Americana Fairy Tale

by Lex Chase

  “You’ll be fine. You have your fairy godfather.”

  “This does not make me feel better.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Corentin’s voice cut through Taylor’s worries. “Just the blue tab. The one in the very front.”

  “Okay,” Taylor said. “Got it.” His eyelids drooped, but he fought it off. “Corentin?” he asked the darkness.

  Corentin snorted and startled back to wakefulness. Taylor’s wave of sleepiness was apparently not a momentary thing. “Nnyeah?” Corentin mumbled.

  “It’s really going to be okay, right?” Taylor asked, then rolled onto his back. He threaded his fingers at his chest.

  “We’ll save your brother,” Corentin said. “We will.”

  “How long are we going to be trapped out here?” Taylor asked. The streetlights outside cast orange slashes on the walls.

  “Until we can find a way out.”

  CHAPTER 12:

  SNOW WHITE’S LIE

  Hatfield Plantation, Atlanta, Georgia

  June 7

  THE GRAND old oak trees outside the Hatfield Plantation stood blackened with crows. They cawed among themselves. Inside his bedroom prison, Atticus took a waking breath and sat up in the bed. He narrowed his eyes, trying to drown out the screeching birds. He looked down to his lap, and not only was he in the bed, but he had apparently been tucked in. The sheets and blankets had been neatly pulled back, and he had even been dressed in silk pajamas.

  Atticus smoothed the fabric on his arm, noting the luxurious texture. He flushed at the thought of who could have been so caring. He must have been dreaming, because of the calm and serenity that washed over him.

  “Atticus,” Honeysuckle’s voice drifted from across the room in an urgent whisper.

  Atticus scanned the room and hunted for the source. “Godmother?” he asked the empty room.

  The lid of a wicker basket shivered, and Honeysuckle pushed out from her hiding space. “Come, child. We must go,” she said and smoothed her dress. “The door….” She pointed to the open bedroom door. “This is our chance!”

  “Go?” Atticus asked. He wasn’t following at first. A crow flung itself into the window, and the window flowered with cracks. Atticus leaped from the bed, backing away from the window. His memory came back to him in fragments. “We need to save Taylor,” he said breathlessly.

  Another crow smacked into the window. Atticus skipped back a step again, across the pile of broken glass from the mirror. He stumbled and fell backward. He gasped as he crashed to the floor, and his foot stung with the gouge of glass. Atticus curled forward, reaching for his foot.

  Honeysuckle swooped in to examine the damage. “Hold still, hold still,” she said in a gentle tone.

  Atticus took a breath as Honeysuckle set about pulling the glass shards from the wound. He heard her squeal and make something that sounded like her usual fretting, but with a final sigh, she emerged from surgery. Atticus gasped as Honeysuckle hovered in silent contemplation, covered head to toe in blood.

  “G-godmother,” Atticus stammered.

  “We need to go, child!” Honeysuckle roared from somewhere raw and monstrous within her.

  Atticus scrambled to his feet and dashed for the door. He braced for impact against a magical ward but slammed into the opposing wall of the hallway, proving there wasn’t one. Atticus pulled himself up and, joined by Honeysuckle, took off down the halls and stairs of the Hatfield Plantation.

  “Just need to get to the magic cupboard,” Atticus said as Honeysuckle kept the pace, flying fast and furious. “I can get to the Dwarves Hollow that way. Mom and Dad will be there. They’ll know what to do. I think.”

  “Or they can get others to help us,” Honeysuckle said. “Hurry, quickly!” she urged him onward.

  They ran through the abandoned mansion without any obstacles. It was strange, but Atticus chose not to overthink it. All that mattered now was reaching the cupboard. He turned down a side hall, his bloody feet wetly slapping the floor. Atticus slid forward into the kitchen, then caught himself on the granite island. The pot rack swayed, and the iron rungs squealed.

  “Shh!” Honeysuckle urged him. She assumed the position of lookout, resembling a cannibalistic imp with her bloody and haggard appearance.

