Never Again

by Michele Bardsley

  “Off Cedar Road, near the highway exit ramp.”

  “There’s a portal near there,” said Taylor. “It’ll take me less than ten minutes to get to the one at the office.”

  Gray nodded. The transport portals were old magic, created by the Dragons to help the people of Nevermore travel quickly between their farms and town. No one really used them much anymore, and some locations had even been lost over time.

  “Hold tight,” said Taylor. “I’ll be right there.”

  Another thought had been circling, and Gray’s instincts urged him to go with the odd idea. “Taylor?”

  Impatience flashed across the sheriff’s face. “Yeah?”

  “Bring Ember.”

  Taylor’s eyes widened a fraction, but he didn’t argue. He nodded, and disappeared from view. Within moments, the image floating on the water faded.

  Gray returned to Lucy. She was soaked, from both rain and sweat, her body shaking, her teeth gritted. Her eyes were closed, too, but there was no escaping her torment. Franco had made sure of that.

  “Gray?” Her voice was a mere whisper.

  “Here, baby. I’m here.” He sat down, not giving a shit about the uncomfortable ground or wet earth. God, he wanted to touch her. Just to pluck one strand of hair, or to brush his thumb over her cheek.

  Her eyes flickered open. The shadows smudging the delicate skin underneath those pain-filled orbs bespoke exhaustion and starvation. Looking at her now, he could see how frail she looked, how thin and pale. She’d been near collapse when she’d reached him this afternoon, and still she’d managed to soldier on.

  How could he have turned her away?

  “I’m so sorry.” Tears leaked from her devastated gaze. She shuddered, and he realized the effort to talk was costing her more pain. Guilt battered at him. He’d been such a self-centered prick.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said tightly. “For anything.”

  “I shouldn’t have come here.” Her body jerked, and she hissed, her hands clenching into fists.

  “Don’t talk!” he demanded roughly. He gentled his tone. “Don’t make it worse.”

  She actually laughed. She stared up at him, her body contorted with pain, but a sliver of humor glinting in her gaze. He was amazed. Lucinda Rackmore was a survivor. He would’ve never guessed the spoiled girl he’d known so long ago had a core of steel.

  “Look what I’ve done,” she said. “Marcy . . . she was just a kid.” She swallowed, hard, and he saw her legs twitch. Was she serious? Lucy herself was only twenty-five. But he knew both the great reckoning and Franco had aged Lucy far past her years. She spoke with a bitter, resigned tone no one should use, least of all a girl with so much power, so much potential. Mostly, though, he heard the overwhelming exhaustion dripping from her words. She was close to giving up—he could feel it.

  Even steel melted under the right conditions.

  “This isn’t your fault,” he said, but even he heard the doubt in his own voice. He didn’t know what had happened. Maybe it was her fault. He didn’t think she would do anything to harm Marcy on purpose, but what if Marcy had suffered because Lucy had brought tragedy with her?

  Her blood-streaked face turned away, and he felt as though he’d failed her again. He tried to drum up the old indignation at her audacity of seeking him out—he even tried for the apathy that had previously served him so well—but he couldn’t. Damn it all. Lucy had no one.

  Not even him.

  “Gray!”

  He looked up and saw the sheriff and Ember striding across the road. Behind them sparkled the oval doorway of the portal, which closed like a big winking eye. Relief washed over him. He wasn’t alone dealing with this mess anymore. The sheriff offered Lucy a cursory glance, then turned and strode toward Marcy’s body.

  Ember knelt beside Lucy and looked down at her with such compassion, Gray was reminded yet again of his own emotional inadequacies.

  “Don’t touch her,” he said. “It worsens the pain.”

  “I know dis curse,” she said softly. “It’s demon juju.”

  Gray felt as though she’d struck him. “What?”

  “You don’t tink dey Goddess give such magic to us, do you?” She shook her head. “Magic neutral, Guardian. You know dis. Dat’s why dey’s got to be balance.” She sniffed. “But da Dark One don’t play by nobody’s rules but his own.”

  Demon magic. Shit. Fear slicked his spine. “You’re sure?”

