Bayou Fairy Tale (10 page)

Corentin tested the weight of the box. Definitely at least twenty or so pounds. He slipped it into the truck onto the passenger floorboard. After getting back into the driver’s seat, he sat there, rolling it over in his head.

The curiosity got the better of him, and he tipped the box to check out the address label.

It definitely was for him.

But the delivery address was the VIN number of his truck and the overlook location on GPS.

What the fuck?

“Definitely something enchanted,” he muttered as he hefted the box into his lap.

Balancing the box between his stomach and the steering wheel, he slit the tape with a pocket knife. He took a breath and reached in to feel the classic, satisfying texture of Bubble Wrap.

He laughed. “Ringo will have a field day with this.”

He wedged in his hand and nudged the block of Bubble Wrap onto the passenger seat. An envelope fell out of the box and into his lap. Corentin blinked. His name was on it, all right, but no indication from whom. He sniffed it and felt along for any residue. It seemed clean.

He cautiously tore open the envelope and pulled out the blank parchment card. He gave an irritated toss of his head. “Of course it has to be theatrical. Of
course.
”

He held the card to the light and saw only the fibers weaving the old parchment together.

This is so stupid.

“Say something,” Corentin said.

And the words appeared in long curls of wet calligraphy ink.

“Seriously?” This was by far the most ridiculous.

“Once Upon A Time…,”
the card spelled out.
“There was a Huntsman….”

Corentin threw the card as if it had burned him. He recoiled against the seat and grimaced at the bubble-wrapped block. It couldn’t be. It was just a present from Taylor. Ringo and Honeysuckle were in on it. It was his birthday, Taylor told him.

He laughed at his unfounded fear. He could be such an idiot sometimes.

“Let’s see, shall we?” he said as he pulled the block onto his lap.

As he gleefully unwound the layers, his forced cheer turned into worry and then concern that he shouldn’t have. And finally the fear took a tight hold of his mind.

His terrifying gift taunted him from his lap.

Another monstrous journal.

Sealed with another bungee cord, the duct-taped composition notebooks kept the usual photos, receipts, and tabs—but bore dirty pages, pages with scorched edges. The cover had been scraped with overlapping lines of a knife, more long burn marks, and a splatter of old blood along the spine. And a few wisps of hair still stuck in the marks of violence.

Acid rose in Corentin’s throat. Did he beat someone to death with this one?

What kind of person kept such an angry, vicious journal?

Was this the lost piece of himself he longed to discover?

Now here it was, ready to be opened, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He closed his eyes and gripped the unfamiliar steering wheel. He took three deep breaths, trying to relax. That wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not for another seven days, if he could hide the old journal on himself. If he didn’t have to read it, none of it would be true.

But it would find him. Just like the pen.

He thumped his head on the steering wheel.

“Why can’t you be simple, Henri?”

May 3

The Devereaux-Hatfield Home, Sullivan, Maine

“PICK UP,”
Taylor whispered into his smartphone. “Come on…. Stop dodging my fucking call.”

The line continued to ring. Voice mail had clicked on four times at this point. Taylor knew damned well that one could get cell service on the summit of Stone Mountain, so his father could definitely get a signal at the Hatfield Plantation in Atlanta. He snorted as he glanced around his modest house; the damned plantation was like a gaudy McMansion. The luxury had stifled him back then, and he couldn’t wait to leave.

The plumbing in the walls sang with a ringing hum as Corentin took a shower upstairs. The thought of Corentin relaxing from an honest day’s work eased Taylor’s nerves and was a small favor. But his hackles rose again as the phone continued to ring.

“Are you getting somewhere?” Ringo called from the kitchen as he and Honeysuckle made a valiant second attempt at a frittata.

Taylor shot his hand up when he heard an encouraging click.

Only, again, it was the familiar droning of voice mail.

“Dammit!” Taylor snapped and raised his arm, ready to throw his phone. Good sense not to potentially shatter the screen prevailed. Instead, he punched the throw pillow.

Ringo cautiously raised a finger. “You could… just… leave a voice mail?”

Taylor glared at him and smoke puffed from his nose. Zee echoed Taylor’s annoyed sentiment.

Ringo gulped and pressed his fingers together. “Okay. Maybe not.”

