by Lex Chase
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.
“Taylor?” Corentin called over the rumble of car engines. “Taylor!”
He scanned again, noting the location of the vending machines and the distance to the truck. Could someone have grabbed him? The panic shot up Corentin’s throat in a strangled gasp. He had to find Taylor. Despite the act of protecting a princess from harm going against everything he knew in the depths of his huntsman soul, Corentin set out to find him. It took less than two seconds when the glitter of Ringo’s wings caught the light from a line of trees. Corentin snorted at his momentary freak-out. Exhaustion. That’s what it was. The snap decisions were coming too fast now.
Corentin hurried to the trees across the parking lot and peeked through the shrubs. Down an embankment, Taylor sat on a rock next to a trickling stream. He seemed lost in his thoughts as he carefully nibbled at his honeybun. The crinkling plastic of the wrapper was the only thing that broke the peace of the moment.
Corentin eased his way down the embankment and shifted silently over the dried leaves. He stood at the edge of where the small hill met the moist sand of the stream, a good ten feet behind Taylor. Corentin didn’t move, and he watched Taylor nibble at the pastry, savoring it like a homeless man would, because when was the next time they’d see food? Corentin’s stomach churned with the thought. They really didn’t have anything to eat and only had the clothes on their backs. None of them ate the donuts at Randy’s, and Corentin didn’t have to tell Taylor it probably would have been a good idea to leave them alone. It was always wise to refuse baked goods from a witch, no matter how delicious. Who knew what poisons or enchantments had been laced into the icings and creamy fillings?
Ringo sat on a tree branch, his wings slowly waving in a resting position. Corentin glanced at him as Ringo turned and nodded. Corentin knew this was his moment to say something. He just had to think of the right thing to say. Anything that could come from Corentin’s mouth could scare Taylor away. Make Taylor shut down. Make Taylor resigned to his fate. Corentin didn’t want any of those things. He didn’t want Taylor to shut himself away, and he especially didn’t want Taylor to be resigned. Taylor needed his fight, his spark, and his drive to show he really was somebody.
Corentin dug his fingernails into his palm. Dammit, he cursed himself. That urge for violence was there again. It was getting stronger the longer they were trapped on the road. He held his breath, trying to swallow the visions of breaking Taylor into pieces. Corentin swallowed, and the urge passed. He unfurled his stiff fist. His dirty nails came away rimmed with blood.
When Corentin couldn’t think of anything perfect to say, he said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m sorry what I implied about your brother….” Corentin turned his gaze to the wet sand. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I didn’t expect you to be shocked by it.”
Taylor didn’t respond. Corentin rubbed his thumb and index finger together as he waited. Taylor lowered the honeybun from his mouth. “I’m not shocked,” Taylor said so quietly Corentin almost missed it. “That’s not the problem.” Taylor ran his hand through his messy long hair. Corentin frowned at the anxious sign. “It doesn’t fucking matter if Atticus is gay,” Taylor spat. “He’s my brother. I love him. Just our parents are going to flip the fuck out that any chance of preserving our legacy has evaporated.”
Corentin took a slow step forward as Taylor stood. He pressed his lips together, noting the evidence of tears on Taylor’s face.
Taylor offered a broken smile. His voice cracked as he spoke. “Our parents aren’t going to give a single shit when our father offers him a fraction of his trust fund and says, ‘Here’s this money. How far away can you get from here? Because your filth is no longer welcome.’”
Corentin glanced at Ringo. Ringo offered a sad nod. Corentin started to see the broader picture of the Hatfield family.
“And then,” Taylor said, pointing a finger and then using that hand to wipe his face. “He gets to experience the part of our parents being parents when it’s convenient. When there’s appearances. When there’s colleges to tour. When there’s matchmaking to do. When there’s making sure, dear Storyteller, he must marry a proper prince and tell no one of his vile secrets.” Taylor hugged himself and then sniffed. “Just thrown out… like trash. Because he wasn’t perfect.” Taylor sniffed again, and his lip trembled. “I don’t want that for him,” he croaked before the sobbing came for him. “I don’t want that for him!”
