“Where’s Corentin?” Taylor snapped as he struggled against Ray’s magic.
“Not here to save you, apparently,” Zane said with a shrug. He nodded to Ray. “Get going.”
Ray flicked out another lock, this time snaking over Taylor’s throat. Taylor screeched as the lock constricted, squeezing his voice out of him.
“Don’t fight it, Dragon,” Ray commanded him. “Someone’s been looking a very long time for you.”
“Got the pixie?” Zane asked Lacey.
Lacey nodded eagerly and presented her prize like a child with a postcard.
Ringo trapped in a Ziploc bag, his face and lips slowly turning blue as he choked for air.
Ringo!
Taylor tried to scream, but he could only gag. He reached out to the one thing that could help him, and his draconic soul roused to serve her dragoon master. Under Taylor’s anger, Zee came forward like an ethereal torrent. Ray’s hair shredded into ash, and Taylor dropped to his feet.
“Give him to
me
!” Taylor howled, his breath smoking with Zee’s rage. He didn’t need his lance or his armor. He dashed for Zane, ready to remove him from existence as quickly and painfully as possible.
But Ray recovered from Taylor’s attack and was ready to go again. He ensnared Taylor around the wrist, then yanked him back. The force sent Taylor crashing onto the hood of a Camaro. It crumpled across the engine block on impact. Taylor bounced once, the wind bursting from his lungs with trails of acid from his stomach.
“Hook wants him alive!” Lacey protested. “We can’t get the Dust if he’s dead!”
Taylor reached out, his hand trembled, and his world grew dark. “Ri… Ri…,” he said in a scratchy rasp.
Zane loomed over him, watching him over the tip of his nose in superiority. He pulled apart the Ziploc bag just enough for Ringo to get a new puff of air. He tossed Ringo at Taylor like he was a wad of trash.
Taylor coughed as Ringo collided into his chest as dead weight. He tried to hold Ringo close, but his arms wouldn’t cooperate as they trembled from the shock.
Ray, Zane, and Lacey all watched him, curious as to what he might do.
His magic was unreliable, and Zee’s power was sporadic at best. And his own wit couldn’t get him out of this one.
“Ready to go?” Zane asked, and Ray pulled out a storybook page.
Taylor caught the Rapunzel illustration through the thin paper.
Ray felt along the page and nodded to Lacey. “Words are supposed to work like this?”
Lacey nodded. “Yes, yes! Just concentrate. Find your chapter.”
Words? Chapter?
Taylor’s head spun as he tried to concentrate on all the jargon being tossed about.
Golden strands of hair rose from the storybook page in Ray’s hand. They reached for the ceiling, spinning, twirling, and then falling like voluminous curls at their feet.
“Grab him,” Zane said.
Lacey laid a hand on Taylor’s ankle and Zane slapped it off.
“Not you,” he commanded. “You’re needed here. Suit up.”
“But I want his dust!” she whined and feverishly pointed at Ringo.
“You’ll have plenty waiting for you in your room,” he said somewhat dismissively. When she didn’t move, he snarled at her like a beast from the deep. “Go!”
Taylor struggled to get up, but both Zane and Ray slapped a hand on his wrist and another gripped his ankle.
“We’re going.”
A burst of gold threads showered over them and wrapped around all those gathered.
Taylor whimpered. He wouldn’t be able to salvage his relationship with Corentin.
But he would find out who wanted him.
Taylor managed to put his fingertips on Ringo. And the world around them sank into the unforgiving light.
May 9
Idea, Study Hall
RUNNING AWAY
wouldn’t solve anything. Corentin’s stomach churned with guilt and self-loathing. He should have fought for Taylor. He should have, but he didn’t. His cowardice urged him farther and farther down the maze of halls. He needed somewhere empty, somewhere he could be alone with his thoughts and have a chance to get it straight in his mind. Truthfully, he wanted a place to privately fall apart.
A sign reading Study Hall up ahead seemed like the last option he could find. He shouldered open the heavy oak doors and then dashed through the rows of wooden desks. Corentin’s footfalls pounded like his heart over the tiles. Weaving through the short bookcases overstuffed with reference, he found his own private corner.
Corentin slammed the journal onto the desk like a carcass and yanked off the bungee cord with a harsh snap. He let the bag drop at his feet and threw himself into the chair.
