Never Again

by Michele Bardsley

  “Wait.” Lucinda unzipped a pocket on her duffel and dug into it. Her fingers poked through a hole that hadn’t been there earlier. The four dollars and eleven cents she had left was gone.

  She should be used to it by now, but she still found herself devastated by the loss. “I don’t have any money.”

  “Seems like you don’t got a lot of things,” said Ember. “Don’t you worry about payin’ me.”

  “No menus?” asked Lucinda, and then wondered why she’d posed the question.

  Ember laughed. “Why do people need menus in here? Dey don’t know what’s good for dem.”

  “But you do?”

  “Of course, chil’.” She smiled. “Sit dere and relax. I bring you just da ting.”

  “Ember.” Lucinda swallowed the knot in her throat. “I’ll never have money. Not ever. My name’s Lucinda Rackmore.” She waited for the inevitable expression of distaste, waited for Ember to invite her to leave, waited for the rejection that always came.

  “Hello dere, Lucinda Rackmore. Welcome, welcome.” Ember reached down and patted her on the shoulder, then turned and sauntered through the door a couple feet away. It swung open and allowed out the sounds of food preparation as well as the sweet smells of baked goods.

  Ember’s kindness poked holes through Lucinda’s fragile control. Everyone she’d known had turned away from her, and this stranger had offered her both comfort and help—even after she’d revealed she was a Rackmore witch.

  It was too much.

  Lucinda laid her head down onto the table and wept.

  Chapter 2

  “That’s no way to talk to a lady, son,” called out a cranky old voice from the kitchen. The Texas accent twanged all the way through his words. “I expect better from my kin.”

  “Yeah, dude,” chimed in another voice, this one younger and all 1980s California. “Total asshole move. You suck.”

  Gray Calhoun rolled his eyes. He didn’t need advice from his grandfather, Grit, much less admonishment from Dutch the Surfer.

  For the last five minutes, Gray had been leaning against the front door, trying to breathe. Narrow windows lined the heavy wood door, and he’d watched from one while Lucy trudged off the porch and down the street, the rain beating at her as she headed toward downtown. He almost expected her to turn back, to try again. It was obvious she had no pride left. He’d never seen anyone, much less the once haughty, spoiled Lucinda, so achingly desperate.

  Even though he owed her nothing, he still felt guilty.

  He shouldn’t have slammed the door in her face. At least he could’ve given her some lunch and allowed her to rest before sending her away. Hell, he could’ve even given her a ride to the bus station and gotten her a ticket to Dallas or Houston or wherever.

  He really was an asshole.

  His temple throbbed, and he reached up to trace the top of the scar. Lucy hadn’t given him the mark, or the bad memories, or the nightmares. She hadn’t condoned her sister’s actions or tried to do the same to anyone else to save herself. Not that he thought whoring for bastards like Bernard Franco made her any better. Still, she’d traded herself instead of someone she claimed to love. He couldn’t forget, either, that she’d been just a kid when the Rackmore curse initiated. She’d had to rely on her mother and then on her mother’s lover for survival. She’d never had to take care of herself. She knew only how to be taken care of . . . so how could she resist the slimy charms of a wealthy and powerful wizard like Franco?

  Kerren, on the other hand, had been an adult—married to someone powerful, to someone who’d loved her. To him, damn it. He would’ve moved heaven and earth to help her, but she didn’t ask. She’d already put plans into motion to save all that she valued—and he had not been among those.

  He’d completely misunderstood his wife’s true nature. All those quirks he thought so adorable were just manifestations of selfishness. Oh, she’d been good at pouting. Very good at using sex to soften him, or to thwart him. He’d been enamored by her beauty and her luscious body, but she was also a keenly intelligent woman, quick-witted and forward-thinking. He’d believed that he had found his match. Not even the night she’d killed him brought him such pain as the knowledge that she had not loved him. She had chosen him, and manipulated her way into his life, so that she would have the heart of a Dragon to give her demon lover.

  Bitterness rose, tasting metallic and vile. Ten years. He should be over what happened. It wasn’t that he had any feelings left for Kerren. She could go to hell, or rather, she could stay there. What she had wrought by the ritual had exacted a price neither had expected. He still had nightmares, though they were few and far between.