Corentin stalked across the sand, and Taylor watched him with the resignation Corentin feared.
“It’s now, right?” Taylor asked and looked Corentin in the eye. “This is how it ends.”
Corentin said nothing, his mind churning with the decision to do the right thing, or do the right thing by his huntsman principles. Corentin’s hands clapped on Taylor’s upper arms, and Taylor remained compliant in his grip. Taylor had been defeated. He would go quietly. Corentin could do anything to him, and no one would ever know.
Corentin pulled him into a comforting hug.
They stood, locked in the embrace, and the bubbling stream the only sound between them. Corentin threaded his fingers into Taylor’s hair; he didn’t care if it was messy. He wanted to touch something that was real. Something that was right now. Taylor trembled under his touch. His arms lifted, shuddering with possible fear, but then dropped to his sides again. Taylor didn’t return the comfort, and Corentin let out a slow frustrated sigh.
“It’s okay…,” Corentin said as he cradled Taylor to him. “It’s okay….”
Corentin’s body burned the longer he kept it pressed to Taylor’s. The urge was stronger than in the Wigwam Motel; he could hold it at bay then. Now the very contact with Taylor set his skin on fire. Corentin blinked his way through the pain, trying to concentrate on something else. He focused on the moment, of Taylor with him like this. The comfort, the need, the consuming loneliness—they didn’t need to be alone anymore. But focusing on them together made the pain excruciating. Taylor was a boiling furnace in his arms, and Corentin gritted his teeth.
When Corentin thought he would ignite with the heat and pain, he released Taylor. And Taylor merely blinked at him, clearly confused. The relief from the scalding embrace was instant. Corentin slipped two steps from Taylor.
“Oh…,” Taylor said slowly and looked embarrassed. “The princess thing.”
Corentin arched his brow, not understanding. “Princesses seem to have a lot of things,” he said, then puffed a sigh as his body temperature cooled.
“It’s a spell,” Taylor said, then rubbed at the back of his neck. “A princess can’t be intimately touched by anyone but their true love….” The moment it left Taylor’s mouth, Corentin couldn’t mistake the regret on his face.
“Oh…,” Corentin said, maintaining his poker face and choosing to let Taylor believe that over telling him the truth that Taylor had been five seconds from having his neck snapped. Corentin looked up the embankment, listening to the passing cars as he collected his thoughts. His mind flashed with his own scowling expression in the restroom mirror. It’s just a job, he told himself. He’s just a th
ing. He’s just confused. Don’t let him see the monster you are.
“Yeah…,” Taylor said quietly, rubbing at his arm. He glanced at Ringo. Ringo frowned in obvious disappointment.
Corentin immediately turned his attention to the ground. It was his turn to be confused by the secret princess-to-pixie handshake. Did Taylor honestly… expect something? That was not how their kind worked. Huntsmen defile and kill princesses the next day without a thought. They deliver their hearts to witches to eat. The legends of kind huntsmen who had a change of heart were blatant lies. He ran through a thousand reasons in his head why he had to let Taylor believe in his silly princess spell. He didn’t believe any of his reasons.
With an even expression, Corentin stood at the ready to let it fly that whatever was happening between them couldn’t happen. And nothing was happening between them anyway. They were two guys who liked guys in the same space, under a dire situation. Taylor was frustrated he couldn’t get laid to let off steam. Corentin was frustrated he knew the entire time what Taylor dreamed about. Oh, he would teach Taylor to come all right. But huntsmen and princesses don’t fraternize. They shouldn’t do this. They couldn’t do this. And Corentin wouldn’t, as much as his body was ravenous for it.
