by Lex Chase
“Corentin?” he asked. “That’s me?”
“Us, I suppose,” his double said, then shrugged. He gestured toward a stone, only for it to crumble and dissolve into ash on a breeze to reveal a sprawling footpath vanishing into the forest. “Let’s take a walk.”
Corentin nodded and fell in step. “What is this place?”
His double glanced up to the canopy. “It’s yours. You can call it what you’d like. Enchanted Forest seems fitting. After all, you are an Enchant.”
Corentin blinked, a question on the tip of his tongue, until his double held up the knife as a deterrent.
“Hold on, I’m getting to that part,” his double said, and the look in his eye suggested Corentin should listen instead of speak. The knife was also an excellent tool to indicate whose turn it was to take the floor. His double had it, and therefore, all the floor he wanted. “So, you know those fairy tales you were told as a kid? Snow White? Sleeping Beauty? Hansel and Gretel?”
Corentin arched a brow and quirked his lip. He gave a slight shake of the head.
His double scowled. “They’re real.”
“Oh. Kay.” Corentin pressed his lips together in a thin line and followed along. “That guy said he was a princess. His name is Taylor, right?”
His twin snorted a guffaw. “Ah yes, the Fair Princess Taylor.” He sliced off a bit of apple and held the piece to the knife with his thumb. “We are so getting ahead of everything here. One step at a time.”
Corentin nodded and made sure to pay attention to his surroundings. The green leaves, the intense color of the flower petals, and the blue of the sky—it looked like something out of a Disney movie. Picturesque. Flawless.
“Ah. You’re getting it,” his twin said. And when Corentin shook his head, his twin explained, “You’re remembering. You know who Disney is.”
The Enchanted Forest was curious, yet comforting, and possibly dangerous? He wasn’t sure. He went with his gut to trust his twin, despite something about being in his company not seeming right.
“You always think I’m weird,” his twin said.
Corentin stiffened. “I didn’t say—”
“You don’t need to,” his twin said. “I’m your journal, after all. You’re sitting in a cozy bed, in a cute little house that has fucking window treatments, and even a sweet Keurig. Right now, I’m in your lap, and you’re staring off into space as you absorb everything I have to tell you. You always think this part is weird.” He rolled his shoulders with a sigh and then shrugged. “You think the rabbit hole is ooh scary, and you think meeting me is weird.”
Corentin crossed his arms. “Weird bad or weird good?”
“Depends on the day you make a note about it. Some days you go out on a high, some days you can’t wait for it to be over.”
“You said this was the seventh day?” Corentin asked. “What happens on the seventh day?”
“You fall into the rabbit hole, and then you come here. You meet me, and we have a chat. I’m all of your notes to yourself. I’m you talking to yourself. I tell you who you are, where you’ve been, and your life until the moment you fell down the rabbit hole.” He pointed to Corentin’s tattooed arm with the knife. “The tattoo keeps track of the days.”
At the subconscious suggestion, Corentin held up his left arm. He inspected the delicate linework illustrating the tree. It started at a snarl of roots around his wrist, then went up his arm, and finally branched off into seven windblown leafy boughs.
His double tossed the apple core away. “One by one, the branches lose the leaves each day. It feels somewhere a cross between being hit with a sack full of doorknobs and a freight train filled with sacks full of doorknobs. Pleasant stuff.”
Corentin’s ears perked when he caught the sound of birds cawing overhead. And in a blink, they sat upon the rocky beach shores of somewhere else. In the distance, the gray tides rolled in a whisper, crested, and then sucked back into the fold again.
“How did we…?” he asked and then waved it off. “Never mind.” He knew it wouldn’t do to ask.
His twin struck a match, then cast it into a pile of driftwood and dried seaweed between them. The wood took to the flame in less than a second, and both Corentin and his twin crouched before it, warming their hands.
“Your name is Henri Corentin Devereaux,” his twin told the fire. “You go by your middle name because it’s Creole tradition.” He smirked. “Also, you definitely don’t look like a Henri. Your age is undefined because you seemed to fail at making a note of it. Your driver’s license says you were born in 1967, which puts you at forty-nine. But you’re not forty-nine, and you’re not Corentin Devereaux.”
