Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore (6 page)

For a few blessed moments, the only noise was the
shuff-shuff-shuff
of Taylor’s sneakers on the dirt.

A sharp, long moan sliced right through the quiet.

Taylor stopped short, panting and feeling the adrenaline-laced beats of his heart. He did a full circle, studying the area. His staccato breaths were muffled by the sudden, eerie stillness. There were no animals scurrying, no birds twittering, no wind rattling. The back of his neck prickled. He reached toward his right hip before he remembered he wasn’t in uniform, and he hadn’t brought his pistol.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

“Damn it!” Taylor swiveled and looked up into the branches of a pine tree with scarred and twisted
limbs. It looked half dead, at least on the side facing the path.

A raven sat on the gnarled wood less than a foot above his head. It wasn’t a common crow. It was three times the size, for one thing, and for another, it was white. If it hadn’t had blue eyes the size of marbles, it could’ve been mistaken for a big blob of snow.

The bird cocked its head and opened its beak. “Lenore,” it said in a mournful tone. “Lenore.”

Taylor’s mouth dropped open.

Animals didn’t talk. Sometimes magicals whipped up spells that gave the illusion, mostly as entertainment or as practical jokes. But who the hell would be out here at this time of night with the intention of annoying him? No one liked these woods. And he was doing his run hours earlier than usual—so who could possibly know he was out here?

Caw. Caw. Caw.

Taylor frowned. Yeah. He was definitely losing his damned mind. First there had been the nightmares, then his mother’s voice, and now a mutant bird with a sense of humor.

The prickles irritating his neck paraded down his spine like tiny spiders.

“Lenore,” said the raven again. Then it launched from the branch, circled once, and took off to the left. A few seconds later, it returned, circled again, and flew off in the same direction.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Taylor peered into the dark recesses. Was he really gonna follow a talking raven into that mess?

The bird came back a third time and cawed.

“All right,” he muttered. “But if you’re fucking with me, you’re dinner.”

The moonlight didn’t filter through the thick canopy, and the deeper they went, the darker and more foreboding his surroundings. Keeping track of the raven and his own two feet took a lot of effort. He had to follow the damned bird more by its cawing than by watching it swoop overhead. More times than he could count he was either getting whacked in the face by branches or tripping over forest detritus.

Then he stumbled into a clearing, and he stopped.

Holy Mother Goddess.

The area was ringed with southern red oaks so tightly packed that their limbs had intertwined to form a broad, leafy edge that framed the night sky. Above, the half-moon glittered like a whore’s wink. In the middle of the field was a circle of six gray-blue stones. He gauged their height to be at least ten feet, and their width was six feet or more.

“Nemeton,”
he whispered.

He had discovered a sacred grove—what the magicals called a
nemeton
—hidden on
his
land. It was damned old from the look of it—older even than the town itself, he’d bet, which had been founded in 1845.

He knew right then this was the key to the Goddess fountain, the magical portal that Nevermore had been built to protect. Most folks didn’t know anything about it—most magicals and mundanes believed Goddess fountains to be myths. And it was best to keep it that way, which was why only a very few in Nevermore knew the truth.

He walked to the nearest stone, his whole body tingling from the humming magic. It was thick here, buzzing and snapping, and it seemed to him, waiting.

But for what?

The stones were placed about two feet apart, which was plenty of room to angle through into the inner sanctum. He hesitated, wondering if a mundane could—or should—enter what was meant for magicals. He probably should call Gray. The Guardian should be the one to enter, to gauge the meaning of this place, and its purpose.

Taylor stepped back, feeling a hushed sense of expectation. It was as if the whole place were alive and holding its breath, anticipation as thick as the trees protecting it.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

The white raven dove through the gap, its guttural cries turning into a long, low moan.

Damn it. He really didn’t want to enter that circle. He had a deep respect for the Goddess. Sacred was sacred, no matter whose beliefs made it that way.

The mournful sound came again, and this time, it sounded more human than raven. Had that creepy bird gotten hurt?

Or led him to someone who was?

