Americana Fairy Tale

by Lex Chase

  Atticus scrolled through the contacts on Taylor’s phone. His heart sank at his findings. “He doesn’t have any of our relatives in his phone…. No one. No names I recognize. The only Enchant in here is that Bunyan guy.” He scrolled through again.

  Honeysuckle flittered to the window. She hovered for a moment and then poked at the glass with her tiny finger. Atticus pressed his lips into a thin line when she flailed as the jolt of magic shot through her. She hummed to herself and fluttered in a wide circle around the room.

  “He doesn’t even have our parents’ numbers,” Atticus said and sank to the bed.

  Honeysuckle flew toward the air-conditioning vent. “Taylor has problems, sweetie, that not even my no-goodnik husband could fix. Not like you.” She gave him a glittering smile. “Thanks to my guidance, you are practically perfect in every way.”

  Atticus withheld the urge to frown at Honeysuckle’s comment. He looked at Taylor’s phone again. “And we can’t get the mundanes involved. They’d be outmatched. Or go insane from magic exposure.” He frowned at Honeysuckle. “Do you think we should call Mom and Dad? Because….” He waved Taylor’s phone, asking the silent question.

  Honeysuckle’s wings drooped, and she hung her head. “Because Sir Hatfield wants nothing to do with Taylor. He and Lady Hatfield didn’t bother to attend the wedding.”

  “We could try?” Atticus asked and dialed his father’s number. Within the time of two flutters of Honeysuckle’s wings, Atticus was rewarded with the sharp pain of a screeching interference. He jerked the phone from his ear and took a breath. “He’s jammed the fucking phones,” he said, holding his head.

  Atticus considered Taylor’s phone and flipped through the screens. This time he opened the photos. Taylor had taken a multitude of self-portraits with his friends, who Atticus could tell didn’t have the Enchant spark about them. Parties, nightclubs, record-setting stacks of Red Bull cans, and an embarrassing amount of cat pictures. But it was a particular stream of photos that caught Atticus off guard: snow. It snowed frequently while Taylor was in college in Syracuse. Every snowfall, Taylor made snowmen or other snow creatures, snow angels, wrote messages in the snow, and even had videos of snowball fights. One photo stunned Atticus. Someone had taken a portrait of Taylor on his own phone, his long dark hair speckled with snow, his skin pale and smooth as a princess’s should be, and he looked into the distant skies, his peach-pink eyes filled with a sense of longing. Atticus flipped again to a video from the same photo.

  Off camera, a young man asked, “What do you want most in the world?”

  Taylor kept watching the sky. “Only one thing?”

  “Okay… I guess a few things,” his friend said.

  Taylor looked into the camera, and the sense of loneliness in such happy-colored eyes crushed Atticus long before Taylor made his confession. “To be Snow White,” Taylor said. “Because Snow White always lives happily ever after.”

  Taylor’s friend chuckled. “Dude, you are so weird sometimes.”

  Atticus swallowed hard, and the tears burned, and when he tried to blink them away, they escaped down his cheeks. “I just want him back,” he whispered and quickly wiped his face. “He was so desperate to leave all this, and now he’s gone….”

  Atticus and Honeysuckle sat in silence. He knew Honeysuckle was at a loss for what to say. He didn’t know where to begin. How to begin. How to mend the things between him and Taylor that had spun so out of control.

  If anything, he wanted to take away Taylor’s sadness. He wanted so desperately for Taylor to know, Curseless or not, Enchant or not, Atticus was still his brother. Whatever path Taylor chose to follow in life, Atticus admired him, supported him. He worshipped Taylor’s indomitable spirit. He idolized Taylor because Atticus wasn’t strong enough to embrace the man inside, clawing to get out. Atticus had no idea, not the slightest clue, that Taylor had his own ideas, and it seemed Taylor had it exactly the opposite.

  Darkness slithered into the room, and Atticus shivered with the sudden chill. He turned and watched the darkness sink away and then coalesce into a man—Charles. Atticus frowned and gripped the phone.

  Charles kept his distance, but Honeysuckle rose off Atticus’s shoulder to hover between her princess and the witch.

  Atticus remained silent. He shook with all the hurt and all the rage that he couldn’t possibly comprehend. That he didn’t know how to express. That he didn’t even know if there were words for.

