Americana Fairy Tale (14 page)

“O-okay…,” he said slowly. He shifted in the small double bed, permitting Corentin room.

Corentin sat on the edge and then kicked off his boots. His jeans stayed on, but that unusual tattoo was bare for all to see. Corentin reclined onto his back and wiggled his toes. So far, nothing seemed out of place. “You know… the teepee may smell funny, and the carpet’s damp, but the bed’s not bad,” Corentin said.

“Mm-hmm” was all Taylor could manage as he stayed as still as possible.

“How about some of the covers?” Corentin said, reaching over.

“
No
!” Taylor barked and pulled the blanket tighter to him.

Corentin hesitated. “Sorry?”

“I’m… I’m…,” Taylor stammered. Finally, he confessed. “I’m naked.”

“Oh,” Corentin said. But it was clear he didn’t get it.

“The princess thing?” Taylor said. “Can’t be seen in an inappropriate state?”

Corentin brightened. “
Oh
,” he said. He stood and then paced to the chair where his jacket hung. “Do you want my flannel?” he asked, pulling it from the folds of the jacket. “It’s pretty big on me anyway. It might be long enough to cover….” Corentin stopped before saying anything else. Taylor knew something else was coming, but it was quite perplexing that Corentin seemed a little flustered about it. Corentin held out the flannel shirt to Taylor, and he accepted the red-plaid fabric. They nodded to each other, and then Corentin unexpectedly turned around and covered his eyes. “Go on,” he said. “Put it on. I won’t look.”

Taylor couldn’t help the blush creeping into his features from Corentin’s generosity. Not wasting any time, he hopped from the bed and let the towel drop. He tossed on the shirt and hurriedly buttoned it. A little big on Corentin was right. A
tent
on Taylor was more true to the fact. The damned thing went down to his knees, and the sleeves went well past his wrists. “Okay,” Taylor said. “I’m good.”

Corentin turned as Taylor was rearranging the bedding. Taylor glanced up from fluffing the pillows and noticed Corentin had a peculiar, almost dumbfounded expression. Was he blushing? Taylor’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. He was
so
seeing things. That’s all it was, or another stupid dream. He had to be asleep right now. No way was this subtle flirting going on.

Taylor took control and hopped into the bed. “You take that side. I’ll take this one,” he said and rolled over to face the concave wall away from Corentin. He gritted his teeth.
You’re turning your back on him, idiot
, he cursed himself. He grunted and rolled over at the exact moment Corentin settled into the bed. Oddly enough, Corentin turned away from him. Taylor puffed a sigh of relief.

Corentin’s chest rose and fell with a long breath, and they lay in silence for several minutes. On the pillow, just above Taylor’s head, Ringo croaked an obnoxious snore for someone so small. Taylor snorted, trying to hold in a laugh. Corentin stiffened, trying to do the same. Both of them spit giggles, trying not to wake him up.

Corentin reached out to the end table and clicked off the light. In the darkness, he shifted in the bed, and Taylor froze. He braced, sure this was the moment Corentin was going to make his move.

Instead, Corentin fluffed his pillow.

Confusion washed over Taylor, but he decided to let it be.

“Hey,” Corentin said into the blackened teepee.

“Y-yeah?” Taylor said and regretted how it came out like a squeak.

“This is really important,” Corentin said. “In the morning, you need to tell me to turn to the blue tab in my book. First thing. Got it?”

“I guess,” Taylor said to Corentin’s back. He had no idea what his creepy book had to do with anything.

“Promise me,” Corentin said sternly. “Promise me no matter what happens, you’ll make sure I read it.”

Taylor didn’t like where this was going. “Should I be sleeping?” he asked. It was a perfectly reasonable question, he figured, lying next to a man ordered to kill him.

“You’ll be fine. You have your fairy godfather.”

“This does not make me feel better.”

“You’ll be
fine
.” Corentin’s voice cut through Taylor’s worries. “Just the blue tab. The one in the very front.”

“Okay,” Taylor said. “Got it.” His eyelids drooped, but he fought it off. “Corentin?” he asked the darkness.

Corentin snorted and startled back to wakefulness. Taylor’s wave of sleepiness was apparently not a momentary thing. “Nnyeah?” Corentin mumbled.

“It’s really going to be okay, right?” Taylor asked, then rolled onto his back. He threaded his fingers at his chest.