Corentin straightened with the jolt of information. “What the fuck are you—”
With a glimmer of silver, his twin brandished the knife, and Corentin swallowed. “My turn to talk,” his twin said. “You’re an Enchant. Your ancestors were Hansel and the child-eating Enchantress who owned the swank gingerbread house. She charmed Hansel, and Hansel in turn joined the Enchantress in a tasty buffet made of his sister, Gretel. The tattoo is the spirit of the tree that stood outside the gingerbread house that slowly died as the Enchantress cooked her.” Their eyes met, and his double seemed to be gauging his reaction. He cracked a slow, sickle curl of a smirk that set Corentin’s teeth on edge. “Regretting you left that rabbit hole, eh?”
Corentin scowled. “Keep going.”
“Walk with me,” his twin said, gesturing to the rocky beach under their feet. The lush, mossy path drew itself into a long twisting line down the shore and vanished into the mist. He smiled and jerked his chin toward the distance. “Off we go, yeah?”
Clenching his fists and checking his growing irritation, Corentin had no choice but to follow.
With a tentative step onto the path, the beach and whisper of the ocean vanished into the dark. This time a thick grove of cypress trees draped in spanish moss rose in the beach’s place. In the boggy marshes, a blue heron speared a fish and then quickly sucked it down into its gullet. On the surface of the water, the beady stare of an alligator watched them pass.
“Here’s where it gets tricky,” his double said. “Hansel knocked up the Enchantress. The Enchantress, being a witch, and Hansel, being an Enchant, produced a child that was half witch. They call these children Cronespawn. Following me?”
“Do I have a choice?” Corentin asked. His curiosity and his doubt swayed back and forth.
“You always get doubtful at this part,” his twin said and snapped his fingers inches from Corentin’s face. “Stay with me here. This is a lot to take in.”
“You’re kind of an ass, you know?” Corentin said, then gritted his teeth.
His double laughed. “We’re kind of an ass. It’s just our nature.”
“So, I’m not this Corentin guy?” Corentin asked. “What kind of name is that anyhow?”
“A pretty pompous one, if you ask me. It’s the name on your driver’s license, so it’s yours. Don’t get all up in your head when you see the picture isn’t yours. The license is likely fake anyhow. No one seems to pay attention to it.” He beamed as if he looked upon a newborn baby. “Because you have such a pretty face.”
Corentin raised his finger to indicate a thought, and his twin shook his head.
“Don’t go there,” his twin warned him.
“So the Cronespawn…?” Corentin asked, changing the subject.
“You’re one of them.” The way his twin said it, the words seemed like he was reading the verdict of criminal.
Corentin scratched at his bristly jaw as he considered. “Uh-kay,” he said through his teeth as he looked down on his twin over the tip of his nose.
His twin shoved his hands in his jacket pockets as he rocked on his heels. “You’re an Enchant, but you’re dark magic,” he said, then smiled kindly at a passing turtle in the shallows. Corentin watched him, waiting for him to go on. “As a Cronespawn, you’re a huntsman. One of the many grunt jobs associated with serving w
itches, evil queens, and wicked stepmothers. You don’t get to do the fun stuff like the princes and princesses do. You don’t go to balls, or parties, or coronations. You’re the one stalking the rooftops and pulling off the assassinations from above.”
Corentin recoiled as a black racer slithered between his feet. “What now?” he asked, somewhat horrified.
His twin shrugged, seeming not the least bit put off. “Balls aren’t your thing anyway. Those damned duck pâté hors d’oeuvres sit in your stomach like a brick.”
“I’m an assassin?” Corentin asked, holding out his hand as if to grasp on to any logic coming from his twin’s mouth.
His twin chuckled and then brushed a sandy brown lock behind his ear. “Hitman, contract killer, call it what you like.” He smiled wide. “Huntsman just sounds better. More romantic, don’t you think? Still, no less absolutely terrifying.” He turned his gaze downward and toed the dirt. He sucked in a long sigh with a grin. “But you quit.”
