Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore (10 page)

Lenore.

He felt his chest squeeze. There was just something about her—something that got to him.

Maybe he was magicked. Maybe she’d somehow entranced him. But how? Why? All he knew was that falling under a literal magic spell made a helluva lot more sense than this apparent random confluence of events.

“I’m heading into town,” said Ant. “Elandra’s meeting me at the temple.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow.

“Magical stuff,” his brother said. “She’s making an offering to Jaed. It’s sorta like when you bring a bottle of wine to someone else’s dinner party.”

“I get it,” said Taylor drolly.

“Yeah.” Ant snorted a laugh. “I’m gonna get going. You sure you won’t need me at the
nemeton
?”

“Nah,” said Taylor. “If anything changes, we’ll call you.”

Ant nodded and then took off down the hallway to his room.

Taylor turned his gaze once again to the woman sleeping so peacefully under the safety of his roof.

“Who are you?” he whispered. “What are you doing here?” He sucked in a breath. “And what the hell do you want with me?”

She stirred, appearing restless. And he watched as she struggled under the covers, her expression filled with pain, fear. He couldn’t bear it. The thought of her being hurt, or suffering, killed him, so he crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and put his hand on her forehead. “Ssshh,” he said. “It’s okay. It’s all right now.”

Lenore quieted. She turned her face toward him, still deeply asleep, and her cheek slid against his palm. Her soft skin felt like silk on his calloused hands. Working man’s hands, he thought. She deserved better. But he wanted her.

Goddess, how he wanted her.

She took his breath away, this woman, this stranger.

Her breathing evened out, and her body relaxed. When he was sure that she was through the nightmare and that she felt safe once again, he slipped off the bed. He paused at the doorway, giving one last look over his shoulder.

In the light of day, the
nemeton
looked almost peaceful. The sense of waiting had not dissipated, and the vibes of urgency—and that taint of dark magic—made Taylor’s skin prickle. While Gray wandered around, apparently
seeing magical imprints all over the place, Taylor studied the altar where Lenore had been bound.

Her blood blemished the rock. Now black, it looked like sin staining an ancient soul. He could almost feel the protest of the blue stone, and its imperious outrage of being abused.

“Taylor.”

“Yeah?” He turned away from the altar and joined Gray in front of the large stone that belonged to the House of Ravens, the symbol of Ekron, the keeper of death. The stone was scorched. And the shape of the mark looked…well, human.

“Someone was burned into ash.” Gray pointed to the grass, and Taylor crouched down to look at the pile of gray powder.

Taylor got to his feet and slowly turned to examine the other stones. None bore the same burned impressions. “You think it’s coincidence Ekron’s stone is the one with a dead guy’s outline?”

Gray shook his head. “Magic has too much symbolism, too much intent, for it to ever be accidental.”

“Shit.” Taylor rubbed the back of his neck. “What the hell happened?”

“Lenore is the only one who knows,” said Gray. “I can’t track much in this place. I sense six individuals. And I feel Lenore’s presence on the altar. Whatever they were trying to do, it failed.”

“You think they’d have the balls to try again?”

“The House of Ravens is not known for leaving well enough alone, especially if they hope to gain power. What I don’t understand is how the hell they knew a
nemeton
was here when we didn’t. Or how they got into town without us knowing about it.”

“Damn it. It’s likely they know about the Goddess fountain, too.”

“Yeah.” Gray blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ll start the cleansing. When my mother gets here on Friday, I’ll ask her, Ember, and Lucy to help me reinforce protections on the town and your land.” He looked at Taylor. “All the same, maybe someone should keep watch out here until the protections are reinforced.”

“No offense about your abilities, Gray, but the damned town has been in magical lockdown since March. If they got through all that, then some extra magic isn’t going to matter much.” He sighed. “Neither will some humans hanging around here.”

“I’ll create vigils,” said Gray. “They’ll keep watch and warn us if anyone unauthorized enters the
nemeton
.”

“What the hell is a vigil?”

“Sorta like a magical mud doll. I’ll make them from the earth around here, and they’ll keep watch. They can’t do magic, but they’ll trigger protections and send us warning.”

“Mud dolls, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Gray. “Kinda creepy, I know.” He looked around. “I’ve been thinking about Atwood’s suicide. You think his taking his life is somehow related to all this?