“We’ll save your brother,” Corentin said. “We will.”

“How long are we going to be trapped out here?” Taylor asked. The streetlights outside cast orange slashes on the walls.

“Until we can find a way out.”

S
NOW
W
HITE
’
S
L
IE

Hatfield Plantation, Atlanta, Georgia

June 7

T
HE
GRAND
old oak trees outside the Hatfield Plantation stood blackened with crows. They cawed among themselves. Inside his bedroom prison, Atticus took a waking breath and sat up in the bed. He narrowed his eyes, trying to drown out the screeching birds. He looked down to his lap, and not only was he in the bed, but he had apparently been tucked in. The sheets and blankets had been neatly pulled back, and he had even been dressed in silk pajamas.

Atticus smoothed the fabric on his arm, noting the luxurious texture. He flushed at the thought of who could have been so caring. He must have been dreaming, because of the calm and serenity that washed over him.

“Atticus,” Honeysuckle’s voice drifted from across the room in an urgent whisper.

Atticus scanned the room and hunted for the source. “Godmother?” he asked the empty room.

The lid of a wicker basket shivered, and Honeysuckle pushed out from her hiding space. “Come, child. We must go,” she said and smoothed her dress. “The door….” She pointed to the open bedroom door. “This is our chance!”

“Go?” Atticus asked. He wasn’t following at first. A crow flung itself into the window, and the window flowered with cracks. Atticus leaped from the bed, backing away from the window. His memory came back to him in fragments. “We need to save Taylor,” he said breathlessly.

Another crow smacked into the window. Atticus skipped back a step again, across the pile of broken glass from the mirror. He stumbled and fell backward. He gasped as he crashed to the floor, and his foot stung with the gouge of glass. Atticus curled forward, reaching for his foot.

Honeysuckle swooped in to examine the damage. “Hold still, hold still,” she said in a gentle tone.

Atticus took a breath as Honeysuckle set about pulling the glass shards from the wound. He heard her squeal and make something that sounded like her usual fretting, but with a final sigh, she emerged from surgery. Atticus gasped as Honeysuckle hovered in silent contemplation, covered head to toe in blood.

“G-godmother,” Atticus stammered.

“We need to
go
, child!” Honeysuckle roared from somewhere raw and monstrous within her.

Atticus scrambled to his feet and dashed for the door. He braced for impact against a magical ward but slammed into the opposing wall of the hallway, proving there wasn’t one. Atticus pulled himself up and, joined by Honeysuckle, took off down the halls and stairs of the Hatfield Plantation.

“Just need to get to the magic cupboard,” Atticus said as Honeysuckle kept the pace, flying fast and furious. “I can get to the Dwarves Hollow that way. Mom and Dad will be there. They’ll know what to do. I think.”

“Or they can get others to help us,” Honeysuckle said. “Hurry, quickly!” she urged him onward.

They ran through the abandoned mansion without any obstacles. It was strange, but Atticus chose not to overthink it. All that mattered now was reaching the cupboard. He turned down a side hall, his bloody feet wetly slapping the floor. Atticus slid forward into the kitchen, then caught himself on the granite island. The pot rack swayed, and the iron rungs squealed.

“Shh!” Honeysuckle urged him. She assumed the position of lookout, resembling a cannibalistic imp with her bloody and haggard appearance.

Atticus nodded and quickly rummaged through the drawers. They ground on their casters and seemed to slam of their own accord. Again Honeysuckle warned him. Atticus bristled. “I’m trying to be quiet!” he whispered harshly. In the very back of the last junk drawer, he found the old rusty key with a tattered rabbit foot key chain. If anything, his parents had a sense of macabre Enchant humor.

“Hurry, child, hurry,” Honeysuckle whispered, seeming to listen for anyone coming. “The crows are getting louder….”

Atticus hopped onto the counter to the left of the sink. “Is that supposed to mean something?” he asked and listened as well. Their calls swelled into something maniacal and feral. Atticus assumed Charles was working his hidden magic. He forced himself to ignore it and pushed Charles’s accusations about Taylor out of his mind.

“Only something horrific,” Honeysuckle said. Her dragonfly wings hummed and buzzed with agitation. “Got the cupboard open yet?”

