Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore (11 page)

Ken stamped his boots on the front porch, wiping them on the welcome mat in front of the door. He took off his hat and went inside. He could hear the TV blaring in their small living room, but it took only a second to see that his wife wasn’t sitting in her usual spot. Her current crochet project had been draped on the arm of the pink recliner, which looked ridiculous in the otherwise traditionally furnished room. Still, he’d always liked that little quirky addition. It was so like Bets.

“Baby?”

He got no response, and frowned. The farmhouse was a one-story, three-bedroom ramshackle old thing, built about the time Nevermore had been founded. Betty Mae’s family had taken care of this land for generations. He was proud to carry on the tradition. And
he really wanted children, so they could carry it on, too. There was something sustaining about having roots, having a connection, having a legacy. He’d always be grateful for all those things, and he wanted very much to share it with his own progeny.

He didn’t understand why Betty Mae kept stalling about having kids. When they were dating, they’d talked about having a family, and she seemed genuinely excited about being a mother. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy their time together. They had a rhythm to their lives that made them happy. But surely Bets felt as he did that something was missing. An incomplete circle, he thought. Two people weren’t enough. Granted, he’d grown up one of seven children, and he missed the loving chaos of his childhood. There was always someone to play with, someone to get into mischief with…someone to lie for you.

He grinned. He needed to swing by and visit his brothers. Just kick back with a few beers and talk about the old days. He hadn’t seen either Taylor or Ant in a dog’s age.

“Betty Mae?” Ken looked around the neat-as-a-pin kitchen and frowned. Usually he could smell supper cooking, but there wasn’t a pan in sight. The oven was cold, the counters gleaming, and the sink dry as a bone.

A little knot of worry formed in his stomach. He walked through the kitchen, to the back of the house where the bedrooms were located. Their door was
closed, and for some reason, his fingers trembled when he reached for the knob.

He opened the door and stepped inside. He saw her on the bed, his gaze riveted to the slim, pale arm that hung off the side of the bed. “Bets? You feeling okay, honey?”

When he crossed the room and looked down, he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. Why was there blood? And Betty Mae’s pretty face was…
Oh Goddess
. He stumbled backward, slammed into the wall, and stood there, frozen in horror. He closed his eyes, his breath rasping, and felt chilled to his core.
No, no,
no!

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, whispering prayers, eyes closed. He didn’t know he was crying, until the tears dripped onto his folded hands. And he wasn’t sure what finally propelled him to leave, to go rushing into the living room and grab at the phone.

When his big brother answered, he couldn’t push any words past his throat. Finally, he managed to whisper, “She’s dead.”

Elandra Garou was small and delicate, as pale and fragile looking as angel feathers. But Ant could see the steel in her. She had a reputation as one of the best, as in most hard-assed, examiners in the House of Wolves; he was honored that she’d been sent to test him.

He waited at the temple’s entrance while she finished the ritual offering to Jaed and the subsequent prayers to the Goddess. Though the magicals owed allegiance to their ancestors, at the end of the day, it was the Goddess who had created them—created all.

He’d spoken to Elandra a few times, but this would be the first time he’d ever met her. Though his talents seemed to be easily accessed and used, which was not the case for all magicals, he knew he still needed a lot of training. There was so much he didn’t know; so much he wanted to learn.

Ant glanced over his shoulder, his gaze moving down the clean, empty streets, to the square purple
building where Happy worked as a part-time server. Rilton, the husband of Ember, the enigmatic tea mistress, was teaching Happy how to bake. Right now, though, she was in school.
High school.
Even though he’d kept to his promise of friendship and loyalty, there were days he’d wished—just for a second or two—he wasn’t such an honorable man. Happy was a beautiful girl; when she entered the full bloom of womanhood she would be…whoa. His gut clenched—and so did parts farther south.

And that was the problem.

He wanted Happy. And despite the relatively small age difference, he knew there existed a wide chasm between them. He was more experienced, more emotionally mature, and an actual adult. With Happy, he was getting too close to giving in to temptation. And if he did that…then he wouldn’t be the man she deserved. That was why he wanted to test for the House of Wolves. He wanted to go somewhere Happy-free so he could stop so much fucking yearning.

