Never Again

by Michele Bardsley

  Gray felt another pang of guilt. He sucked as Guardian. Big-time. He nodded to Josie, and then watched her leave. Fury boiling, he turned toward Cathleen. She was still reeling from Josie’s exit speech, but he didn’t give a ripe shit.

  “I’ll return in forty-eight hours to complete the inspection,” he said. “If even the teeniest tiniest thing is out of place, if you’re within a hair’s violation of any city code or Dragon law, I’ll close the café permanently.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she sneered. “This is the only place in town to eat. It’s been here since the beginning. People’ll get mad if you do something stupid, Guardian.”

  Gray leaned over the counter and captured her gaze. “I will close the café,” he repeated, “and then I will ban you.”

  Something like fear slithered across her expression, but Gray got the odd feeling it wasn’t because of him.

  “Fine,” she spit out.

  He left the items he’d purchased on the counter. Thinking about eating anything made in this joint turned his stomach. As he turned to go, Cathleen hissed, “Now that you’re done botherin’ decent folks, you gonna do something about that Rackmore bitch?”

  “I am the Guardian,” he said in low, steely voice. “I suggest you remember that I am capable of much more than merely closing your place of business and bespelling you into leaving.”

  This time when fear flashed in her eyes, Gray knew it was because of him. She stepped back from the counter, her expression uncertain. It was as if she’d realized the puppy she’d been teasing was really a hellhound. He had no doubt she was remembering that he was not only a Dragon but also a wizard who’d literally been to the domain of the Dark One—and returned to tell the tale.

  “You wouldn’t disappear me,” she said, her voice thin with terror.

  His lips split into a feral grin. “The hell I wouldn’t.” He turned to go, and then he paused and looked over his shoulder. “Just so you know, I’m extending Lucinda Rackmore magical privileges and residency in Nevermore. The next time you see her, I suggest you be polite.”

  Chapter 3

  “We’re fucked.” The panicked voice echoed through the dimly lit basement as the big man clambered down the stairs, scuffling toward the table filled with magical objects. “We gotta bolt.”

  “No, Lennie.” The black-robed figure reached out and stilled the movements of his friend, who was gathering up the items and stuffing them into his pockets. “We’ll move up the timeline.”

  “Two days!” screeched his companion. “Are you shitstupid? The portal—”

  “Is already starting to open.”

  “It is?” He paused. “We’ll be rich then. Right?”

  “You’ll be showered with gold,” he lied. Oh, there would be wealth galore, but not the kind that could be spent. Magic. He needed it. Craved it. Deserved it. And demon magic was the most powerful. All he had to do was call forth a demon lord and barter for it. Soon, Gray Calhoun would be in hell where he belonged . . . and the Guardian’s magic would belong to him.

  It had taken him five long years to gather the items so carelessly stuffed into his friend’s pockets. His power had been too diluted with mundane blood to use without some sort of amplification. Once he had the magic, he wouldn’t be so gods-be-damned weak. Then he could close the circle. What had been started in his childhood could be finished. When he was strong, stronger than any of them, they would all know the truth, and they would bow before him—no, scrape and beg. He would make a far better Guardian than whiny, pathetic Gray Calhoun.

  “I’m worried.”

  His big, dumb, naive friend was such a nuisance.

  “No need. Everything’s under control.”

  “Miss Ember said—”

  His sigh cut off the statement. “I told you not to listen to Ember’s ramblings.” He patted Lennie on the shoulder. “Is that why you tried to run the witch over?”

  “Thought I could take care of her, you know? We don’t need a Rackmore here messing things up.”

  We don’t need you messing them up, either, he thought. Bringing his old buddy on board had been a mistake born from sentimentality. Had he not learned his lessons about hardening his heart? His friend had been useful, but he feared he would soon be nothing more than hindrance.

  “Put the objects back. I have another errand for you.”

  Reluctantly, the man put back all the items he’d taken, straightening them out in neat rows. “I thought we had everything we needed.”