  Damn it.

  He rubbed a hand over his face.

  Having his past walk up to him and beg for help was the last thing he’d expected. And he’d had enough of surprises, especially surprises from the Rackmores. While he spent years trying to figure out what had happened to him, and how to control whatever had come out with him, the magicals dealt with the Rackmore fallout. The Houses revoked Rackmore memberships—and refused new members with Rackmore bloodlines. Lawsuits were filed. New laws were proposed, rejected, proposed again. Many Rackmores left the Houses of their own accord, and others held on to their positions tooth and nail while fighting for their rights.

  Hundreds committed suicide.

  Lucinda’s father had been among those casualties. Her mother, Wilmette, had soldiered on, taking on a wealthy lover to ensure the security of her youngest daughter. She had publicly disowned Kerren, going so far as to complete magical ritual and mundane paperwork to remove the woman from the Rackmore rolls.

  It took two years for the Grand Court to issue its edict. Rackmores had colluded with demons and performed death magic; therefore, they no longer had the rights and privileges of any Houses. It didn’t matter that current Rackmores hadn’t made the deals and that they were suffering enough already—the rules for magicals were different, and oftentimes far more harsh, from those for mundanes. Magicals had a bigger responsibility to the world, and therefore paid a higher penalty when guilty of abusing power.

  The House of Ravens suffered the most membership loss, since so many of their witches and wizards were Rackmores. Those who were left felt betrayed and resentful. After two thousand years of being one of the strongest Houses in the world, they became the smallest and the weakest. It was unpardonable. The Ravens soon became the Rackmores’ greatest enemies.

  Despite the inconvenience of his escape, Kerren had left him alone. Why would she bother him? She’d gotten the blood price she needed to save herself. He’d spent a lot of time trying to heal from what she’d done to him, not only physically, but emotionally and mentally. He knew everyone believed he’d been so overwrought by his wife’s betrayal, so weakened by her attempt to kill him, that he was no longer capable of fulfilling his duties in the House of Dragons.

  It was part of the truth. The other part was something he had never admitted. He’d never spoken to anyone, not even his own mother, about his death and resurrection. Those secrets were his burden alone. What did it matter? He had a life of his own making, one that satisfied him, even if he sometimes felt as though he was in hiding, or, worse, running away.

  Lucinda Rackmore.

  Why had she even bothered to seek his protection? And to ask him to marry her? Was she insane? He barked out a harsh laugh. He’d been doing fine. Just fine. Now his past was mucking about in his present and he didn’t like it.

  “You gonna finish this spell?” called his grandfather, still as cranky as ever. “I ain’t got time to sit here all day at your beck and call.”

  “Yeah, dude. If you’re done being mean to the babes, we could totally use your help.”

  “All right, already!” called out Gray. It wasn’t like Grit or Dutch could go anywhere—they were soulimprinted books. He’d inherited his grandfather, who’d befriended Dutch while doing the requisite year in the Great Library. When the time came for Gray t
o claim the old man, Grit hadn’t wanted to leave his friend. So now Gray was stuck with two smart-asses. “Don’t get your pages in a ruffle.”

  “We heard that, dude!”

  Gray rolled his eyes as he pushed away from the door, and strode toward the kitchen. His mind churned with the images of Lucinda trudging through the rain toward downtown Nevermore. Midway through the living room he stopped. Shit.

  He told himself she was strong. She’d made it this far, and she could find her way out of town on her own. He wasn’t responsible for her. She wasn’t a kid anymore. But he had an excellent imagination, and playing out was scenario after scenario of all that could go wrong for a Rackmore witch in Nevermore.

  “I’m going to town,” he yelled as he pivoted. He needed to change clothes and put on shoes, not to mention rustle up a suitable coat.

  “Dude!” called Dutch. “Bring us back some doughnuts.”

  “None of them sissy jelly doughnuts, neither,” added Grit. “But them cake ones are all right.”

  Gray ignored their requests and hurried up the stairs to his bedroom. In their current forms, neither Grit nor Dutch could eat. But they liked the smell of food a lot, especially desserts.