Corentin tilted his head and smiled slowly. “Because of Taylor, right?”
“Because true love always finds a way,” his twin said. His demeanor had changed. He wasn’t so much the snarky counterpart, but someone at ease with the world.
Corentin shook his head. His twin told him he was his journal—was his twin changing his demeanor as he read more? Was it because his notes to himself became happier?
“He’s kind of a brat. That’s putting it mildly. More like a raging jackass,” his double said as he looked out over the swamp. “But I think that’s a part of the princess thing.”
“But… he’s a guy,” Corentin said, arching a brow.
“And he’s a princess,” his double said flatly.
“But he’s a guy,” Corentin insisted.
His double tugged at his hair and puffed a sigh. “Work with me here.”
Corentin held out his hand in a half shrug, encouraging his double to continue while pressing his lips into a terse smile.
“Princess Taylor Hatfield is your one true love. He’s an Enchant, like you, and for some weird reason, in the last handful of decades, guys have been born princesses and women have been born princes.” His double seemed to wait, gaging Corentin’s reaction again. And when he said nothing, his double continued. “You two have been through a lot together. You saved all of the Enchants and the mundanes from Taylor’s brother, Atticus. Taylor took it pretty rough, though.” His double tilted his chin toward the pathway. “Coming?”
“Do I have a choice?” Corentin crossed his arms and then scratched at his bare bicep.
“You’re too damned curious not to.” His double grinned. What an asshole. “Ah-ah,” his double said and flipped the knife between his fingers. “You’re forgetting who has the talky knife.” He turned and walked on.
Corentin gritted his teeth and followed. “You need to stop pulling thoughts out of my head.”
The double shrugged. “It’s not me. I don’t exist. You’re talking to yourself here. I guess….” He gave a smarmy smile. “I’m your conscience. Your very own Jiminy Cricket.” He went solemn and rubbed the back of his neck. “That sounds like a fucking awful job, if you ask me.”
“So, Taylor’s brother.” Corentin met his double’s gaze. He seemed troubled. “Did I kill him?”
“Oh no!” His double snorted a laugh. “Fuck, Storyteller, no!” He fell silent, letting it hang between them. They walked on, not saying a word to each other for several long minutes. Corentin didn’t raise any questions, and his double, despite being his self-professed conscience, seemed lost in his own thoughts.
“Atticus Hatfield isn’t just any princess,” his double said softly. “He’s the princess. The Fairest of Them All, Snow White. He’s the highest of all of the princesses. All Enchants kneel in his passing. The witches tremble in fear.”
As they walked, the path became wooden flooring. Corentin glanced up as the walls of the bedroom he had woken up in built up around him. He stopped as the nails and boards clicked together, and the framed pictures rose like bas-relief sculptures from the walls. He squinted at them to get a closer look. His heart fluttered with how happy he and Taylor looked together, but his double’s demeanor suggested something was off.
“Taylor had him committed,” his double said as Corentin stared into the photo of the World’s Largest Pancake Bake-Off. “He holds on desperately that Atticus will one day return to his senses.”
There was a notable pause as his double’s demeanor changed again. Corentin blinked. Was that remorse?
“It is,” his double said, once again pulling his thoughts straight from the source. He sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. “Atticus’s true love, the Witchking Idi, twisted his thoughts around so many lies and too much information too fast that Atticus just….” His snapped his fingers on both hands. The gesture explained what Corentin needed to know. “Atticus and Idi were going to kill us all. We stopped Idi, but Atticus wasn’t so lucky.”
Corentin turned away from the pictures and startled at the sight on the bed. He sat there, his monstrous journal in his lap, and Taylor curled around his side like a lost kitten. The Corentin on the bed stared into space, his eyes alight with sparks of green magic. His hand slipped over the letters and notes in a maddening skipping and tapping, as if his hand moved on jerking marionette strings.
Corentin’s heart sank as he watched Taylor bear witness to this process. Something on Taylor’s face suggested his own concern about whether Corentin reading his book would work.