  “I don’t say such tings lightly.”

  It had never occurred to him that Franco had tapped into the powers of hell. Of course, it made sense. It explained the complexity and horror of Lucy’s curse. If Franco was messing with Pit magic and Gray could prove it, he’d have the bastard by the balls.

  “Can you help her?” he asked.

  Ember looked pensive. Then she slowly, sadly shook her head. “She got to do the sufferin’.”

  He blanched. “She said it would take three days.”

  “I’m sorry, Guardian. Ain’t no fix for dis.”

  “Gray,” called the sheriff.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Taylor crouched near Marcy. He waved him over. Gray hesitated, reluctant to leave Lucy.

  “Go on,” said Ember. “I’ll stay.”

  The sheriff and Marcy’s corpse were only a few feet away, but as Gray crossed the distance, it felt like miles. He didn’t want to examine his need to stay near Lucy. It felt too much like giving a damn.

  Gray felt even more like a failure as he stared at the crumpled form of a girl who hadn’t really had a chance to live. If only Marcy had trusted him, he might’ve been able to save her. She’d been so scared. Scared of the person who’d hit her—and likely the same person who’d finished the job. Save the witch, she’d said. Then she’d gone and tried to save Lucy all by herself.

  “The witch do this?” asked Taylor.

  Gray’s head shot up. “What?”

  “Your friend.” Taylor’s expression revealed nothing and his tone was as flat as the Texas panhandle. “Marcy’s dead, and she’s not.”

  “Go take a real good look at Lucy,” said Gray, fury boiling through him. “Tell me if you believe she had the strength to beat a girl to death. And then, you sanctimonious ass, tell me her motive for hurting the person trying to help her.”

  The sheriff was too professional to let Gray’s animosity get to him, but he couldn’t stop the surprise widening his gaze. Yeah, well, he wasn’t the only one surprised. Gray’s rusty protective instincts had been roused.

  Taylor tipped his hat back in the aw-shucks move Gray knew was calculated. “Sorry,” he said with that country-boy sincerity, “but I’ll have to question her.”

  “Sure,” he gritted out. “If she fucking survives, you can fucking question her.”

  Taylor said nothing. Instead, he reached out and clasped Gray’s shoulder. Gray didn’t appreciate the attempt to calm him. He pulled away from his friend’s grip.

  “You didn’t see her—what she did. Lucy almost died trying to bring Marcy back. She’s a thaumaturge.”

  This time the sheriff couldn’t stifle his shock. “Holy shit. Why didn’t it work?”

  “Because Marcy was already gone. Bernard Franco used demon magic to curse Lucy,” said Gray. “She used her thaumaturgy, and now she’ll be in agonizing pain for days. You think she’d risk that if she’d murdered Marcy?”

  “Maybe she didn’t mean to kill her, and was trying to bring her back.” But the sheriff didn’t sound too sure.

  “I have an idea. Why don’t you look for some evidence before coming up with your theory? And try not to let your prejudice against Rackmores get in the way.”

  Taylor flushed, his gaze narrowing. “You think I’d arrest her just because she’s a Rackmore?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re trying to do?”

  Taylor’s nostrils flared, and he took a step forward, his hand resting on his gun belt. Gray wanted the sheriff to try and punch him. He’d like nothing better than
a low-down dirty fight, because he really wanted to hit something.

  “Dat enough!” Ember popped up and marched toward them. “Dis ain’t no playground, and you not children. We got tings to do. Important tings.” She knelt next to Marcy and muttered something incomprehensible, a prayer maybe, then closed the girl’s eyes. Her gaze flickered to the sheriff. “Don’ tell me not to touch da evidence, neither. Child all crumpled up on the road like a used tissue. And what you do? Throw temper tantrums like spoiled boys. Shame on you both!”

  Taylor looked away, and cleared his throat.

  Gray felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up his neck. Ember was right. He was acting like a jerk. Again. Taylor was good at his job, even if he had a blind spot for Rackmores. At the end of the day, he trusted his friend to do the right thing.