He had to think.
Think.
Corentin buried his face in his hands and took several long, ragged breaths. He pulled his hands away.
Fuck. Was he crying?
Taylor’s tears had shattered him. They always did. Taylor was the stronger of the pair, but Taylor thought it was the other way around. He believed Corentin was the fierce protector from any who would dare do him harm. But in the end, Taylor gave Corentin the courage to move forward.
It took bravery to let Taylor start updating his journals. But Corentin felt the frailty in doing so.
With Taylor’s inspiration, he didn’t feel fragile.
Without him, it consumed him.
If he didn’t give it a name, or a face, he wouldn’t have to own up to it. His fears could be easily forgotten every seven days.
But his fears did have a name and a face.
It was Henri Corentin Devereaux, the face that looked back at him in the mirror.
He could never tell Taylor how afraid he was. How he preferred silence instead of giving in to it. Taylor made him strong. Capable.
And now Taylor would rather torture himself with the agonizing pain of sleep than face him.
Corentin gnashed his teeth. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t!
In a fight to keep his emotions in, he sent his grief into action. He roared and kicked the desk to the floor, sending it crashing with an echoing crunch that made his ears ring. His journal fell open facedown, scattering papers and trinkets across the tiled floor.
Corentin took a breath, but it did nothing to quell his nerves. He stood and approached the mess of papers and photographs like they were newborn fawns in the forest.
He sighed, resigned to it all.
This is what he had become. Constantly picking up the mess of his life.
He crouched and then one by one gathered the loose Post-its, photos, love notes, silly doodles, and Hallmark cards.
His gaze softened. Instead of hurried and embarrassed, he contemplated each memento one at a time.
On a pink Post-it, Taylor had written: “Don’t forget you’re awesome.”
Corentin picked up a Polaroid of them at Christmas. Taylor had made an obscene snowman with a monstrous penis and was all too proud of his accomplishment.
He chuckled softly and flipped over another Post-it.
“Hey. I made chocolate chip cookies for you. But I ate them all. Sorry. LOL. IOU?”
Corentin’s heart eased with Taylor’s tenderness. He picked up another photo. A breath caught in his throat.
Ringo had photographed Taylor lying awake in Corentin’s arms as he slept. Another photo revealed Taylor sitting at his bedside, holding Corentin’s hand while waiting for dawn.
Taylor always watched out for him. He was behind him every step of the way. To Taylor, being his true love wasn’t Enchant lip service. It was actually true.
The tears found Corentin as he sat on the floor. He drew his journal into his lap and a pen rolled from a page into his waiting hand. He sniffed, smiling through his sadness. Corentin owed Taylor the same courtesy. If he was going to truly honor him, he had to be all in.
But it meant facing the most deplorable thing he could have done to both of them.
He took a breath and let his mind relax. Corentin’s hand did the rest, moving freely as the journal sucked his thoughts into its pages. There was no picking and choosing what to write down. There was no hiding from himself. Corentin had fallen into that darkness and taken it out on the one he loved.
Taylor had enjoyed it and wanted more, but Corentin was too terrified to admit he relished the moment.
It would always be something between them. But it was something Corentin determined they would get past. Taylor believed Corentin could be better. He needed to believe it himself. Even when all seemed hopeless, even as he fucked Taylor for his own pleasure, Corentin needed to keep trying to be better. But the fear remained that he never would.
“Oh dear!” The familiar prim voice drifted in from the study doors. “This place is a maze!”
Corentin let go of the pen, and it stayed in place vertically on the page, waiting for him to come back. “Hey,” he said to Honeysuckle with an exhausted smile. He sniffed again and then smudged away a tear with his thumb. “I’m okay.”
Honeysuckle flew closer and knitted her dainty brows. “Henri, you are clearly not okay.” She held out her hand to his shoulder. “May I?”
Corentin nodded and pointed to his shoulder with his chin. “Please.”
She smiled and settled on it. She smoothed her skirts and properly crossed her ankles. “Please, sweetheart. What’s the matter?”
“I screwed up.” Corentin resumed writing. He let his hand take over for him, and it moved on its own accord. “Bad.”