  He stripped off his clothes and redressed in a pair of faded Levi’s and a gray cable-knit sweater. Miraculously, he found a pair of clean socks, and after a search through the mess littering his closet floor, he was able to extract his black cowboy boots.

  The coat was the issue.

  He’d misplaced his usual “I’m the Dragon Guardian” garment. It was an informal hooded black cape with a gold dragon stitched on the left front side. He hadn’t seen it in a while, not since he’d ventured to town. . . . He frowned. He hadn’t been in Nevermore since the wintersolstice celebration. Crap. Had it really been that long?

  The problem with the way that he lived was that he tended to drop whatever he was taking off where he was standing at the moment. Every so often, he spent a solid week digging himself out of his mess, but the debrisfree look never lasted long. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done a thorough cleaning, which was probably why he couldn’t find a damned thing.

  As the Guardian of Nevermore, he had to meet certain . . . er, dramatic expectations of the townsfolk. Nevermore had always been a Dragon town, and not only had his family helped to found it along with a few hundred humans, but they’d also been the appointed protectors.

  Unfortunately, the Calhoun line had dwindled down to . . . him. When he returned to Nevermore five years ago, only his grandfather was left, and the old man was in no shape to perform the minimum duties, much less the actual protection spells. Gray’s mother had long since left to pursue her own political goals in the House of Dragons, and had groomed her son to do the same. She hadn’t returned to Nevermore—not since the day she had helped her son move back into her father’s house.

  Back when he’d had political ambitions, he had no problem following in his mother’s footsteps. Like her, he wanted to make a difference. And, too, he’d loved playing the games, all that maneuvering and positioning. He didn’t always win, but he always learned something new, something he could put into his own little bag of tricks. He’d been good at his job, and he’d loved the energy, the ambition. It was hard to believe that at one time in his life he had felt like he could conquer the world.

  His father had died when he’d been barely old enough to walk, and Leticia Calhoun had never married again, despite the numerous propositions she received. As politically motivated as his mother was, she would not marry to strengthen an alliance. Once you’ve been in love, she’d told him in a rare moment of melancholy, you can never settle for less.

  He had loved Kerren, or at least thought he had. His mother had never been thrilled with the idea of him walking a Rackmore witch down the aisle. The Dragons and the Ravens didn’t exactly coexist peacefully. When he looked back now, he wondered if in some small way he’d known they didn’t have the kind of soul-deep, can’t-breathe, would-do-anything kind of love his mother had shared with his father.

  “Except it’s all a bullshit fairy tale,” he muttered as he unzipped the black bag hanging among his sweaters and T-shirts. His mother longed for the man she could never have, and had painted love as bright and alluring as a fairy’s wings.

  Argh! If only he could find the cape, he wouldn’t have to find substitute attire. He pulled out the red robe first, and grimaced. He hadn’t worn it since his last day on the House floor, the morning he gave his formal resignation to the Court. He jammed it back inside and grabbed the hanger next to it.

  Gods-be-damned!

  Why had he even kept the white robe in which he’d been married? He tossed it to the floor, disgusted. The magic of the symbols sewn into the fabric no longer had meaning or power. He shouldn’t have kept the stupid robe. It wasn’t like he didn’t have enough reminders about his failed marriage and his treacherous ex-wife.

  Irritation turned to anger. He shouldn’t even be going into town. For what? To save Lucy? He didn’t exactly have pleasant memories of her. It wasn’t that she was a bad kid, just a self-absorbed one. She couldn’t be bothered with anyone or anything that didn’t have to do with her, an attitude that had a lot to do with being a typical teenager, and even more to do with being spoiled by wealthy, indulgent parents. Not to mention she was a thaumaturge—once courted by all the Houses, even the Dragons. His own mother had put aside Lucy’s Raven heritage to woo her. “Thaumaturge” meant “miracle worker” in Greek. Someone with Lucy’s ability could manipulate life itself—heal grievous wounds, fix broken bones, take away diseases. He’d heard that skilled thaumaturges could breathe the very life back into a body.

  But being a Rackmore had tainted her—and once the Grand Court issued its edict, no House could accept her as a member, even if they had wanted to risk it.