  “We did.” He looked down at the table, at the power that glowed among the magic-made artifacts. He needed only one more—the key to making them all work. The one that had been taken from him. “You must promise not to hurt the witch. I need her.”

  “For what?”

  His gaze flicked over his friend’s suspicious expression. So many ignorant people believed the Rackmore curse was like the plague—if you touched a witch, you might lose your money, too. They didn’t understand the intricacies of the demon magic, the beauty and precision of the spellwork required to divest thousands of Rackmores of their wealth and keep them from it forever. He appreciated the artistry of the curse, the cruel orchestration required to create such a delicate, unbreakable web of misfortune. He was fascinated by it, admired it, and wanted, above all, to learn how to master it.

  “I promise you,” he said, “that the witch will not live. But before she dies, she will serve our purposes well.”

  “If you say so. Well, what crazy-assed thing do you want me to do now?”

  He smiled, drew big, dumb Lennie away from the table, away from the magic they’d stolen, and told him what to do next.

  “Well, now. Here you are,” said a female’s Jamaicantinged voice. A tall, voluptuous black woman stood in the foyer. She was draped in shades of purple and black, her beringed hands clasped in front of her.

  “I’m sorry,” Gray said. “Were you expecting me?”

  Her deep-throated laughter threw him off guard. Unsettled, he watched as she slapped her thigh and hooted. “Expecting you. Oh, da Goddess, She has a sense of humor, dat one. Expectin’ you.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t see the humor,” said Gray.

  “No,” she offered, her merriment tapering off, “you wouldn’t. When’s the last time you found anything to smile about, Guardian?”

  It seemed no one in this town, not even the new residents, respected his position. He’d admit he hadn’t exactly been the best Guardian, but he was determined to do better. The town and its citizens deserved no less. Still. His ego was taking a bruising today—and he had no one to blame but himself.

  “Oh, now. Don’t you worry,” she said, stepping forward to grasp the crook of his elbow. “Everything works out for a reason. Just not always the reason you like. Or want. But sometimes, you can’t see what’s best for you.” She tapped her left temple, which drew his attention to the blackened side of her strange eyewear. He sensed the magic of the lenses, but he also realized that she had shields up, too. He reached out, trying to figure out what was so odd about her power, but she made a tsking sound and waved a finger in a you’re-being-naughty gesture.

  “Now, now. You stop dat. I promise I only bring good juju to Nevermore.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical.”

  She chuckled. “Not so skeptical dat you didn’t come to meet me and my Rilton face-to-face. Not so worried then, were you?”

  He noticed her accent strengthened every so often, sorta like a radio station that kept fading in and out. He didn’t like that she was right about him skipping her intake interview. He’d let Taylor handle processing the new magicals. But Taylor was a thorough bastard, even more skeptical than Gray, and hated change, especially when it included adding new people to the town’s roster. If Ember and her husband passed his inspection, then they must’ve impressed the hell out of the sheriff.

  “So. You lettin’ her stay.” Ember’s statement startled him into realizing she’d been leading him toward
the back of the tea shop. She hadn’t phrased a question, and he had no problem figuring out “her” meant “Lucy.”

  “She’s here?”

  Ember stopped in front of an empty booth and looked down at it. Gray offered a cursory examination, but noted only that the table was wet and there were lingering smells of rain and earth. He opened his senses wider, and emotions filtered through his shields: desperation, relief, panic.

  Lucy.

  “Where did she go?”

  “Don’t know.” She shook her head. “Sometimes, when people are damaged, dey view tings from upside down.”

  Gray’s brows went up. “What does that mean?”

  She sighed, as if he’d disappointed her. Irritation flashed through him. He wasn’t a damned novice, and he hated that she made him feel like one. Battling his own impatience, he kept his gaze on her and waited.

  “You ever play the opposite game?” she asked.

  “Sure,” said Gray, “when I was a kid.”

  She nodded. “Right. So everything you say and do during the game is the opposite of what you mean. But for Lucy, it’s no game. She freed herself from a bad situation. Bad people. She learned to believe she has no worth. So, when someone is kind to her . . . ” She trailed off and looked at him.

