Americana Fairy Tale (36 page)

He rushed to the end table and ripped open his messenger bag. He yanked out his monstrous journal and then riffled for a pen. He snapped off the bungee cord, and the book fell open. Dropping it on the desk, he stooped over it. Corentin scanned a couple of pages, considered his thoughts, and then flipped to another page. Furiously, he began to scrawl everything he could possibly remember up until this very moment of being trapped in this nightmarish room and monkey suit.

Corentin wrote about the quest at hand. He mentioned the expedition at Randy’s Donuts. Taylor’s all-consuming sadness of that moment, and the moment he knew for sure Taylor was attracted to him. Their battle with Lucy, and how Taylor came through in the final moments. Just the act of holding Taylor’s hand, something so innocent, made Corentin feel safe. He made sure to note Taylor’s quest was important. That none of this was ever about him, but it was about Taylor. It was about Taylor and the love for his brother. And how Taylor now stood upon the worst decision anyone ever had to make. He scrawled a note that he would be by Taylor’s side through all of it. And be there to pick Taylor back up again.

Corentin snarled in embarrassment. He didn’t understand the train of thought when it came to the topic of Taylor Hatfield. He flipped to another page. He took a breath and made a logical list of pros and cons.

For one, Taylor was rather attractive; Corentin always had a thing for the wild ones. Taylor’s pink eyes were weird and intriguing. Counterpoint, his clothes were terrible. Counter to the counterpoint, he could be dressed in a trash bag and still look good. Then again, he was bossy and was always
determined
to have the last word. But was that so terrible? Taylor had a smile like sweet iced tea, and Corentin would do anything to keep seeing it.

Taylor was a princess without a throne. He was a princess with no curse. He was on the same playing field as Corentin in every way. The title of princess was just a word.

“Keep writing,” Ringo whispered in Corentin’s ear. “This is getting to the good part.”

Corentin pitched forward and yelped in humiliation. “How long have you been there?” he asked as his cheeks flushed.

“My clothes were in the closet…,” Ringo said and pointed behind him to the alcove. “You know. The closet?”

Corentin furrowed his brows in irritation. “You can’t tell Taylor anything.”

“Why would I?” Ringo tied one tiny shoe, then tied the other shoe. “You are.”

Corentin’s mouth twisted into a horrified frown. “I can’t do this. I honestly can’t. He has too much going on. His family, his brother… and then adding me into the mix? There is no
me
to add into the mix.”

“But you love him.” Ringo rested his elbows on his knees.

Corentin pointed an angry finger. “
No
. No, I don’t. You don’t get to make that call.”

Ringo slapped his forehead and grumbled a long, low note. Corentin buckled forward and coughed for air. Ringo zipped to Corentin’s face, keeping watch as he hacked and gagged for air. Corentin coughed wetly, his face reddened, and his world grew fuzzy. With one last gurgling gasp, he stood over the desk and took several ragged breaths.

“Day changed, huh?” Ringo said quietly.

Corentin nodded as he tried to breathe. “That was day six,” he said, his voice raspy. He coughed again. “I have to forget him. For all of our sakes. I have to forget him.”

Perching on the nearby lampshade, Ringo watched Corentin with a mournful look in his unusually large eyes.

Corentin pushed from the desk and released his long-hidden confession. “Charles enchanted me with a spell. When the whole thing started, he said he’d put it in my head that I’d be tempted to kill Taylor at every chance I got.”

Blinking, Ringo’s jaw hung slack. “Whaaa?”

“I thought it was a trick at first.” Corentin shrugged. “Some kind of reverse psychology thing, right?” he said and fell silent. He pressed his fingers to his lips to hold in what he so desperately held within. “But I figured it out. The more I felt for him… that’s where the spell kicked in. It wasn’t bad at first. But now just his slightest touch is excruciating. So painful that my instinct is to kill him to make it stop.”

Ringo tilted his head. “And if you tell him how you feel?”

“He’ll die,” he said quietly and crossed his arms.

Ringo pressed his fingertips together. “So that’s why you push him away. You do it to protect him. Because you care about him,” he said and smiled sadly. “It’s not his Princesshood enchantment repelling you, is it? You really are the one for him.”