  “How do you think it feels for Taylor, knowing he’ll never measure up to his sibling?” Charles said softly. “Always trapped in the shadows?”

  The hurt spewed forth from Atticus. “He could have told me!” Atticus snapped. “He could have told Mom! Dad!”

  Charles remained across the room, looming like a specter. Honeysuckle remained on guard. She puffed a silver lock from her eyes.

  “Could he?” Charles asked. “After all… a Curseless princess and a gay son all in one. The Lord and Lady Hatfield hit a veritable bomb of a scandal.”

  Atticus couldn’t stop shaking. “He’s still my brother. I don’t care. We could have….” He spread his arms and gestured helplessly for blessings. “We could have done something!”

  Charles snorted, and steam puffed from his nose. “By the Storyteller’s Pen.” He tossed up his hands in frustration. “Look at yourself! Taylor resented you. He resented all of this.” He swept an arm to indicate the immaculate surroundings. “Magic, Princes, Princesses, Once Upon A Times, Happily Ever Afters. This is your world. You belong here. You are the princess who will reign supreme. Him?” Charles snorted a guffaw. “He’s nothing. A speck of dirt. He’s meaningless.”

  Fury ignited in Atticus’s soul. He launched himself at Charles, and Honeysuckle swooped away in the confusion. Atticus collided with the taller man and tackled him to the floor. He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care if Taylor resented him. He would make them see. He would make them all see. He would defeat Charles—Idi—or whatever the hell the evils of the world chose to throw at him. He would save the world. He would save Taylor.

  But as he sat on Charles’s chest and relentlessly cracked him across the jaw again and again, somewhere he wondered: who would save him from himself?

  Honeysuckle buzzed around him, but Atticus could only see Charles’s face laughing in merriment at his rage. He would score a blow, but Charles’s head never bounced, nor was he ever injured.

  Atticus bellowed all the hurt and anguish he held so deep inside. He slapped his hands to Charles’s throat, determined to strangle the life’s breath such a wicked creature stole from the earth. “Bring back my brother!” Atticus roared from the rawness within.

  Charles’s gaze remained calm, despite Atticus trying to crush his windpipe. He blinked, and a burst of dark magic sent Atticus crashing into the large mirror on the wall. The mirror exploded on impact, and the shards dug into Atticus’s face. He crumpled to the floor on the pool of broken glass.

  His vision tinged with red from the cut on his forehead, he saw Honeysuckle doing her best to defend him. Only without her magic, her best was ineffectually pounding her miniature fists against Charles’s shoulder. Charles casually flicked Honeysuckle away, as if she were of no consequence.

  Atticus’s head swam as he struggled to stand. Charles closed the distance between them and scooped him up by his chin. Atticus grunted as Charles held him on his tiptoes, mere centimeters from his mouth. He had an inexplicable, disturbing burst of clarity that Charles smelled of mulled cider. His breath was scalding against his face.

  “You don’t want your brother back,” Charles whispered.

  Atticus clenched his teeth at the accusation. “How dare you put words in my mouth?”

  Charles’s lips curled into a curiously kind smile. “You lie so effortlessly.”

  CHAPTER 9:

  YOU ARE HERE

  Somewhere on the Open Road….

  June 6

  CORENTIN KEPT a moderate speed down the interstate. By moderate,
pushing the needle to eighty-eight was more accurate. Ringo sat on the dash, watching the road whizz by underneath them. Corentin slalomed his truck around semitrailers, U-Hauls, and families putt-putting along to vacation destinations. Mother Storyteller forbid a cop pulled them over. Corentin didn’t know how to explain his way out of his ID not looking anything like him, and he knew the registration wasn’t current, if the 2008 tag on his plate was any indication. Proof of insurance was a card in his wallet, disintegrating from an accidental laundering.

  The sun inched toward the horizon, and Corentin clenched his jaw. He couldn’t let his passengers know he’d be useless to them come dawn. He composed a quick prayer in his mind that they’d reach Atlanta before midnight and finally set things straight with Charles. By setting things straight with Charles, he meant laying him out in a pine box. It was apparent to Corentin he would be the only one to stand a fighting chance against Charles’s power.