  “Don’t call her ‘the witch’ in that snide tone again,” Gray said. “Her name is Lucy.” He turned on his heel and returned to his pain-stricken charge. He crouched down, studying her. She was a mess—a shivering, filthy, courageous fucking mess.

  After a short conversation with the sheriff, Ember joined him.

  “Use the portal,” she said, her accent nearly gone. It seemed the stronger her emotions, the more her Jamaican showed. She was getting back in control of herself, and Gray needed to do the same. “I’ll drive your truck back to your house.”

  “Thank you.” Goddess above, he didn’t want to pick up Lucy. How much agony would that cause? He glanced at Ember and knew from her expression she understood his dilemma. “Isn’t there any other way?”

  “ ’Fraid not.” That one dark eye peeking from behind the purple lens studied him. “You a dream walker, aren’t you?”

  Startled, he stared at her. “What?”

  Her smile was full of secrets. “What what? You are a Dragon, aren’t you?”

  He got the strange feeling she wasn’t talking about his House designation. A cold sweat broke out, and he shook his head. Then he nodded. Of course, she meant his House. What else could she mean?

  Not many wizards outside of the Dragon Order of the Moon, a strict, religious order of magicals devoted to dream walking, even tried it. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, which was why most Dragons didn’t bother with trying to learn the intricacies. He’d tested well on dream walking for his high school entrance exams, and the summer before he started ninth grade, his mother had sent him to one of the order’s temples in California to study the art of entering another’s subconscious. It had been years since he had done it—it was too easy to get lost inside dreams, to forget about the real world.

  “I can’t stop my chickie’s pain,” she said softly. “But soon, her body will give out and she’ll sleep. Not for long. That curse too strong to give her much relief. You dream walk with her, give her strength, hope.”

  Gray nodded, though he was unsure if he could manage it. Yet, if he could alleviate a little of her torment, give her something to hold on to as she suffered through Franco’s curse, it was worth a try.

  “Pick her up, and go,” said Ember. “Nothing gonna make it better ’cept to do it fast.” She aimed her palm toward the field across the road. He felt a shift in the atmosphere, the tingle of powerful magic, and the portal opened. How the hell had she managed that? Portals required keys, and she didn’t have one. Or hell, maybe she did. It was just another nail in the coffin of his own apathy.

  I’ll make it up to Nevermore. To everyone. Especially to Lucy.

  Sucking in a steadying breath, he leaned down and scooped up Lucy. She wailed, and his stomach clenched. Please, give her succor, Goddess. He couldn’t stand that he was hurting her. He ran across the road, trying not to jostle her, but failing miserably.

  Her shrieks turned to choked sobs as he stepped through the portal. Magic tingled around him and he felt a rush of wind and then, almost instantly, light. He hadn’t even considered that he might end up at the sheriff’s office and have to transport her farther. But somehow, Ember had managed to send them to his house. She’d known his home had a portal—actually it had several—but he couldn’t worry about Ember’s uncanny knowledge. He almost cried himself when he stepped through into his bedroom. He hurried to his big, unmade bed, and as gently as he could, he put Lucy down on top of his black coverlet. She looked like a broken ceramic doll tossed into a tar pit. He risked tucking a pillow under her head. She flinched and moaned, but at least she didn’t issue one of those heartrending screams. He didn’t dare risk trying to tuck her in. He didn’t want to add any more pain.

  He’d done enough damage.

  Her eyes fluttered open and zeroed in on him. “Why does it smell like feet and bologna in here?”

  Then she passed out.

  Gray couldn’t stop the laugh. He sat on the edge of the bed and curled his hand into the black sheets so he wouldn’t stroke away the damp strands of hair clinging to her face. Feet and bologna. He took a sniff, and grimaced. It definitely smelled guylike, and not in a sexy kind of way. Hell, he’d paint the room pink and light vanilla candles if she wanted. But for now, he had to dust off his dreamwalking skills. He didn’t know how long she’d be out, and he wanted to do something that actually helped her.

  Gray crawled onto the bed, very careful not to touch Lucy. He lay on his side less than six inches from her soaked, ravaged body, and stared at her. Even though she still twitched and shuddered, she had, just as Ember predicted, fallen into unconsciousness. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and he was halfway to appreciating the loveliness of the sight before he caught himself. She had a damned fine rack—and he was a jerk for noticing.