“No coincidences,” muttered Taylor. It didn’t make much sense, but then a lot of strange things happened in Nevermore. Was there a connection? Hell, there wasn’t much he could do about Atwood until he got Dr. Green’s official coroner’s report. “You okay here?”

“Yeah,” said Gray. “As soon as I finish the cleansing, I’ll check in with you and let you know if I found anything else.”

“All right.” Taylor nodded good-bye, and then he left. Damned place was so sad, he couldn’t get outta there fast enough. When he got to his house, he debated about whether or not to check on Lenore. He wanted to see her again with his own eyes, make sure she was all right, and that bothered him. She wasn’t exactly his, was she? Lucy and Ember would take good care of her—between Lucy’s empathetic nature and Ember’s mothering, the girl would be fine.

Casting a glance at the upstairs window that designated his mother’s bedroom, he turned away and got into his SUV.

By the time Taylor got to work, it was nearly eleven a.m. Arlene sat at her desk, typing up reports. He should’ve known she wouldn’t stay home like a sensible
person. He stood in the foyer with its gleaming black-and-white-checkered floors, and stared at her until she looked up.

She had a determined look in her eye, the kind of look that said any fussing on his part would be met with militant resistance.

“I made coffee,” she said.

“Thanks.” He didn’t move.

Arlene started typing again. After a few more moments, she stopped and sighed. “He was my friend as much as he was anyone’s friend, stubborn old cuss. But what good would it do me to sit at home stewing about it all? At least here, I can get work done and keep my mind occupied.” She waved her hand. “And Jimmy’s driving me crazy. He asks me if I’m okay, if I want tea, if I gotta cry, if I need a hug…My husband’s turned into Oprah.”

Taylor laughed, and then he shook his head. “All right. But if you feel a need for any of those things—”

“I’ll call Jimmy,” she promised. Grief shadowed her gaze. “Did Atwood really shoot himself?”

“Looks like,” he said quietly. “But we won’t know for sure until Doc Green takes a look.” He wondered what Arlene would think about the significance of Atwood’s using Banton’s Peacemaker. But reminding her of Banton—both Ren and Harley—would just be putting salt in still-fresh wounds.

“Guess I’ll go get that coffee,” he said. “You need another cup?”

“Just poured one, so I’m good.”

He nodded and then headed back to the break room. He’d barely gotten a cup poured before he heard the front door open and close, and Arlene’s startled, “May I help you?”

He brought his mug with him as he returned to the foyer.

He stopped next to Arlene’s desk and eyed the newcomer. The man was dressed in formal robes—the glimmering black material with its silver raven on the upper-right shoulder denoted him of the House of Ravens. And the scroll crossed with a sword that was stitched on his left shoulder told Taylor this magical was a special investigator. He carried a black leather satchel emblazoned with the same symbol.

Taylor offered only nonchalance as he sipped his coffee, but his mind was racing. Had they followed a trail from Bernard Franco to Nevermore? Franco, Lucinda’s ex-lover and the man who’d cursed her and then tried to murder her, had been killed by Gray while he was in dragon form. Rather than try to explain how the man had gotten flattened by a mythical creature, they’d disposed of the body themselves and pretended he’d never graced the borders of their town. Neither he nor Gray could’ve known that Franco had created protections against getting murdered—and all those dirty little secrets he’d kept for others had sprung into the
oily light of day. Most of the fallout had been in Washington, among the House of Ravens, and other politicians; yet it seemed the only likely explanation for this investigator’s arrival in the small town.

Gray had said there were no coincidences. And wasn’t it just lucky that a special investigator arrived the day after they’d discovered a sacrificial victim with Raven connections?

The man studied him with the same keenness. He wasn’t a big man; he was on the short side, maybe a few inches over five feet, on the thin side, too, and his hair was cut stylishly. His eyes, as dark as mud, didn’t give much away. Taylor noted the man’s manicured hands and the expensive platinum ring that glittered with a pea-sized diamond—not to mention the Quasar watch, the magical equivalent of a Rolex. The wealth was understated but not hidden. Interesting. This was a man who wanted people to notice his worth.

“Sheriff Mooreland?”

Taylor rocked back on his heels and tipped up his hat. He kept his smile congenial—nothing like the small-town-cop routine to throw off the unsuspecting. “Yep. You are?”