  Atticus nodded and quickly rummaged through the drawers. They ground on their casters and seemed to slam of their own accord. Again Honeysuckle warned him. Atticus bristled. “I’m trying to be quiet!” he whispered harshly. In the very back of the last junk drawer, he found the old rusty key with a tattered rabbit foot key chain. If anything, his parents had a sense of macabre Enchant humor.

  “Hurry, child, hurry,” Honeysuckle whispered, seeming to listen for anyone coming. “The crows are getting louder….”

  Atticus hopped onto the counter to the left of the sink. “Is that supposed to mean something?” he asked and listened as well. Their calls swelled into something maniacal and feral. Atticus assumed Charles was working his hidden magic. He forced himself to ignore it and pushed Charles’s accusations about Taylor out of his mind.

  “Only something horrific,” Honeysuckle said. Her dragonfly wings hummed and buzzed with agitation. “Got the cupboard open yet?”

  Atticus carefully stood on the edge of the countertop. He reached for the highest cupboard reserved for the fine heirloom china. He tested the weight of the key in his hand and eyed the lock on the cupboard door. The key had become rusted and warped from the Georgia humidity and age. There was no way it would fit. He frowned. He had to make it fit.

  Atticus forced the key into the old lock and turned hard. The cupboard popped open easily on its hinges, and Atticus smiled with a surge of victory. It was all for nothing when his mother’s fine heirloom china greeted him. He pushed through his doubt and set about quickly but carefully pulling the dishes, saucers, and cups from the cupboard. As he placed them on the counter, they slipped from the surface and shattered on the floor.

  “Atticus!” Honeysuckle snapped, and their eyes met.

  The crows shrieked.

  Atticus and Honeysuckle froze, listening to the frenzied crows for several long, painful seconds. “Are they in the house?” Atticus said softly enough that he fought hard to mask his terror.

  “Let’s not think about that,” Honeysuckle said and scanned the kitchen. “Just hurry!”

  Atticus resumed cleaning out the china. He placed a saucer on the counter, and again, a fraction of a second later, it shattered on the floor. Atticus frowned. He wasn’t being careful enough, and the more he tried, more dishes shattered. The bile of anxiety rose in his throat, and the crows were deafening. Atticus had given in to his panic, and he reached in with both arms and scooped the china from the cupboard. The plates, cups, saucers, and all the accoutrements crashed, cracked, and splintered all around him. The pieces piled onto the tile floor.

  The crows screamed, and the house creaked. They had gotten in the walls. It was only a matter of time now. Honeysuckle was screaming at him, but he couldn’t look at her or hear her over the roar of bloodlust.

  Atticus scooped the last remnants of the dishware out of the tiny two-foot cubby and smiled with the welcome sight of the rabbit hole burrowed in the back panel. The house trembled, vibrating with the anger of the crows. Atticus steadied himself against the terror. “I’m going!” he screamed over his shoulder to Honeysuckle but didn’t hear a response.

  He shoved his arms into the tiny cupboard, not considering how he’d fit into it. He was determined to try anyway. He reached farther back until he could touch the roots lining the rabbit hole. He gritted his teeth and yanked himself into the cupboard.

  The first thing that passed Atticus’s thoughts was how he couldn’t believe he fit into the cupboard. The second thing was the urge for self-preservation as he tumbled end over end down the rabbit hole. He reached out for anything that could slow his descent. He clawed at the walls and came away with dirt and pebbles under his nails. Roots slipped from his grasp, scraping his palms.r />
  He closed his eyes, bracing for impact, and jerked when he bounced as effortlessly as a bubble on soft grass. He came to a rest in a wide, open meadow and lay there a long moment, fighting to catch his breath. Once his heart slowed, he sat up and surveyed the lushness lying before him. Surrounding him on all sides, sunflowers stood tall.

  No birds cawed, and it was a welcome relief. The wind blew a gentle breeze through the sunflowers, and Atticus smiled as they swayed. He hurried to his sore feet and started off through the sunflowers. As he pushed into the stalks, the leaves caressed his skin. Atticus flushed with the pleasurable sensation but banished it from his mind. He continued onward and forced himself to ignore the tickles and tingles against his body. Even his wounded feet were forgotten as the immense pleasure of the sunflowers’ touch grew.

