Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore (8 page)

Not like you, Uncle Atwood.
Bastard.

Trent stared up at the huge wrought-iron gates. They were always open because Mordi said the dead didn’t have regular business hours. Mordecai “Mordi” Elizabeth Jones was the undertaker of Nevermore’s only cemetery. She’d told him that 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 was proud of her heritage, and to his mind, the best undertaker there ever was. He was a necromancer, so he’d know.

He got off the bike, put it in neutral, and walked it forward. Just a few feet down the road there was a small whitewashed cottage. The porch and shutters were painted a sky blue, and wind chimes shaped like stars dangled from the entryway. In the sharp October wind, they jangled wildly. The postage-stamp-sized front yard was well tended, and a concrete path led from the drive to the porch steps. On the far side of the yard was a gazebo with a big white swing. All kinds of plants and trees thrived, even in October. That was part of the mystery—and the charm—of Nevermore.

He parked the motorcycle and trudged up to the porch. He stared at the screen door, wanting to knock on it—and wanting to run away, all at the same time. He liked Mordi. Well, it was more than that. He was
drawn to her. They were only a couple years apart; he was eighteen, and she was twenty. But she always seemed so much older, more sophisticated, more worldly. He wasn’t a wuss. He’d done his fair share of dating girls. That was the problem. Mordi wasn’t a girl. She was a woman.

His palms started to sweat.

Fuck it.

He turned on his booted heel, ready to leap off the porch and get the hell away. Then he heard the front door snick, and the outer screen door whispered open.

“Trent.”

Her voice flowed over him with sweetness and sympathy, and he felt the backs of his eyes ache. She knew. Damn it. She always knew. She wasn’t a magical, but she had this kinship with the dying and the dead.

And the grief-stricken.

He turned back, wound so tightly, he was afraid to speak, to move. He was scared. On top of everything else, at this moment, fear slashed at him like shards of ice.

Goddess, she was beautiful. She was slim, nearly as tall as his own six-foot frame. She wore a pale pink nightdress that swirled at her ankles. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted lavender. She liked Easter egg colors, the soft palette of pinks, purples, yellows, greens. He’d noticed that about her, just as he’d noticed a million other things.

Mordi’s auburn hair fell around her shoulders in thick waves. He blinked. He’d never seen her with her hair down like that. She always wore it in a French braid or neatly pinned up. Her gray gaze was on his face, her smile slight but welcoming. She seemed to emit peace and calm, and he suddenly felt angry. He wasn’t one of her wimp-assed clients. He hadn’t come here to be…consoled, to be treated like a fragile soul who’d lost his whole world.

She seemed to recognize his anger. That she’d somehow pegged him so easily made him madder still. Confusion ribboned through his fury, through his anguish. He wasn’t special, not to her.

He whipped around, feeling as if he were burning from the inside out. He needed to get away. He needed to get somewhere dark and quiet and alone—somewhere he could scream and weep and punch stuff.

But even as his foot came down on the first step, Mordi glided across the porch and grasped his hand.

Just like that, she’d trapped him. Her solace covered him like a fuzzy blanket, and he choked on the grief barbing his throat.

She didn’t make him turn around again. No, she came around instead and faced him, her gray gaze luminous.

“Don’t,” he managed in a hoarse voice. He couldn’t imagine what he was asking her not to do, but there was something in her eyes, something that flitted like a
ghost across her face. She wasn’t just some ghoul who ran the cemetery. She was its keeper. The watcher. The very bridge between the living and the dead. And still, he didn’t want her to treat him like all the others she’d helped.

She kept her hand in his, then lifted her other hand to his face. Then she drew him down toward her and brushed her mouth over his.

His heart stuttered, and his breathing hitched, and the fucking tears spilled.

“I’m sorry about your uncle,” she said. She kissed each corner of his mouth, tasting the wet trails that bracketed his lips. “I’m sorry you’re in pain.”

“You can’t help me.” He tried to pull back, but she stayed him easily by looping his wrists with her fingers. “I don’t want you to…do this.” He sucked in an unsteady breath, trying to get back some of his dignity. “I don’t want a pity fuck.”