But fucking Storyteller That Be! Corentin roared inside his head. Get in the restroom, get a condom, because I just want to fuck you against the truck. I don’t care what happens after. Horrible things are going to happen after. I will leave you broken, dismembered, and in trash bags on the side of the road. All because Idi cast a spell to make me feel this way. Because if I admit to it, if I give in to it, you’ll die.
But Corentin said none of those things.
Taylor frowned and turned to the shore of the brook. “Aw, I dropped my honeybun,” Taylor said, obviously covering for his own awkwardness. He stooped over the pastry, trying to see if he could save it.
“It was a football game,” Corentin said evenly. His own voice sounded alien to him as the wickedness within him evaporated.
Taylor glanced over his shoulder, his hair wild and leonine around his shoulders like the feral beauty he was.
Corentin’s head bobbed with a nod as he ran his hand through his hair. He hid his hand from shaking. “Yep,” Corentin said, forcing a smile. “Football game.”
Taylor didn’t say anything. He sat crouched like a creature, still watching Corentin. Ringo dropped off his tree branch and took flight. He flew in his peculiar curlicue path and settled at Taylor’s shoulder. Even he watched Corentin quietly, with a seriousness Corentin had never seen on the odd little man’s face before.
“It was the Packers. I had some time off. Tammy, a wicked stepmother up in Winnebago, gave me tickets,” Corentin said, then snorted. “Fucking Packers.” He chuckled at the thought, pulling the memory from the fog of his mind. He took a breath and scanned the trees. If he talked to the trees, he didn’t have to talk to Taylor. He didn’t have to see his face. “I hit on the wrong guy.” Corentin let the words hang there between them and let them be carried away by the stream.
Taylor shifted, turning toward him.
He nodded as he felt along the edges of the memory, stung by the barbs. “They tied me to the back of their truck. And drove.”
“Drove…?” Taylor asked. He sounded so small, uncertain.
Corentin nodded again. “Drove. The rope snapped before they could finish me off. There’s a police report about it in my journal.”
“Holy Storyteller,” Ringo whispered.
Corentin shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. He scanned the surroundings again as the paranoia of his confession tingled on his skin. “Darlene found me. She patched me up. Patched me up from… something.”
“Something?” Again there was that timidity.
“Someone, I think,” Corentin said. “I think she made a pie out of someone she shouldn’t have. So now I have his face. Because my driver’s license has a different picture. My name’s on it, though. Or… I think it’s my name. It’s the one Darlene calls me, so it’s mine.” He cleared his throat, and his stomach twisted with words. “Anyway, I have a different guy’s face. I have a name that sounds fucking pompous. And you’d think, you would think that certainly, upon reabsorbing that police report into my brain, I’d make a clear decision to avoid cock at all costs.” He winced at the word. Suddenly being so crude didn’t seem to work for the moment.
Taylor’s face bloomed with red, making his eyes look nearly white. He averted his gaze and rubbed at the back of his neck.
“But there’s the funny thing about it,” Corentin said and smiled at the trees. “We can’t change who we are. We can’t change who we love, how we love, it’s… destiny. It’s written in the stars before we were ever born into the world. It’s in us, like magic is in us. Ringo with his glitter, me with dark magic pumping through my body….” He looked at Taylor and found Taylor was already watching him. Corentin grinned. “You with your gift of being a wretched brat.”
“Hey!” Taylor squeaked.
“Oh snap,” Ringo giggled.
Taylor lunged for him, and Corentin saw the obvious move that Taylor was trying to grapple his middle. He slipped out of reach as he laughed. Taylor kept trying to swat him, and Corentin kept dancing out of Taylor’s range. “No touchy, no touchy, no touch….”
Taylor swiped for Corentin’s middle, which he dodged by sucking in his gut. He placed his palm on Taylor’s forehead to hold him back. Taylor leaned into the hand and watched Corentin with a crooked smile.
“Jerk,” Taylor said in an infantile tone.