“Bastard,” Taylor growled under his breath as he stared at his phone. Zee mirrored him. When he was anxious, she did so. When he was irritated, she followed suit. He swallowed down the smoldering heat building in his throat.

Could he breathe fire? Taylor didn’t want to find out, but he wouldn’t knock it if he could. He cupped his cheek and flipped his phone end over end in one hand. Maybe it would make him feel better.

Taylor slumped back on the couch and let the phone slip from his fingers to the green shag carpet. He rubbed his itching eyes, and when they wouldn’t stop itching, he rubbed harder. The half-empty blister pack of ZzzQuil sat on the end table. Blindly, he felt around for the foil packet and scooped it off the table. Taylor didn’t need to see to know there were more gelcaps in the packet. He popped them out of the blister with ease and swallowed them down like tasteless plastic candy.

Lying back on the couch, he concentrated.

Sleep. Please sleep. Sleep is awesome.

His mind drifted to the precipice of sleep. The waking dreams teased him in the distance. He chased them into the gathering darkness. Almost. Almost asleep! He could get there.

His heart thumped with the need for survival. Taylor coughed, bolting upright from the shock. He coughed and reached for his iced chamomile tea and chugged the rest of the glass. He glanced at the clock on the opposite wall as he drank: 5:30 p.m.

Eying the blister pack, Taylor counted how many pills it finally took to make him sleep. It seemed the magic number was twelve.

“Are you still trying to call your dad?” Ringo asked from the kitchen.

“I must have fallen asleep,” Taylor said. “Did he call back?”

Ringo fluttered to the doorway and peeked into the living room. Concern made his bushy brows look like two fuzzy caterpillars kissing. “You just got his voice mail a minute ago.”

Taylor frowned. “So. This is not five thirty the next day?”

“Nope. Not even five minutes have gone by.”

Taylor’s lip quivered. “I was out for five minutes?” He wanted to cry, but instead only felt righteous anger. He could deal with anger. But calm and tranquil was another matter that eluded him.

Ringo remained in the doorway. “How many ZzzQuils have you taken today?”

Taylor shook the box at Ringo, and the empty blister pack rattled inside. He then held up the second crinkled-up packet. “One packet and a half.”

Ringo scratched at his chin. “And you’re not dead?” He didn’t seem overly concerned.

“Not even sleepy,” Taylor said and dropped the box between his feet. “At all.” He rubbed his eyes. “At the state of ‘I’m so exhausted, I’m wired.’”

Ringo fluttered in a lazy curlicue pattern and settled on Taylor’s head like a housecat. “That’s the price you pay as Sleeping Dragon. The restful power of your Blooming Lullaby steals your ability to sleep.”

Taylor pulled Ringo off his head. “So I’m an insomniac now?”

“Insomniacs can be treated. You?” Ringo shook his head. “You’ll always be like this. Tired but always awake.”

“Fuck.” Taylor groaned. “How did Princess Zellandine do it? She was a fucking badass dragoon.”

Ringo took flight from Taylor’s grasp and settled on the end table. He paced around the mismatched teacups and rows of framed pictures. “Zellandine maintained a constant meditative state. She was always relaxed, but it took intense concentration to do so.”

Taylor propped his chin in his hand. He puffed a scraggly lock of hair from his face. When it settled in front of his line of sight again, he pinched it and brought the end closer for observation. Split ends, as usual. “I can do that. I can meditate,” Taylor decided.

Ringo crossed his arms and shook his head.

“No?”

Ringo rubbed at the back of his neck. “Look at it this way.” He flicked his fingers as if trying to find the words. “You’ve been given a car. Your car is awesome. It’s a Lambo. It goes fast. It’s got enough horsepower to trample a Hun army.”

Taylor arched a brow. “Where is this metaphor going? Because….” He turned his palms up and mimicked an uneven scale.

Ringo waved his hands. “It goes together, okay?”

Taylor chuckled. “No. But okay.”

Ringo pointed a stern finger. “Shoosh! My metaphor. My lesson.”

Taylor flopped back onto the couch. The fabric puffed with the heavy-handedness with Febreze.

“Anyway,” Ringo said. “You’ve been given this amazing, sexy death machine, and you don’t know how to drive it.”

Taylor stared at him. “You know. That was the most backward metaphor.”

“You distracted me!” Ringo sighed.

