Bayou Fairy Tale (20 page)

“Taylor… Taylor, stop,” Corentin said, patting his hands again. “I’m okay. You’re going to drain yourself….”

Taylor didn’t answer, but his fingers violently trembled, signaling trouble.

Corentin pulled away from Taylor and then turned to face him. “Shit!” he gasped at the state of Taylor’s bleached face. His eyes had clouded over with light pink and his jaw clenched tight. Corentin clasped his hands over Taylor’s cheeks. “Come on, stop. Stop,” he begged him. “Please, I’m okay. Look. Look at me. I’m okay.” The brave face he had always maintained for Taylor’s sake had fallen, and Corentin was at a loss for what to do.

Ringo appeared in a puff of glitter next to them.

Corentin looked to him for guidance. “Please, something’s wrong, and I don’t know if I can stop it.”

“He needs to sleep,” Ringo said as he fluttered over Taylor. “He can’t seem to pass out on his own.”

Corentin’s hands trembled. “What can we do? We have to do something.”

Ringo snapped his fingers, and a glowing gold baseball bat twinkled into being. “With this.”

“I am not beating him in the head with a bat,” Corentin snapped.

“Storyteller, no!” Ringo tossed up his hands. “What am I? A barbarian?” He wiggled his fingers at the bat. “This.”

The bat glided slowly to Taylor’s forehead and rested against his skin with the lightest of touches. Taylor let out a sharp gasp from the nonexistent blow and crumpled into Corentin’s arms.

Ringo patted his hands together in satisfaction. “TKO,” he said with a smirk.

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Corentin said as he cradled Taylor to him.

“Yeah, sure. I think.” Ringo rubbed the back of his head.

“You think?” Corentin gaped.

“It’s the first time I used the bonk bat, okay? We’ll know when he wakes up.”

“We’ll know what?”

Ringo looked away. “If I liquefied his brain….”

“What the fuck!” Corentin barked. “Ringo!”

“Kidding, kidding!” Ringo frantically waved his hands. “Joking! I swear!”

Corentin narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together.

Ringo swallowed. “I think….”

“You know I can skin you in less than a minute, right?”

May 7

St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square

DESPITE RINGO’S
insistence to use magic to get them back to St. Louis Cathedral, Corentin was determined to carry Taylor himself. It was his duty to his princess to sacrifice himself in Taylor’s name. It was Corentin’s honor as Taylor’s true love to defend and protect his princess until his dying breath. Ringo had said it long ago: princes serve as meatshields to their warrior princesses. They might fight side by side, but the prince was the one to take the bullet. That would never change.

Until the moment it almost did.

As Corentin’s heart palpitated while he had lain in Taylor’s arms, the woman escaped. Corentin knew she was no mere Enchant. The brand had done something to him. He let his inhibition fall away, and for a terrible moment, felt the urge to hurt Taylor in ways he had thought he had long tamed. That violence, that lust—not only for Taylor’s blood, but for what he’d do to his body after. Corentin choked down the urge to vomit. He could have hurt Taylor. Not hurt. Killed. And it would have been so easy. Taylor would have never seen it coming.

When they reached the cathedral, Corentin kept his attention on the sleeping man in his arms. He couldn’t bear to look at the saints and apostles gracing the ceiling and granting those in the pews salvation. This was a house of the most holy, and Corentin was the evil inside.

“Can you do something about our clothes?” he asked Ringo as he fluttered nearby. Corentin tried to ward off another shiver, but failed as his teeth chattered. He laid Taylor onto a pew, being mindful of his head.

“One warming spell, coming up,” Ringo said and rubbed his hands together.

Corentin fruitlessly hugged himself, trying to hold in the warmth.

Ringo clapped his hands and unleashed a puff of gold glitter. He sprinkled it by the heavy handfuls over Corentin and then Taylor.

Corentin heaved a sigh as the magic siphoned the water out of his clothes and brought much-needed heat back to his skin. He smiled at Taylor as his face regained pinkness. He reached to brush away a long dark lock of hair from Taylor’s forehead, but froze midgesture and then recoiled.

He gaped at his hand with the horrified recognition that it was the hand that would have ripped Taylor’s still-beating heart from his chest. Corentin stumbled back, away from the pew, and then backed into another one. His knee buckled from hitting at just the unfortunate right angle. The charley horse shot from his toes to his hip as he limped away.

