Never Again

by Michele Bardsley

  His footsteps clicked against the brick street as he went down Dragon’s Way. A block later, he turned right onto Brujo Boulevard, passed the dark and empty Archer’s Dry Goods and General Store, and entered the alley between it and the Piney Woods Café. Five years ago, he’d financed Cathleen’s new brick wall, which cut off access from the Sew ’n’ Sew and the building that housed Atwood’s offices and apartment. Not only did the fat ass run the town’s waste-removal services; he also put out Nevermore News every month. Like the world needed to know about another calf birth or the plight of the school’s FHA program.

  Sometimes, he felt suffocated by the smallness of Nevermore. It was disgusting how satisfied some people were with so much nothing.

  The alley was too narrow to fit a car, so no one really cared about the addition, except Atwood, of course. He’d complained about it interfering with pedestrian convenience, but since the café owned the land, Atwood couldn’t do much about it. Old windbag. Whatever. He’d needed to discourage folks from taking shortcuts and noticing things that they shouldn’t.

  Soon, he wouldn’t have to hide anymore. Everyone in Nevermore would be grateful for what he’d done. They would be happy he was the Guardian. And they would be amazed by all his magic.

  He entered the café using his own key. He knew the place well enough that he didn’t need lights to maneuver around the tables and chairs. In no time at all, he was behind the counter and in the kitchen.

  He thought about the way Cathleen had acted at the wake. He knew she hated the Calhouns—almost as much as he did. Her reaction to Gray marrying Lucinda was unexpected. Why did she care? Eh. The cover of the café was too good to give up. Cathleen’s vitriolic personality and revenge-mindedness suited him just fine, especially since no one would believe he’d have anything to do with her. He needed to control her better, that was all.

  After he opened the door to the basement, he flicked on his penlight and walked down the rickety wooden stairs. He pulled out the key to unlock the entrance to his special place.

  He turned on the lamp on the worktable. He carefully replaced the eye in the empty middle space, the honored gem among all his treasures. “You’re home,” he said.

  It glowed.

  He pulled up a barstool and sat, looking at all the magic. Placed in a certain order, with the right spells in the right location, the items would work together to unlock the planes between earth and the underworld. It wouldn’t last very long, but it would be strong enough to summon Kahl.

  Then he’d take his revenge on those who’d denied him his true birthright. And his power—oh, he’d take that, too.

  My magic, he thought as he touched the objects one by one, mine.

  Gray awoke in a cavern. His heart nearly heaved out his chest as he recognized the lair of Kahl, the very place where Kerren had stabbed him in the heart and offered his soul to her new master.

  It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t chained to the slab. No. He was standing next to it, dressed in a black robe, the same as Kerren had been that terrible night. In his hand, he held a silver dagger.

  “Sacrifice her.”

  The darkly sensuous male voice echoed through the cavern. Gray looked down at the slab and saw Lucy bound there. She was naked—her wrists and ankles clasped in enchanted irons. His heart thudded dully. No. He didn’t want to be here. Not ever again. “It’s okay,” he told her. “It’s okay.”

  Her wide green eyes stared at him, filled with betrayal and hatred.

  “You know how it works,” said the voice. “Remember? It’s your turn now. You have the power.”

  Fear chilled his blood. The knife felt cold in his hand, like he was gripping a shard of ice. “No!” He spun around, looking for the owner of the voice. “I won’t.”

  “You are bound to me, servant. You took something that was mine to regain your life. Now you must pay your debt.”

  “I owe you nothing!”

  “She would kill you,” he offered slyly. “Has she not the same foul blood as her sister? Would she not do anything to save her own life? What a fool you are, Gray Calhoun, to give your heart to another Rackmore witch.”

  Doubt flickered. Gray looked down at Lucy, at the tears that tracked her cheeks and dripped onto the bloodstained stone. Her chin cocked in that stubborn tilt of hers, her gaze determined. She wouldn’t ask him for mercy, he realized. She would take the knife to her chest rather than beg for her life.

