Never Again

by Michele Bardsley

  Gray got out of bed. His limbs prickled as blood rushed into places that had been still and numb for three days. Being upright made him dizzy, and he dropped the empty glass onto the floor. It rolled under the bed and clinked against something. He had no idea what was under his bed. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to clean out any science experiments.

  “You need help?”

  “I got it.” Gray stumbled into the master bath and took care of business. As he washed his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was greasy, his face covered with stubble, and his eyes were bloodshot. He smelled like he’d fallen into horse manure. His clothes were stained with Lucy’s blood and his own sweat, not to mention wrinkled and smelly from soaking up all that rain.

  When he exited the bathroom, Taylor was standing by the bedroom door. “I figure you wanna check on her first.”

  Gray wanted to see Lucy with his own eyes, even though he knew Ember would take good care of her. Something about that woman inspired compassion and trust. As he got to the door, he paused. “You going soft on me, Mooreland?”

  “Your fingers were tangled in her hair,” he said. “The back of her hand was resting against your cheek. Don’t know if you’ll like it, Gray, but you two have a connection now. She’s yours.” He eyed him and tipped his hat back. “Or is she?”

  “Mine,” agreed Gray.

  The door to the bathroom was closed, but this was his house, damn it, so he opened it and strode inside.

  Ember knelt on the tiled floor next to the claw-foot tub. She murmured as she wiped Lucy’s face with a washcloth. Lucy’s eyes were closed, and he realized she was still unconscious. She was in her own dreamland now, and he wished he could be there with her.

  “I got a spell holding her above da water,” said Ember. “She won’t drown.”

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  “Will you, now?” Ember draped the cloth over the rim of the tub, and stood up. She turned around, hands on her hips, and stared him down.

  Once again, Gray felt like a novice in the presence of a master Dragon.

  “She’s mine,” he offered simply.

  Ember was unimpressed. “Don’t you claim her ’cause you need to clear your conscience. You can’t have it both ways, Guardian. You can’t feel guilty you doin’ da wrong tings, then accuse her of manipulatin’ your feelings.”

  Gray’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know I was . . . that was only in my own head!”

  “Da Goddess told me. She say you can’t hide no more.” Ember touched the edge of the black side of her glasses. “Everyting got a price. Sometimes good tings require sacrifice, and sometimes bad tings give you gifts. You went to hell, but you got a gift, too.”

  “No,” said Gray. His blood ran cold. That was his secret, his burden, and his alone. “This isn’t about me.”

  “Will be soon enough. But dat’s your journey to take, oh stubborn one.” She crossed her arms. “You gonna go?”

  “It’s my damned house!”

  Ember shrugged, and Gray saw that he’d have a better chance of moving a mountain than getting that woman out of his bathroom. She had the audacity to shoo him. “Go take care of yourself. Den come back and tell me how you gonna claim dis woman.”

  She waved her hands at him again, and Gray gave up. His own smell was making his eyes water. And now that he knew Lucy was okay, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt for him to take a shower.

  Taylor stood in the hallway, smirking.

  “Shut up,” said Gray. “Just shut the hell up.”

  Lucinda woke up in a tub of lukewarm water. Just as she realized magic was keeping her afloat, it popped like a soap bubble, and she slid under the water.

  “Lucy!” She heard Gray’s yell, then felt his hands underneath her armpits. He yanked her out of the water, and then swung her into his arms.

  “I’m n-naked,” she protested.

  “I’m trying not to notice,” he said. “It’s not really working, though.”

  “Did you notice I was c-cold, too?”

  His gaze swept over her breasts, lingering a tad too long on her beaded nipples, and he grimaced. “Yeah. Definitely cold.” He leaned toward a cabinet, and she reached out to open it. It was filled with fluffy blue towels. She grabbed one and tried to cover herself, but her limbs were trembling too badly. The towel fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird.

  “I can’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

  He strode out of the bathroom, down the hall, and into a bedroom. The walls were painted white and had a border of delicate pink flowers. The furniture was all white, too, including the full-sized wrought iron bed.