“You okay, boyo?” Ringo asked as Corentin staggered back.

“Yeah, yeah,” Corentin said, waving a dismissive hand. “Just watch over him, okay?”

Corentin didn’t waste time as he rushed toward the cathedral doors. He didn’t even hear Ringo say yes or no. He had to get away. He couldn’t look at Taylor. Not like that. Not with the guilt and regret and the imaginary whisper that him sleeping was really his corpse.

Hurrying from the cathedral, he slipped through the comings and goings of the volunteers. Corentin tried to get out of the direct line of sight, but failed when he vomited the black tar of dark magic onto the pristine snow. The ick sizzled and melted through the tall snowbank like molten trails of inky lava.

“Cronespawn,” he muttered under his breath and spit into the snow. “She was fucking Cronespawn.” Corentin ran his hand through his hair and sniffed. How would he tell Taylor? They needed to tell the truth in a time like this. They had to be open.

But the wave of nausea settled in the pit of Corentin’s stomach at the thought of doing so. He had so many things to tell Taylor and things he kept from him for protection. The journal had showed him the Storyteller woman Goslynn had died in this city, and the blizzard had led them here. He couldn’t mistake fate for coincidence.

Part of him wanted to convince Taylor it wasn’t Atticus who had summoned them to New Orleans, but his own past trying to show him something. Lead him somewhere. Make him solve something. Or answer for something. Like past crimes.

“Hey, hey,” Ringo called as he zipped to Corentin’s side. “Taylor’s coming around.”

“He okay?” Corentin asked.

Ringo poked his fingers together. “As in, his brain isn’t liquefied, then yes.”

Corentin nodded and then took a cup of broth from the rations table. He’d head inside and be there when Taylor woke up. It was his duty to his princess. Would he give Taylor the truth? There were still things at war with his thoughts; his honor as Taylor’s servant and his secrets as a huntsman that he couldn’t reconcile.

He reached Taylor’s pew and sat next to him. He smiled and ran his fingers through Taylor’s soft hair. Corentin recognized that even the hand that was so determined to kill was also the hand that could comfort.

“HERE,” CORENTIN
said as he held out a cup of hot broth to Taylor. “Drink.”

Taylor smiled, trying to get his eyes to focus. He sat up and scratched the back of his head. “The cathedral?” he asked in confusion as he looked around at the gathered storm survivors huddled down for the night in thick blankets.

Candles flickered like winks of fireflies, and kerosene lanterns glowed as their blue fingers reached across the aisles. Fire pits and drum fires had been posted just outside the doors since they couldn’t afford to burn the historical landmark by accident.

“How did we get here?” Taylor asked, still trying to piece it all together. “Did I fall asleep? For real?”

“I think you passed out, more like,” Corentin said. “You used your Blooming Lullaby. But only on me. I’m not sure exactly what that means. Maybe you’re too weak to do a massive casting?” He slid next to Taylor on the pew and held out the cup. “Drink.”

Taylor’s cold cheeks flushed as he accepted the cup in both hands. “I’m still working the bugs out of my magic. I have awesome days, and then I have not so awesome days.”

“Drink,” Corentin commanded.

Taylor squinted at him. “What is it with you trying to get me to drink all the time? From chamomile tea to broth—are you trying to poison me?”

Corentin looked away and observed the goings-on.

When he didn’t answer, Taylor’s stomach clenched. Taylor smiled crookedly. “Right?” he asked, looking for assurance.

Corentin looked back at him, confused. “Right what?”

“That you’re not trying to poison me?” Taylor tried to be funny about it, but still he wasn’t certain.

Corentin grinned and ruffled Taylor’s hair. “Busted.” He chuckled. “I’ve been slipping you tiny amounts of arsenic for a couple years now.”

“
What
?” Taylor squeaked.

“Trying to build up your immunity, just in case,” Corentin said so effortlessly that Taylor laughed with him, playing along.

Taylor smirked and punched Corentin in the shoulder. “You shit,” Taylor said, calling him out on the punch line of the joke.

“I’m not joking,” Corentin said, and the cup of broth slipped in Taylor’s grip. He glanced at Taylor. “You need to drink to keep your strength up.”

