“Two, please.”
Oh, she was so polite. Such a treasure. Millicent smiled as she poured the fragrant liquid into the delicate china cups. “You must drink all of your tea before taking a cookie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The girl placed the edge of the cup to her lips, and for the tiniest moment, Millicent had the urge to knock it out of her hand.
No. She’d been given her directive. The girl’s father himself had insisted his five-year-old daughter be put into Millicent’s care; and more specifically, that Lenore be given angelic treatment. Even though it was rare for magicals to give up their own children, especially a powerful Raven like Lenore’s father, it wasn’t exactly unheard of, either. She’d seen the disappointment in the father’s eyes as he looked at his daughter.
Mundanes gave up their children for being too magical.
Lenore’s father had given her up because she was not magical enough.
Such a shame, too, because the girl was otherwise perfect. But Millicent had long ago learned that she should not question her betters. Her life was devoted to the children at Raven’s Heart. And though she was experiencing unusual doubts about seeing Lenore to the other side, she would do her duty.
The girl took the barest of sips before grimacing. “Miss Millicent, this tastes funny.”
Startled, Millicent stared at Lenore’s light blue eyes. She’d seen a crystal like that once, such a light blue it was nearly white. Like ice.
Like judgment.
A chill stole through Millicent, but she would not be cowed by the girl. She frowned. “It’s very rude to make disparaging comments about what your hostess is serving. You are a guest, Lenore.”
“I apologize,” she said in a soft, penitent voice. “But isn’t it rude of the hostess to put death into the tea?”
Millicent blinked. The brew was her own special blend of herbs and alprazolam. She used just the right amount of jasmine and magic to disguise the taste.
“I would like to go home,” said Lenore. She put down the full cup, then folded her hands in her lap. She stared unblinkingly at Millicent. Those glacier eyes seemed more tinted now, more blue, more…magical.
The back of Millicent’s neck prickled, and sweat beaded her brow. Lenore really was the most amazing child. None of her angels had ever suspected the tea was doctored. None had ever uttered a complaint.
“I’m afraid you can’t go home,” said Millicent.
She nodded, then sighed. “Father does not want me.”
“You really should drink the tea, dear. It’s for the best.”
The girl glanced at the cup. “No, thank you. May I go now?”
“Where would you go?”
Lenore considered this question, one finger perched on her chin. “Away,” she said. “Far, far away.”
“That’s not a destination,” said Millicent. She rose, smoothed out her dress, and smiled at the girl. “While you decide where you would like to go, I will get the book. Do you like the story of Cinderella?”
“Yes,” said Lenore.
Millicent turned toward the bookshelf. Not only did the tall pink case house a well-stocked array of children’s titles; the bejeweled box on the upper shelf held a syringe. It was her plan B. Thirty-four angels she’d sent to the other side, and she’d never had to use it.
Lenore was an amazing child, indeed.
She opened the box and withdrew the syringe, cupping the cylinder in her hand to hide it, and then she pulled the oversized pop-up book from its place on a lower shelf.
“Now,” she said brightly as she turned, “let’s—”
Lenore stood by the table, looking at Millicent with such a sad gaze. “You really aren’t very nice,” she said. She looked around the room. “They’re all here. And they’re mad.”
Millicent swallowed the sudden, tight knot in her throat. She brought the book up to her chest, almost as though it might serve as a shield. “Who’s here, Lenore?”
“The children you murdered. They told me about the tea. They told me what you did.”
“I would never, ever hurt my angels,” she said sharply.
Pity entered Lenore’s gaze. She had such an adult look about her. And she was so eerily calm.
“Good-bye, Miss Millicent.”
She turned to go. She was even so bold as to take steps toward the door. Millicent was stunned by the chit’s gall. Lenore actually believed she could walk out of here? Leave the only person who would ever, ever love her?
Rage thrummed through Millicent. She uttered a cry, dropping the book, and raised the syringe. She’d been wrong about Lenore. She wasn’t special. She wasn’t amazing. She was a horrid, horrid child. She didn’t deserve to be an angel. Not ever.