He suspected, though, that no matter how far away he got from Nevermore or from his girl, he would feel the same. It was as if he were tethered to her, not only through his promise, but through the absolute—and yes, he was saying it, damn it—knowledge they were meant for each other.

Patience.
All he needed was to keep cultivating his patience.

“You seem distracted.”

Ant whipped around at the sound of Elandra’s fairy-light voice. He blushed to the roots of his hair, and she laughed at his obvious embarrassment.

“I’ve been standing here for at least two minutes, and you didn’t even notice. What’s her name?”

Ant tugged down the brim of his cowboy hat. “How’d you know it’s about a girl?”

“Always is.” She offered him a half smile. “It’s a good way to lose your focus. You sure you’re ready for the testing? It will be a very long three days. If you’re not prepared—”

“I’m ready.” Ant met her gaze steadily. “I won’t fail.”

Her smile widened, and she inclined her head. “We’ll see.”

Ant knew he was probably going to get his ass kicked. Most magicals were born with a strong-enough affinity to simply be assigned a House. His powers had been latent, blooming suddenly and inexplicably. So he had to do a little more work to get into the House of Wolves. It was rare for a pledge to get tested—at least to the degree that Elandra had planned for him—but the Wolves wanted to be sure he was truly a magical.

He knew he was the real deal. He sure as hell didn’t need the approval of the Wolves. But he wanted the training, and he needed to go away, just for a while, just long enough for Happy to enter womanhood.

Goddess, he loved her.

And wanted her.

“You want a few more minutes to moon around?” asked Elandra.

“Hell, no.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Gray stared at the Colt Peacemaker that lay on the wood floor, gleaming like vengeance. Two crime scenes in one week with the same weapon.

What the hell?

He’d locked up Banton’s gun in his own magic-protected safe. No way could it have been removed from that safe or his property without his knowing about it. He gathered his power and sent it toward the weapon. Nothing. Damned if he could feel even an ounce of magic in it—or on it.

If it wasn’t magicked, then it made no sense about how it kept disappearing from secured locations, only to end up in the hands of people who had no reason to take their own lives. He looked at the remains of poor Betty Mae Mooreland. Now, there was a lady whose life seemed all right. She and Kenneth had made a nice couple; she was shier than her gregarious husband, and she was prone to blushing. He hadn’t seen them in a while, especially since the café had been burned down. Nevermore really needed a restaurant, maybe even two. Making that happen was yet another thing
on his very long Guardian to-do list. But that was neither here nor there.

Taylor was splitting his time between documenting the scene, keeping his brother going with coffee and empathy, and putting in calls to Dr. Green. He had brought Gray along for an extra set of hands.

Gray gathered his power and used it to once again seal the weapon. Then he took it carefully, put it in a special, silver-charmed box, and held on to it. This time, he was taking the damned thing to the Dragon archives in Dallas. Magic or no magic, the Peacemaker would stay put. And maybe then they’d be able to put a stop to whatever was going on in this town.

Gray couldn’t help but wonder: Why Atwood? Why Betty Mae? Why would they kill themselves? And why both of them with
this
gun?

“How’d she get it?” asked Taylor.

“She didn’t,” said Gray. “She couldn’t.”

Taylor nodded, but Gray could see the worry in his friend’s expression. “Ant will be here soon to get Ken. Once he’s gone, we’ll be able to transport Betty Mae to the morgue. Damned place is getting a lot more business these days.”

“These suicides are a piece of a bigger puzzle. And I don’t think we’ll like the picture when it’s done.” Gray told him about taking the gun to Dallas for storage. Taylor agreed. “In Dallas, I’ll do some digging around in the archives about the Peacemaker. If it has a magical
history, then it might have documentation. Maybe there’s something that will enlighten us about Banton’s gun.”

“Good idea. Dr. Green will be here tomorrow to do the autopsies. Can’t be anything other than suicide, but if it’s not…”

“Yeah,” said Gray, running a hand through his hair. Frustration ate away at his composure. “Then we’ve got another murderer loose in Nevermore.”

