“Nemeton,” he whispered.
He had discovered a sacred grove—what the magicals called a nemeton—hidden on his land. It was damned old from the look of it—older even than the town itself, he’d bet, which had been founded in 1845.
He knew right then this was the key to the Goddess fountain, the magical portal that Nevermore had been built to protect. Most folks didn’t know anything about it—most magicals and mundanes believed Goddess fountains to be myths. And it was best to keep it that way, which was why only a very few in Nevermore knew the truth.
He walked to the nearest stone, his whole body tingling from the humming magic. It was thick here, buzzing and snapping, and it seemed to him, waiting.
But for what?
The stones were placed about two feet apart, which was plenty of room to angle through into the inner sanctum. He hesitated, wondering if a mundane could—or should—enter what was meant for magicals. He probably should call Gray. The Guardian should be the one to enter, to gauge the meaning of this place, and its purpose.
Taylor stepped back, feeling a hushed sense of expectation. It was as if the whole place were alive and holding its breath, anticipation as thick as the trees protecting it.
Caw. Caw. Caw.
The white raven dove through the gap, its guttural cries turning into a long, low moan.
Damn it. He really didn’t want to enter that circle. He had a deep respect for the Goddess. Sacred was sacred, no matter whose beliefs made it that way.
The mournful sound came again, and this time, it sounded more human than raven. Had that creepy bird gotten hurt?
Or led him to someone who was?
The idea of a person trapped or suffering inside the sacred space was enough motivation to overcome his reluctance. He slipped through the gap and felt his whole body go electric. The hair stood up on every inch of his body, and he felt galvanized. He paused, gauging his surroundings.
There was a huge stone altar in the center.
He swept his gaze around the stones again but saw no one else—nothing else; not even the stupid bird. Taylor had the sense of being watched, even though he couldn’t pinpoint a source. Completely unsettled, Taylor approached the altar and stared at its surface. Some sort of swirly-gig was carved in the middle, and more lines and swirls sprouted from it—like a mutant, tattooed octopus.
Something dark and wet smeared the stone. The unmistakable rusty scent of fresh blood edged the air. What the hell had happened here?
The moan came again. It was definitely human. Heart thumping, he followed the sound to the other side of the altar.
A woman lay on her side. She was naked, her thin, pale body spattered red. Her long dark hair fell in a wave of curls that loosely draped her waist and lay on the ground like carelessly tossed ribbons.
Taylor hunkered down, gently moving her hair so he could check the pulse of her carotid artery.
She rolled away from him and staggered to her feet. She bared her teeth, her ice-blue eyes shadowed with pain.
A silver dagger quivered in her blood-streaked hand.
Taylor’s heart stopped beating.
It’s her.
The woman he’d spent too many nights dreaming about—the one he couldn’t save.
He fell to his knees, accidentally assuming a penitent pose. He swayed forward, arms at his side, and just stared at her. Her presence stripped him bare. He couldn’t get air into his lungs. Nightmare and dream come to life—right fucking there in the wounded flesh.
The magic of the nemeton pulsed around them, living and breathing and anticipating.
She seemed disconcerted by his reaction. Hell, she wasn’t the only one. She studied him, those diamond eyes snapping with intelligence and resolve and agony. Her curly black hair swung in an arc, giving it the appearance of a ruffled cape. She was no more than five feet tall, lithe and graceful despite how thin she was—starved really, and obviously weak. The strain of her holding the knife in a proper attack position made her arm shake. Plus, she had cuts on her from head to toe, most of them still bleeding.
“I’m Sheriff Taylor Mooreland,” he said. “Tell me your name. Tell me what happened.”
She bared her teeth again and moved backward, her gaze darting around the stones before returning to him. She wasn’t about to let her guard down. He didn’t blame her, but he couldn’t let her stand there and bleed to death, either.
“You’re a magical, right?” he said. “You sent that raven. He brought me to you. These are my woods, and my home’s not too far.”
She kept the knife at the ready but cocked her head in the same manner the raven had, studying him intensely.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said.
