Americana Fairy Tale (21 page)

T
HE
T
HUNDER
R
OLLS

Somewhere on the Open Road….

June 8

T
HE
SIXTY
-
SECOND
changeover from 11:59 p.m. to 12:00 a.m. hit Corentin like a jolt to the heart. He jerked in his seat and accidentally spun the truck into a fishtail. Taylor, who had been napping, jolted awake with a yelp. Ringo had remained alert and took flight to steady himself with the swerving of the truck.

“What the fuck was that about?” Taylor snapped and looked frantically out the windows.

Corentin drew in a breath before he could form a coherent sentence. “Sorry,” he croaked, then coughed. “Sorry,” he said with more authority. “The day changed.” Corentin knew Taylor was just about to point out the obvious. He looked at the clock in the truck and then outside.

Silently, Taylor gave Corentin that look of Grade-A Taylor Hatfield Suspicion he recognized all too well. “It’s… broad daylight,” Taylor said and gestured toward the windshield and the bright verdant hills of farmland.

“He’s got ya there, boyo,” Ringo said, crossing his arms.

Corentin had no choice but to drop the whole mysterious huntsman vibe. “Just trust me. Time’s different, too, while we’re out here. You saw it yourself. We left the Wigwam Motel in the morning and then got to Randy’s Donuts three hours later and night was falling. And now it’s” —Corentin glanced at the clock—“six thirty in the morning according to the truck, and judging by the position of the sun, just after noon.”

Ringo whistled and settled at the dashboard. “Look at those huntsman skills in action.”

Corentin smiled. At least it was a compliment.

“Considering the truck,” Taylor groaned, and Corentin’s moment of happiness evaporated. “I don’t trust that clock.”

“You really don’t trust very much, do you?” Corentin asked. He pressed his lips together and instantly regretted saying anything. He glanced between Taylor and the road
. “Hey… I… I shouldn’t have said—”

“It’s fine.” Taylor cut him off in a way that clearly indicated it wasn’t. He fidgeted for a moment and found the lever to recline the seat. As the seat flattened to the sound of crunching trash, Taylor lay facing away from Corentin. “I’m just going to go back to sleep, ’kay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Corentin said and turned back to watching the road. He puffed his cheeks with a flustered sigh and scratched his chin. He tilted his chin at the rearview mirror, getting a better look at the four days of stubble that needed to be done away with. He glanced at Taylor again and noticed the hairless state of his legs. Corentin arched a brow, wondering if that too was a princess thing. Did Taylor not have hair growing in places that female princesses don’t? Corentin’s mind wandered on that train of thought before his thought ran smack into Taylor sleeping naked in his flannel.

His stomach clenched with the hot flush, and his mind contradicted by blooming into the blackness of murder. His knuckles bleached as he clamped his grip onto the wheel. Corentin gritted his teeth, fighting the conflicting urges in his mind and body.

Breathe, breathe
! he growled in his mind.
Focus, focus. Don’t let them see
.

Little by little, the pressure in Corentin’s gut eased, and his fingers relaxed. He sighed a long relaxed breath, then ran a hand through his hair and scratched at his scalp. A nervous habit, but one that he could play off casually enough, masking his anxiety.

Ringo’s wings stiffened, and Corentin caught on that meant something had his attention.

“What is—” Corentin started to ask before Ringo violently shushed him.

“You’ll scare it away,” Ringo whispered while flapping his hands.

“It?” Corentin asked and scanned the interstate for anything that looked like wildlife.

“See it? See it? See it?” Ringo said and wiggled in excitement.

Corentin blinked and then rubbed his eyes. He blinked again. The happy brown-and-white sign stood out like an oasis in the deserted interstate. “It’s a rest stop….”

“Uh-huh,” Ringo said. “Shh, shh, don’t scare it.”

“It’s not like it’s a deer,” Corentin said as he guided the truck toward the sign.

“Shh!” Ringo said and crossed his fingers, arms, and legs. “Don’t move. Just keep driving. We’ll get there. Think happy thoughts. Happy thoughts!”

Corentin went with the flow. The truck came closer to the exit ramp for the rest stop, and he figured if he held his breath and lifted his feet off the floor and gas, his wish would come true. He pumped the gas one last time, giving the truck enough acceleration to get up the sloped road, and lifted his feet.

