Americana Fairy Tale (5 page)

Charles spun on his heel and glared at Atticus, who froze when a crushing sensation tightened around his throat. Atticus’s hands wrapped around his neck, and he tried to cough through the sensation. Honeysuckle screeched.

“You should sit down, Sir Princess,” Charles rumbled.

Atticus sank to his knees. He watched helplessly as Honeysuckle fought to reverse the effects of his choking with her glittering magic escaping her fingertips in starts and fits. Atticus slapped a hand out to Charles’s pants leg.

Honeysuckle roared and flew with all her anger into Charles’s face, batting him with her dragonfly wings. “What did you do to him?” Honeysuckle screamed. “You release him. You release him this
instant
!”

Charles swatted Honeysuckle with an urgent swish of the hand. She tumbled through the air, end over end, and righted herself.

Atticus coughed a breath of relief but remained on his knees. “Who… who are you…?” Atticus hissed in a gravelly whisper.

Charles covered the microphone of the phone and tilted his chin at Atticus. “Shh. I’m on the phone, sweetie.”

Phillipa stalked in a slow, predatory circle around the altar. “You sure you can get him?”

Charles pressed his finger to his lips in Phillipa’s direction. “Don’t be rude, now.”

“Who. Are. You?” Honeysuckle demanded coldly.

Charles chuckled in such a calm, quiet way, Atticus’s skin prickled. “Now be good and let me work my magic.”

The floor erupted into a cage of blackened bones and clamped over Atticus and Honeysuckle, tightening around them with each breath. They huddled together as the bones crunched tighter and tighter still. Honeysuckle pressed her palm to one of the spiny bars and jerked away with a gasp.

Phillipa came to Charles’s side, trying to listen in to the ringing phone. “He could be dead finally…,” she said absently.

“Oh, I will pull his miserable corpse from the ground if I have to.” Charles narrowed his eyes and pressed the phone tighter to his ear.

“They’re the bones of
children
,” Honeysuckle said to Atticus as she trembled.

“Who is he?” Atticus asked her. He arched a brow, unable to comprehend how Charles and Phillipa could ignore him like he was of no consequence.

“He’s not Charles,” Honeysuckle said. “He’s the only creature I know to cast the bones of children… Idi, the Witchking.”

Something in Atticus stirred at the true name of the monster that lived under Charles’s skin, like a phantom memory of the Snow Whites who lived long before him. He leaned forward, pressing his fingers to the blackened bones of the cage. He watched Charles with a mixture of fear and fascination, and he couldn’t explain why.

Honeysuckle snapped her fingers, and Atticus jerked back to reality. “Have you not been listening? We have to find a way out,” she whispered harshly.

Atticus nodded, unable to take his eyes off Charles. Something stirred the fuzzy edges of a centuries-old memory. It came to Atticus in momentary flashes of a charred battlefield, a crumbling castle, and an elegant lance digging into his throat. Atticus rubbed at his neck and tried to swallow the sensation away. Only it wasn’t
his
memory; it was one his soul carried from an ancient time.

“I… I…,” Atticus said quietly. “I know him….”

Honeysuckle frowned. “Of course you know Charles. You grew up with him,” she said.

Atticus fell silent. He didn’t know what to say.

Across the hall, Charles straightened when the call finally connected. “
Huntsman
.” Charles rumbled the irritated salutation.

O
ASIS
ON
THE
I
NTERSTATE

Robertsdale, Alabama

June 6

T
AYLOR
SNORTED
derisively as the tale of Cinderella wandered into his mind. Her magical carriage was once a pumpkin, and the commoner became a princess for a few short hours to dance with some dreamy guy. Instead of dancing into the night with the hot guy, Taylor had made a break for it back into his carriage. He managed to cross Georgia and cut a poor excuse of a curving swath diagonally through Alabama until his Metro reverted to a pumpkin, out of gas. Ringo had enchanted the Metro to hold together through the years, not to maintain infinite gas. He smacked his forehead with the realization that, in his daring getaway, he had left behind his wallet and phone. Without any cash, buying more gas wasn’t an option.

Ringo sat on the dashboard and held down Taylor’s robe from the windshield with his weight. “So, uh,” Ringo broached the subject, and Taylor narrowed his eyes.