She was swaying now, too, her face going gray, but she wasn’t going to give him an inch. Her frown deepened, and she scooted back a few more steps, as though thinking about running. She wouldn’t get far, not before she either collapsed or he caught her.
And he would catch her.
“I won’t hurt you,” he repeated as he slowly, carefully rose to his feet. “But I’m coming over there. I’m taking you somewhere safe, I swear.”
She shook her head violently and scurried backward until she hit the broad base of the nearest stone. Her eyes went wild then, and she opened her mouth as though she might scream.
He rushed her, and within seconds, he’d divested her of the dagger and scooped her against his chest, banding his arms around her. She struggled violently, and he was surprised at the vehemence she managed to muster. He could feel how frail she was, how her body quivered with pain and exhaustion even as she kicked and wiggled and slammed her head against his breastbone. He grunted and hissed as she connected again and again. The worst thing about the whole experience was the silence. She didn’t make a sound as she tried to claw her way out of his arms.
“My mama used to say that any man who told a woman to calm down deserved whatever came next,” he said quietly. “But I would kindly appreciate it if you would let me help you. Please.”
She shuddered and went still. She was stiff in his arms, her body shaking so badly, her teeth rattled. Then she tilted back her head to look at him. Tears streamed from her eyes, and he saw her frustration, her terror, her surrender.
She wept without making a single sound of distress. She stared at him, refusing to spare herself the humiliation. She was exposed, not only in body, but in soul, too.
She broke his heart.
Taylor swallowed the sudden knot that clogged his throat. He dared to loosen one arm so that he could wipe away the tears. Her skin felt fragile, like thin parchment underneath his calloused fingers. “I swear to the Goddess, I will protect you.”
He felt a quick, electric jolt. He shuddered, suddenly breathless, his focus riveted on the girl. So shall you say, so mote it be. It was what Ember said sometimes when she was making up her bespelled teas for customers. Still. Maybe it was his promise, or maybe it was her injured, exhausted body finally giving out, but her lids fluttered as her eyes rolled back in her head. She went limp in his arms.
He laid her on the ground; then he pulled off his sweatshirt and wrapped it around her. With as much care as possible, he picked her up, cradling her against his bare chest, and took his precious bundle home.
Getting to the house involved the longest walk of Taylor’s life, especially since the woman’s breathing seemed to go shallow. She was as soft and light as a bag of feathers, her skin so pale it was nearly translucent.
When he managed to get through the back door and stumble through the mudroom and into the kitchen, he saw Ant leaning against the counter, still in his boxers and with a raging case of bed head. He almost dropped the mug of coffee he’d brought to his lips. Coffee splattered, and he cursed, putting the cup on the counter.
He eyed the girl and then Taylor. “Rough morning?”
“I’ve had better,” he said. “Call Gray and Lucy, will you? We’ll need Ember, too.”
“Done,” said Ant
. “Which bedroom upstairs?
“Mom’s.”
Ant nodded. After their mother passed away, the kids had cleaned out her room. Clothes went to charity, pictures and decorations were packed, and knickknacks were divided. The antique furniture remained. Taylor had replaced the mattress and the pillows. Every other week, either he or Ant laundered the sheets and quilts—quilts his mother and his grandmother had sewn with their own hands—and remade the bed.
But no matter how clean they kept it, or how blank the walls and empty the dressers, the memories stayed the same. It was their mother’s bedroom, whether or not she was still around to occupy it. It was also the only other room upstairs with a suitable bed.
It took some effort to pull down the covers, especially with a lax, injured woman in his arms, but he managed. He tucked her in, and then he went into the little bathroom, which still smelled like the roses his mother had loved so much, and wet a washcloth. By the time he placed it on her forehead, Gray, Lucinda, and Ember were walking through the door.
Relief shuddered through Taylor. What was going on with this woman was way outside his comfort zone. All the same, she was his responsibility.
At least until he figured out who she was—and why the hell he’d been dreaming about her.