“I don’t pity you,” she said. “What do you need, Trent? Do you need to get back on your bike and ride away? Or do you need to come inside with me?”

“I need…” He looked at her then, really looked at her, and saw the tenderness, the patience. “I need you, Elizabeth.”

She smiled. “All right.”

He hesitated. “It’s not…You don’t…” How did he ask if this was something she did for others? He felt petty and mean for even thinking it, but he couldn’t
help it. The world was one big bastard to him right now. Trust wasn’t an easy thing for him on the best of days—with the best of people.

“Only you,” she reassured him. She let him go then and walked to the screen door. She kept her gaze on his, waiting.

Suddenly, being alone with his grief and his doubts didn’t seem the way to go. She was there, soft and warm and willing, and so he followed her inside.

The Grand Court in Washington, D.C.

Chamber of the House of Dragons

Cullen Deshane shuffled down the massive, elegantly appointed hall, eyes forward, head held high, and shoulders back. Wizards and witches ceased their conversations to stare at him; in the sudden, awkward silence echoed the metallic ring of his ankle shackles scraping the polished marble floor.

Cullen kept his gaze on the white-robed back of the lictor in front of him, watching how the fabric crinkled as he marched forward. He felt the hulking presence of the other lictor behind him, and he had the unsettling sensation that an oak tree was about to fall upon him. It wasn’t that he was a small man himself; he was six feet five and well muscled. But he was cautious. Fighting wasn’t always the way, even though he was good at it.

Whispers rose and fell like crashing waves. His audience hissed and muttered—some voices hard with judgment and others soft with pity.

He couldn’t blame them, not really. He was, after all, the incarcerated black-sheep son of Leopold Deshane.

For the thirty years his father had been a veteran Consul in the House of Ravens, he’d been lauded for his political policies and for his charitable work. Each House had only three Consuls—positions at the top of magical political structure, both in-house and in the Grand Court. His father had been a very powerful, and in some circles, a very feared man.

Now dear old dad was facing jail time—if they could find him. Leopold had disappeared, and no one had been able to track him down.

Cullen had laughed at the irony. He’d known his father was a hypocritical prick—he’d fooled the world into believing he was some sort of philanthropic Goody Two-shoes. Cullen had long been seen as a thorn in his side, as the widower supposedly tried everything to manage his unruly son. So no one had seemed too surprised when Cullen had been accused of—and convicted of—burning down the Raven’s Heart orphanage. Children had died in the blaze that decimated the building and everything in it. Goddess! It made him sick to his guts to know others believed he was such a conscienceless bastard.

What no one had known was that Leopold had set
him up, his own fucking son, and made sure he’d ended up in prison.

Then eight months ago, a banned Raven wizard named Bernard Franco had disappeared. Despite efforts of his friends and family, he’d never been found, but one thing had become clear: He’d been murdered.

A natural death would not have enacted Bernard’s little protection scheme: truth spells. Franco had been the keeper of many secrets and had worked a powerful magic to ensure no one would ever try to kill him. It appeared someone had either not known or not cared about the spells that would expose those secrets. The lifelong transgressions of many Ravens, and even the corrupt practices of the House of Ravens itself, all those terrible truths Franco had been safeguarding, were magically sent to the appropriate authorities upon his death.

Word had spread through the magical community and had even reached the ears of those sitting in prison. Whispers about Bernard’s death had turned into shouts of outrage. Franco had been careful and thorough, backing up accusations with solid evidence.

Leopold Deshane had been the biggest offender.

Collusion with demons, circumventing magical law, and willful endangerment of children were among many of the charges levied against his father. Thanks to the discovery of Leopold’s many and varied illegal activities, Cullen had actually gained some sympathy among the ranks. Maybe that explained why Dragon
Consul Letitia Calhoun had pulled strings for this visit to the Grand Court.