“You could have said I’m running around like a kid with a gun. I don’t know where the safety is,” Taylor suggested.

Ringo pointed between Taylor’s eyes. “Yes. But you don’t know how to put the safety back on.”

“My metaphor kicked your metaphor’s butt.” Taylor laughed.

“Well, excuse me, princess.” Ringo scowled.

The smartphone rumbled to life between Taylor’s feet and nudged the ZzzQuil box into rattling like a mechanical swarm of angry bees. Taylor scrambled for the phone and checked the caller ID.

“It’s Dad,” he whispered.

It rang.

“Well, isn’t that an unfortunate surprise,” Ringo muttered and took flight back to the kitchen.

On the fourth ring, Taylor answered. An irate hello was on his lips, but his father was the first to speak.

“What is the meaning of calling me nonstop today?” Lord Hatfield asked. There was no love in his voice. Not a scrap of concern.

Taylor pressed his lips together and swallowed the urge to snap. If he did, his next answer would be a dial tone. He took a breath.

Inhale.

Exhale.

In.

Out.

He was like a kid with a gun. Only the gun was a dragon. And he had to find the safety. Taylor repetitively clenched and released his fingers.

“I got a letter from Andersen’s,” Taylor said. He steeled himself. He would be firm. But polite. “You didn’t tell me about Atticus being moved. We agreed you and I decide together.”

Lord Hatfield went silent.

When the quiet persisted, Taylor’s heart thumped. Did he hang up on him after all? After several agonizing seconds, Taylor chanced it. “Are you—”

“You were busy,” Lord Hatfield said, his tone far more dominating than Taylor could muster.

Zee took it as a personal challenge, dragon to dragon. Taylor patted his stomach, as if that was the closest approximation of where a spirit dragon lived.

“Busy with what? You could have picked up the phone any day.” Taylor narrowed his eyes. He refused to be cowed by a man who barely tried to be his father.

“You know how it is, so wrapped up in your… business with that huntsman. How could I reach you?” Lord Hatfield’s refusal to acknowledge Corentin made Taylor grind his teeth.

“This isn’t about me,” Taylor said, taking the high road. “We decided we would care for Atticus together.” He massaged his stomach, trying to cool Zee or the anxious cramps. Probably both. “Why did you? Clearly you had a fantastic reason.” Taylor made sure his father could hear his sarcasm.

Lord Hatfield chuckled. Taylor clawed into the armrest of the couch. His father wouldn’t back down. “He has a new psychologist.”

Taylor slapped his forehead. “And when, pray tell, did he get a new psychologist?”

“When I decided he should,” Lord Hatfield said, bordering on sounding patronizing.

Taylor’s temper took over as he snarled. “What the fuck have you done?”

“Would you like to know?” Lord Hatfield asked. “Or would you like to end this discussion?” His voice was like a bear trap clamping over Taylor’s fury.

Taylor sighed as he brought his legs to his chest. “No…,” he muttered in defeat.

“Good.”

Taylor clenched the phone, fighting the urge to snap it in two. “Go on,” he said softly and continued rubbing his stomach. After more agonizing seconds of silence and a crackle over the line, Taylor panicked. “Are you there?” he squealed.

“Yes. Sorry. I’m on the golf course,” Lord Hatfield said casually.

Taylor gnashed his teeth. “You’re joking.”

“Ha. Ha,” Lord Hatfield deadpanned.

Asshole. Why are we related?
Taylor’s thoughts rampaged through his mind. Zee perked, and Taylor sensed her confusion. He patted his stomach.

“I didn’t think his previous psychologist was addressing the true root of the issue. So I brought in someone else to address his sexual dysfunctions,” Lord Hatfield said, as easily as if he were murmuring in his sleep.

Taylor pounded his fist on the arm of the couch. “Sexual dysfunction? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Taylor.”

Taylor fell silent from the warning.

“Idi had enchanted him and forced him to engage in acts unbecoming of a young man.” Lord Hatfield paused. “I apologize if I’ve insulted your experiences.”

You’re damned right you insulted me, fucker
, Taylor thought but wouldn’t say. Instead, he opted for the truth. “Atticus is gay, Dad. It took me a long time to accept it, because I knew the shit he was going to catch for it.” He was amazed at how calm he sounded. “Conversion therapy is only going to harm him.”