  You’re going to burn in hell, Gray. Worse than before.

  He moved his gaze to her face, thinking about those sad green eyes, that stubborn tilt to her chin, the pride that somehow still clung to even her most desperately uttered words. Slowly, his breathing deepened, and he murmured a prayer to his Dragon ancestors, asking for protection as he ventured into the world of dreams.

  Within moments, he was asleep.

  The sky was pearlescent pink, like the underside of a seashell. Lucinda couldn’t see a sun, or any source of light. Huh. Maybe the pink was the light.

  She was lying on the softest material she’d ever felt. Something silky covered her body, but she didn’t want to move her head, not even the couple of inches to look down.

  The pain was gone.

  She focused on the endless seashell sky. After a while, she realized she was floating along on some kind of current. She feared if she moved at all, or even breathed too deeply, Bernard’s curse would strike her, turning her blood to fire and her bones to acid. The gentle motion of the water lulled her. She felt safe in this odd place.

  I’m dreaming.

  Oh. That made sense. Slowly, she rolled to her right and looked out over a purple sea. Her “boat” was a rectangle of thick moss. The silk was a blanket designed more to soothe than to warm. When she slid it off and looked down at herself, she chuckled. She was wearing a silver bikini.

  Her moss raft moved toward the bay of an island with an endless white beach. Yards beyond was the lush greenery of a jungle, its perimeter dotted by palm trees. Then she saw a man standing at the edge of the water, a hand shading his face as he watched her float closer and closer to the inlet.

  “Swim,” he called out. “The water’s great.”

  Gray? Startled that he was in her dreams, waiting for her, she hesitated. Why would she dream about him?

  Deciding it didn’t matter who shared the beach with her, she slid into the warm, lapping water and started swimming.

  Oh, the purple sea felt glorious around her, a thousand massaging fingers guiding her toward the shore, toward the man who waited there.

  In no time at all, her feet touched sand and she walked out of the water to join Gray. He had no scar or tattoos. He almost looked like the man he’d once been, and she had a flutter of regret for all that happened. To him. To her.

  She studied him. He was fit and healthy, ropes of sinewy
muscle displayed, and she had the strangest urge to run her hand down his washboard abs, tickle the line of dark hair darting into his black swim trunks.

  She stopped less than a foot away, unable to pull her gaze away from his gorgeous body. He could be mine. Right now. She was unnerved by the erotic nature of her own thoughts . . . and excited, too. She twisted her hands, biting on her lower lip, unable to give voice to her turmoil.

  “You asked me to marry you,” he said, as if she’d spoken. “Did you think you would escape my bed?”

  “You said no.”

  “To marriage,” he said. “But not to sex.”

  “I didn’t offer sex.”

  He grinned, and the wicked smile sparked a fire in his changeable blue eyes. She felt something give way in the pit of her stomach—a tingling warmth that stole down to the apex of her thighs. If her suit bottom weren’t already wet from her swim, it would be now in response to her own lust.

  For Gray Calhoun.

  It was a shocking, titillating idea.

  Gray crossed the distance between them and took her hands into his.

  “Where are we?” she asked. Something felt weird about this place—and she realized that it wasn’t her own creation. She was visiting someone else’s mental landscape.

  Gray’s?

  “Yeah. It’s mine.” He looked around, a small smile of satisfaction flirting with his lips. “It’s peaceful. It requires nothing from me.” His gaze returned to hers. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation to join me.”

  Invitation? She frowned, but he shook his head, as if trying to ward off her concerns.

  “Don’t worry so much, all right?”

  His large warm hands cupped hers and he pulled her closer. Her heart skipped a beat. He smelled like the sea, and mingling with the sharp salty tang was a musky, masculine scent. The pit in her stomach widened and dipped and twisted, and she felt as though she’d gotten onto a roller coaster. But she liked the sensations.

  “How do you feel?” he asked. His voice was tender, and so unlike him, she shifted uncomfortably.

  She shrugged. “Okay, I guess. What happened to—”