“Evil girl,” she hissed as her arm came down. “You will burn in hell.”
Lenore stopped, then turned. “Not me,” she said, her voice filled with sorrow. “You.”
The syringe never made contact.
Lenore’s odd blue gaze blazed as hard and cold as crystal, as ice…as death.
Violent wind came out of nowhere. It shattered the china, knocked books off the shelves, ripped the lace curtains. Lenore stood in the middle of the chaos, watching with distant eyes as Millicent was flung backward, the syringe falling uselessly to the pink shag carpet.
She landed on the chaise, her eyes wide, her mouth open in a silent scream. Pressure from little hands crushed her chest, and tiny fingers scratched at her windpipe.
Her lungs flattened.
Her heart slowed.
Her vision grayed.
She saw her angels then, all around her, pushing and shoving and clawing.
And as she struggled for her life, to escape from the vengeance of those she had loved, she saw Lenore give her one last pitying look and walk out of the room.
The quiet snick of the door’s closing was the last sound Millicent ever heard.
Chapter 1
Present day…
“She’s filthy.”
Norie Whyte stared dully at the man in the black robe, his tall, bulky form hidden by the layers of shining cloth. The hood covered his face, but even through the mush that was currently her mind, she recognized the man’s voice. He was the one who kept showing up and bossing everyone else around. The two guys holding her up were leaning away as much as possible. She’d gotten used to the stench, just as she’d gotten used to sleeping on the floor and defecating in a bucket and being naked—and being stoned out of her mind.
“You said to make sure she couldn’t escape again. You didn’t say nothing about keeping her clean.” This protest rang out from the bald guy on the left, the one who liked to stare at her breasts and touch himself. He knew better than to try to get his jollies with her. She used to have three guards, but one had made the mistake of trying to rape her.
The man in the black robe had punched a hole in his chest with his fist and magic, and then he had coldly watched the horny bastard bleed out on the floor. Then he’d used his magic to turn the body into ash. Just…poof. No more rapist. Then he’d looked at the other two, who’d both pissed themselves, and said calmly, “Do you also require an explanation of what ‘virgin sacrifice’ means?”
They didn’t.
She didn’t know Black Robe’s name, his title, his House, or his face. But she knew one thing quite well: He was an asshole.
“I won’t do it.” She wasn’t sure if the words actually made it past her throat. Then Black Robe swung toward her, and she knew he’d heard the hoarse protest.
“It’s your destiny, Norie.”
“Bullshit.” Her voice was stronger this time, but it still sounded like a rusted hinge.
He slapped her hard across the face. She felt the shock of that blow all the way to her toes, and she would’ve fallen had it not been for her captors’ holding her so tightly. Her cheek bloomed with wicked pain, but she still managed to turn her head and stare at Black Robe with as much defiance as she could muster.
Gods-be-damned! She wanted to punch him. She wanted to knee his balls and claw his face and pull out his hair. But she hadn’t the energy, and her anger was sliding away, into the fog of apathy, into the resignation that was nearly as familiar as all the other wretched things about the turn her life had taken. She knew then that the newest dose of magic-laced drugs was kicking in. Her tongue felt thick, and her head felt stuffed with cotton.
“Are you feeding her?” Black Robe asked.
The guards shuffled their feet. “We try to, but she won’t eat.”
“She can’t die before the ceremony, damn it.” Black Robe sighed. “Very well. It’s obvious that she requires care other than yours now.”
“Aw right. You want us to clean up here?” asked the bald guy. He made the sound of an explosion. “Y’know, like we did the other places?”
“I can take it from here.” Black Robe grabbed Norie, sweeping her against his chest and raising one hand toward the startled men. Through her graying vision, she saw the fireball emerge, split in two, and hit each of her guards square in the chest. She wasn’t exactly sorry to see the bastards burn.
They screamed and flailed, falling onto the floor and trying to roll around. But the fire was born of magic, and it wasn’t like a mundane-created fire. It couldn’t be doused or suffocated.