Corentin considered sitting on the bed and then remembered about wrinkling his suit. He leaned on the doorframe to the bathroom. “And he needs to believe it’s his enchantment repelling me. He needs to believe I’m not the one.” He took a long breath. “So this is why I need to forget. This is why these thoughts need to go away. I need to….” Corentin coughed and his voice cracked. “I need to let him go.”

Ringo took flight and drifted over to Corentin’s shoulder, then reached out and patted his cheek. Corentin smiled as he set about refastening the bungee cord around the journal. “No matter what your lineage says,” Ringo said, “I think you’re the prince the world needs.”

H
E
MOVED
like vapor.

With one confident foot in front of the other, Taylor descended the grand staircase. His polished black riding boots gave a commanding thump with each stride, his long frock coat swaying behind him like a black-and-burgundy banner of war. Princess Taylor Andrew Hatfield couldn’t escape the rose tones, but the burgundy panels embroidered with gold swirls was a compromise. He straightened his shoulders and held his head higher. The gleaming gold tree branch pinned into his dark hair sent tumbling waves over one shoulder. His final step met the polished wood of the ballroom floor, and he heaved a sigh to expel his nerves.

Taylor tugged at his black gloves as he scanned the crowd. The elaborate decoration of his finery declared him a princess, but this time it wasn’t a mockery of the title or his masculinity. This time he was a princess going to war on behalf of a world that didn’t know it was in jeopardy. The world of Enchants didn’t yet know what happened in Margate City. The world of the mundanes couldn’t comprehend what happened and that it would come again.

Taylor and Corentin would die out on the road, trapped in the inanity of driving from one place to another. Surviving in the clothes on their backs and stealing food.

They might be fading away; they might be gone before the night’s over….

But if Taylor knew one thing, it was how to make some noise.

And that started with finding Andre’s husband.

It was a sea of gentlemen in black tuxedoes and ladies in gowns of every color and hue. Taylor had to find Andre in all of this. He nodded once, mentally recited a semblance of a prayer, and stepped forward, wading across the ocean of high breeding and dignified class.

One by one, demure gazes turned to his, and Taylor smiled sheepishly with a polite dip of the head. They could see him. And they could see him as a gentleman princess, like he belonged among them. Taylor walked taller, and pride bloomed through his body.

Gentlemen pulled their ladies out of his path, and he cut through the crowd unhindered. A white-jacketed waiter offered him a flute of champagne, and he politely accepted. Taylor lifted his peach-pink gaze and searched for his lifeline. He was drowning in the pomp and circumstance and was choking for the ease of familiar air.

He didn’t see Corentin anywhere. Taylor frowned. Corentin would likely have skipped the gala or made a fool of himself by singing weepy country songs with the orchestra. It was a tiny reprieve to be away from Corentin’s dominating leather scent. Taylor quietly sipped his champagne and then wrinkled his nose at the carbonation. It tasted far too expensive for someone like him. As a princess, Taylor deserved luxury by his birthright, but he was just a regular guy that survived on granola bars and ramen. His face heated as he turned bashful at the memory of waking in Corentin’s arms at the Wigwam Motel. He had tried to deny it, but the tiny musty bed and the comfort of a gentle touch was the most luxurious thing he had ever known.

“Princess Hatfield…?” asked a gentleman over his shoulder. “Princess Hatfield?”

“Gyah,” Taylor yelped, ripped from his daydreams. He turned and was greeted with the sight of the sandstone-skinned Andre, clad in a proper black-on-white tuxedo. Taylor was charmed by Andre’s dusting of onyx freckles. They were his scales and even in a human shape were not fully concealable. Taylor was drawn to how Andre’s bronze skin gleamed with facets and flecks of iridescence. Andre smiled with oddly too-perfect human teeth. Taylor knew they were veneers to hide his rows of shark teeth from the mundanes.

Taylor smiled and dipped his head. “Mister Waterhouse,” Taylor greeted, and his eyes slid over the contours of his attire. “You cut a dashing figure even out of the water.”

Andre chuckled in a proper polite tone. “And you look better than I imagined.”

It was small talk of the irritatingly prim variety, and Taylor adhered to the role. He demurely nodded and laughed where appropriate.

“Thank you for the clothes. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Taylor said with a small smile. Then his brows drew upward in concern. “Have you seen Corentin? I thought he’d be here somewhere.”