  Gray felt like Ember had punched him in the stomach. Lucy had expected him to be a jerk, even though some small part of her had hoped he would be different from everyone else who’d rejected and shamed her.

  “You were nice to her,” he said softly, “and she couldn’t handle it.”

  “Opposite game,” Ember murmured. “She need some time to figure out how to right her world.” She looked at him, one dark eye visible through the single purple lens of her weird glasses. “Maybe she not the only one.”

  “Maybe,” agreed Gray.

  “Well, then!” Ember broke into a broad smile and patted his arm. “You stayin’ for some tea, Guardian? I got just dey ting for you.”

  “I’ll come back,” he promised. “Right now, I have an errand to run.”

  “ ’Course you do. That’s her booth. Maybe she leave something behind.” Ember slipped her hand out the crook of his arm, gave him one last pat, and turned away. He watched her go through a swinging door marked KITCHEN ENTRANCE, and then she was gone.

  Gray examined the booth. He knelt on the right side, where Lucy’s presence felt strongest, and bent low to see if she’d left anything he could use to create a tracking spell. Despite his detailed investigation, he found nothing, not even a thread from her robe or lint from her duffel.

  “Shit.” He backed out of the booth and looked down at the table. It was still wet from . . . oh. Lucy had left something behind all right.

  Her tears.

  “Stupid,” said Lucinda as the rain pelted her. The wind was getting in on the beat-the-witch action, too, slicing at her like machetes. As she trudged down the gravel shoulder of the road, her threadbare tennis shoes soaked, her robe failing to keep off the sluicing water, her body chilled and shivering, she berated herself again.

  Stupid. So freaking stupid.

  She shouldn’t have left the warmth and safety of neutral ground—especially with people like that old bat from the café and that moron in the hot rod gunning for her. Her time with Bernard taught her to trust her instincts . . . at least when it came to sensing an attack. Instincts honed as she’d wandered around for the last three months, tracking down anyone who might help her. Goddess! When she thought about all those times she let Bernard—No.

  Maybe she’d been a fool. But she couldn’t blame anyone but herself for putting up with Bernard. And for what? Security? Yeah, that had worked out well. Pretty clothes, luxurious surroundings, exotic trips . . . she’d handed over her dignity and self-esteem for baubles. There was only slight satisfaction in realizing she’d literally been under a spell, too. Compulsory magic worked best with the already willing.

  The Rackmore whore.

  Nice how that rhymed. Made it just roll off the tongue.

  Lucinda redirected her thoughts. The past was the past. Over, over, over.

  She pulled the robe tighter around her, but the clasp had broken, so it was a useless gesture. She’d enjoyed its dry warmth, at least for the first thirty seconds of her walk. In no time at all, the rain had pummeled her clothing into wet submission.

  The nanosecond Ember handed over the fresh-fromthe-dryer robe and excused herself to the kitchen, Lucinda bolted. She felt bad that she hadn’t stayed long enough to have tea, but Ember’s kindness felt strange—like finding a plate of chocolate-chip cookies after falling into a pit of vipers.

  Besides, she didn’t want to bring any misfortune to the tea shop.

  It was hard not to think of herself as a plague, even though she knew her curse couldn’t infect others. One of the simplest laws of magic was that like attracted like. It was why witches and wizards were taught since birth about keeping the balance. Granted, cursed people had little choice in what they attracted, but there were still ways to offset it. And not every magical was interested in keeping the balance at all.

  She snorted. Bernard had lost his official position in the House of Ravens, but he still had a hand in it. She’d never been sure exactly what he was doing for his former cohorts, but no doubt it had something to do with overthrowing a small country or controlling drugs or killing kittens.

  Beep! Beep!

  Startled by the honking car roaring up behind her (so much for those well-honed attack instincts), Lucinda spun around, heart hammering. The worn soles of her tennis shoes slipped in the mud, and she caught a look at the braking lights of a yellow VW Bug as she tried to find some purchase. Her arms pinwheeled as she grappled for balance, but she couldn’t compensate for the weight of the bag slung over her shoulder.