Taylor gave Corentin a suspicious yet terrified glance. He had to be kidding. Taylor sniffed the cup of beef broth. Probably easiest to hide arsenic in something with a strong flavor. Frowning, Taylor shook his head.

It was a damned joke! You’re making something out of nothing
, he told himself.

Corentin pointed at the cup. “Come on, drink,” he ordered.

Taylor watched Corentin over the rim of the cup. He never stopped waiting for Taylor to drink.

It was just a joke. It’s not a big deal, you big baby!
Taylor reminded himself.

He sipped, and Corentin smiled, seemingly pleased at Taylor’s obedience. Taylor arched a brow as Corentin looked away again, distracted by the goings-on inside the cathedral. They sat in silence, and Taylor sipped his broth while watching Corentin get lost in his own contemplations.

Men and women gathered around each other like penguins huddling for warmth. Ray went from group to group, handing out flashlights, MREs, and chem packets for heat. Lacey sat among a gaggle of elderly ladies, out of place with everything, with her cotton-candy-pink hair and fern sleeve tattoos hiding her Dust track marks. She shivered, not so much from the cold, but from the crash. The ladies seemed to try to make small talk with her, but her gaze darted around like a startled rabbit looking for a safe place to hide.

Taylor sipped again, and Corentin looped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. Taylor shivered, permitting himself a moment to feel small and protected. He curled up against Corentin, tucking his head in the nook of Corentin’s neck like a needy kitten. Corentin rested his chin on top of Taylor’s head, and Taylor sipped in silence.

Corentin tensed over him, and Taylor murmured a note of confusion.

“Shh, shh,” Corentin said and rubbed Taylor’s back. “Drink.”

“Okay,” Taylor whispered, and held the cup to his lips. He ran it over in his mind as Corentin remained a protective sentinel over him.

Corentin seemed out of his element, and yet at the same time, clicked into place like a long-lost puzzle piece found continents and years away. The world was perpetually new for him, and Taylor knew that firsthand. Corentin fooled them all effortlessly with how he appeared to have immense clarity. But he could no longer fool Taylor when he saw all the smoke and mirrors. Taylor could not only see through the trick, but he could also see when the trick wasn’t working.

Right now, the trick wasn’t working, and Taylor could sense Corentin’s anxiety.

New Orleans made Corentin nervous. Taylor understood Corentin’s intense kinship with the city, yet Taylor was a mere passenger as Corentin discovered it all over again. He could only sit and provide support as Corentin sorted through the fragments of his life. The puzzle pieces of his memories formed a full picture one moment, and then the puzzle would crumble into a mix of more pieces that didn’t make sense. It was a never-ending scramble to keep the pieces sorted before the previous picture fell apart.

Taylor shifted away from Corentin, then set down his half-empty cup. Corentin seemed too preoccupied by constantly skimming the survivors.

Ray went through another round of welfare checks. Getting more blankets to the elderly, and chem packs to those who couldn’t shake the cold. It was time to bed down for the long chilly night, and there wouldn’t be any more MREs until dawn.

Taylor nibbled at his bottom lip as he watched Corentin take in everything around him. He summoned his bravery to ask the question that had become necessary, but remained uncomfortable.

“Do… do you need me to write some things down?” Taylor asked softly to not perk the curiosity of those in earshot.

Corentin’s eyebrow twitched, and Taylor regretted mentioning it in a public situation.

Instead of saying anything, Corentin reached into his heavy coat and pulled out a small notepad and pen from an interior pocket. Without a word, he held them out to Taylor.

Taylor carefully took the pad and pen as if taking a baby bird from its nest. He smiled weakly, trying to communicate his appreciation for Corentin’s trust. He flipped to a page in the notepad and clicked the pen.

Taylor started making tentative notes and then looked to Corentin again. “I’m sor—”

“Shh.” Corentin held out a halting finger as he continued to look over the cathedral.

Taylor frowned. He clutched the pen, trying to still his trembling.

“Just drink your broth, okay?” Corentin said.

Taylor didn’t need to be told twice not to say anything else. He made quick shorthand notes. His own handwriting had become just as tragic as Corentin’s. He wrote quickly as he sipped his broth.

Taylor made a list of possible suspects behind the nor’easter. Finally, he asked Corentin again, “You really don’t think it’s Atticus behind this, do you?”