in her backpack; the time was correct. “Damn,” she muttered. She had an English final—a timed essay—in six hours; she needed to get whatever sleep she could before it started.

“Be careful out there—the snow feels like falling glass, and everything’s iced over,” Alex warned. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I hope you don’t have far to walk to get back to your dorm.”

“My apartment is on Kerr Green,” Bess said.

Alex looked at her in horror for a moment, then gave her a wince of sympathy; Kerr Green was halfway across the city, since Losthaven University had a decentralized campus whose student residences gave grief to the aforementioned students and city planners alike.

“Get an Uber or Lyft or whatever,” Alex said. “You cannot walk there in weather like this.”

Bess shook her head as she shrugged on and buttoned her navy blue peacoat. “I’m broke at the moment. I’ll be fine, though. Thank you.”

Alex gave her a final, worried look, then left the cubicle and resumed his patrol for other students who had missed the closing announcement. Bess shouldered her backpack and took the stairs to the library’s front door, and then paused.

The pavement outside the library was slick and shining with ice, just as Alex had promised, and she could see more ice coating the streetlamps and the lone USPS box. The plows had already come by, so the roads looked reasonably clear—but snow piled high in dirty, irregular drifts to either side of the street, and more was falling by the minute.

For a few moments, Bess allowed herself to despair. She could call her mother in Florida and ask for twenty-five dollars to get an Uber back to her apartment—but that would be the second time this week she asked for money, and it was three o’clock in the morning, so her pride forbid such a thing. Bess huffed to herself, then pulled on her hat and gloves and stepped outside.

The wind hit her like a broadsword, slicing through her layers and carving straight to her core. This was, without a doubt, a proper New England winter storm, and Bess fancied that she could feel ice crystals making shallow cuts into the inside of her lungs as she inhaled; the air was so cold that breathing hurt. She wobbled in place as the wind threatened to bowl her over on the slick pavement.

Bess managed to get five blocks in the direction of Kerr Green before she realized she should have swallowed her pride and called her mother. She had fallen twice during those five blocks, and her fingers were aching with cold inside her gloves even after she had shoved them into her coat pockets.

She eased herself into an alleyway for some reprieve from the wind and unzipped her backpack with clumsy, gloved fingers. After some digging, she managed to pull out her phone, and then removed one glove with her teeth to unlock the device with her fingerprint. The cold ache intensified in that hand, so much so that it shook with pain. She could barely feel the phone anymore, but managed to open the CALL app—

The phone slipped out of her fingers and fell to the asphalt at her feet. The screen went dark, and when Bess picked it up she saw a spiderweb of cracks across the screen.

Crying is useless. Crying is useless. Crying is useless… Bess told herself, but the tears were welling up anyway and stinging at the corners of her eyes. She fumbled her glove back on and turned to trudge back out into the wind. Maybe there was still someone at the library, and she could beg them to let her use the phone at the front desk…

A headlight sliced through the snowy nighttime murk in front of the alleyway, followed closely by the deafening snarl of a motorcycle engine. An all-black bike with a helmeted rider swathed head to toe in black leather gear pulled to a stop in front of the alley, its engine settling into a low, coughing growl. The rider’s helmet, with its shadowed visor pulled down, turned toward Bess. He let go of the handlebar and held out his hand to her.

Bess stared.

The rider curled and uncurled his gloved fingers in a beckoning gesture. After a moment’s hesitation, Bess stumbled toward him. The sidewalk was slippery beneath her boots. She tottered as another gust of wind hit her, instinctively reaching out for support, and the rider grabbed her wrist and helped her upright—helped her the final few steps toward him, too.

“Can you take me to Kerr Green on West River Street?” Bess asked, shouting to be heard over the wind and the engine. The rider was still holding her wrist.

The rider nodded, and Bess was cold and desperate enough to climb on behind him and wrap her arms around his midsection. The motorcycle’s engine howled to life like a thing possessed, and she and the rider tore down the street.

The wind whipped icy snow into her eyes, so Bess hid her face against the rider’s leather-clad shoulder. At this speed, it was even colder than before, and she was so very tired. She’d have to get her phone replaced tomorrow, and she had her English final too…

When Bess lifted her head after a particularly hard turn, she saw tongues of green ghostfire licking at the motorcycle’s wheels, and more streaming out from the engine like banners. One flame seemed to be in contact with her leg, but it didn’t appear to be spreading to the cloth of her pants and Bess felt no heat. She blinked hard, but the flames didn’t go away.

This is real, she realized, and a moment later: this isn’t a normal motorcyclist.

“Stop! Stop!” Bess shrieked, and shook the rider’s shoulder. A moment later he swerved into a narrow side street, slowed to a stop, and put his feet down to balance the bike. The green ghostfire dimmed and then faded to nothingness. He looked over his shoulder at her.

“Who are you?” Bess demanded. “What are you?”

The rider said nothing.

“What do you want?”