  Atticus panted before he knew he was out of breath. His heart raced, and his body was one overworked nerve ready to explode. His stomach tightened with the pent-up need. But he had to press on. He had to reach the Dwarves Hollow. He had to get help.

  He straightened, and a sunflower petal brushed against the back of his neck. Atticus screeched with the shock of intense pleasure surging through him and collapsed to the ground. He held himself on his hands and knees as his body shuddered. He didn’t understand. What was happening to him? He had never felt anything like this before. Princesses don’t feel these things. They’re not supposed to feel sensual experiences until they’re united with their true love and until they consummate. Atticus’s mind was in shambles, and he fought to compartmentalize his feelings. He hadn’t even pleasured himself before this whole mess. He had no need, no desire to do so.

  And he wanted more of it.

  Atticus pushed to his feet again. He staggered right and pushed into a grouping of sunflowers. He groaned with the leaves dragging across his skin and the growing warmth in his loins. He stumbled left into another group of flowers and crowed, his ecstasy ripping though him. “More.” He staggered, drunk on need. “Give me more.”

  He braced himself, counted to three, and then dashed through the stalks at a full sprint. The leaves whisked by, and petals licked at his face. Atticus wailed his pleasure and maintained his sprint for only ten seconds until he collapsed in a shivering heap. He pulled his knees into his body and shuddered. “So good… so good…,” he whispered.

  The cooling salve of a shadow crept over him, and he rolled onto his back to greet the man standing over him. “Feels good to let go, doesn’t it?” Charles asked, his eyes flickering like green flames.

  It was two pleasure-drunk seconds too late when Atticus recognized Charles. “Ch-Cha-Char…,” Atticus stammered, still shivering and on the peak of a perpetual orgasm.

  “Shhhh…,” Charles said. He stooped over Atticus and ran a finger over his cheek. Atticus screamed as his pleasure rampaged again. “You like that?”

  Tears of the frustration of unending desire stung Atticus’s eyes. “Uh-huh…” was the only thing he could manage to get out. His body seized with a sudden burst of pleasure, and he groaned drunkenly. “You did this,” Atticus ground out through clenched teeth.

  “This is what Taylor has,” Charles said as he took a seat next to the writhing Atticus. “Taylor has this every day.” He picked at a few blades of grass. “He has the freedom to give in to the pleasure of whatever he desires. He doesn’t have to worry about what anyone else thinks. He does what he wants, how he wants, on his terms.”

  As his body jerked with a spasm again, Atticus watched Charles. He didn’t understand. And this was important, but he was too far gone to truly care.

  “You ran through those sunflowers,” Charles said, then smiled. “That was your choice. You were taking ownership of your innermost desire. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Atticus tossed his head back and cried out as another climax came, more intense than the last. “Yes, yes, yes!” he bellowed.

  “Are you agreeing? Or are you just thanking Mother Storyteller I found a way for you to finally get off?”

  “God,” Atticus cried out. “This is amazing….” He drifted off, panting for breath.

  “And it can keep being amazing,” Charles said, considering the blades of grass in his hand.

  “Fuck,” Atticus gasped as his back arched against his will. “I’m… I’m….”

  “The word is ‘coming,’ sweetheart. You’re doing it. Go ahead and say it.”

  Atticus fell into Charles’s kind smile. His eyes watered, and he slammed his hands into the grass. “I’m coming hard!” Atticus roared, and his body trembled.

  Charles laughed, and Atticus was enthralled by the sound. “I think you overdosed yourself on the magic,” Charles said. “Enchants kill themselves that way. Going out with a smile, as they say.” He swirled his finger just over Atticus’s forehead. “Okay, let’s cool those hormones. I need you to listen to me. If you listen, I’ll let you go running through the sunflowers until you pass out.”

  Clarity returned to Atticus’s mind. He put a hand to his chest, feeling the slow slam of his heart. He gulped several deep breaths as the last waves of pleasure coursed out of him.

  “Before you say anything,” Charles said, and Atticus gestured to interrupt. Charles halted him. “I’m on your side.”

  Atticus hesitated. “My side? How can you be on my side?” he croaked.