  As Gray extracted a third mystery coat, he wondered if he should just leave her alone. She was destitute, but he couldn’t save her from that. She’d always be without money, thanks to the actions of her greedy ancestors. No. What got to him now was remembering the forlorn look in her green eyes, the sharpened features and frail form that suggested starvation, the slump of shoulders bearing too heavy a burden, and the hopelessness that covered her far better than that worn green robe.

  He’d killed her hope completely. He’d seen the way the light had died out of her eyes when she realized he wouldn’t help her. How many people had already slammed their doors in her pretty face?

  Fucking Bernard Franco. He’d always been a prick, even before he “resigned” from his position in the House of Ravens. After the last and worst scandal, rumor had it he was given an ultimatum by the House’s Inner Court to leave of his own accord. Worse still, some said that he’d been paid off to keep the House’s darker secrets. Lucy had been in his bed, accepting his gifts, enduring his humiliation, playing the simpering paramour.

  It sickened him.

  He gripped the black leather duster in his hands. Old magic pulsed in its seams; memories of days gone by—and people, too—whispered from the leather. He realized it was his grandfather’s, and before that, it had belonged to other Calhoun men. A red dragon shimmered across the back, a powerful symbol of his House and family. He’d never worn it, but the old coot had made it clear he wanted Gray to wear these threads.

  He’d never donned the coat because then . . . he’d have to admit he was fully committed to the auspices of guardianship. That this was his life, and always would be. Even after five years of living here, he didn’t feel as if he belonged in the very town he grew up in, and though he did all that was required of his office, he wasn’t a social kind of guy. He didn’t want to get close to anyone, even old friends.

  He didn’t care what that meant, either.

  Gray put on the duster, and left the house before he changed his mind. Usually, he’d walk to town, but since he wasn’t sure where Lucy had gone or where he might find her, not to mention he was going out into the unrele
nting storm, he decided to take his grandfather’s old Ford truck. It was a rusted bucket of bolts, but it ran well, and it was good enough to take Lucy to the bus station. All he had to do was buy the girl a ticket to wherever she wanted to go. Then he could quit feeling like a jerk, and she could keep running away from Franco.

  He didn’t figure she’d actually stop in town. She was a practiced enough witch to feel the negative energy undulations. She’d probably been in town ten seconds before everyone knew about her arrival and had passed their judgments. They didn’t even need to know that there was a history between Lucy and their Guardian. Being a Rackmore was reason enough for most folks to distrust her.

  His house perched on a large hill that overlooked downtown. The street in front of the old Victorian ended abruptly, but Main Street passed to the left of his home. He pulled onto it, taking a right. If he’d gone left, the paved road eventually gave way to gravel. There were three family farms out that way, and the road petered out at the entrance to the Gomez farm.

  When Gray got to Brujo Boulevard, he turned right and just past the school, he took a left on Cedar Road. It was the only street that led to the highway; there was no other way in or out of town, at least by car.

  The storm had worsened, and the windshield wipers sucked. Rain fell in thick, chilled sheets of silver, and even though he didn’t want to be, he was worried about Lucy surviving in this crap. Guilt assailed him once again, but he shoved it away. She’s not my fucking problem.

  Only she was.

  Gray slowed the truck and peered through the torrents. Damn. She’d fallen into a ditch, gotten a ride, or squirreled away someplace. He pulled onto the shoulder, and stared out the windshield. He didn’t want to use a summoning spell. He had no idea where she was, and if she’d made it out of town, he sure as hell didn’t want to draw her back. And a tracking spell wouldn’t work if he didn’t have a possession of hers. He could use something as small as a hair, but he didn’t even have that.

  Maybe she ran into the sheriff. It was possible his old friend would stick her in magical quarantine. Taylor Mooreland’s father had run off with a Rackmore witch—at least that was what Edward had admitted to in his note. He’d been too cowardly to face the woman he’d betrayed and then he’d left his wife, Sarah, to raise their seven young children alone. Taylor had been the oldest at fifteen and had taken over as “man of the house.” Gray’s lips twisted into a frown. Taylor probably wouldn’t stick Lucy into the equivalent of wizard jail just because she shared a lineage with the woman responsible for breaking up his family.