Never Again (14 page)
“Goddess, no,” she said. “Hundred percent carnivore.”
“Good. I won’t have to pretend to like carrots. C’mon.” He got to his feet and then held out a hand to help her up. “I’ll make you the best dream meal you’ve ever eaten.”
Gray was as good as his word. He created a platform made of old planks and, in its center, a fire pit. Then he made huge, soft floor pillows for them to lounge on. He cooked her lobster and steak, wished up cheesecake and ice cream and chocolate. They talked about everything—visiting the Great Library, being at the Grand Court in Washington, a place Gray had known well. There were only two Grand Courts—one in the United States and the original one in Europe. Once a year, representatives from both Courts would meet to renew, rework, discard, or create new worldwide policies for magicals.
They talked a little about politics, including the rumors about the Grand Courts reenacting laws that prevented marriage between magicals and mundanes.
“It’s not the first century anymore,” said Gray. “Even if it were true, those laws wouldn’t hold up. The truth is that the world holds a lot more mundanes than magicals these days. We’d run out of prospective mates very quickly.”
“It’s probably the Ravens,” said Lucinda. “So many of them tend to be purists.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“I know.”
Their conversation turned to the magical-testing legislation being discussed in the U.S. Senate. The proposed law wanted to use new technology to test whether a fetus had magical DNA, so mundane parents could prepare appropriately.
She saw Gray look her over and sigh. She’d asked him to create a robe for her, and he seemed to regret that he had. She didn’t need the warmth, but being half naked around him was too much a temptation. Unfortunately, Gray seemed to care less about his own half nakedness. In fact, she suspected he knew quite well the effect he was having on her. “Wouldn’t it be nice to think that parents would love their baby no matter what? Whether it was a boy or girl? A magical or mundane?”
“You’re right,” said Gray. “It shouldn’t matter.”
He started talking about Nevermore, about what it was like to grow up in such a small town. But Lucinda had heard the grief in his tone, and realized Kerren’s betrayal had cost him more than just a dream of love everlasting—but of fatherhood, too.
Lucinda pushed away the thoughts. Regrets worked like a slow poison, creeping through her veins, stealing life drop by drop. She couldn’t think too much about the past, or about the future.
Instead, she listened to Gray talk about his childhood, about the town that was as much a part of him as his own soul, and drifted contentedly in the currents of his voice.
Taylor Mooreland swallowed the last of his cold coffee, then leaned back in his chair. His desk faced the picture window that overlooked Main Street.
It was just past eight a.m.
He liked mornings. He was usually behind his desk before seven a.m., a good two hours before regular office hours and before his assistant Arlene showed up. The fifty-six-year-old mother of four grown children was annoyed to no end by Taylor’s energy and efficiency, which too often curtailed her urges to mother-hen him to death.
He smiled. Arlene reminded him of his own mama. Even though Sarah Mooreland had been gone for five years now, he still found himself picking up the phone to call her. He could never get used to it. Five years felt like five minutes.
Heart aching just a little, he shifted his gaze to the report on his desk. He’d already opened the folder and studied the file. He’d seen autopsy photos before—even ones of people he’d known. Nevermore was too small a town to have strangers in it. But it galled him to see Marcy splayed out like a Christmas goose. Poor, sweet Marcy. She’d been beaten down already by her stepmama. Oh, Cathleen had never laid a hand on her. She punched at Marcy with her cruelty, whittling down the girl’s self-esteem until she had none left.
Gray had been right. There was no way Lucinda Rackmore could’ve administered the beating. When he’d seen her at Ember’s, he noticed how gaunt she was—and that look in her eyes, well, it reminded him too much of how his mother looked after Dad took off. It was the look of a woman who’d been broken. She didn’t have the strength, much less the will, to hurt Marcy.
He sure as hell would’ve liked her for it, though. Because if she wasn’t responsible, that meant one of Nevermore’s own had done the deed. Unless there was some stranger lurking around and he hadn’t noticed. He snorted. No one could hide in Nevermore. Folks were too nosy to keep quiet about anything, especially outsiders wandering around. Hell, three people told him about the woman trudging up to Gray’s house before she’d even thought about walking into Ember’s.
Lucinda Rackmore would have to cough up some straight answers to all his questions. Why was Marcy headed out of town with nothing but the clothes on her back? Was she just giving the witch a ride to the highway? Had they planned to leave together, or was Lucinda hitchhiking and had Marcy stopped to pick her up? Why were Marcy’s pockets emptied, and who had done it?
He’d bagged and tagged everything, even the wet napkins that had been scattered next to the body. Water had ruined everything—he wouldn’t be able to get prints for damned sure. He had several magical items that he could use as a law enforcement officer. Mundanes couldn’t manipulate the energy needed to create spells, but they could activate objects with magical purpose. However, once the magic was triggered, the object became useless. Law enforcement had its pick of valuable magical tools, but not one of them included the ability to lift off degraded prints from rain-soaked order pads and pencils.
“I got nothing,” he muttered. He pushed the file away, disgusted. Then he pulled it back and squared the edges to align with his desk planner. Messy wasn’t in his DNA.
It had been two days since Gray disappeared with the witch. Taylor had gone by the house a couple times, but the bastard wasn’t opening his door. Gray could be moody and distant, but his integrity was solid. A sense of foreboding stirred, and he wondered if something bad had gone down in the Guardian’s house.