What Cullen had never figured out was why his old man hadn’t just killed him already. Leo was perfectly capable of being ruthless, even against his own family members. As soon as he figured out that Cullen wasn’t going to be a ruthless, soulless asshole—when he was around fourteen and had actually punched his father in his bloated face—the “accidents” began to occur. He wasn’t sure when his father grew bored with his attempts to take out his son—and Cullen damned sure never figured out why he managed to survive the falls, the car accidents, the fights with unknown bullies on the streets. He always bounced back, or just bounced away. His best friend, Laurent, liked to say that Cullen was the luckiest bastard he knew.

Then Leo just made damned sure Cullen’s life was ruined, shattered beyond repair. And sometimes, some days, that was fucking worse than death.

Cullen and his guards reached the imposing double doors that led into Consul Calhoun’s office, and a tall, well-built gentleman stepped smoothly in front of them. Like the escorts, he wore a traditional white robe, and a blank expression. Cullen’s gaze dropped to the upper-right corner of the robe, where the gold-stitched dragon was bisected with a fasces. The ancient Roman weapon of bundled sticks with an ax sticking out of the middle was still the symbol of the bodyguards of the Consul.

“Welcome to the office of Dragon Consul Calhoun,” he said in a polite voice. “Please wait here while I inform the Consul of your arrival.”

Cullen looked him square in the eye. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head, his expression as smooth as glass. Then he opened one door and slipped through it. A moment later, both doors swung open, revealing the imposing figure of Leticia Calhoun.

The woman was tall, gorgeous, and wore confidence like a cashmere coat. Her dark hair was tamed by a single, long braid. Her sky blue eyes snapped with intelligence. Even though she was in her fifties, her face was pale perfection. Then again, magicals aged much more slowly than mundanes (and conversely, emotionally matured much faster) and often lived two centuries or more. Dressed in the black-trimmed red robe that denoted her rank, Leticia Calhoun was a confident, terrifying package.

The Consul stepped out, smiling as she held out her hands. “Welcome to the House of Dragons.” She spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “So long as you are within our walls, I offer you both our hospitality and our protection.”

Cullen’s jaw dropped. He hadn’t expected an out-and-out display of support. Why the hell would the woman do such a thing?

“Close your mouth, dear; you’ll catch flies.”

He pressed his lips together. Then he carefully took
the Consul’s slim, cool hands. She squeezed lightly, then let go. “Let the man through.”

The guards moved aside, and Cullen scuffled forward.

“For the love of the Goddess!” scolded the Consul. “Take off the manacles!”

The door guard looked as though he wanted to protest, but one sharp look from the Dragon witch had him snapping his mouth shut and gesturing at the other lictors.

Cullen’s chained hands and feet were relieved of the shackles. He rubbed his tingling wrists and shook each foot. “Thank you,” he said to the guard who’d removed them. Then he lifted his gaze to the Consul. “And thank you, Consul.”

Cullen saw sadness flicker in the woman’s eyes. Then her gaze cleared, and she smiled warmly. “Come. We have much to discuss.”

They walked through a series of lushly appointed rooms until they reached a charming parlor. A tea service had been set up at a small table framed by two needlepoint-upholstered chairs. It was cozy, especially with the sunlight streaming in through the nearby lace-curtained window. It really was not his kind of scene, though. He’d much prefer a dark, smoke-filled bar with a selection of good beers and cheap women.

“Please,” said the Consul, gesturing toward one of the chairs before taking her own seat. Cullen sat and
watched the woman pick up the teapot. “Sugar? Cream?”

“I don’t drink tea.”

“Ah. Perhaps some coffee? Or lemonade?”

“No, thank you, Consul.”

“Very well. And please, call me Leticia.” She added sugar and cream to her cup. Then she sipped her tea and took her tablemate’s measure. “How are you feeling?”

“Confused,” said Cullen. “Why am I here?”

Leticia set the cup on its matching saucer, and then she delicately pressed a napkin to her mouth. The pink cloth fluttered as she dropped it onto the table. “It’s become clear to me that your father had you jailed to keep you under control.”

“And? You’re wondering why he didn’t just kill me.” He shrugged. “I’ve had the same thoughts over the years. And no answer.”

Leticia looked taken aback. “Surely, he wouldn’t…You are his son.”

“That doesn’t count for much,” said Cullen matter-of-factly.