  Not like him. He had begged Kerren. He’d even wept. She’d killed him anyway.

  “Sacrifice her!” demanded the voice. “Take your revenge, Dragon. Become what you must to serve me!”

  “No!” He dropped the dagger and clawed at Lucy’s chains, but he didn’t have the strength or the magic to free her.

  “You bastard,” she whispered. “Now you’ve killed us both.”

  Pain exploded in his shoulder. He felt stringers of heat crisscross his flesh, crawling up his neck to throb at his temple. He tore off the robe and looked down at his shoulder. It glowed with magic.

  The scar caused by Kerren’s treachery pulsed with light, with pain.

  His skin started to flake away.

  Horror swelled like poisoned flowers, blooming in his gut, exploding in his head. No. Not this.

  Red scales glittered.

  His secret revealed; his fear unleashed.

  He screamed.

  Lucy’s heart slammed against her chest as she watched Gray struggle with his nightmare. She’d tried to shake him awake, but he was too far gone. Being a dream walker made him more vulnerable to his subconscious travels.

  He shouted, “No!” and tossed off the covers.

  His scar was glowing. She felt the pulsing magic, and the strange heat emanating from his twisted flesh. Fear slithered through her. Sweat slicked his naked body as he writhed and moaned. He was in such pain. What was happening to him?

  She had to wake him up, and she could think of only one thing to do.

  Lucy crawled on top of him and slapped him as hard she could.

  He roared and his eyes flew open. Even though he was staring straight at her, she knew he was seeing something else. He tossed her off and rolled on top of her. He held her down by the arms, fury etched on his features. “I will never hurt her,” he cried. “I do not serve you!”

  “Gray!” she yelled. She didn’t struggle, but it took effort. She was terrified. “It’s me, Lucy. Gray! Wake up!”

  He stilled, and his eyes cleared. He was breathing hard, his body quaking as he shook off the vestiges of whatever vision held him hostage.

  He blinked down at her. “Lucy?”

  “It’s okay,” she said. He had her pinned, so she couldn’t move. She very much wanted to stroke away the lines of worry creasing his brow. “You’re all right, Gray.”

  “Goddess!” He readjusted his weight and let go of her arms. “Did I hurt you?”

  She touched his face and leaned up to kiss his chin. “You could never hurt me.”

  He blanched. He shifted as though he might move off her, but she grabbed his shoulders. “Stay,” she murmured. “I’m cold.”

  “You want to use me for a blanket?”

  “Do you mind?”

  He closed his eyes briefly. He moved down just enough to keep his weight from crushing her completely, then laid his head down on her chest. She stroked his hair.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. Then he sighed. “Sometimes I dream about the night Kerren killed me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could make it better for you.”

  He lifted his head and looked up at her. “You do, don’t you? All that you’ve been through and you still seek to help others. To help me when I turned you away.”

  “Temporary insanity,” she offered. “Understandable when you were faced with the sister of the woman who sent you to hell.”

  “I don’t want to think of you like that. You’re Lucy. My bea
utiful wife.”

  Her pulse leaped. “Don’t forget talented, sexy, and flexible.”

  His lips cocked into a sexy grin that sent frissons of awareness through her. “All those things, too. Though I may need a demonstration to prove your flexibility.”

  “You know,” she said as he rose above her, “you are a very useful blanket.”

  He kissed her lazily, building the passion between them slowly. She stroked the corded muscles of his belly, fingertips gliding down to his cock, which hardened even more under her tentative touches. He was velvety smooth, and warm. She gripped him and squeezed.

  He groaned. “You’re killing me, baby.”

  “I’m unmerciful, too,” she said. “I live to torture.” She squeezed him again.

  He slid an arm underneath her. She gave a startled yelp as he flipped over, reversing their positions easily. She found herself on top of her very aroused husband, and suddenly in control of their lovemaking.

  “Go on,” he said. “Torment away.”