  It was lovely.

  The bedspread matched the border—white with delicate pink flowers. The sheets were pink, and the multitude of pillows all different shades of pink, too. The covers had been pulled down, and Gray put her into the bed, even though she was still wet from the bath. He grabbed the corner of the bedspread, but hesitated.

  His gaze roved her flesh, but this time not with desire. Lucy turned her face away as he examined the scars that riddled her skin. Don’t ask, she silently begged him. Please, don’t ask.

  “You need to eat something.” Gently, he pulled the covers up to her chin, and pushed her wet hair away from her face. “Ember’s making soup. You think you can stomach it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I’m not sure I can hold the spoon.”

  “I happen to be an excellent spoon holder.”

  She smiled. She wished she could accept his kindness without question, but she remembered far too well the look in his eyes when she’d knocked on his door. Nor would she ever be able to forget their dream together. If she could’ve accepted his terms and just given in to their passion, it would’ve been something nice to hold on to for a little while. But she knew he was wary of her, even though he was trying to be honorable.

  “This is much better than your room,” she teased.

  “I would’ve taken you here instead, but the portal opened into the master suite. I was afraid to carry you any further.”

  His serious answer quashed any further attempts at levity.

  “Why did you change your mind, Gray?” she asked. “I’m grateful. . . . I really am. But you didn’t want to help me. Why should you?”

  “What your sister did wasn’t your fault,” he said. “It’s not fair to hold that against you.”

  “Thanks,” she said drily. “You’re a saint.”

  He shoved a hand through his damp hair. “I was a prick, okay?”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, “you kinda were.”

  He laughed, and the sound went right through her. It reminded her of the old Gray, the one she hadn’t appreciated as a self-centered brat. She knew better than anyone that sometimes people were changed so substantially by tragedy, their very cores were reshaped.

  Gray could never go back to who he was.

  And neither could she.

  Carefully, he sat on the bed next to her. For a moment, she got the impression he wanted to hold her hand or touch her face, but he did neither. “I’m going to help you, Lucy. You can stay in Nevermore. I’ll give you official sanctuary. Ember’s willing to let you work at the tea shop for room and board. There’s an extra apartment above hers—it’s part of the same building. It’ll take a little elbow grease to clean up, but I’ll help you.”

  “I can’t risk it.”

  His gaze snapped to hers. “You can’t risk what?”

  “You. Ember. The town. Bernard will come for me, and he will level this place to get me.”

  “The hell.” Gray’s expression turned thunderous. “I’m a Dragon. A Wizard of Honor. The Guardian of Nevermore. He won’t dare.”

  “I’m sure all your titles will scare him to death.”

  Gray’s brows slashed downward. “If you thought you were risking Nevermore, why did you come here?”

  “To ask you to marry me.” She sighed. “If you’ll recall, I was on my way
out of town when . . . ” She felt the blood drain from her face as the memories all came rushing back. “Marcy.”

  “Cathleen already buried her.” His tone suggested he wanted to bury Cathleen. Alive. “This morning, apparently, without notifying anyone. But she’s having the wake tonight.”

  “I’d like to go.”

  “All right.” He rubbed his jaw. “I can’t believe Cathleen reopened the café.”

  “She didn’t close it to mourn her stepdaughter?”

  “Worse. I shut it down for inspection, but since I was dream walking with you, I didn’t show up. She found some arcane law on the books that basically gave her the right to reopen the café, and I can’t nail her with another inspection for thirty days. She’ll have her act cleaned up by then, and I won’t be able to do jack shit.”

  Lucy reached out and grasped Gray’s hand. “I’m sorry. The café seems like an important part of Nevermore. It’s too bad it’s being run by someone so selfish and cruel.”

  Gray looked down at her fingers, and she suddenly felt foolish. She tried to pull away, but he placed his other hand over hers so that her hand was trapped between both of his.