“Taylor loves his brother,” his double spoke up, diverting Corentin’s attention. “He loves him so much that when he gets that look in his eye, you know. There’s no mistaking it. He tamps it down. But once in a while, something will kick the memories off. He just wants Atticus to come out of it. And nothing you say ever makes him feel better. It’s his road to walk. His journey. You are not the destination of that one.”
Corentin crossed his arms. He gave up on keeping his thoughts private and said the first thing that came to mind. “This is a lot to take in.”
“You always start thinking out loud at this point.” His double seemed to appreciate the honesty.
“So where am I? Where are Taylor and I?”
“Sullivan, Maine. As far from Taylor’s family as you could get. His father and he have a hard time communicating at normal volume. His mother just stays out of it. It’s better this way. You guys retired from it all. You’re here, in the frozen wilderness, living your own happily ever after.” His double glanced over his shoulder as if he was being watched and back to Corentin. “Just between you and me, the thermostat is far too temperamental for our liking.”
“We retired?” Corentin asked.
“From saving the world,” his double said, appearing agitated. “You really need to stick with me. Is it the smell of the bacon? Ringo’s bacon is deadly.”
“Ringo?” Corentin hooked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “The little winged man?”
“Taylor’s fairy godfather.”
Corentin’s shoulders slumped and he ducked his head. “Of course there’s a fairy godfather.” His tone reflected his doubt. How can it possibly be this absurd? He was in a magical enchanted forest after all. Couldn’t get any worse.
“Ringo is one of your best friends. You don’t have many. You’re kind of an introvert at heart. It’s the huntsman thing. You may be outwardly charming and a smooth talker to everyone, but you keep what’s going on in your head to yourself.”
Corentin looked to the bed and at Taylor’s longing expression. There was no mistaking him waiting for Corentin to come back.
“How often do we go through this?” Corentin asked.
His double sighed. “Every seven days.”
Corentin drew in a slow breath. “How lo—”
“You’ve been like this for years. Every seven days, you forget. It’s an Enchant thing. Because your ancestors Hansel and the Enchantress made a feast of Gretel, every seven days he remembered
what happened, and the Enchantress cast a spell to make him forget.” The double tilted his head, and Corentin noted him keeping his attention locked on Taylor. “Every seven days you forget everything. Him, Ringo, this house, what you are, the fact that you are a huntsman who had a change of heart. That you actually fell in love. That you found a reason to have faith again.”
“That Taylor makes me good,” Corentin said.
“Yes.”
The affirmation of his double made him shiver.
“Will it always be this way?” Corentin glanced up at his double, only to find nothing. He blinked again, and found himself in the bed, journal in his lap, and Taylor curled next to him. He opened his mouth and then closed it, unsure of what to say.
Instead, Taylor smiled with warmth and a contentment that made Corentin’s dread vanish. Taylor blew into a noisemaker, and the unrolling paper of the party favor tickled at Corentin’s shoulder.
“Happy birthday,” Taylor whispered and shifted to lay his head in the crook of Corentin’s shoulder and chin.
“Yeah…,” Corentin whispered, puzzling through all of his new information. He swallowed. Taylor shouldn’t see him afraid, he decided. Instead, he chuckled and kissed the top of Taylor’s head. “It’s not my birthday, is it?”
Chapter 2: All’s Fair in Love and Frittatas
May 3
The Devereaux-Hatfield Home, Sullivan, Maine
IT WAS an unexpected but half-planned surprise when Corentin joined Taylor in the shower. Taylor didn’t think he’d take the bait. But a few carefully orchestrated hints on Taylor’s part let Corentin know a morning frolic would make anyone start the day with an extra spring in their step.
As Taylor toweled off his long hair, he considered his split ends for a moment. He sighed. It seemed only female princesses had perfect hair. He recalled Miss Miriam suggesting to Devon that he should do something to tidy up his appearance. He didn’t catch all of the conversation, but there was a bit where Miss Miriam described him as a gangly street rat. Taylor had kept it in, taking the high road. It wasn’t going to solve anything to tell Miss Miriam to go fuck herself—though he thought about it—especially when she was the only kindergarten teacher in the three counties who brought her class to the library.