  Uncertain about this new game, Lucinda looked him over while she decided what to do next. Bernard had never let her on top—he would’ve never let anyone take a power position in bed.

  Yet Gray offered himself to her without reservation. He was a patient man, and he was kind. Rough, too, and blunt, but very much a man she liked.

  She tapped her bottom lip and tilted her head. “Hmmm. What first?”

  Gray’s eyes glittered, and his fully erect penis pressed intimately against her wet heat.

  He flexed his cock, and it hit her right in the sweet spot.

  “Hey!” She sucked in a breath. “No tormenting the tormentor.”

  He grinned.

  She leaned down and peppered his chest with kisses. Her fingers skimmed the ropes of muscle, tracing his rib cage, scoring his hips.

  He moaned, and feminine satisfaction curled through her. More confident now, she flicked her nails against his flat brown nipples, and then she suckled each tiny nub. He shuddered.

  Her body ached for his. She lifted herself above him, and positioned herself so that she could rub against his cock. She moved in long, slow strokes, tormenting them both. Gray’s eyes were dark with lust, and she was quivering.

  How long could she last against her own need?

  Against his?

  Leaning forward, she offered her breasts for him to feast on, and he did, cupping and kneading them, pinching the turgid peaks.

  She gasped.

  And so, he did it again.

  His gaze never left hers. He skimmed the undersides of her breasts, teasing her areolas with light touches. Then he suckled one nipple, letting go to blow softly on the crinkled flesh. He did the same to her other nipple. All the while, those blue, blue eyes dared her to go further, to do more.

  But she was done with torture.

  “Help me,” she said, panting. “I want you inside me.”

  She got onto her knees, moving back, and hovered over his cock. He held on to his shaft while she pushed down, taking every inch of him. He filled her up completely. For a moment, she could do nothing else but sit there, hands flexing against his stomach, and try to remember how to breathe.

  She was, at first, tentative. Gray merely watched her, his hands fisted in the covers, as she tried out different ways to move.

  She sat straight, bouncing, while clutching his stomach to stay upright.

  Then she stopped, deciding to lean forward and place her hands on either side of his rib cage. She slid up and down. Gray seemed to enjoy it, but she wanted to find the optimum position to pleasure them both.

  She stopped again, and Gray groaned. “Seriously. You’re killing me.”

  “Well, I promise you’ll die happy. Now hush. I’m thinking.”

  “Can you think and move?”

  “No.” She grinned at him. “I have an idea.”

  “I love ideas,” he said.

  “You sit up, I wrap my legs around your waist, and we . . . you know. Together.” She frowned. “Do you think that would work?”

  “Yes,” he said fervently, “yes, I do.”

  “You’ll have to really put your back in it,” she warned.

  “I’ll do more than that,” he promised.

  He sat up while still embedded inside her, which she found a rather impressive move. Her body trembled with Gray-inspired need, and she knew he felt the same urgency. Anticipation went only so far.

  He sat in a cross-legged position, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and pressed close against him. Her distended nipples rubbed against his chest, sending little lightning bolts of pleasure zapping through her.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, licking her lips. “Oh, yes.”

  They both started to move together. Eventually they found a rhythm that left her breathless. There were no more words, no more teasing. She clung to him, eyes closed, awash in the pleasure of their connection. He held her tightly as he thrust, his lips pressed against her shoulder.

  “I can’t hold on,” he whispered. “Come for me, Lucy.”

  She shattered.

  She cried out, her nails digging into his back as the orgasm rocked her to the core.

  Gray groaned, impaling her as he came, his body shuddering. His hands gripped her back as he filled her up, his teeth scraping her collarbone.

  For a long moment, they held each other.

  Lucy reveled in how wonderful it felt to be with Gray. This was how it was supposed to be between lovers. But it was more than just great sex. It was that connection she’d never had, not with anyone. One day she would have to leave. Not just because he didn’t want a permanent marriage—but because she could love him. Goddess above. She could love Gray and stay his wife forever, and be happy.