  “You lay there weak from that damned curse, one you suffered because you tried to save a girl you barely knew, and still you seek to comfort me for something so small.”

  “It’s not small to you.”

  He stared at their hands, and then he looked at her. “Marriage is the only way to protect you.”

  “If anything truly can,” she said. “Bernard can’t break the marital bond between magicals. Being your wife would give me protections not even he could tamper with.” She needed him to understand how little she could bring to the table. “Marrying me won’t break the curse. Nothing will do that. My thaumaturgy is practically useless.”

  “We’ll find a way to free you.”

  Lucy stared at him, her heart stuttering. “Gray, what are you saying?”

  “I’ll marry you.”

  Stunned into silence, she couldn’t do much more than gape at him.

  “It’s not a love match,” he warned. “But I expect us to share a bed. And the responsibilities of guardianship—what magic you have must be used to protect the town, same as mine. You’ll be my wife in all ways, Lucy.”

  Except in his heart, she thought sadly. This was definitely not a romance. She needed him, and though he might not admit it, he needed her. And if their dream meant anything, they had the kind of sparks that would make sex spectacular. That was more than she could expect—and it was more than she had with Bernard. At least Gray was up-front about his intentions, and letting her know he did not love her. She’d rather have a loveless marriage with equality and respect than be the mistress of man who claimed he loved her, even as he was beating her unconscious.

  “And if we find a way to lift the curse?” she asked.

  “If we break the curse and we nullify Bernard as a threat,” said Gray, “I will give you marital absolution.”

  Relief flowed through her, shadowed by that same, aching sadness. He didn’t want her, not really. Ah, but safety was within reach—she wanted to weep, but she’d shed enough tears already. “I agree to your terms,” she said. “Thank you, Gray.”

  He nodded sharply, and then he let her hand go and stood up. “I’ll talk to Ember and Sheriff Mooreland about the arrangements.”

  “When?”

  “Right now,” he said. “They’re downstairs fixing the back door. Mooreland didn’t remember the key under the mat before he busted it down.”

  “How long were we dreaming?” She studied the tiny pink flowers dotting the bedspread.

  “Three days. Lucy?”

  She looked at him. He gestured around the room, frowning. “I know a ceremony where the bride is prostrate isn’t exactly romantic, but—”

  “I will stand up for my vows,” she said firmly. “I just need a little rest. And that soup you promised.”

  He nodded. “Taylor can perform the ceremony.”

  Lucinda understood. Gray wanted a legal, perfunctory transaction. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting the dressings of a wedding—it would remind him too much of when he’d taken vows with her sister. That had been a love match for him, if not for Kerren. And for Lucinda, picking out a dress and flowers would perpetuate the lie that their relationship was more than a means to an end. He was her protector, and for his commitment to her, she would give him her loyalty and what little power she had left.

  She preferred the obligation stripped bare, as well, just as a reminder that the truth, no matter how ugly, was better than a pretty lie.

  “My clothes?” she asked.

  “They’re in the bathroom. I’ll wash them for you.”

  “No.”

  He looked at her sharply, and she flinched. For all her self-talk of truth and lies, she was reluctant to share the secrets that motivated her. Bernard wanted her back for many reasons, not least of which was to get back what she had taken. And now she had Marcy’s secret to keep, too.

  She wanted to trust Gray. But what if she told him . . . and he decided not to marry her? What if he told her she wasn’t worth the trouble?

  Then he’s not the man I believe him to be.

  Gray was staring at her, waiting for her to make up her mind. She realized he understood she was wrestling with her conscience, and he was waiting to see what she said. Trust was a two-way street. She couldn’t keep circling Gray, hoping for him to give in, or give up, before she did.

  She would make the first gesture.

  “Marcy asked me to keep something for her. She told me to take it and leave Nevermore.”

  “Take what?” he asked.

  “In the pocket of my jeans,” she said. “There’s a little red bag. I don’t know what’s in it.”

  He studied her face, frowning. “You didn’t want to tell me.”

