Americana Fairy Tale

by Lex Chase

  The car engine howled to life, and Taylor whooped his victory.

  As they drove away down the plantation drive, Ringo watched Honeysuckle grow smaller in the rearview mirror. He drooped against Taylor’s cheek.

  “What did you do back there?” Taylor asked, guiding the putt-putting car out of the Hatfield Plantation grounds.

  Ringo clutched at his chest, panting against the knot welling where his heart had once been. He had no way out of this one. This wasn’t one of Taylor’s many flub-up moments that the nobles giggled about among themselves.

  He confessed to Taylor exactly what he had done. “Saved your life.”

  Taylor just drove, and Ringo would follow him wherever he roamed. He couldn’t help but notice the smile on Taylor’s face as he drove in circles. Passing through Marietta, Taylor pointed at the Kentucky Fried Chicken.

  “Want a ten piece bucket?” Ringo asked.

  “Nah,” Taylor said. “But I’ll miss the Big Chicken.”

  The gargantuan red trapezoid shape that was supposed to resemble a hen stood as an endearing Marietta icon of KFC. Googly eyes on opposite sides of the structure rolled in two different directions, and the boxy yellow beak opened and closed, silently clucking to passersby.

  “Miss it?” Ringo asked and then coughed. “Where are we going? I thought you were just going to drive in circles until you got your head together.”

  Taylor gave a wolfish grin. “Can’t be a runaway bride if I don’t run away.”

  Ringo lay back on his nest of Taylor’s robes on the dashboard. “Well, life with you is never boring.”

  The pain in Ringo’s chest eased once they hit the curve around the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport and the MARTA rattled over the tracks. They came upon the ramp leading to Montgomery and hit the open road.

  Taylor rolled down the window and cackled as the wind whipped through his dark hair.

  CHAPTER 4:

  REACH OUT AND TOUCH SOMEONE

  Hatfield Plantation, Atlanta, Georgia

  June 6

  ATTICUS COULDN’T believe it as he stood there on the porch. He stared into the distance of the oak trees lining the drive to the Hatfield Plantation, trying to visualize the moment Taylor would putt-putt his car back onto the plantation and say just kidding! He turned it over in his head. Things had been tense the way the wedding was tossed together. Without their parents, Atticus had to take charge of the situation. And then Taylor ran out on his own wedding. His older brother, a young man Atticus had long admired for his free spirit, ran out on the one thing he was destined to do.

  “God, he’s such a fuckup.” Atticus sighed and ran a palm over his face to wipe the frustration away.

  Charles Archer, Phillipa’s best man, rocked himself in the swinging bench a few feet to the left. Atticus glared at Charles, who seemed to smile at no one in particular.

  Charles had always struck Atticus as a rather odd fellow. His Enchant lineage was something of a controversy among their kind. Some said Charles’s ancestors bore children with mundanes, which resulted in diluted bloodlines. Behind closed doors, they called Charles Curseless, and that wasn’t a compliment. Every Enchant bore a curse; it was a part of their heritage. It established their identity. The curse was a symbolic challenge they would spend their lives trying to overcome and ultimately pass to their offspring. Being Curseless meant you had no purpose, no reason to live.

  Atticus knew all too well what it meant in his own family. Many times he overheard conversations between Mother and Father that Taylor himself might be Curseless. It sounded preposterous—about as preposterous as male princesses and female princes being born, but those too came to pass. Furthermore, Taylor wouldn’t have a fairy guardian if he wasn’t a princess.

  But the question remained in the Hatfield clan: who was Taylor Andrew Hatfield really? Was he Curseless and a declared simpleton like Charles Archer? Or was he something more and merely running from the responsibility?

  Atticus hedged his bets on an even fifty-fifty at this moment. After all, Taylor had worked out an escape plan before the wedding. Just one problem—Atticus held his brother’s wallet with his ID and credit cards in one hand and his smartphone in the other. He held out hope that Taylor’s antiquated Geo Metro would blow a gasket as soon as he got to McDonough. Atticus glanced at the phone, unlocked the screen, and scrolled through Taylor’s contacts. Someone would know where to find him. And he’d likely seek shelter with any of them.

  He dialed the first one on the list, labeled Billy-Boy. Atticus listened to the annoying ring-back song of that Bieber punk. Just when he was ready to stab himself in the eye, someone answered.

  “Heeeeey, sweet meat, sorry I missed you,” a young man answered.

  Atticus perceived he was not entirely sober. “Sweet meat?” Atticus’s nose wrinkled with derision. “Is this Billy?”

  “Yeah. Who the hell are you? Where’s T?” Billy grumbled.

