Bayou Fairy Tale (36 page)

Her desperation took him apart from the inside out.

Corentin’s vision tunneled, going from green to black to green. His curse loomed only moments away, and for once he welcomed the timing.

He nodded to her. “
Burn
,” he said. “
You need to burn.
”

She coughed a violent spatter of black blood.

Corentin clung to her hand, the mud of ash and blood squished between his fingers. “
Burn
,” he urged her. “
Hold on until you burn.
” He smiled. “
You need to tell me everything. Tell me you’re my sister. You’re going to tell me, yeah? In five minutes. You can make it.
”

She gagged, and blood bubbled from her mouth. Her grip softened on his hand.

Corentin’s vision grew dim. He focused through it, digging deep to concentrate on her. If he could hold on for five minutes, she could too. “
We’ll do it together, okay?
” he asked.

She coughed another spatter down her chest.

“
Together
,” he said, restraining his panic. “
Together.
” He sniffed but maintained his smile. “
Hold on. You’re going to hold on.
”

Gabrielle didn’t answer.

Corentin shook his head against the thick fog seeping into his brain. “Gabrielle,” he said as he blinked through the darkness. He couldn’t hear her over the howling wind of the beckoning rabbit hole. “
Burn. Please, Gabrielle. Please.
”

Gabrielle lay still, her dark eyes gazing upward with thoughts she’d never be able to share.

Corentin fell back to the sidewalk and his soul into the rabbit hole.

May 10

Canal St, New Orleans

THIS IS
how it ends.

The words ran through Taylor’s mind as the pavement sped toward him.

This is how it ends.

He closed his eyes, anticipating seeing Corentin’s face on the other side. Who would they be when the Storytellers wrote them back into the world centuries from now? Would they remember each other? Would they spend their very last breath on Earth finally recognizing each other?

Burning thorns stabbed into Taylor’s heart and pulled it into a violent pulse. His spine locked as briars slithered up his spine, curled over his chest, and wrapped around his arms and legs. The thorns dug deep into his skin, and primroses bloomed, fed from his blood. The petals scattered from his form, leaving behind the black-and-gold spiny armor befitting the dragoon princess within.

Zee’s terrible roar ripped from Taylor’s throat. The world trembled.

Taylor’s prison of slumber shattered with the dawn of clarity.

Beauty awakened.

Taylor gasped with the salvation of waking breath. He slammed into the pavement, and the asphalt rippled into a deafening shockwave. Pink primroses bloomed in its wake, filled the streets, shot up the buildings, and wove through the feet of the rioting mundanes. Sparks of Taylor’s inner magic gently drizzled onto Canal Street. The mundanes became still, then yawned as they swayed on their feet. A great hush came over them as all the mundanes dropped to their knees, then settled into the flowers, falling into pleasant dreams and healing sleep.

At last the Blooming Lullaby came forth from Taylor’s will to save what Corentin couldn’t. Taylor owed it to Corentin in his memory; he would protect his home. And in time, Taylor would forgive himself for being unable to protect his heart.

Around him, the gunfire faded into soft memories of troubling dreams. The screams of the insane now silenced from haunting nightmares into sweet dreams of sun and warmth long denied New Orleans.

Corentin’s philosophy was a simplistic concept about choices. Not to think about what came next. Focus on the present, make one choice, and then move to the next. Even impossible choices had solutions. But solutions bore more choices. Corentin was convinced that the cycle would have a conclusion, but it never did.

Taylor had chosen Corentin. And now he chose awareness of what had to be done.

The fog of indecision had vanished, and the distractions of the superficial had been obliterated. Taylor understood it in the twisted briars of his soul.

Enchant and mundane alike all lived and died by their choices.

In the distance, mundanes cried out tortured howls. More
pop-pops
and crackles of gunfire. Rumbles of fires and destruction as New Orleans sank into the deepest night terrors.

They needed sleep.

It was time to heal.

Taylor’s lance materialized in his waiting hand, and he clutched the bejeweled primrose over his chest plate. “Ready, Zee?” he whispered, his voice calm and on the edge of sleep.

Zee burned into every inch of his flesh.

Taylor’s lashes fluttered with the surge of heat. He had his answer. He took off toward the sound of tragedy.