The idea of a person trapped or suffering inside the sacred space was enough motivation to overcome his reluctance. He slipped through the gap and felt his whole body go electric. The hair stood up on every inch of his body, and he felt galvanized. He paused, gauging his surroundings.

There was a huge stone altar in the center.

He swept his gaze around the stones again but saw no one else—nothing else; not even the stupid bird. Taylor had the sense of being watched, even though he couldn’t pinpoint a source. Completely unsettled, Taylor approached the altar and stared at its surface. Some sort of swirly-gig was carved in the middle, and more lines and swirls sprouted from it—like a mutant, tattooed octopus.

Something dark and wet smeared the stone. The unmistakable rusty scent of fresh blood edged the air. What the hell had happened here?

The moan came again. It was definitely human. Heart thumping, he followed the sound to the other side of the altar.

A woman lay on her side. She was naked, her thin, pale body spattered red. Her long dark hair fell in a
wave of curls that loosely draped her waist and lay on the ground like carelessly tossed ribbons.

Taylor hunkered down, gently moving her hair so he could check the pulse of her carotid artery.

She rolled away from him and staggered to her feet. She bared her teeth, her ice-blue eyes shadowed with pain.

A silver dagger quivered in her blood-streaked hand.

Taylor’s heart stopped beating.

It’s her.

The woman he’d spent too many nights dreaming about—the one he couldn’t save.

He fell to his knees, accidentally assuming a penitent pose. He swayed forward, arms at his side, and just stared at her. Her presence stripped him bare. He couldn’t get air into his lungs. Nightmare and dream come to life—right fucking there in the wounded flesh.

The magic of the
nemeton
pulsed around them, living and breathing and anticipating.

She seemed disconcerted by his reaction. Hell, she wasn’t the only one. She studied him, those diamond eyes snapping with intelligence and resolve and agony. Her curly black hair swung in an arc, giving it the appearance of a ruffled cape. She was no more than five feet tall, lithe and graceful despite how thin she was—starved really, and obviously weak. The strain of her
holding the knife in a proper attack position made her arm shake. Plus, she had cuts on her from head to toe, most of them still bleeding.

“I’m Sheriff Taylor Mooreland,” he said. “Tell me your name. Tell me what happened.”

She bared her teeth again and moved backward, her gaze darting around the stones before returning to him. She wasn’t about to let her guard down. He didn’t blame her, but he couldn’t let her stand there and bleed to death, either.

“You’re a magical, right?” he said. “You sent that raven. He brought me to you. These are my woods, and my home’s not too far.”

She kept the knife at the ready but cocked her head in the same manner the raven had, studying him intensely.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said.

She was swaying now, too, her face going gray, but she wasn’t going to give him an inch. Her frown deepened, and she scooted back a few more steps, as though thinking about running. She wouldn’t get far, not before she either collapsed or he caught her.

And he would catch her.

“I won’t hurt you,” he repeated as he slowly, carefully rose to his feet. “But I’m coming over there. I’m taking you somewhere safe, I swear.”

She shook her head violently and scurried backward until she hit the broad base of the nearest stone. Her
eyes went wild then, and she opened her mouth as though she might scream.

He rushed her, and within seconds, he’d divested her of the dagger and scooped her against his chest, banding his arms around her. She struggled violently, and he was surprised at the vehemence she managed to muster. He could feel how frail she was, how her body quivered with pain and exhaustion even as she kicked and wiggled and slammed her head against his breastbone. He grunted and hissed as she connected again and again. The worst thing about the whole experience was the silence. She didn’t make a sound as she tried to claw her way out of his arms.

“My mama used to say that any man who told a woman to calm down deserved whatever came next,” he said quietly. “But I would kindly appreciate it if you would let me help you. Please.”

She shuddered and went still. She was stiff in his arms, her body shaking so badly, her teeth rattled. Then she tilted back her head to look at him. Tears streamed from her eyes, and he saw her frustration, her terror, her surrender.

She wept without making a single sound of distress. She stared at him, refusing to spare herself the humiliation. She was exposed, not only in body, but in soul, too.