  “Atticus Hatfield. Taylor’s brother,” he said, starting to pace across the wraparound porch.

  “Oh, yeah. The perfect one. I know all ’bout you,” Billy said, and the line crackled with a sigh.

  “Perfect one? Me?” Atticus asked, then pivoted on his heel and paced in the other direction.

  “Oh yeah. Atticus the straight shooter. Atticus is purer than the driven snow. Atticus the do-gooder.” Billy chuckled. “Need more?”

  Atticus’s gut wrenched with Taylor’s opinion of him. He forced himself to remain focused. “Listen, I need your help finding Taylor. I don’t know where he went, but he might be heading to see one of his friends.”

  Billy snorted a guffaw. “That doesn’t seem to be a reason to call out the cavalry.”

  Atticus hissed his impatience. “Taylor ran out on his wedding. An hour ago. Left his bride at the altar.”

  “You mean his prince,” Billy said in a tone that gave Atticus pause.

  “I’m sorry, but who are you?” Atticus retraced his path around the porch.

  “I’m one of Bunyan’s boys. I get it. You don’t need to be all hush-hush with me.”

  Atticus turned to the nearest column on the porch and thumped his head into it. Of course Taylor would fall in line with one of Paul Bunyan’s prolific offspring. Horny little shits, one and all. “Okay,” Atticus said, thinking fast on his feet about how to change his approach. “I’m thinking Taylor might seek shelter with other Enchants. I need you to help me track him down.”

  “Jeez,” Billy said, clearly irritated. “Are you that dense? Taylor’s spent his life trying to avoid anything to do with our kind. He only likes me because, according to the tourist pamphlets, my family is only good for watching over campgrounds and pancake houses. We don’t get invited to your little frou-frou soirees, if you get me.”

  “Look, I have no problem with you,” Atticus began, and his hope crumbled bit by bit. “But I really need to find Taylor. He’s my brother. I need to know he’s going to be okay. You know how he is.” Atticus slumped onto the swinging bench next to Charles, who continued to smile into the distance of the oak tree lane. Atticus ignored him but loathed himself for how helpless he sounded.

  “I know Taylor always finds a way.” Billy sounded pleased. “Tell ya what, if Taylor tries to call here, I’ll be sure to call you. I doubt his stupid Metro can make the drive to Minnesota.”

  “Minnesota?” Atticus asked, horrified. “You’re in Minnesota?”

  “I live here?” Billy asked in a tone of sarcasm. “Then again, that ratty-assed car made the trip to Syracuse before. I think Ringo must have sprinkled it with pixie dust.”

  Hope bloomed in Atticus’s gut. “Thanks, Billy. I got an idea. But keep me informed in the off chance Taylor calls.”

  “Roger wilco,” Billy said, somewhat disinterestedly.

  “And Billy?” Atticus asked.

  “What?” Billy whined.

  “Have you been fucking my brother?” Atticus asked point-blank.

  Billy burst into laughter, and the reaction did
n’t sit well with Atticus. “Storyteller, no! But it’s not for lack of trying. You know, princesses and their magical chastity belt doohickey spell. Can’t get busy with anyone unless it’s true love. It’s like he’s got a little bubble over him that shocks the shit out of me if I try to go for it. Never even kissed him.”

  Atticus sighed a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It was blessed news that Taylor’s Princesshood was still intact and Phillipa would be the one to eventually break it. Or at least that was the plan.

  “Appreciate the honesty,” Atticus said and ended the call.

  He turned to Charles, who never stopped blithely staring into space. The Curseless Enchant was somewhat creepy. Atticus had no idea what Phillipa saw in Charles as a best man, but there was something curious about him. Despite the red flags that Charles was a creep, Atticus had a fixation on his devastating good looks.

  “Where’s Honeysuckle?” Atticus asked Charles, trying to make conversation.

  Charles didn’t look at him but smiled nonetheless. “Isn’t she your fairy godmother? You should know, Sir Princess.”

  Atticus gritted his teeth with distaste for his Enchanted title. A princess just like his brother. This Hatfield generation was as motley a crew as ever.

  “Have you been drinking?” Atticus slid away from Charles.

  “Maybe a bit,” Charles said in a singsong way.

  Atticus took that as his cue to depart from Charles’s company. He hurried into the great hall, where the staff was efficiently dismantling the wedding decorations. Some carried away floral arrangements, others folded table linens, and another group stacked the chairs in neat columns. Phillipa reclined on the steps of the altar and casually took a swig of champagne from the bottle. Atticus tried to put it out of his mind that Phillipa seemed to exhibit some of Taylor’s more unfortunate traits. She drowned her sorrows as a jilted prince, but she went about it in a crass way.