Like his great ancestor, Princess Zellandine the Dragon Slayer, Taylor moved as though he drifted through a lucid dream. His body was at ease but his mind remained aware. His logic pinpointed on the middle of scenarios instead of the context at the beginning or end.

He took to the rooftops, skipping from ledge, to eaves, to chimney. Around him, the lettering of signage blurred into abstract squiggles, the images on billboard advertisements faded into blank surfaces.

He walked through dreams, dancing the line of the real and the improbable, but where nothing was impossible.

Below him on the streets, mundanes turned on one another, trying to drive out the demons in their minds. The guardsmen had been overwhelmed, and they too had fallen into the madness. Those who had guns fired at anything that moved. Those who didn’t used bricks, broken timbers, their fists, even their teeth.

Taylor sighed with a drowsy breath, breathing out and breathing in. As he overlooked from a rooftop like a contemplative god, he tapped the butt of his lance to the brick ledge. A pulse of pink magic flowed down like a waterfall and spilled through the crowds. Primroses took root, and their sweet scent lulled the hysterical into peaceful slumber.

Amid Taylor’s handiwork, the streets crackled as the shock of ice enveloped his soft primroses. He narrowed his eyes. This was not the dream he created.

The cool breeze against his cheek warned him, and Taylor snapped back as Atticus narrowly missed his chance to behead him with his axe.

“You don’t get to do this,” Atticus pouted.

Taylor flipped back, distancing himself from Atticus. He raised his lance in challenge. “You should have never done any of this,” he whispered in a sleepy, meditative tone. “You took Corentin from me.” He tilted his head with a lazy smile. “Eye for an eye, wouldn’t you say?”

Atticus panted a frosty breath as heavy silver plates of armor crystalized over his body. He flipped his great axe in one hand and paced a slow circle around Taylor. “I’m going to enjoy making you suffer,” Atticus said with a sadistic grin.

Taylor tilted back his head, watching Atticus over the tip of his nose. He smirked. “That’s adorable.”

Atticus charged forward, his heavy boots leaving ice crystals with each footfall. He held his axe low, and Taylor predicted an upward strike. Taylor didn’t move and let Atticus believe he had the advantage. Atticus came close, and Taylor raised his palm out to him.

“Zee,” Taylor whispered.

Zee came to her master’s call, her spirit erupting from Taylor’s body and shoving Atticus back across the roof.

Atticus teetered, then slipped over the side. Taylor dashed to the edge, guilt gripping him as he wondered whether Atticus had fallen to his death. But skepticism was in the forefront of his mind that it couldn’t have been that easy.

Taylor tipped forward just as a thick lock of golden hair shot upward to smash into his jaw. He fell back, crashing onto the rooftop gravel. Taylor spit blood and a chipped tooth. “Ray,” he grunted as he kicked up to his feet.

Across from him on the neighboring rooftop, Atticus crouched on a rooftop gargoyle. He waved his axe like a child’s toy. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to take care of my fiendish master plan to make you stop trying to fix this mess.” He turned, waving over his shoulder. “Tah!”

Taylor took two steps forward, inches from chasing after, when Ray’s damned hair blocked his path.

Golden curls lashed to the fire escape railing and pulled tight, as Ray himself ascended by his own magical hair. He pulled off his knitted cap and swept a bow. “I’d apologize, Dragon, but I stopped making apologies when I married a Stepmother.” He smiled. “You understand, making your bed with the Axeman.”

Zee rumbled, echoing Taylor’s disgust. “Where are the children, Ray?”

“Gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Ringo said over Taylor’s shoulder. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of you being skinned alive.”

Taylor skipped back, and Ringo zipped forward toward Ray. Relief washed over him; Ringo was alive and well. But there was no way Ringo could deliver on such a threat.

“Ringo?” Taylor called out, but then a hand settled on his shoulder. He spun about and looked up into Idi’s stern expression. He shook his head and immediately went on the defensive.

“Just trust me,” Idi said as he raised his hand toward Ringo. “I’m on your side.”

“Like fuck you are,” Taylor growled.

“In three seconds you will.” Idi nodded to his right. “After you, madam.”

Taylor arched a brow as Honeysuckle took flight from Idi’s right shoulder. “You’re in on this?”