“You have something to say?” Taylor clutched the steering wheel. He hunted for anything that resembled an establishment with a restroom that wouldn’t look like a scene out of a splatterfest horror movie. The kind where he would flip a switch and the floor-to-ceiling roaches instantly scatter. He pressed his lips together to distract himself from his bladder, which was screaming “Thar she blows!”

“Um…. Where are we going?” Ringo spoke up. “Because… Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

Taylor smirked. “You really went there? That’s awesome.” He made sure Ringo could understand his sarcasm. He watched the treelined slither of the black pavement snake into wherever it led. Destination unknown. That seemed to be a fine idea. “Second star to the right and straight on till morning.”

Ringo waved his hands with a big grin. “You know, we can go tit for tat on fairy-tale references all day.”

Taylor reached out and ruffled Ringo’s bushy hair with the texture of a well-used paintbrush. “
Star Trek
. I win,” he said and waggled his brows.

“Ooooh, snap.” Ringo lay back on Taylor’s cape. “No, really, where are we going?”

“Not back there.”

Ringo snapped his fingers. “’Kay. Cool. Because I was like… thinking something more like… I dunno…. Maybe hiding out in Macon or maybe, just, maybe the High Museum on Peachtree or something?”

“No.” Taylor gave as his final answer.

Ringo steepled his fingers. “Okeydokey. I’ll roll with it.”

Taylor caught his lack of confidence. “Think we can get to Key West? I think we can sort of get there.”

Ringo sat up and then pointed a shaking finger at Taylor. “No, sir. We are
not
going to Key West. I draw the line. You’re damned lucky I don’t poof us back to Atlanta.”

Taylor reached out and poked Ringo in the round belly. “You can only use your magic when I’m in danger.” He stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes.

Ringo gave an overdramatic huff and swooned back onto the dashboard. “Jackass.”

Taylor tried to laugh in victory, but when he glanced at the gas gauge, the anxiousness sank into his stomach. He tried not to show it, but Ringo always knew when something was amiss. That’s what fairy guardians are for, anyway. And of all things, Ringo was, at the very least, pretty good at that part.

“We’re on
E
, aren’t we?” Ringo asked and scanned their surroundings.

Taylor’s sweating palms slipped over the wheel as he adjusted his grip. “Well, it’s not
E
for
enough
.”

Ringo’s wings perked and shivered. He pointed toward the exit ramp. “There’s a travel center over there. We can take a break and think about what we’re going to do next.”

Taylor wiped his brow. “I won’t marry Phillipa. I don’t even know her, and I’m not attracted to her.”

Ringo scratched at his wiry gray beard. “Yup, I know. You need a man in your life.”

“I… I just need some time…,” Taylor murmured, and the car coasted to the stoplight at the crest of the exit ramp. “You know how my family is.”

“Kind of insane, politicking asshats?” Ringo asked and watched Taylor over his shoulder.

Taylor offered a crooked smile. “How did you ever end up as my godfather?”

Ringo shrugged. “You were conceived backstage at a Metallica concert, and your mother was rather shocked to see two blue lines three weeks later.”

Taylor snorted. “I was
not
conceived at a Metallica concert. My parents don’t even know who Metallica is.”

Ringo grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Are you sure about that? The Lady Hatfield was quite a thorny rose in her day.”

A choking gasp erupted from Taylor. “By the Storyteller’s tits, Ringo. Stop talking about my mom like that!” Ringo chuckled into his cupped hands, and Taylor froze when the car wouldn’t move. “Crap.” Taylor glanced to the trucker travel center that stood roughly fifty yards down the street and up a slight incline. He watched Ringo and puffed a dark lock of hair from his face. The only solution was a crappy one.

“I can’t help you with this,” Ringo said, as if he could sense the gears turning in Taylor’s head. “You’re not in danger.”

“Thank you, Mister Ray of Sunshine.” Taylor popped the door open with a whining creak. He scooped up a large armful of his ridiculous robe and tried to wiggle out of the car. Little by little, the enormous puff of pink blossomed from the driver’s side. Taylor fought his way through the blob of clothing and emerged from the vehicle.

He was thankful the exit lane he had chosen was deserted in the evening hours. He recalled the exit sign a mile back had said this town was Robertsdale. Perhaps there was more to it, but from a cursory glance at the amenities dotting the exit, such as two adult video stores on either side of the interstate and a massive fireworks store, Robertsdale was a town where the busses didn’t run.