  How was she going to walk away?

  Chapter 10

  “Where’ve you been?” asked Taylor, watching Ant tramp into the house, dragging dirt in his wake.

  Taylor sat on the stairs drinking his second cup of coffee. He didn’t like being in the kitchen, and the formal living room with its big, antique furniture and oversized hearth made him feel too lord-of-the-manor-ish. It was Saturday, and he didn’t want to go to work—even though he would. He went into the office every day.

  What else was there to do?

  Ant eyed him. “You still here?”

  “You’re looking at me, aren’t you?”

  His brother was a couple inches over six feet, just a hair shorter than Taylor. He supposed the kid would be considered handsome even though he was covered in dirt and what all ninety-nine percent of the time. Ant didn’t actually date much. The pickings around Nevermore were kinda slim. Either the girls wanted to get married, or they wanted to leave. Very few of Nevermore’s children stayed. There weren’t a lot of opportunities for jobs, much less careers. Not to mention how family farms were dying out one by one.

  Ant was almost twenty now.

  Criminy. His baby brother was a grown man. Taylor felt old all over again. He sipped his coffee and watched Ant stamp the mud off his boots. His brother was good about cleaning up after himself, so he didn’t worry too much about the mess he was making.

  “Didn’t see you at the wake.”

  “That’s ’cause I wasn’t there. I went to Marcy’s grave site this morning and planted geraniums. You know she doesn’t even have a headstone? I asked Mordi about it. Said Cathleen didn’t get her one.”

  “The town’s buying it,” said Taylor. “I’ll drop by the cemetery today and make the arrangements.”

  Mordecai Elizabeth Jones was the undertaker of Elysian Fields, Nevermore’s only cemetery. Every first child in the Jones family was named Mordecai, boy or girl, because that was the tradition—as was training that first child to take over the family business. A Jones had been in charge of Elysian Fields since the day Nevermore became a town. Mordi liked her job, a little too much, if you asked Taylor. She graduated high school a year early and went to Houston to go to funeral
college. After she’d gotten her two-year degree in mortuary science, she’d returned to take over the business. Her parents retired, bought an RV, and were currently roaming the United States visiting famous grave sites. Mordi was their only child, and she was the youngest undertaker in the history of Elysian Fields. She was always hanging out at the cemetery. She said dead folks were more reasonable than the living. This, from a girl who wasn’t a magical. But it didn’t seem to stop her from talking to the dead folks.

  She was kinda weird.

  Then again, it was hardly her fault she’d been born and raised in a cemetery. She was about Ant’s age, a couple months older, but neither one seemed too interested in each other.

  “What’s going on in that brain of yours?” asked Ant. “I don’t like it when you look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  Ant took off his hat and slapped his thigh with it. His curly brown hair was too long. He needed a haircut. And he needed to stop messing around with those plants of his and go get a decent life somewhere.

  “Like you think I should be married with kids or taking over a corporation or something. I like it here. I like what I do. And I do make a living with my gardening.”

  “I know.”

  “Sometimes it’s better if the world’s not so big,” said Ant. “There still coffee?”

  “Yep.”

  Ant went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup. Unlike Taylor, he didn’t mind being in the kitchen. Taylor couldn’t understand why it was so easy for Ant to be at peace with their mother’s death. Or maybe he wasn’t. They didn’t exactly talk about it.

  Ant returned to the foyer. “Any word about Lennie’s funeral?”

  “The doc’s coming in on Monday to do the death certificate,” said Taylor. “Then I can release his body to the Archers. You talk to Lennie much?”

  “Not really,” said Ant. He plopped down a couple stairs below where Taylor sat. “There were what? Twenty-two of us in the senior class? Mordi would’ve been, too, if she hadn’t done accelerated studies.” He blew on the hot coffee. “You got any idea who hurt Marcy?”

  “Not a damned clue,” said Taylor.