Honeysuckle held up a finger. “One moment, pumpkin. This princess needs a trim.” She sped headfirst into danger, and Idi snapped his fingers. A thick length of silver wire materialized into Honeysuckle’s hands.

Ray swatted for Ringo, but Ringo dropped back and then traced figure eight patterns over Ray’s head, just out of reach.

Idi flicked his fingers, conjuring an oversized wrench into Ringo’s grasp.

“What are you doing?” Taylor asked.

Idi kept his attention on Ray. “Helping.”

As Ringo ran the distraction, Honeysuckle zipped in and wound the silver wire in a tight coil just behind Ray’s head. It held in place, despite being wound around the nothingness of air. Ray jerked away, but the coil held.

“It’s his hair,” Taylor said, catching on.

Idi nodded. “You’re up, Ringo.”

With a two-finger salute, Ringo spiraled around Ray and avoided being swatted. Honeysuckle provided the distraction by blowing bubbles into Ray’s eyes. Ringo took the wrench and tightened it onto the wired coils.

“Come.” Idi gestured to the two of them.

Ringo and Honeysuckle returned to his side, and Taylor looked on, bewildered and disbelieving.

Ray remained trapped in place as he squirmed against his bonds. Idi slowly twisted his wrist, and the wrench turned on the coil, tightening.

“What are you doing?” Taylor asked.

“Helping.” Idi twisted the wrench tighter, and Ray groaned as he squirmed.

“I said, what the
fuck
are you doing?” Taylor growled and raised his lance to Idi’s throat.

“Like you, I’m trying to save this Storyteller-forsaken city, and I’m trying to stop Atticus from causing even more damage,” Idi said, tightening the wrench.

Ringo and Honeysuckle nodded. “He’s legit,” Ringo said. “He saved me and Honeysuckle.”

“That doesn’t make sense…,” Taylor said, shaking his head. “Why?”

“It’s a very long, depressing story that will probably make you feel very uncomfortable about my history with your brother,” Idi said as he tightened the wrench again. Ray broke into sharp, pained screams. “Short version is, I fucked up, and I want to make it right.”

“Oh… kay…,” Taylor said as he still tried to wrap his head around it. “But you’re the Witchking. You’re a damned chaos dragon that burns Enchanted Forests to the ground and destroys entire kingdoms with a blink. You can do anything.”

“About that…,” Ringo said, pointing a finger.

Idi nodded, then frowned. “When I take a new vessel, my magic takes time to acclimate. I had possessed Charles since we were children. I’ve only been in this vessel for the last two years. I’m as powerful as an infant learning to crawl.” He tightened the wrench again. “Hence, why I can’t kill this deplorable filth outright and needed their help.”

The disconcerting sound of hissing and scraping against the concrete put Taylor on edge. The black cloud of the Skinners rose over the rooftop ledge, ready to do their master’s bidding.

“You need to get to Atticus,” Idi said. “I’ll take care of this. You three don’t need to see when I peel Ray’s scalp off.”

Taylor looked out over the city and listened for the sound of the most despair. Atticus had to be there. He turned back to Idi and tightened his grip on his lance. “You know this is all your fault, right.”

“I’m plainly aware,” Idi said as he concentrated on Ray, then glanced to the rising tide of Skinners.

“You know it’ll be a cold day in hell before I trust you.” Taylor stepped to the ledge and judged the distance across the street.

Idi smirked. “That’s good, because it’s twenty below, and here we are in this hell together.”

Taylor beckoned Ringo and Honeysuckle to his side, and the trio took off again.

Grumbling to himself, Taylor had a new problem to contend with.

Idi was now just as arrogant and insufferable as Corentin.

May 10

New Orleans Public Library, Algiers

“DEVEREAUX.”

The woman’s voice shot through his mind, brighter than sunlight.

“Fuck, Deveraux. Get up!”

With a groan and a cough, he squinted as the frozen concrete stung the back of his head. He blinked, and a blonde woman loomed over him, her red dress soaked in spatters of dried blood. She scowled at him, impatiently waiting for something. His death?

He scrambled to his feet and stumbled back against the ice-slicked railing. He clutched his head and felt the ragged gash along his scalp. His eyes widened as he yanked away his hands and gasped at his bloody fingers.