His friends had gotten here fast, which meant they’d used the magical portals that the first Dragon Guardians had created for the convenience of Nevermore’s populace. Many of the locations had been forgotten over the years, but Gray and Lucinda had been finding and mapping them, and the portals were more in use nowadays. He’d been surprised to find out that his farm had one; Joe had never mentioned it—maybe he hadn’t known about it. But the man had kept some secrets. Taylor had no doubt the old man had been protecting the location of the nemeton.
As usual, Ember wore her special glasses: One side was purple tinted, and the other was blacked out completely. She was a prophet of the Goddess, and she had been given the ability to see the spiritual soul of humans—not always a pretty picture; thus the need for her protective eyewear. She was over six feet tall and wore a violet-striped dress that clung to her curvaceous form, and a pair of gray high-heeled boots. Her long hair was a mass of tiny black and purple braids.
Lucy was shorter and leaner. Her feet were in sneakers, and she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt too big for her. A brunette with moss green eyes, she had an inner glow that had a little to do with her magical powers and a lot to do with the man standing at her side, her husband, Gray.
“Who is she?” asked Lucy as she leaned over and peered at the woman’s face.
“I don’t know,” said Taylor. “I found her in the woods. She was naked as a jaybird and cut all to hell. Damned near took my head off before she fainted.”
“She say anyting?” Ember’s Jamaican accent faded in and out like a badly tuned radio. The stronger her emotions, the stronger her accent—and it was thick as mud right now.
“Nothing,” said Taylor. “It’s almost as if she can’t.”
That statement got Gray’s and Lucy’s attention, too.
“What do you mean?” asked Gray.
“She didn’t say a word. She cried without making a sound. It was as though her voice were turned off.”
Ember nodded. “Dat’s what I thought. Somebody don’ wan’ her to talk, so dey bound her voice.”
“That kind of spell would be strong,” mused Gray, “but limited. Probably a few days at most.”
“Unless it was demon magic,” said Lucy softly. She’d been cursed with Pit magic and had barely survived. Taylor knew how badly she had suffered—and how difficult it had been to get free of that evil. His stomach clenched as he gazed at the pale face of his mystery woman. He sent a quick prayer to the Goddess that she was not suffering from demon-wrought spellwork.
“Not demon,” said Ember, shaking her head. “Dis magic Raven.”
“Well, that’s not much better,” said Gray. “Why would the Ravens want to hurt her?”
“How’d they get into Nevermore?” asked Taylor. “Into my forest? And into the nemeton?”
Three pairs of eyes zeroed in on him.
“What?” Gray frowned. “There’s a nemeton in your woods?”
Even Gray, who basically protected and governed all of Nevermore, understood that Taylor’s land, and those mysterious woods, belonged to the sheriff. Taylor rubbed his face. What was wrong with him? He was doing this whole thing ass-backward. He couldn’t keep his eyes away from her, and he couldn’t keep his thoughts straight, either. He sucked in a steady breath. Then he told the story—skipping the part about his nightmares and hearing his mother’s voice.
After he was finished, silence blanketed the room.
“The raven was white,” repeated Gray incredulously. “And it actually said Lenore?”
Taylor nodded toward the girl. “I think it might be her name.”
“Well,” said Lucy, “that’s just…weird.”
“Raven magic, raven bird, raven poem,” said Ember. Her gaze drifted over the prone female. “Raven girl.”
Taylor stared at Ember. What the hell did all that mean?
“Let Lucy and Ember heal her,” said Gray. “You show me the nemeton. Then we’ll figure out how the bastards got in, and we’ll seal the gaps.”
“All right,” said Taylor.
Gray kissed his wife and then clapped Taylor on the shoulder. “C’mon.”
Taylor cast a final look at the woman tucked underneath his mother’s quilt, his heart clenching, and then he followed his friend and boss out the door.