  “I want to see you succeed,” Charles said. “My methods may seem questionable to you right now, but you’ll see the validity soon enough.”

  Atticus slowly sat up. He realized he sat side by side with Charles, but he didn’t feel any urge to run away. Or even the urge to punch him. It was peculiarly pleasant sitting next to him in the small patch of grass. Atticus looked away before he could be drawn in by Charles’s spiky blond hair and haunting blue eyes.

  “Atticus,” Charles said, and Atticus met his gaze. “I know how you kill yourself with keeping it all in. How you hide what you feel, who you feel for. How you mask your anger and jealousy at Taylor. How you’re forced to clean up the mess time and again. The pressure to be the good one and the perfect one. It’s too much for one person to bear. You need to let it go.”

  Atticus frowned, and the shame made him shiver. He stood suddenly and turned away. “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know Taylor stole a dance as well as a phone number of a young man named Vladimir at a Hatfield Jubilee when you were teens.”

  Atticus stiffened. “Don’t say it,” he said in warning.

  “You loved Vladimir,” Charles said without any hint of malice or disgust. “And when Taylor bragged about it, you knew then you couldn’t let anyone know you wanted to know a man’s touch as well.”

  “It’s not true,” Atticus whispered and clenched his fist.

  “Start taking ownership of your wants,” Charles said and slowly rose to his feet. “I’m on your side.”

  Atticus spun on his heel and roared in Charles’s face, “It’s not true!”

  Charles stood motionless.

  Panic raced through Atticus’s mind. He fought to bury his innermost thoughts and make it convincing enough. “As Snow White, I have responsibilities, things that I have to constantly stay on top of. Meeting the rare female princes, considering weddings, discussing compatibility with carrying on our lines. I want to get married. I want to be a father. I want to live happily ever after with my Prince Charming!” Atticus was screeching before he knew it.

  Charles didn’t blink. And the silence hung between them.

  “There’s only one thing you said in that diatribe that was true,” Charles said, crossing his arms.

  Atticus wasn’t winning, and Charles was digging truth out of him stone by stone. “Please, I’ll do whatever you want,” Atticus begged him. “Can everything go back to the way it was? I just want my brother back. I’ll do anything to have my brother back. Please. Charles. Please. Stop this.”

  Charles smirked. The expression made Atticus’s stomach tighten once again. “A kiss,” Charles said, and Atticus b
arked a sound of horror.

  “I-I can’t,” Atticus stammered helplessly. “I won’t. I’m not like that!” He clutched at Charles’s shirt. “Please, please. Not that. Anything but that.”

  Charles rested his hands gently over Atticus’s own. The warmth of his fingers made Atticus shiver. “I’m on your side, Atticus. I haven’t lied to you,” Charles said. His tone was even, patient.

  Atticus’s mouth wiggled into a frown. Charles was right; he’d do it without thinking. After the immense gift of pleasure Charles had given him, his body craved to repay his kindness and test both of their limits. Atticus fought his decision to believe Charles. He had to have been lying. He was Idi the Witchking, returned to enslave the world. He was the Lord of Liars himself. But Atticus couldn’t pull away from their closeness.

  “I’m sorry,” Charles said, clearly embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have forced you. That was horrific. How about you remain with me as my guest? No more being locked in that awful room, no more cages of children’s bones. You will have full reign of your own home. Just stay with me a little while.”

  Atticus sucked in a sharp breath when Charles hooked two fingers under his chin and guided their eyes to meet.

  “Will you stay with me?” Charles asked. Something in his smile made Atticus warm, but his confused emotions didn’t know what to make of it.

  Atticus weighed his options. If he refused, he’d probably be thrown into an oven and eaten. If he agreed…. His mind drew a blank on what could come of it. Was he simply agreeing to being horrifically disposed of anyway? “Y-y-yes…,” Atticus said in barely a whisper.

  “Yes?” Charles asked, and Atticus met his blue gaze.

  Atticus placed his hand on Charles’s and squeezed gently. He nodded. “I’ll stay.”

  CHAPTER 13:

  MAKING MEMORIES

  Wigwam Motel, Holbrook, Arizona

  June 7