Andre narrowed his black eyes in sarcastic amusement. “Sir Princess…. Have a little faith in your traveling companion,” he said and then leaned in to whisper, “I’m sure he’ll figure out which fork to eat with by watching other guests.”

Taylor frowned at Andre’s blatant insult. Andre barely knew Corentin, and when they met, Andre had only paid attention to Taylor. He was torn between rallying for Corentin or agreeing about his deplorable lack of class. Not that Taylor had any sense of class either, but he could pull it out when it mattered. Corentin, on the other hand… that he was a huntsman and Cronespawn was something best not brought up in polite conversation. Taylor was inwardly thankful that Andre didn’t seem to know the gossip about his own
Curseless
status.

Andre offered his hand. “Come meet my husband, Princess Hatfield. You have much to discuss.”

Taylor hesitantly accepted, and together they waded through the cresting tides of tuxedoes and ball gowns. All the while, Taylor glanced right and then left for Corentin, and his stomach dropped inch by inch when he didn’t see him. Did Corentin really skip out on the affair?

“Princess Taylor Hatfield.” Andre spoke up as a distinguished salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman turned. “Meet my husband, Robert Waterhouse.” The older man nodded a brusque greeting. Andre gestured to Taylor. “Dearest, this is Taylor Hatfield.”

“The
Curseless
one,” Robert said in a gravelly tone. “I think I’d recognize a Hatfield when I saw one.”

Taylor fought every urge to go crawl in a hole. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said evenly. “I didn’t know my family’s reputation stretched this far.” He tried to make it sound like a convincing-enough lie. If Darlene knew his entire lineage was all princesses, there was no telling who else knew. Taylor took a guess that it covered everyone.

Robert barked a laugh that sounded more pompous than amused. “My dear boy!
Everyone
knows the House of Snow White.”

Taylor struggled to keep his shoulders from wilting. Was he really that dismissible? Did no one know about him? Did they only know about Atticus? Would Taylor’s parents
do that
to him?

“Y-yes…,” Taylor forced himself to say. He took a breath and turned toward Robert. “Andre told me you might be able to help. You see, Mr. Waterhouse, my brother is in dan—”

It happened before Taylor could fully comprehend it. A twirling couple crashed against Taylor’s arm, and his champagne flute went airborne. The glass and drink collided into Robert’s designer tuxedo. Robert roared in surprise and fought to brush the glass shards from the fabric. Andre said something along the lines of his husband was bleeding. Taylor flailed as the two men rushed by him on the way to the men’s room.

Taylor stood alone amid the extravagant gala. The tears came before he could stop them. Distraught, he needed to get away—back to the hotel room, back on the road, back anywhere but here. Taylor shouldered his way through the crowd. Too many conflicting scents of perfume and cologne assaulted his senses. The bodies pressed and writhed like dying sardines taking their last breaths in salted oil. He couldn’t breathe! He shoved harder through the crowd, and a woman in a navy ball gown tumbled. Her date rushed to her rescue.

“Excuse me, young man,” the older man said and towered over Taylor.

Taylor shrank away and retreated, mumbling his apologies.

Whatever hope remained had evaporated. The confidence he once had bled out of him and across the floor. Taylor only had himself to blame for all of this mess. He had been selfish. He’d betrayed Atticus, and in the end, Atticus had finally woken up and understood what kind of brother Taylor was. Taylor was the brother who ran away. Taylor was the brother who left Atticus behind. He left Atticus behind to protect him. But Taylor really left Atticus behind because he was jealous.

Taylor had never hated his brother. He would have given anything for Atticus to be happy, and Atticus had made his wish. Now Taylor would cease to be, on this road to nowhere, on this journey without end, and with a man he so desperately wanted but could never have. Atticus wanted Taylor to suffer. Atticus wanted Taylor to know how pointless and empty his existence was. And now… now Taylor understood.

Taylor ran faster through the crowd, stumbling over feet, bumping into shoulders, not caring who or what he crashed into.

He slammed hard into an unyielding body. He tumbled back, shocked by the solidity. He looked up with tears streaming down his cheeks, squinting against the light.

“Are you okay?” the figure said with the familiar creole drawl. The huntsman, Corentin Devereaux, leaned over Taylor and offered his hand.