  “She died for it, Gray. She gave it to me to protect, and now I’m trusting you with it, too. For her.” The rest of her words remained unspoken, but she knew he’d heard them all same: Don’t let us down.

  “I’ll take care of it.” He hesitated, then walked back to the bed and leaned over her, brushing a light kiss across her lips. “And I will take care of you.”

  It was almost better than a wedding vow.

  Almost.

  Chapter 7

  Gray sat at the kitchen table with Taylor and Ember, munching on a batch of Ember’s chocolate-chip cookies. He’d just finished telling them about Lucy’s predicament and their solution: marriage.

  “Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” asked Taylor. “You’re gonna marry another Rackmore witch? And not just any Rackmore, but the sister of your ex-wife? Someone cursed by a Raven?”

  “Well, when you put it like that,” said Gray sarcastically. “Yeah.” He knew how it sounded. He knew it was crazy, but he also knew deep down in his gut that he was Lucy’s only chance. Eventually Franco would catch up to her, and more than likely kill her.

  Or maybe he’d just torture her some more.

  Gray thought about all the tiny scars that dotted Lucy’s pale flesh and he wanted to destroy Bernard Franco inch by inch. Bastard. He had no doubt Franco had cut her, had made her bleed, and suffer. Why the hell would she put up with that kind of shit?

  “Ember, I hate to admit it, but these are as good as my mama’s.” Taylor sighed contentedly, and grabbed another cookie from the plate.

  “That’s a kind thing to say,” said Ember. “Thank you.” She wasn’t eating the cookies, though. She was too fascinated by the pair of books in front of her. One was big and leather, reminiscent of saddle leather, and the font of the title screamed Old West. The other was much smaller and slim, like a poetry book. It was as blue as the ocean and the title font looked like waves.

  “You mind scratching my binding again, Ember?” said the leather book. “My own grandson won’t do it.”

  “ ’Cause it feels weird to tickle my grandfather, even if he is a book,” s
aid Gray.

  “I need a scratch, too, Ember,” said the blue journal. “Gray’s stingy with the touches.”

  “’Cause you’re a dude,” said Gray, feeling defensive. “Quit flirting with a married woman.”

  “Flirting’s not cheating,” insisted Dutch.

  “I can’t believe you have two soul books.” Ember scratched the bindings of both books and they practically purred. “Once, I got to visit the special soul collection in the Great Library. So many people talking, telling their stories. I could’ve stayed there for weeks listening.”

  “I know why you have Grit,” said Taylor. “The old man requested it. But how’d you get Dutch?”

  Gray didn’t really want to talk about the books. He wanted to check on Lucy, but after the fifth time of seeing if she was “okay,” she actually snapped at him to leave her alone. At least with a nap and a belly full of Ember’s chicken soup, she was feeling stronger. He’d managed to dig up some old garments of his mother’s. Most were too big for Lucy’s thin frame, but he’d take her shopping and buy her anything she wanted.

  In his upstairs magicked safe was the red bag he’d dug out of Lucy’s front jean pocket. He hadn’t looked inside it because he didn’t want to know. Not yet. He was sure whatever Marcy was attempting to smuggle out of Nevermore was about to add another complication to his life. Taylor would be pissed at him for not handing over evidence in an active investigation, but frankly, Taylor could kiss his ass. Gah! He felt like a curmudgeon—a big old, grumpy, crusty curmudgeon.

  Damn it all. He was turning into Grit.

  “I asked him to bring Dutch with us,” said Grit.

  Startled out of his thoughts by his grandfather’s whiskey voice, he looked at Taylor. “I don’t know how they got to be friends, but honestly, the librarians were happy to see them both go.”

  “We were too much for them to handle,” said Dutch. “Too righteous.”

  Ember laughed, and gave the journal another tickle.

  “How long will it take?” asked Gray. “Do you need anything special?”

  Taylor dusted cookie crumbs off his hands. “For what?”

  “For marrying me and Lucy.”