Black Robe threw her over his shoulder and walked away. She realized vaguely she’d been holed up in a warehouse. She could smell the sea air, which wasn’t exactly refreshing, what with all the dead-fish and garbage stink. Nausea roiled. She almost wished she would throw up, so she could ruin His Highness’s robe.
The building started to flame; in moments, it was completely on fire. Norie stared dazedly at the flames licking the wood and snaking toward the wharf. The whole dock would be on fire soon. Someone from Magic Protection Services would have to be called in to combat the spell. And the bastard holding her like a moldy old sack of potatoes probably didn’t give a shit if he burned down the whole city.
Black Robe tossed her into the back of the limousine. By the time she hit the seat, Norie was nearly unconscious.
“Everyone has a destiny,” said her tormentor again, “and you will fulfill yours.”
Those were the last words she heard before darkness claimed her.
Sheriff Taylor Mooreland slammed shut the door to his crotchety old SUV, grimacing at the creaking sounds of rusted springs and tired metal. He ought to put in for a new vehicle, but doing so would mean yet another change. And there’d already been a lot of changes around Nevermore, Texas.
It made life unnerving, damn it.
He liked routine. Order. Knowing that what happened today would probably happen tomorrow. He took comfort in consistency.
He pulled his thick wool coat tighter, zipping it up to the neck. Then he leaned against the side of the SUV and stared up at the twinkling stars.
It wasn’t even dawn, for fuck’s sake.
He scrubbed his face, trying to wipe off the tired, but he still felt like a zombie. He needed more coffee, and that meant hauling his ass up to his office and wrestling with that new-fangled machine. His assistant, Arlene, had requisitioned a new coffeemaker, and Gray Calhoun, Dragon wizard and the town’s current Guardian, had had one imported from Italy. Italy! The thing was huge and shiny and filled with a thousand dials and spouts. It looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. These days, Gray took his job as Guardian seriously, getting involved in every aspect of protecting the town and its citizens, not to mention governing as well.
The wind whipped at Taylor’s coat and brought with it the ashy-sweet scent of incense—from the temple, no doubt.
He shifted and paused. The wind carried another scent, too—a wonderful smell that brought back memories of his mother in the kitchen baking. Grief sliced through him. She’d been gone almost six years now. And not a day went by that he didn’t miss her.
He sniffed the air. Well, I’ll be. It sure did smell like cookies.
Sugar cookies.
His favorite.
He looked around, but Main Street was dark and quiet. The brick buildings looked the same as ever, and so did the sidewalks and the street, and there, where Main Street ended in a large cul-de-sac, gleamed the shining brass dragon, and behind it, the Temple of Light. People showed up every week to pay homage to the Goddess and to their Dragon forebear, Jaed. The big wooden doors were always unlocked—allowing supplicants into the inner chamber with its polished oak pews and shining stained-glass windows. Magic kept the torches on the walls burning red and orange, the colors of Jaed—the colors of dragons. The temple was open to anyone, night or day.
He felt a sudden urge to walk down there, to slide into one of the pews, and to ask the Goddess for guidance. He’d always had a goal, a purpose. But lately, he’d felt unbalanced, as if the ground beneath his feet were about to shift and swallow him whole.
Damned nightmares. He hadn’t had a single good night’s rest in the last six days. He didn’t want to admit that the nightmares were costing him physically and emotionally. All the same, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Ember. She was a good friend who ran the local tea shop, and she had an herbal remedy for everything; surely she could whip up something tasty and magical to help him sleep.
For a long moment Taylor stared at the temple, a beacon of solace in the darkness, and then he turned toward the steps that led up to the sheriff’s office. It wasn’t that he had anything against the Goddess, or religion for that matter. He deeply respected not only the faith of believers but also the right of every individual to worship whatever deities he liked. But he wasn’t a church kind of guy.