  He swerved around another car and pressed the needle to ninety-five.

  In the backseat, Taylor bleated a snore. Corentin’s molars ground into each other as he kept playing out the plan in his head. Even with the possibility that he could kill Charles, it left the problem of Taylor’s brother, Atticus. If Atticus should live and ascend to full power as Snow White, the Witch Butcher would ride again. Atticus would hunt and kill all witches and their kin.

  The only bright side in any of this foolish quest was for that brief handful of years before Atticus came to power, Corentin could live curse-free. Away from the madness of fragmented dreams and faces half remembered. He’d savor every moment of it until the time of the reckoning came. Maybe buy a sailboat and sail away into the big blue nothing, where no one would see him again.

  “We should play the alphabet game,” Ringo said out of nowhere.

  Corentin presumed the pixie sensed his tenseness about what lay ahead.

  “I’ll go first,” Ringo said, watching the passing license plates. He pointed to a Toyota Corolla. “A! For the Texas plate over there.”

  Corentin stayed silent. He gripped the wheel tighter.

  Ringo glanced over at him. The little man was no bigger than a housecat. Still, he resembled a creepy doll, with his disproportionately large eyes in his plump marshmallow body.

  Corentin tried to ignore his blatant staring.

  Ringo kept staring.

  Corentin gritted his teeth and tried not to meet the disturbing gaze.

  Ringo’s wings caught the light and threw a shimmering ray into Corentin’s face.

  Corentin snarled and wiped at his eyes. “You did that on purpose!”

  Ringo took on an expression of concerned innocence. “I’m just trying to relieve the tension. If we’re stuck in this jalopy together for five hours, we might as well make the most of it.” He then cast a glance at the floorboard and the passenger seat, which were littered with Starbucks cups and fast-food wrappers. “Dude. You really need to do something about your truck.”

  Corentin sighed through his nose and kept his eyes on the road. He threaded the needle between two semis. “When it’s the only thing you got, you make do,” he said absently.

  “I bet you get all the chicks up in here,” Ringo said with a grin. “Bon-chicka wow wooow!”

  Corentin sucked in a hiss through clenched teeth. “Don’t you have something better to do?” he asked. “Can’t you just sprinkle some fairy dust, think some happy thoughts, and get us there in three seconds?”

  Ringo frowned. “No can do. I can only save Taylor from life-threatening danger.”

  Corentin grunted. “Perfect.”

  “Atticus!” Taylor shouted and sprang up from the backseat. Corentin jumped as Taylor snapped his attention about the truck like a terrified dog. He also tried to withhold his laugher from the burger wrapper stuck to Taylor’s head and drooping over one eye. “Atticus!” Taylor shouted again, and the burger wrapper flopped.

  Ringo drifted toward Taylor. “Hey…. You got something….” He gestured to his ear.

  Corentin watched Taylor squint at Ringo in the rearview.

  Taylor’s fingers brushed the waxy paper stuck to his hair. He screeched and ripped it away. “This truck is a cesspit!” Taylor snapped.

  “I got that,” Corentin said flatly and watched the road. His GPS screen on the dash fuzzed with static. It was the fourth time it had happened, and he had done a pretty good job at keeping it from Ringo. The picture came back, showing a little green car on the road to Siberia and the labels in Russian. Corentin rubbed his eyes. The highway hypnosis was getting to him.

  “Where are we?” Taylor asked, leaning over Corentin’s shoulder.

  Catching Taylor’s primrose scent, Corentin stiffened. His foot jerked and slammed on the brake. The force caused the truck to shift sharply to the right and slightly lift off two wheels. Taylor yelped as he collided with the passenger side door and cracked his head on the window. Ringo bounced into the front seat headrest and ricocheted like a Ping-Pong ball through the cabin.

  Corentin fought the truck, trying to right it as his mind raced with the urge to flip the truck with Taylor, Ringo, and him in it. His knuckles bleached white on the wheel as he panted with panic. Breathe, breathe, he told himself. His cheeks puffed with quick intakes of air, and his forehead broke into beads of sweat. Meanwhile, Ringo bounced around the cabin like a squishy projectile, and Taylor screamed while being flung about the backseat.