Ringo curled into himself, and his wings trembled. Corentin screwed his eyes shut and thought every happy thought he had. Whiskers on kittens, warm woolen mittens, and brown paper packages tied up with string.

The truck slowed to a coast and then to a crawl and then came to a stop.

Corentin kept his eyes closed and asked, “Is it safe?”

“Thank the Storyteller, gotta pee,” Corentin heard Taylor say, followed by the truck door opening and then slamming shut.

Corentin snapped to attention and flailed for Taylor, to grasp empty air. He watched out the window and saw Taylor hobbling stiff-legged across the bustling parking lot of a visitor’s center. The tall pines swayed in the afternoon breeze. Corentin assumed by the rather opulent contemporary hunting lodge look of the visitor’s center, they must have been dumped in another National Park. It explained the mass of travelers, the majority of them likely tourists. Corentin slumped in his seat, watching the comings and goings of the people.

“Columbia Gorge Discovery Center,” Corentin read aloud. He considered the name and the steep, snowcapped mountain in the distance. He heard someone mention how pretty Mount Hood was at this distance. Several tourists posed for pictures nearby. Corentin puzzled his way through his mental geography.

“Oregon,” he said and sighed with the overwhelming defeat. “On the other fucking side of the country.”

Corentin’s bladder made itself known. He ignored it for the moment and tapped Ringo on the shoulder. “Hey, little man, is Taylor okay?”

Tilting his head, Ringo tossed out his hands. “Do you want an assessment of the last twenty-five years, twenty-five days, or twenty-five minutes? I can do twenty-five seconds too.”

Corentin palmed his chin. “He just… seems to have a hard time adjusting.”

“
Adjusting
,” Ringo said with a snort. “Is that what they’re calling it now?” He looked out over the expanse of the rest stop. “I knew the signs as soon as he opened his eyes on the day he was born. He’s on a collision course with an emotional meltdown.”

As he considered the information, Corentin nodded slowly. “Is there anything I can do?” The need to help Taylor through this storm of emotion tempted him with the flash of being a hero.

Ringo shrugged. “Just listen, I suppose,” he said sadly. “It never really goes anywhere. And he never gets peace from it. Someday, just someday, I wish it would all blow over.” Ringo turned back to Corentin. “And duck. He may look small, but he’s got a mean right hook…. Thirty percent of the time.”

Corentin winked at Ringo. “Angry and occasionally violent. Got it.” He pushed the door open and took one wobbling step out onto terra firma. “Anyway, gotta take care of business and maybe snag a Red Bull or two.”

“Get a honeybun,” Ringo said. “Taylor loves those frosted sugar bombs.”

“Peace offering?” Corentin asked and pulled out his duct-taped wallet.

“You betcha.”

Corentin ambled across the parking lot, working the annoying pop out of his left knee. He must have had it bent wrong while driving. He weaved between the families and truckers on similar missions to relieve themselves and get a snack or two. Or get directions to the nearest Starbucks. Corentin could smell the roasted espresso beans when his mind drifted to the heavenly thoughts of overpriced coffee with too much milk. West Coasters and their opinions of coffee were a passing joke to him. Community Coffee with that bittersweet chicory and served
au lait
was the taste of paradise in a cup.

Lost in pondering, Corentin’s toe caught in a seam in the sidewalk. He stumbled forward, his momentum propelling him straight into a bench. He doubled over from the jab to the gut. Like at Randy’s Donuts, no one gave him a second look or asked if he was okay. It was like they existed in a space outside of time. It was disconcerting to feel invisible when they
were
invisible.

But then Corentin heard it. A giggle.

He bristled, looking for the source, and found nothing. He was sure they had lost Phillipa the moment they drove out of the parking lot to Randy’s Donuts and the states changed once again. But she was here. Somewhere. And Corentin had to play it cool for now until he could get back to the truck.

He turned on his heel and collided chest to chest with Taylor, who stumbled back, seeming more embarrassed than mad.

Corentin fumbled. “Hey, sorry,” he said. “I’ll be just a minute. Why don’t you head back to the truck?” He hoped Taylor would hear the hint in his tone.

“Meet you there,” Taylor said without a fuss.

Corentin arched a brow. This was a new behavior of Taylor’s, and the guilt pricked at the back of Corentin’s neck. He needed to do something. Tell him something to make him feel better. Anything to at least get him back to his usual, smart-mouthed self. As much as Corentin hated to admit it, he was growing fond of Taylor’s bratty ways.