Atticus carefully stood on the edge of the countertop. He reached for the highest cupboard reserved for the fine heirloom china. He tested the weight of the key in his hand and eyed the lock on the cupboard door. The key had become rusted and warped from the Georgia humidity and age. There was no way it would fit. He frowned. He had to make it fit.

Atticus forced the key into the old lock and turned hard. The cupboard popped open easily on its hinges, and Atticus smiled with a surge of victory. It was all for nothing when his mother’s fine heirloom china greeted him. He pushed through his doubt and set about quickly but carefully pulling the dishes, saucers, and cups from the cupboard. As he placed them on the counter, they slipped from the surface and shattered on the floor.

“
Atticus
!” Honeysuckle snapped, and their eyes met.

The crows shrieked.

Atticus and Honeysuckle froze, listening to the frenzied crows for several long, painful seconds. “Are they in the house?” Atticus said softly enough that he fought hard to mask his terror.

“Let’s not think about that,” Honeysuckle said and scanned the kitchen. “Just hurry!”

Atticus resumed cleaning out the china. He placed a saucer on the counter, and again, a fraction of a second later, it shattered on the floor. Atticus frowned. He wasn’t being careful enough, and the more he tried, more dishes shattered. The bile of anxiety rose in his throat, and the crows were deafening. Atticus had given in to his panic, and he reached in with both arms and scooped the china from the cupboard. The plates, cups, saucers, and all the accoutrements crashed, cracked, and splintered all around him. The pieces piled onto the tile floor.

The crows screamed, and the house creaked. They had gotten in the walls. It was only a matter of time now. Honeysuckle was screaming at him, but he couldn’t look at her or hear her over the roar of bloodlust.

Atticus scooped the last remnants of the dishware out of the tiny two-foot cubby and smiled with the welcome sight of the rabbit hole burrowed in the back panel. The house trembled, vibrating with the anger of the crows. Atticus steadied himself against the terror. “I’m going!” he screamed over his shoulder to Honeysuckle but didn’t hear a response.

He shoved his arms into the tiny cupboard, not considering how he’d fit into it. He was determined to try anyway. He reached farther back until he could touch the roots lining the rabbit hole. He gritted his teeth and yanked himself into the cupboard.

The first thing that passed Atticus’s thoughts was how he couldn’t believe he fit into the cupboard. The second thing was the urge for self-preservation as he tumbled end over end down the rabbit hole. He reached out for anything that could slow his descent. He clawed at the walls and came away with dirt and pebbles under his nails. Roots slipped from his grasp, scraping his palms.

He closed his eyes, bracing for impact, and jerked when he bounced as effortlessly as a bubble on soft grass. He came to a rest in a wide, open meadow and lay there a long moment, fighting to catch his breath. Once his heart slowed, he sat up and surveyed the lushness lying before him. Surrounding him on all sides, sunflowers stood tall.

No birds cawed, and it was a welcome relief. The wind blew a gentle breeze through the sunflowers, and Atticus smiled as they swayed. He hurried to his sore feet and started off through the sunflowers. As he pushed into the stalks, the leaves caressed his skin. Atticus flushed with the pleasurable sensation but banished it from his mind. He continued onward and forced himself to ignore the tickles and tingles against his body. Even his wounded feet were forgotten as the immense pleasure of the sunflowers’ touch grew.

Atticus panted before he knew he was out of breath. His heart raced, and his body was one overworked nerve ready to explode. His stomach tightened with the pent-up need. But he had to press on. He had to reach the Dwarves Hollow. He had to get help.

He straightened, and a sunflower petal brushed against the back of his neck. Atticus screeched with the shock of intense pleasure surging through him and collapsed to the ground. He held himself on his hands and knees as his body shuddered. He didn’t understand. What was happening to him? He had never felt anything like this before. Princesses
don’t
feel these things. They’re not supposed to feel sensual experiences until they’re united with their true love and until they consummate. Atticus’s mind was in shambles, and he fought to compartmentalize his feelings. He hadn’t even pleasured himself before this whole mess. He had no need, no desire to do so.

And he wanted
more
of it.

Atticus pushed to his feet again. He staggered right and pushed into a grouping of sunflowers. He groaned with the leaves dragging across his skin and the growing warmth in his loins. He stumbled left into another group of flowers and crowed, his ecstasy ripping though him. “More.” He staggered, drunk on need. “Give me
more
.”