“Okay,” Corentin said and flicked his palm away. Taylor fumbled forward and caught himself in a tumble of steps. “I have a plan. If we’re going to save your brother, you are going to learn how to throw a proper punch.”
Taylor smiled, and Corentin smiled despite himself. It seemed Taylor’s fierceness was returning. Corentin blinked and tried not to make an obvious face as he caught the contours of a woman on the other side of the brook. Phillipa had followed them somehow, and Corentin couldn’t risk working Taylor into a panic. He feigned riffling through his jacket pockets. He palmed the truck keys in his hand to keep them from jingling.
“Dammit,” Corentin said. “Must have left the keys in the restroom. Get to the truck and we’ll get going.” He added on a charming smile.
Taylor nodded. “Maybe we can find a magical diner or something.”
“Of course,” Corentin said and ambled up the embankment. “Get to the truck,” Corentin repeated, trying to reinforce his point.
Once he got up to the parking lot, Corentin furrowed his brow. “Where are you, bitch?” Corentin whispered.
She had heard his most secret confession, and Corentin would do anything to make sure it remained a secret. He had spotted her in the trees while comforting Taylor. He prowled through the rows of cars and then slipped into the Columbia Discovery Center itself. The relics of Oregon’s past and displays of environmental wonders provided many places to hide and blend in with the oblivious mundanes.
“I love otters.” Phillipa’s voice carried from the otter aquarium.
Corentin threaded his keys through his fingers. With his pocketknife lost at Randy’s, they were the best weapon he had. He wove his way through the tourists and running children. Phillipa peacefully watched the tanks. As if she was meant to be there like any other tourist exploring the villages of Mount Hood. Her loose honey-blonde waves were brushed forward over one shoulder, cascading over her black-and-yellow riding jacket. Her tight jeans hugged her legs in all the right places. Her beauty would make any man insane, and she knew it. Only Corentin saw the ugliness under the surface. Holding his keys in his fist, hidden in his jacket pocket, he slid into place next to her. Together they watched the otters swim in somersaults around each other as the creatures played with a stick.
Corentin swallowed as he considered what to say or how the events were going to unfold. His connection with Phillipa was like a bad dream that lingered in t
he back of his mind. He may have had only knowledge of the last four years of his life, but he would never forget the marks she left him with.
“Our king is very dismayed with you,” Phillipa said, keeping her attention on the otters. “As long as Taylor draws breath, Idi can’t continue with Atticus.”
Corentin tightened his fist around his keys. “I’m working on it, okay?” he said just as calmly. “It’s a balancing act to get him to trust me.”
“Trust?” Phillipa said, incredulous. She turned to him, her dark eyes narrowed. “You don’t need him to trust you. Slit his throat, get the proof, and you’ll be free to go.”
“That’s a lie, and you know it,” Corentin said, watching the otters. “Do you have any idea what Idi will do to us all?”
“This is business,” Phillipa said, tossing up a hand. “Offering my services to the Witchking just assures I’m on the right side of the deal. You, sir, are clearly so tangled up in the princess’s so-called charms that you don’t know what to think.” She pointed a finger. “Now, pretending to be gay was a pretty good move, I must admit.”
“Who says I was pretending?” Corentin said as he glared at her. The conviction in his voice drove the point home.
Phillipa seemed confused, blinked, and then broke into laughter. She swatted at Corentin’s arm in good humor. Corentin shifted away from her touch. “Oh, you can remake yourself into anything you’d like, can’t you? Every seven days you’re someone new. Every seven days you get a new lease on life. And you even believe yourself,” she said with a broad grin, then eased her laugher. “It’s amazing, really.”
Corentin pointed a finger while keeping his other hand in his pocket and around the keys. “I don’t need your shit,” he sneered. “Look, I’ll do whatever Idi wants. It’s not like I have a choice, and it’s not like this is going to work out for me. I’ll always be indebted to him. I’ll just go with it. You know,” he said, then snorted. “Just forget about it every seven days until I get the call to commit the next atrocity.”
