Americana Fairy Tale

by Lex Chase

  “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.

  CHAPTER 5:

  OASIS ON THE INTERSTATE

  Robertsdale, Alabama

  June 6

  TAYLOR 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 dar
k 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.”

  Taylor backed up a step as the redneck came closer. “How in the hell am I not in danger? Clearly your dang-a-meter is on the fritz.”

  “Who the hell are you talkin’ to?” the man bellowed. “You fuckin’ crazyassed fairy. Either you get out of here, or I’m taking you out.”

  Taylor took another slow step back, but his foot caught on his robe. “Dammit,” he hissed under his breath as he tried to kick it off. “I’d really love to leave your wonderful one-traffic-light Podunk town, but I’m out of gas. Spot me some cash?” he asked and flashed his brightest smile.

  Just when things couldn’t get any worse, Taylor’s butt crashed onto the pavement when he tripped on a curb. And if it couldn’t get any more terrifying, Taylor caught a flash of silver from the guy’s switchblade as he drew closer. Taylor’s bravery evaporated. He threw his arms over his head, preparing for his demise, which Ringo didn’t seem too keen on saving him from, and really wishing he had his mommy.

  The blade dropped at his feet, and a dusty black Red Wing boot kicked it away. Some kind of choking sound followed, then a thump of body to body.

  Ringo had hidden behind Taylor’s head but pulled on his hair. “Look, look!” he urged Taylor.

  Every one of Taylor’s muscles contracted in unbridled terror. His brilliant plan played through his head like the unrelenting barrage of firecrackers. He had bolted straight from the altar, driven five hours straight with no ID, no money, and no phone. He hadn’t thought of what to do next. He actually hadn’t thought he’d get that far. Taylor realized his brilliant plan was an incredibly stupid idea, and now he was going to die out in the middle of nowhere. He bit down on his lip and prayed to someone, anyone, that it wouldn’t hurt as much as he was sure it would.

  “Taylor, look, look. I told you it was okay!” Ringo said again and tugged on his hair.

  Taylor slowly came back to the present. He shivered from the bite of fear and lowered his trembling hands. He squinted against the setting sun, and there his savior stood with his arm casually hooked around his attacker’s neck in a sleeper hold.

  Taylor furrowed his brow, trying to make him out against the harsh shadows and light. When his gallant white knight came into focus, Taylor’s stomach plummeted with shallow disappointment.

  Since Taylor was three, he’d had his prince pictured completely different. A beautiful, beach-bodied Adonis with blond surfer hair, dazzling blue eyes, and perfect white teeth. Taylor knew very well he was in love with a Ken doll, but he would find his real-life Ken someday.

  This guy?

  Not Ken.

  Olive-toned skin, unkempt shag of sandy brown hair, coal black eyes, and it just got worse from there. Tattered leather jacket with an equally threadbare flannel shirt, ratty, stained Levi’s, and Taylor kept his revulsion to himself at the man’s dirty fingernails and oil-stained hands. His college crush, Billy Bunyan, found construction workers, firemen, and all the blue-collar types hot. They made Taylor feel self-conscious, in Billy’s opinion, because Taylor was none of those things.

  And in this very moment, Taylor had been saved by Billy Bunyan’s perfect man. Either the Storyteller That Be was teaching him a lesson or laughing her ass off. Taylor figured it was the latter.

  “See,” Ringo said, fluttering toward the man. “I told you you weren’t in danger.” He held out his tiny hand to him. “Ringo, fairy godfather, how’d’ya do?”

  Taylor’s hero let the unconscious body of his attacker fall between them. “Fay Opa?” Taylor’s savior asked in a distinct Creole drawl.

  Ringo’s wings drooped. “Um,” he muttered with a glance to Taylor. “Help me out here.”

  Taylor slowly stood, and the man slipped back a hesitant step. Taylor pointed at him and then pointed to himself. “My. Name. Is. Taylor,” he said slowly and then pointed to Ringo. “He. Is. Ringo.” Taylor hooked his hands together in the universal bird gesture. “He. Is. A. Pixie.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Y’eh suh’s?” he said with a deep frown. He mimicked Taylor’s gesture of pointing to him and then himself. “A’it,” he said, and Taylor gave Ringo a fretful look. “A’it,” he said again and then held up a hand at Taylor. He rummaged through his jacket pockets and pulled out an onyx arrowhead dipped in silver.

  Taylor and Ringo exchanged nervous glances. Taylor sucked in a sharp gasp as the man captured his chin between his fingertips.

  His hero tapped the tip of the arrowhead to Taylor’s forehead and smiled. “Ka eh—can you understand me now?”

  Taylor blinked and jerked away at the peculiar soothing quality of his voice. “Whoa. Seriously? How did you do that?”

  “What? What?” Ringo asked as he looked between the two of them.

  Taylor nodded to his hero and then pointed to Ringo. “Hold still,” he told Ringo.

  The man poked Ringo’s forehead with the arrowhead. “Better?”

  “Whooooaaaaa,” Ringo said. “So… it’s like… Enchanted translator microbes or something?”

  The man shook his head slightly, looking lost.

  Taylor waved a hand. “Never mind him. Soooo.” Taylor searched for a reason to make the situation less awkward. “You’re an Enchant?”

  “I came to your rescue, didn’t I?” the guy asked. Taylor still had to listen
carefully through the dropped consonants in his speech.

  Feeling more confident, Taylor swept a bow. He would sooner kiss a toad than curtsey like all princesses were expected to do. “I guess this is the part where I repay your kindness or something,” he said and smiled.

  “No need,” his rescuer said.

  “I’m…,” Taylor began, uncertain. He made vague gestures as he tried to explain. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to repay you. Like that’s how that works. Right?” He glanced at Ringo and nodded to him. “You’re the repository of Enchant legalities. I’m supposed to repay him, right?”

  Taylor’s rescuer frowned, which didn’t make Taylor feel as confident anymore. “Princesses repay,” he said, a little too firmly for Taylor’s liking.

  “Well, you’re right,” Taylor said and cringed the second it left his mouth.

  “And where is she?” he asked and crossed his arms. “I need to be getting on to the next county, and I could use her token.”

  Taylor frowned. He took a breath and let it out. “Ringo’s my fairy godfather,” he said and expected it to explain everything.

  “Impossible.” He tossed his head with a snort. “Fairy guardians don’t bond to princes.”

  Taylor had had enough of the guy’s attitude. “Do you honestly think I am wearing this much pink for kicks? I just ran out on my wedding!”

  That seemed to be the thing to chip through his rescuer’s armor. He blinked, then grinned. “You’re telling me you’re a princess?”

  “Unfortunately,” Taylor said and sighed.

  The guy’s attitude completely turned around in three seconds. And Taylor slipped back a step. Something about his change of demeanor and how his eyes glittered with merriment seemed disturbing. He smiled broadly and extended an oil-stained, dirty hand that Taylor was hesitant to accept. “We’ll work out the repaying specifics later,” the man said. “What I owe you right now is a proper rescue. Corentin Devereaux, at your service.”

  Taylor talked himself into accepting the hand and gave a firm shake. “Taylor Hatfield. Princess Taylor Hatfield… I guess.”