He nodded to his godfather. “You steer, I’ll push,” Taylor said and shuffled to the back bumper of the Metro. He fussed with his robe and tossed it behind him in a feeble attempt not to trip.

Ringo balanced himself on the top of the steering wheel, using it like a treadmill to walk left, then right as Taylor inched the car along. If he didn’t look ridiculous enough, his seventy-foot-long robe dragged along the street, catching on every pebble, stick, and shrub. Frustration made Taylor’s forehead break out into a sweat as he tried to free the garment by kicking backward. He only succeeded in getting the small heel of his boot caught in the fur lining and stumbled forward against the car. His jaw cracked against the Metro’s hatchback, and he toppled backward onto his rear. Tears welled in his eyes from biting his cheek, but Taylor had to put it out of his mind as the Metro rolled back, ready to clock him in the face again.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he gasped, slapping his hands onto the back bumper to hold the car steady.

“Got it?” Ringo called from inside the car.

“Yeah…,” Taylor grumbled and staggered to his feet while keeping his hands on the car. “Thanks for using your magic to keep me from danger.”

“I didn’t.”

“I
know
,” Taylor said and gave the Metro a hard shove forward.

Slowly, the rust-bucket Metro climbed up the unremarkable incline that might as well have been the Matterhorn. Taylor panted and wheezed as he pushed the dinky car. They crossed the threshold of the parking lot to the Oasis Travel Center, and Taylor barked an unbecoming grunt of victory as Ringo steered the car toward the air pumps, out of the flow of semitruck traffic. Taylor slumped against his Metro to catch his breath and composure.

Ringo appeared in an explosion of sparkles at Taylor’s feet and narrowed his dark eyes up at him. “You’re not dying, okay? You just think you are,” he said calmly.

“I am—” Taylor wheezed. “—so out of shape.” He coughed. His attention crept over to the rusted Ford F-150 pickup truck parked nearby. He caught a glimpse of the fast-food wrappers and Starbucks cups littering the floorboards of the front and backseats. He chuckled and hooked a thumb to the truck. “See? Living proof someone has a shittier vehicle than me.”

Ringo fluttered to Taylor’s shoulder and peeked in. “Wow. Just. Um.
Wow
.”

“Now let’s see if I can charm my way into a burger and some gas money,” Taylor said and studied the peculiar red train caboose diner embedded in the side of the building. He noticed that every single patron was standing and staring at him, his nasty car, and his stupid wedding outfit. He puffed several breaths and squared his shoulders. “If anything… I want my red-blooded American right to air conditioning,” he said while pushing off from the bumper of his car.

“How American can you be, dressed up like them Brits?” Taylor heard an older man say from the gas pumps.

Taylor knew it was inappropriate, but he chuckled anyway. “Uh. You know America was founded by the British? So
technically
….” He turned to face the guy and masked his nerves under a veil of confidence. He had seen the type from his childhood in the South—big, burly, too much hair, too few teeth, Confederate flag on display in truck windows, and no more than a seventh grade education. Taylor had learned very quickly how to throw a punch in grade school after one too many bloody noses. The only problem was, his fortunate growth spurt in middle school stalled out and left him miserably at five foot five inches, gangly limbed, and hopelessly outmatched by the redneck storming up to him now.

“Actually, the Puritans,” Ringo said as he rocked on Taylor’s shoulder. “Well, really, the Spanish before them, eh, splitting hairs.”

“What the fuck was that?” the guy asked, a note of panic in his voice. “You fucking with me, fairy?”

Ringo glanced to Taylor and pointed to him, then himself. “Does he mean you or me?”

Taylor’s gaze darted from the guy to Ringo. He fought to keep his mood light, but as the redneck approached, Taylor became far too aware he didn’t have a phone to call for help. “I think he means me?” Taylor asked but pretended not to seem offended.

The guy shifted from foot to foot, his pace slowed, and he seemed not that eager to leap into the fray and beat Taylor senseless in the name of some fucked-up principle. “Who you talking to? Yourself? You crazy or somethin’?”

“Ringo,” Taylor said to his fairy godfather and ignored the guy. “You saving my ass would be really useful right now.”

“But you’re not in danger.”