Pain throbbed in the center of his forehead, and he rubbed at the aching spot. It looked like aspirin was in order, too. After a final sweeping glance of the empty street, he headed up the stairs and unlocked the door.
The smell of sugar cookies followed him inside.
“Please describe the…er, creature,” said Sheriff Mooreland. His pen was poised above the form his assistant, Arlene Tanner, had created specifically for this particular situation. He glanced up at the man sitting in one of the leather wingback chairs facing Taylor’s oversized antique desk.
“Red,” said Henry Archer. “Definitely red.” His cowboy hat was perched on his knee, his fingers tapping the crown. His gaze was steady, same as his manner, but the man’s expression kept wavering between disbelief and shock. “Scaly, too.”
Taylor nodded, then looked down at the form with its neat rows of check boxes. His pen scratched over the crisp paper. “What else?”
“Wings,” admitted Henry. “It was a big son of a bitch. Blotted out the moon, Sheriff. Startled me so badly last night, I tripped over my own two feet and went ass over teakettle into Maureen’s begonias.”
Taylor’s lips quirked. “And how’d she take that?”
“ ’Bout as well as you might think,” said Henry, smiling, too. “Don’t suppose Ant might be willing to come over and see if they can be coaxed back to life?”
“I’m sure my brother could be talked into it,” said Taylor. “Especially if it means he can get within snatching distance of one of Maureen’s apple pies.”
“Three were cooling in the kitchen when I left,” said Henry. “The more agitated my wife gets, the more pies she makes.” He chuckled. “Sometimes I rile her up just so I can get some of her blackberry cobbler.”
Taylor’s smile widened as he looked over the report. “All right, then, Henry. Anything else?”
Henry hesitated, and then he sighed. “I saw a dragon, Sheriff. It was almost as if the statue in our town square had come to life. You don’t think one of the magicals did a spell on it or something?”
Henry was looking for an explanation—other than, yeah, he’d seen a dragon flying around Nevermore’s skies. In a world where some people could talk to the dead, control the elements, or, like Taylor’s little brother, grow a garden from barren soil, the idea of an honest-to-goddess dragon still freaked people out.
“The statue’s protected. No one could pull a prank like that even if they were fool enough to try,” said Taylor. He studied his friend. His instincts were humming, and he knew Henry was holding something back. “What else?”
Henry grimaced. “I swear I wasn’t drinking,” he said. “We got into the habit of not keeping alcohol in the house because Lennie…Well, you know. We never was much for the hard stuff anyway.” He paused, his gaze dropping.
Taylor let the man have a moment. Eight months ago, Henry and Maureen’s youngest son, Lennie, had been killed. The young man’s demise was one of three deaths that had been facilitated by Taylor’s former deputy and half brother, Ren Banton. Ren had been killed, too, and that was just as well. Hell’s bells. By the time it was all said and done, six people had gone to early graves. The whole debacle still weighed heavily on Taylor’s mind, but at least life had gotten back to normal—if life in Nevermore could ever really be called normal.
“Anyway,” said Henry, “I saw someone on its back.”
Taylor blinked. “You saw a person riding the dragon?”
Henry nodded. “A woman. I think she was wearing…uh, you know—a nightie.”
Oh, for the love of— Taylor stifled a groan. He dutifully added the description under “More Details,” and then put the pen down. “That all?”
“Yessir.” Henry stood up and plopped the cowboy hat onto his head. “Thanks for taking the time to hear me out.”
“I appreciate your coming in,” said Taylor. He stood up, too, and rounded the desk to shake Henry’s hand. Then he walked the man out of his office and into the main foyer. “You headed back to the store?”
“Yep.”
“Tell Maureen I said hello.”
“Will do.”
Taylor watched the man leave and then glanced at Arlene’s desk, just as big and old as his own. It gave him a sense of satisfaction to see everything in its place. The office had been changed here and there over the years, but, like most things in Nevermore, it had stayed largely the same. He liked the continuity of it all, the way this building and all that it housed had been used by those who’d stood vigil over the town before him.
Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore Page 2