“Oh, come now.” Honeysuckle patted his cheek. “You know you can tell me.” She turned up her nose and beamed with pride. “Pixie Enchant confidentiality.”
Corentin rubbed the back of his neck. “I never had a fairy godmother before.” He smiled. “It’s nice.”
“Between you and me, I’m the better one.” She gave a confident nod.
Corentin snorted. He turned back to his journal as he scribbled through previous words with new words. “I let myself go in front of Taylor,” he said as he wrote. “I showed him everything. My dumping ground. How I hurt those people. I hurt him.” His lip quivered. “I hurt him and I liked it.”
Honeysuckle blinked her disproportionately huge eyes. “
Oh
.” She didn’t need any further explanation.
“But
he
liked it.”
Corentin shook his head and his hair fell from its small ponytail. He laughed—a humorless, remorseful sound. “He liked it
a lot
.” He sniffed. “How could he? Did he even understand the danger he was in?”
“Dear.” With a simple term of endearment, Honeysuckle brought Corentin’s worry to a full stop. “Taylor is Sleeping Dragon. As my husband says, he has a tac nuke for a soul. If anything, he could have hurt
you
. He could have easily killed you.”
Corentin flexed his fingers around the duct-taped spine of his journal. She did have a point.
“Ringo and I are well aware of your enjoyment of each other, and all that it implies.”
His stomach clenched and his cheeks burned with the awkward conversation. He wasn’t some fifteen-year-old having the birds and bees discussion. He was a middle-aged man getting flustered over the idea of his much younger soul mate.
“Taylor loves you,” she said. The kindness floated on her voice.
“I know,” he mumbled and ducked his head, avoiding her gaze.
Honeysuckle puffed a frustrated sigh. “Taylor
loves
you.” She annunciated each word and weighed down with the meaning. She took flight from his shoulder. The buzzing of her wings echoed through the cavernous study hall. “He’s devoted to you,” she said as she hovered in front of him. “Everything he does, he does for you.”
Corentin’s grip tightened on his pen. “But I can’t do anything for him….” The confession hurt worse than any dagger.
Honeysuckle threw her arms out. “Is that what this is? You don’t feel like you’re man enough for him?” She narrowed her eyes in scrutiny. “Henri Corentin, you are more than enough.”
Corentin sighed and flicked the pen away. It skipped and rattled across the tiles. There would be another. He ran his hand over his face and considered his words. Anything he could say now would still come out wrong.
“He deserves better,” he said behind his hand.
Honeysuckle pulled a tiny fist to her chest and gasped.
Corentin looked away into the distance of the study hall. He would avoid looking at her as long as he could get away with it. Forever was the ideal.
“He deserves someone who can give him what he wants. What he needs,” Corentin said and dropped his hand across his journal. “Someone who can provide for him.”
Honeysuckle puffed out her cheeks and grumbled in indignation. “You are letting your relationship grow stagnant. You know that.”
Corentin looked down to his journal. Her words hit the mark like an icepick to the windpipe.
“The moment you showed him something new, you panicked,” she said. “The moment you gave him a chance to understand you, you regretted it.”
He remained silent and scratched the back of his neck.
“Henri Corentin Devereaux,” she growled. “You
will
look at me when I’m talking to you.”
What was he? A small child pulled by the ear? He pressed his lips together and raised his eyes.
“Why are you holding yourself back with him?” she asked, wringing her hands. “Why are you so scared? What are you afraid of?
Commitment
?”
Corentin sucked in a sharp breath and glared at her wide-eyed. “Don’t,” he warned.
She slapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh my word. Is that your problem? All this time? You?”
He frowned and silently fished out a folded pamphlet he had hidden by gluing two pages together. He held it out between two fingers and waved it at her. “Take it.”
She blinked her wintergreen eyes as she took the scuffed, glossy paper. Honeysuckle carefully unfolded Corentin’s excessive creases. Her mouth fell open as she looked up at him and then down to the pamphlet. “Kay Jewelers?” she whispered as she opened it.
“The circled one,” Corentin muttered as he flicked his finger at the back of the paper.
Honeysuckle looked up at him over the edge of the pamphlet and then down again. She beamed with excitement. “Sugarpop. It’s a ring….” She bounced in midair and tossed back her head in a joyous laugh. “How wonderful!”