Norie Whyte awoke with a scream trapped in her throat, her arms and legs straining against the manacles on her wrists and ankles.
You won’t break me,
she thought.
I won’t let you.

It took a few seconds for her to realize she was freely moving her limbs and that she was in a warm, comfortable bed. She stopped struggling against the nonexistent restraints and lay still, listening to her own rasping breaths. Her body ached, but she was so used to feeling pain that it took her a moment to realize she wasn’t experiencing the usual agonies.

Gingerly, she sat up and looked around. The big room was furnished with lovely antiques. On either side of the four-poster bed was an arched window. Pale light filtered through the gaps in the shut curtains, dappling the wood floors.

She pushed off the covers and noted that a cotton nightgown covered her from neck to toes—and she wore thick black socks—men’s socks.

Where was she?

And how had she gotten here?

Images flickered. Being trapped on the altar. People around her. Knives slashing. Spells poisoning. Pain flowing.

She swallowed the knot of terror clogging her throat.

They’d been trying to sacrifice her.

And then…what? She closed her eyes and tried to remember something solid—something real. There’d been a sudden, terrifying cold. And screeching—birds, maybe? Then a blast of light. An awful smell of burned flesh.

The faint memories wiggled away, like shadows chased out by sunlight.

Her mind was in protection mode, and given the ugly turn her life had taken and all she had endured, she shuddered to think what other horrors had occurred—an experience obviously so bad, her brain had shut off access.

Chilled, she pulled the covers up to her chin and had a childish moment of wishing someone would come in and shoo away all her monsters. But some monsters could not be defeated—especially the ones growling and clawing inside the soul.

“My son rescued you.”

Norie glanced to her left and saw an older female sitting on the dresser. She was pretty, with graying
brown hair tucked into a bun and kind eyes the color of spring grass. She wore a floral-print dress covered by a white apron, and a pair of pink flats.

Then Norie realized she wasn’t exactly sitting on the dresser—she was sorta drifting above it.

“Yes, sweetie, I’m dead.” She smiled, and the left side of her mouth dimpled. “My name is Sarah Mooreland. And this used to be my room. You’re at my son’s house, and you’re safe.”

Norie opened her mouth. Her throat convulsed. No words came out. She grasped the sides of her neck, though the gesture did nothing to jumpstart her speaking abilities. Panic edged through her. She was dreaming, right? She had to be. This was a nightmare. She looked at the…well, the ghost, and tried not to freak out.

“Can’t talk, right?” Sarah gave her a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry about that. It’ll get fixed.” She jumped off the dresser and float-walked to Norie. “You’re very special. Goddess-blessed. She’s calling you into Her service. That’s why I’m here. To help you.”

Norie stared at the spirit in shock. Goddess-blessed? Now, that was a laugh. She’d spent her childhood with a mother who was eight kinds of crazy. Norie’s adult life had been given over to mundane, back-breaking jobs, and she had never, not once, been in love. She’d tried. Relationships were not her forte. If the Goddess
had been blessing Norie, she sure had a funny way of showing it.

It wasn’t even that Norie wanted big things. She wanted simple things. Love. Family. Home. She yearned for this dream so deeply, so often, that it was all she could think of…all she truly wanted. But she’d been denied the opportunity for love. Oh, her mother had loved her…as crazy as she was at the end. They’d moved so often, and Mom had been so paranoid, that Norie wasn’t allowed friends. She never went to formal school. Her mother had homeschooled her and kept her protected from the world. And when Norie had gotten old enough to go out on her own, her mother had gotten ill. Doctors couldn’t figure out what was killing her mother, or what was affecting her mental state.

At the end, when she was strapped into a hospital bed, her body nearly wasted away, her mind gone, she had grabbed Norie’s hand and looked at her. “Star born,” she whispered, her gaze flickering with insanity, “shine brightly.”

Minutes later, she’d closed her eyes and breathed her last.

Norie felt her stomach clench. Mom may have been nuts, but she’d been the only person in the world who’d cared for her. And Norie had spent the next ten years figuring out a few things…such as being cursed. Attempting relationships…Well, it never ended
well—especially for the man fool enough to like her. Something bad always happened to him.