  Getting a grip on the wheel, Corentin yanked it hard to settle the truck into one lane. The wheels skidded, squealing with the trail of rubber. Taylor tossed his hands up and snatched Ringo out of midair like a wayward basketball.

  After a moment of driving in a long, awkward silence, Corentin continued the conversation from the moment where they left off. “Just crossed Montgomery, I think.”

  “You think?” Taylor asked and set Ringo back onto the passenger seat headrest. “It’s practically a straight shot to Atlanta from here. Just get on I-85 North and follow it. Take the Hartsfield-Jackson exit, and off you go.”

  Still flustered and confused, with no time to contemplate what had just come over him, Corentin tossed out his hand and gestured to the open road. “Do you see signs for I-85 North anywhere, genius?”

  “Man, you’re really bitchy,” Ringo said, crossing his arms. “Have enough water today? Hydration is important.”

  “Why should I trust you anyway? You could be getting us lost on purpose,” Taylor said. There was a sneer in his tone, and he glared in the rearview. “I’m not counting out we nearly died three seconds ago.”

  “I was avoiding a tire in the road,” Corentin lied. “And I am not getting us lost.” His irritation grew as he tried to puzzle through everything that had just transpired. “I’m keeping my promise. You’re useless to me, so we’re going to go save your brother and kill Idi instead.”

  “Woooooah,” Ringo said, holding up his hands in surrender. “You didn’t tell me this was Idi we were up against.”

  “Someone fill me in,” Taylor said in a demanding tone.

  Corentin gritted his teeth. Just like all princesses, Taylor was a pretty spoiled brat. “Idi is the Witchking,” Corentin said simply. He braced himself for the oncoming flurry of questions. Which he wouldn’t know how to answer in the simplest of terms.

  “Idi’s bad juju,” Ringo said. “The worst of all witches.”

  “And we’re going to kill him?” Taylor asked.

  Corentin caught him arching a brow and making a doubtful expression in the rearview. “That’s the plan.”

  “And save Atticus,” Taylor said.

  “That’s the plan,” Corentin repeated tersely.

  “What’s in it for you?” Taylor asked. Something in his tone suggested his mistrust had hit its limit.

  Before Corentin could come up with an expert lie, he was unfortunately saved by the GPS popping with sizzles and showering sparks over the cabin of the truck. Ringo zipped behind the passenger seat, and Taylor yelped in a half squeal. The truck
fishtailed over two lanes and came dangerously close to clipping a car. Corentin acted fast, ripping the melting device from its dash mount and chucking it out the window. Taylor turned to look out the back window, and Corentin caught the bright orange flame as the thing exploded like a grenade.

  When the spots cleared from Corentin’s eyes, he muttered a curse under his breath as the truck passed from a clear division of daylight into the dead of night. He clicked the headlights on and waited for his eyes to adjust.

  “What the hell is going on?” Taylor asked, leaning up to the back window.

  “Idi’s fucking with us,” Corentin said. “It seems like he’s trying to delay us as much as possible.”

  “He knows we’re onto him,” Taylor said. “Way to go for discussing the supersecret squirrel plan out loud.”

  “You know,” Corentin said, glaring in the rearview, “you are a lot more pleasant when you’re passed out, snoring.”

  Taylor huffed. “I don’t snore.”

  “You bleat like a dying hyena,” Ringo said, then spit a giggle.

  Taylor’s attention snapped to the pixie. “What is this? Asshole day?”

  Corentin caught his eerie pink glare in the rearview.

  “Dude, just get off at the nearest exit. We should be near Birmingham by now.”

  “All right, all right,” Corentin said, and it was a pleasant reprieve that Taylor kept his mouth shut for more than five minutes. It didn’t last.

  “Hey, hey!” Taylor said and pointed at a green-and-white interstate exit sign in the distance. “Talladega! Turn here. I can get us to Atlanta from here. We’re not that far off.”

  Corentin guided the truck up the exit ramp and frowned. Something was wrong—flat-topped mesas came into view.

  “What the…?” Taylor whispered and watched the rolling dunes of the Painted Desert.

  “Uuuh…,” Ringo added and pressed himself to the windshield. The occasional cactus whisked by. “Wow, Talladega’s having a hard time with the drought this season,” Ringo said through their awestruck silence.