  “Just because the wedding’s off doesn’t mean the food has to go to waste,” Phillipa said with a smirk and then took another gulp.

  Atticus crossed his arms and glared at her.

  In front of Phillipa, Honeysuckle buzzed in a tiny circle over the shards of her wand, splayed across the floor. She had arranged them like puzzle pieces and tried bursts of her magical light to unite them. The blinks of light fizzled out into smoke. Honeysuckle landed on the floor and rearranged the pieces again. She fell back into a sitting position and held two shards in her hand. Atticus noticed the utter dread on her face.

  “How could he do this?” Honeysuckle lamented, inspecting the jagged edges of the shards and trying other combinations. She glanced up to Atticus as he crouched over her. “You were never this difficult.”

  Atticus shrugged. “Taylor’s just… different,” he said. “I’m sure his better senses will return to him.” He watched Phillipa slurp the last drops out of the bottle and wipe her mouth on her waistcoat. “It’s okay, Phillipa, he’ll come back.”

  Charles wandered into the great hall, and Atticus caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure about that?” Charles asked. “Weren’t you just imploring one of his secret lovers?”

  “Secret lover?” Phillipa asked and pushed to her feet. “Hold on a minute. I’m not marrying damaged goods.”

  “He is pure,” Atticus said flatly, then raised his hands to halt both of them. “I have an idea.” He glanced down to Honeysuckle at his feet. “Honeysuckle can track Ringo and therefore find Taylor.” He crouched to the pixie’s level and smiled. “Can’t you?”

  “Oh, Tinker Bell…. Oh, Tinker Bell…. Tinker Bell, Tinker Bell, Tinker Bell!” Honeysuckle fretted and threw the shards of her wand onto the floor.

  “Godmother?” Atticus asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, dear…,” Honeysuckle said sweetly, then hesitated. “It’s my husband. Taylor’s godfather.”

  Phillipa brightened, and her attention settled on the tiny woman. Atticus nodded to her. She had obviously understood what he intended. “Yes,” she said. “You two are bound by the heart. Your heart can lead you to him and Taylor.”

  “That’s the problem, candy cane,” Honeysuckle said with a sad sigh. She cast her arms over the floor and her shattered wand. “When pixies are bound to one another, we have a talisman representative of our bond. And….” She mournfully looked at the shards. “He broke my heart and therefore severed the ties.”

  Dread bubbled in Atticus’s gut. At this point he couldn’t decide if he should break into the champagne alongside Phillipa or throw up. How could Taylor do this? Did Taylor hate being an Enchant that much? “Dammit,” Atticus hissed. “Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit!”

  Both Phillipa and Charles watched Atticus quietly. He paced a small path like a nervous cat. “Taylor and his godfather could be anywhere with no money, no ID, and no phone.”

  “Maybe he’ll run out of gas?” Phillipa asked. “Metros are not known for their tank size.”

  “Taylor’s friend suggested Ringo had cast a spell on it,” Atticus said and frowned.

  “I might know a way,” Charles said and reached for his phone.

  Atticus crossed his arms, his defenses raised. “Oh really?”

  “I’m going to call in a favor,” Charles said with an air of confidence Atticus hadn’t seen before.

  Atticus shook his head, confused at how the problem was suddenly taken over by someone else. “Wait…. What favor? Who are you calling?”

  Charles turned away from Atticus.

  Honeysuckle frowned and landed on Atticus’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right, dear. Let him help,” Honeysuckle whispered in his ear.

  “Come on, you shit, pick up,” Charles muttered and ran a hand over his face. “Motherfucker,” he grunted and dialed the number again.

  Honeysuckle bristled from her place on Atticus’s shoulder. “Such vulgarity!”

  Atticus tried to meet Charles’s angry gaze. Whoever Charles was calling, it didn’t appear they were on good terms. Atticus reached out for Charles’s shoulder, and Charles jerked out of his grasp. “Who are you calling?” Atticus asked softly.

  “Corentin Devereaux,” Charles said absently.

  Atticus recoiled as if Charles had punched him. He knew the name well. Enchants whispered about the kind of man this Corentin Devereaux was. “You’re calling a huntsman?” Atticus gasped, horrified. “What the hell are you thinking?”

  Charles snarled and tried the number again. “I’m very well aware of what I’m thinking. He’ll do the job if he knows what’s good for him.”

  Atticus had to stop Charles. He lunged forward and made a mad grab for Charles’s phone, but Charles ducked out of his way. “Please! Don’t call him! Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

  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 f
inger 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.