Taylor stepped away, and Corentin pivoted to catch him by the elbow. “Wait,” Corentin said softly.

Taylor halted and turned slowly to face Corentin. His large pink eyes didn’t seem to be filled with the fury of indignation. It was Taylor’s obvious sadness that took Corentin apart bit by bit.

“You okay?” Corentin asked. He searched Taylor’s face for a hint of the truth.

Taylor nodded and ran a hand through his hair, and Corentin swallowed, recognizing his own tell of anxiety. “Yeah, I’m awesome,” Taylor said and attempted a pathetic excuse at a smile.

Corentin’s stomach clenched. He needed Taylor alert and ready for anything coming their way. Not resigned to whatever monsters that watched them from afar. “Hey,” Corentin said and pulled out his wallet. He fished through for a few coins and then handed them to Taylor. “Get us some Red Bull or whatever they got. And get yourself a honeybun.”

Taylor bit his lip but didn’t say anything. He rattled the change in his hand and headed for the vending machines.

Corentin hurried off to the restrooms and the bliss of relieving himself. As he scrubbed his hands, he needed to stay on guard. He wasn’t sure what he’d heard outside. It definitely sounded like Phillipa Montclair, and he had no idea why that beast woman would be back on the hunt for him. It seemed Phillipa and Idi had some sort of connection. Corentin had noted in his journal that Taylor had been put into an arranged marriage with Phillipa. Why would a disgraced prince like Phillipa Montclair be paired off with Taylor? Or was there something more to it? Of course there was something more to it if Idi was involved. Who knew how long the Witchking had lain in wait to make his move on the Hatfield family. Corentin shook his head. The conspiracy had too many layers to keep track of, and Corentin was just one microscopic cog in Idi’s catastrophic plan.

Corentin considered drying his hands on his pants but decided the paper towels were a better idea. Who knew what his jeans had touched, even before he met Taylor.

Corentin shifted through the puzzle pieces in his mind, trying to make sense of the mess. Was Taylor as a
Curseless
princess paired off with Phillipa because his family was scraping the bottom of the barrel for princes of marrying age? And Phillipa was the best they could come up with? He had jotted down in his journal that the concept of male princesses like Taylor seemed bizarre, hard to believe, and nearly unnatural. Corentin knew who he was as a man; he knew what he liked. But fairy-tale princesses,
Curseless
or not, posed a whole other set of problems.

Huntsmen didn’t get to live happily ever after. It was written into law by Mother Storyteller’s own hand, sealed in printings upon printings of their history books.

Corentin slapped his forehead. “Where’s your head at, douchebag?” he reprimanded himself. “What’s with all these happy thoughts of white picket fences with a guy who shuts you out at every turn?” Corentin watched himself in the mirror. “What’s with the ‘save the lost kitten’ shit? Suck it up. The worst part is coming, so you need to divorce yourself from it.”

Corentin slapped his hand to the mirror and glared at his reflection. “You hear me in there? He’s just a
thing
. A target. Something that’s in your way.”

He turned away, disgusted by his own reflection.

Corentin rested his rear against the sink, considering what to do next. He yawned as the weariness of the road crept though him. He had to have been hearing things—Phillipa’s voice was one he would never forget and be forever cursed to remember. She was a specter of his dreams. He heard her giggles and whispers everywhere, saw her face in everything.

She couldn’t have been here. After all, Corentin had mistaken a screwdriver for a dagger. He shook his head and chided himself.
Tired
. That’s all it was. Unrelenting tiredness and he had worried Taylor for nothing. Taylor didn’t seem to pick up on his signal, anyhow. Maybe they could get farther up the road and pull over for a nap. Not like anyone would wreck them anyway. But Atticus was what mattered, and saving him was paramount. It was becoming apparent to Corentin, and possibly Taylor, that they were no good to anyone in their state of exhaustion.

No way Phillipa was lurking in the shadows. It had to be his own mind fooling him. Corentin snorted and stalked out of the restroom. He crossed the rest stop grounds, heading for the truck, and found Taylor wasn’t in it. Corentin stopped and scanned his surroundings. Taylor had to be here somewhere. But only the blissfully unaware mundanes were milling about around him on their way to their cars or coffee.