She broke his heart.

Taylor swallowed the sudden knot that clogged his
throat. He dared to loosen one arm so that he could wipe away the tears. Her skin felt fragile, like thin parchment underneath his calloused fingers. “I swear to the Goddess, I will protect you.”

He felt a quick, electric jolt. He shuddered, suddenly breathless, his focus riveted on the girl.
So shall you say, so mote it be.
It was what Ember said sometimes when she was making up her bespelled teas for customers. Still. Maybe it was his promise, or maybe it was her injured, exhausted body finally giving out, but her lids fluttered as her eyes rolled back in her head. She went limp in his arms.

He laid her on the ground; then he pulled off his sweatshirt and wrapped it around her. With as much care as possible, he picked her up, cradling her against his bare chest, and took his precious bundle home.

Getting to the house involved the longest walk of Taylor’s life, especially since the woman’s breathing seemed to go shallow. She was as soft and light as a bag of feathers, her skin so pale it was nearly translucent.

When he managed to get through the back door and stumble through the mudroom and into the kitchen, he saw Ant leaning against the counter, still in his boxers and with a raging case of bed head. He almost dropped the mug of coffee he’d brought to his lips. Coffee splattered, and he cursed, putting the cup on the counter.

He eyed the girl and then Taylor. “Rough morning?”

“I’ve had better,” he said. “Call Gray and Lucy, will you? We’ll need Ember, too.”

“Done,” said Ant. “Which bedroom upstairs?

“Mom’s.”

Ant nodded. After their mother passed away, the kids had cleaned out her room. Clothes went to charity, pictures and decorations were packed, and knickknacks were divided. The antique furniture remained. Taylor had replaced the mattress and the pillows. Every other week, either he or Ant laundered the sheets and quilts—quilts his mother and his grandmother had sewn with their own hands—and remade the bed.

But no matter how clean they kept it, or how blank the walls and empty the dressers, the memories stayed the same. It was their mother’s bedroom, whether or not she was still around to occupy it. It was also the only other room upstairs with a suitable bed.

It took some effort to pull down the covers, especially with a lax, injured woman in his arms, but he managed. He tucked her in, and then he went into the little bathroom, which still smelled like the roses his mother had loved so much, and wet a washcloth. By the time he placed it on her forehead, Gray, Lucinda, and Ember were walking through the door.

Relief shuddered through Taylor. What was going on with this woman was way outside his comfort zone. All the same, she was his responsibility.

At least until he figured out who she was—and why the hell he’d been dreaming about her.

His friends had gotten here fast, which meant they’d used the magical portals that the first Dragon Guardians had created for the convenience of Nevermore’s populace. Many of the locations had been forgotten over the years, but Gray and Lucinda had been finding and mapping them, and the portals were more in use nowadays. He’d been surprised to find out that his farm had one; Joe had never mentioned it—maybe he hadn’t known about it. But the man had kept some secrets. Taylor had no doubt the old man had been protecting the location of the
nemeton
.

As usual, Ember wore her special glasses: One side was purple tinted, and the other was blacked out completely. She was a prophet of the Goddess, and she had been given the ability to see the spiritual soul of humans—not always a pretty picture; thus the need for her protective eyewear. She was over six feet tall and wore a violet-striped dress that clung to her curvaceous form, and a pair of gray high-heeled boots. Her long hair was a mass of tiny black and purple braids.

Lucy was shorter and leaner. Her feet were in sneakers, and she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt too big for her. A brunette with moss green eyes, she had an inner glow that had a little to do with her magical powers and a lot to do with the man standing at her side, her husband, Gray.

“Who is she?” asked Lucy as she leaned over and peered at the woman’s face.

“I don’t know,” said Taylor. “I found her in the woods. She was naked as a jaybird and cut all to hell. Damned near took my head off before she fainted.”

“She say anyting?” Ember’s Jamaican accent faded in and out like a badly tuned radio. The stronger her emotions, the stronger her accent—and it was thick as mud right now.