The rider twisted around as much as he could so that he could face her properly. Bess looked into the visor, but couldn’t see even the faintest shadow of a face beneath it. The rider reached up a hand and brought two fingers to her cold lips in the barest ghost of a touch, then pulled away.

“What does that mean?” Bess asked. And then, more softly, “Are you mute?”

The rider nodded.

“Okay,” Bess whispered after a moment. “Okay, let’s… let’s keep going, then.”

The rider gripped the hand that she still had wrapped around him, threading their fingers together and giving a light squeeze, then pulled away and started the motorcycle again. Bess tucked her head back down against his shoulder and did her best to endure the cold and wind and ice, but the flaring ghostfire provided no warmth; by the time they arrived at Kerr Green and the student residences that lined the park, she had largely stopped shivering.

The cold had numbed her mind as well as her extremities, and it was hard to move. The rider had to help her to her door, and he followed her inside when Bess struggled with her gloves in the entryway. He heated water in a bowl in the microwave of the kitchenette, then helped her remove her gloves and submerge her frostbitten hands in the warm water.

“Thanks,” Bess said, and started shivering again as her body thawed. The rider, still in all his leather gear, pulled off her ice-rimed hat and coat and boots, then draped the blanket on the back of the couch over the space heater to warm it up before wrapping it around her shoulders where she sat at the kitchen table.

“You can take off your helmet if you want,” Bess said when feeling started to return to her fingers and toes.

The rider hesitated, and then the helmet shook from side to side.

Bess attempted a reassuring smile. “I promise I won’t tell anyone what you look like.”

Another shake of the helmet.

When Bess’ fingers no longer hurt, she pulled them out of the bowl, flexed them experimentally, and then started fidgeting with a tassel on the corner of the blanket.

“Thank you for all your help,” she said. “It really… I mean, I think I might have died without you.”

The rider nodded, then moved toward the door.

“Wait!” Bess said. “Please… please don’t leave just yet.”

The rider paused and looked back at her. Bess stood up, still with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and went to him. She reached out and touched his arm; there really wasn’t a single inch of exposed skin showing among the black leather, not a single smidgen of humanity or clue towards his identity.

“What’s your name?” Bess asked.

The rider shook his head, then reached up and brushed his gloved fingers over her lips again.

Bess felt her cheeks heating in a blush. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Kiss me before you go.” She knew it was a ridiculously romantic thing to say, something out of the trashy romance novels she kept hidden under her bed, but what else was there to say in a situation like this? What else was there to do?

The rider reached into a pocket of his jacket and brought out a small, dogeared notebook and a stub of pencil. He wrote for a few moments, then showed the page to her:

I CAN’T KISS.

“Why not?” Bess asked.

The rider started to move past her, toward the door, and Bess darted in front of him and put her back to the door to bar his path. “I’m not moving until you tell me what’s going on,” she said.

There was a pause. The warm yellow lights in the apartment flickered, dimmed, and then died entirely, and that sickly green ghostfire curled out of the lamps and from the burners of the stove. A chill crept in, not as terrible as the storm raging outside but still cold enough that Bess wrapped the blanket tighter around herself.

The rider took off his helmet, revealing empty air; he had no head.

Bess’ eyes went wide.

The headless rider wrote again in his notebook and showed it to her: SCARED?

“No,” Bess said, even though that wasn’t quite the truth. She stepped forward and put her hands on the chest of the rider’s jacket. “Show me the rest of you.”

The rider pulled off his gloves. He had normal-looking hands, although they were room temperature at Bess’ touch and had no warmth of life within them. The high-collared jacket came off next, revealing a plain black shirt that had a human-seeming chest underneath it. When Bess laid a hand over where his heart should be, however, there was no beat beneath her fingers, and his tattooed skin was cool.

“Why did you help me?” Bess asked.

WHY NOT?

Bess frowned. “That isn’t a good answer.”

YOU SHOULD STOP ASKING QUESTIONS, THEN.

Bess folded her arms over her chest. “Absolutely not. You…” She felt her cheeks heat in another blush and forced herself to be brave: “If you can’t kiss me before you leave, then I’m sure there are other things we can do.”

SUCH AS? the headless rider wrote.

Bess’ blush intensified. She reached for the top button of her blouse, but then hesitated. “I don’t know how to start without at least a kiss,” she confessed.

CAN I SHOW YOU?

Bess nodded. “Please,” she whispered, and the long ribbons of emerald ghostfire burned high and bright throughout the apartment as the headless rider set aside his notebook and reached for her.

•

The storm had died by the time dawn arrived, and newborn sunlight glittered atop the ice that sheathed the city in crystalline glory. Bess awoke alone, and found that her final had been postponed via an email from her English professor. She smiled and plaited a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Enjoy my writing? Please consider buying me a coffee so I can have a warm drink while I write.

You can also read this story in the August 2023 edition of the much-loved M❤️NSTER magazine.

#monster romance #monster lover #terato #sage's portfolio #monster x human #monster boyfriend #dullahan #romance writing #romance fiction #the highwayman #fanfiction

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