After Taylor put on a clean shirt, he grabbed his pistol, even though having Gray along was like carrying a magical bazooka. He was a very powerful wizard and the only shape-shifter in the world—probably. Who knew what secrets other magicals held? Gray had only figured out the ability a few months ago, and Taylor still didn’t quite understand how it all worked. But he’d seen Gray as the dragon, and it was damned impressive. There were plenty of myths about magicals who could shift into animals—tales as bold and unbelievable as any of the ancient stories archived in the Great Library. It seemed those legends had grown from seeds of truth.
He’d grabbed his flashlight, too, but as he, Gray, and Ant made their way into the forest, Gray whispered a spell that created a basketball-sized orb of light. It bobbed on the path ahead of them. When they got to the half-dead tree, Taylor sucked in a steadying breath and dove once again into the dark, tangled forest.
He had no idea how he managed to lead the other men to the nemeton. But he was able to get them there, and his skin started to prickle again as they reached the entrance. He realized now that it was an actual entryway; a stone arch covered with moss that was tightly wedged between two oaks. He hadn’t even noticed before—he’d been too distracted by the unexpected discovery of the nemeton.
Gray went first, and then Taylor. Ant followed. They all stopped to admire the massive ring of blue-gray stones.
“Holy shit,” said Ant.
Gray flicked a look at him. “You didn’t sense it at all?”
Ant shook his head. “It’s as if a big Do Not Disturb sign hovers over this place. It repels people on purpose. Except Taylor, apparently.”
“He’s the deed holder to the land,” said Gray. “Ol’ Joe gifted him more than just a farm. He’s been the unknowing guardian of it.”
“Terrific,” muttered Taylor. Why hadn’t the old man ever said anything?
Gray started forward, the magic light pushing through the gap between the stones. Taylor followed, and his little brother entered last.
Ant whistled.
“Six stones,” said Gray. The orb rose into the air and made a slow circuit. “Look. Symbols of the Houses.”
“No,” said Ant as the light reflected an etching of the sun. “Symbols of the first magicals. There is no House of Sun. Hell, there are no Sun magicals.”
“Unless you count Lucy,” said Gray. “Thaumaturges are as close as you can get to the line of
Drun these days.”
They watched the light brush the other carved symbols.
“We can assume that the nemeton was built at the same time as the town,” said Ant. “Right? But these stones and that altar”—he paused to gather himself, his horrified gaze on the bloodstained rock—“are much older.”
“Ancient,” agreed Gray.
“Maybe carved even before the Romans reorganized the magicals and created the Houses,” said Ant.
They shared a look, and Taylor felt a shiver go up his spine. Shit. He had a feeling his life was about to get a lot more complicated. The image of Lenore, standing like a wounded goddess on the other side of the altar put a hitch in his step. Stop it. She’s a—a victim. That’s all. Now start acting like the sheriff, moron.
“It’s been desecrated,” said Gray tightly. Now they were all looking at the dark stains on the altar. “Someone tried to commit evil here. We’ll need to cleanse everything.” He peered closer and grimaced. “It seems your new friend was bound here. I can still see the remnants of the magic that kept her lashed to the stone.
“Let’s look around,” Gray continued. “Maybe we’ll be able to piece together some useful information.”
While Gray and Ant examined the stones for further clues, Taylor rounded the altar, studying the place where Lenore had lain. His stomach clenched at the blood that splattered the stone base and the grass. He clicked on his flashlight and swept the beam across the dewy grass. What had she been doing here? How had she gotten in? Surely she hadn’t been alone, or inflicted those wounds on her own body. You can’t save her.
He was desperately trying not to focus on the nightmare, but it clung to his thoughts like a fungus. Dreams weren’t reality, damn it. He needed to keep his mind on the current situation. So. If someone had forcibly brought her to this location, how had he gotten through the town’s magic-protected perimeters without setting off any alarms? And how had he known about this place?
The flashlight’s beam caught the glint of Lenore’s silver dagger that he’d managed to wrest from her. It had landed flat in the grass. He carefully stepped to it and crouched, studying the bloodied blade. The hilt was ornately carved with a bunch of fancy swirls that surrounded the engraving of a raven.
Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore Page 5