“Special Investigator Orley Ryerson. I’m investigating the death of Bernard Franco.”

Bingo.
Taylor kept his expression one of mild interest. “I heard about all that mess up in Washington.” He
paused. “I also heard that Franco was no longer on the membership roster of the House of Ravens.”

Ryerson allowed a small tight smile. “It was merely a suspension, so technically, he was still a member, and therefore—even deceased—he merits full rights and privileges.” The smile widened infinitesimally. “I’m merely informing you of my presence, Sheriff. As a courtesy.”

Taylor took a long sip of coffee. “Well, then. All I need to see is your paperwork, including the
Facio
you received from the Guardian to investigate here.”

The man’s smile disappeared. “I don’t require a
Facio
. The Grand Court has granted me
Detego Detectum
.”

There wasn’t much Gray could do about a Grand Court–sanctioned investigation, especially not if his own House voted for it. And Taylor knew a
Detego Detectum
required a majority vote from all the Houses to pass. Maybe the Grand Court was trying to keep the Ravens from going rogue by granting them the right to investigate Franco’s death. If the House of Ravens seceded from the magicals’ governing structure, it was bad news for everybody.

“So you’ve already informed the Guardian of your presence?” asked Taylor. He took a deliberate sip of coffee. “As a courtesy.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I assumed his offices were here as well.”

Taylor quirked one eyebrow. “Didn’t realize making
assumptions was an actual investigative technique.” He shrugged. “But what do I know?”

Ryerson’s gaze flashed with fury; then he buckled in the emotion. “Perhaps you should inform the Guardian that I’m here.”

“Oh, you can do that,” said Taylor in an aw-shucks voice. “Out those doors, make a left. Up the hill to the big pink house. Can’t miss it.”

For a moment, Ryerson seemed flabbergasted by the idea that he was expected to handle the matter himself, as though Taylor were some kind of servant who’d rebelled against his master. Taylor touched the brim of his hat. “You have a nice day, now.”

He meandered to his office, effectively dismissing the odious Raven mage. The man slithered outside. Cell phones had spotty reception in Nevermore, mostly due to the magic that was so easily amplified by the Goddess fountain, not to mention the magicals themselves. Still, nearly everyone had a landline, and the minute Ryerson stomped past the picture window of Taylor’s office, he picked up the receiver and dialed Gray.

The conversation took less than a minute. Gray sounded none too pleased about this newest development. The timing seemed kinda hinky to them both, especially since it had to be well-known that Leticia Calhoun was coming to town soon. And after eight months, the Ravens chose now to send out an investigator?

Oh, yeah. Something else was going on.

Taylor stared down into his empty cup.

Well, shit.

Kenneth Mooreland took on a farmer’s life because that was all he’d ever known. He’d been raised on a small farm with a doting, hardworking father until…Well, for so long everyone believed that Edward Mooreland had abandoned his family. Now, however, everyone knew he’d been killed twenty years ago by Harley Banton. Damn. It was still difficult to wrap his brain around it.

But later, after they moved into Ol’ Joe’s place, he’d worked side by side with Taylor and their siblings on that farm. When he started courting Betty Mae, her parents had been right thrilled. They’d wanted to keep their farm in the family, and since Bets was their only child, and not much on farming, honestly, they’d told Kenneth he was sent from the Goddess. Soon as he and Betty Mae got married, her parents retired and moved to Boca Raton. So, here he was, thirty years old, married for the last six, and hoping to be a father soon. Betty Mae wasn’t as keen on the idea of starting a family. While he worked from dawn to dusk keeping the farm going, she kept the house, took care of the bills, and cooked the meals. Then she spent half the night on the Home Shopping Network, buying all kinds of crap they didn’t need—and hell, half the time, he couldn’t figure out how to work.

All the same, Bets was a good wife, and they’d been happy enough.

If there was a tiny voice of discontent that occasionally piped up, he ignored it. Maybe things weren’t as they’d been in the beginning. Marriage was about compromise, right? People changed, and if they wanted their relationship to remain solid, then they learned new ways to communicate and live together. And if it seemed to him that Bets might’ve been doing a lot more changing lately…Well, all he could do was try to accommodate his wife. He loved her. The sliver of something-ain’t-right that tickled his gut lately—well, that didn’t mean a damned thing.