  For a couple of seconds, she had the sickening sensation of weightlessness as she toppled backward into the ditch. She landed on her side on top of the duffel. The swirling water was deep enough to douse her completely, but not enough, unfortunately, to drown her.

  Because death would be an upgrade to her luck right now.

  Pain radiated up her hip, and the arm squished between her body and the duffel felt numb. Water swirled up her jeans and under her shirt, and grabbed at the end of her robe. Maybe if she lay here long enough, the earth would open up and swallow her.

  Was that too much to ask?

  Apparently so.

  Aching and tired, Lucinda sat up, dragging her duffel with her. It had been heavy before, but thanks to its thorough dunking, it now felt like someone had tucked an anvil inside it.

  “Oh, my gosh!”

  In all the wind and rain, the words sounded like a whisper. Lucinda looked up and saw the waitress from the café kneeling at the edge of the ditch and offering her hand.

  “What happened to you?” asked Lucinda as she zeroed in on the girl’s black eye and split lip.

  “Me?” The girl’s eyes widened. “What about you?”

  “It’s just water,” said Lucinda. She stood up, irritated. She looked at the muddy liquid swirling around her ankles, gathered her magic, and yelled, “Part!”

  The water moved aside to reveal the soggy, rockstrewn bottom of the ditch. She shoved the duffel up the slope, and the waitress grabbed the handles, hauling it up onto the shoulder.

  As soon as Lucinda got to the top, she released the magic, silently thanking nature for the little borrow of energy.

  “I’m Lucinda.” She held out her not too muddy hand to the waitress, trying not to take offense while the girl considered whether to offer hers in return.

  Finally, she squared her shoulders and shook Lucinda’s hand. “I’m Marcy. Marcy Munch.” She flinched. “I know. Munch is a dumb last name. High school was a real bitch.”

  “So’s life,” said Lucinda. “Who hit you?”

  Marcy’s gaze slid away. “You need a ride? I’m leaving for good. I got enough money to get to the border.”

  “You’re going to Mexico?
” Lucinda couldn’t wipe the suspicion from her voice. Her experience had become this: If something good happened, it was just a setup for the really bad thing headed her way. She didn’t like the coincidence of needing a ride and Marcy’s sudden departure from town—to the same desired destination.

  “Let’s get in the car, okay?” asked Marcy. “This weather is crazy.”

  Lucinda watched as the waitress turned and made her way toward the Volkswagen. Her choice was to slog through the rain until someone else took pity on her, or to get into a warm, dry car right now.

  She followed the girl around to the front of the tiny car. Marcy opened the hood and Lucinda threw her duffel into the empty space. Then they got into the car and secured their seat belts. The heat was cranked up—thank the Goddess—because they both were soaked and shivering.

  “You didn’t pack anything?” asked Lucinda as Marcy put the Bug into gear and coasted onto the road. She noted the grease spatters on the girl’s white apron with its still-bulging pockets and breathed in the food smells not even the rain had been able to wash away. “You didn’t change clothes.”

  “No time,” said Marcy. “It’s good we’re leaving. Nevermore’s . . .” She paused, apparently unable to come up with an appropriate adjective, and shrugged.

  “What about your mom?”

  “Cathleen,” Marcy hissed, “is not my mother—even though she insists I call her ‘mama.’ She likes to remind me that she raised me, but she didn’t. She married Daddy when I was ten. He went and died four years later and left her the café. Her! She’s not even a real Munch!” She blew out a breath and pushed back her wet hair. “My family has owned the café since the town was founded. It’s horrible! I’d change everything. If Daddy had just trusted me . . . but I guess he didn’t think he’d die. Who does, right?”

  “How do you know he didn’t trust you?” asked Lucinda.

  Marcy slanted her a look of disbelief. “Because I don’t own the café. Maybe if I’d been older, he would’ve changed his will.”