Taylor never ignored his instincts, but he also didn’t jump to conclusions. He realized his own prejudices against Rackmore witches easily fed his desire for Lucinda to be responsible for anything wrong. The likeliest scenario was that Gray was ignoring him to take care of Lucinda. The very idea boggled his mind because Gray had more reason than he did to be pissed off at the Rackmores. He’d been sent to hell by the girl’s sister, for Goddess’ sake!
The foreboding deepened.
Had Lucinda done something to Gray?
He couldn’t reconcile the pain-stricken female writhing on the side of the road with a woman who could do the Guardian any damage. Gray said the curse lasted three days. And if it was demon magic . . . shit. Empathy stirred. Despite what Gray had accused him of, he wouldn’t arrest Lucinda just to soothe the wounds of his childhood. He knew it was his father who’d made the decision to abandon his family. It was easier as a kid to blame the other woman. No child wanted to believe his own father didn’t want him. That had been his first lesson about betrayal. And cowardice. Edward Mooreland hadn’t had the balls to tell his wife to her face that he didn’t want her or their family anymore. He’d left a gods-be-damned letter.
Bastard.
He switched off those thoughts, and returned to the problems at hand.
Was Lucinda as cold-blooded as her sister? He didn’t know. She’d done something to get on the wrong side of Bernard Franco. Now, there was a certified asshole. What had Lucinda done that pissed off the Raven so much he’d worked a demon-magicked curse against her? Why not just kill her? Goddess knew, enough of his enemies had disappeared over the years.
There was too much he didn’t know, and he wasn’t the type of man to let a situation fester. Lucinda Rackmore had to be dealt with, and if Gray refused to handle her, then Taylor would—even if it meant sticking her in magical quarantine.
The bad feeling was beating like a primal drum in his gut. Screw it. He’d drop by again. He’d knock until someone answered or the door gave way, whichever came first.
He stared morosely into his empty coffee mug and debated about whether he should wait for Arlene to make a batch of coffee or drag his lazy ass to the break room to make it himself. He always made a thermos of coffee at home that usually lasted until Arlene arrived, but he hadn’t slept last night—or the night before that. He needed all the caffeine he could get right now.
He put the mug down and returned his gaze to the view outside. Not much traffic. Every now and again a truck rattled by. Across the street was the old Sew ’n’ Sew. The owner, Mrs. Thelma Clark, had died less than a year ago. Supposedly her estranged daughter, who’d moved to California the day she turned eighteen to chase movie-star dreams, was going to come in and take over the business. His mother had grown up with Mary Clark and had once told him that “her head was full of stuffing.” He’d seen neither hide nor tail of Ms. Clark, though the bills on the place were getting paid every month on time. He figured she’d make her way back to Nevermore eventually.
He had fond memories of the dress shop. His mother had worked there during the days, and in the evenings, she worked at the café, at least until Cathleen Munch took over. Not even his softhearted mama could find anything to like about that woman. After that, she took on extra jobs wherever she could, and he’d started working for Ol’ Joe, the cranky bastard who owned the farm next to theirs. Mama wouldn’t let him quit school, even though he was the oldest and the strongest. Ol’ Joe pushed him hard, but it didn’t take too long to figure out that man was a marshmallow. He was ninety-two when he died, and Taylor had worked for him all through high school. The summer after Taylor graduated, he buried his boss. He wept like a baby, crying all the tears for Ol’ Joe that he could never cry for his own father.
Still, Taylor had been surprised to find out that he was the sole heir to Ol’ Joe’s estate. He got the farm, the huge house, the barn, the animals—everything. He sold their pitiful land and its too-small house and moved his family into the spacious home. Everyone got their own bedroom, and the big, open kitchen had thrilled his mama something fierce. She spent weeks scrubbing clean every stick of furniture, every wall, every floor. And did she ever bake! Chocolate-chip cookies, sourapple pie, brownies, blueberry muffins. He sighed, remembering how good it all tasted.
After the family had gotten settled in, he’d made himself an apartment in one of the abandoned outbuildings. He refurbished the whole place himself. He liked things simple. And quiet. He loved his brothers and sisters, but they drove him crazy. The chaos in the Mooreland household never ceased.
Thanks to Ol’ Joe’s generosity, his mother no longer had to find extra work, and Taylor was able to take online college classes. It took a while, but he managed to get his degree in police science. Then he went to the academy and got his proper training. When he’d returned to Nevermore, he went straight to Grit to announce his intention to become Nevermore’s sheriff. Grit dusted off the deputy position that had been vacant for the last thirty years, and gave it to him. He had to wait out the current sheriff, who’d been pleased as pudding to hand over the crap assignments to the newbie.
Taylor hadn’t cared. He loved the job.
Five years ago, everything changed. Life went along in a nice, neat line, the kind he liked. His brothers and sisters moved out of the house one by one, until only his fourteen-year-old brother, Anthony, and his seventeenyear-old sister, Carrie, were left. Annalise moved to Denver with her partner, Onna, and they opened an art studio. Kenneth married a local girl and took over his father-in-law’s farm on the north side of town. Doreen married right out of high school, got divorced a year later, and remarried a year after that . . . and wash, rinse, repeat. He’d lost track of the number of times she’d gone down the aisle, but she eventually figured out she was in love
with
love, and moved to Vegas to be a wedding planner.
with
love, and moved to Vegas to be a wedding planner.
Dominoes started to fall.
Gray Calhoun returned to Nevermore and moved in with his grandfather.
Click.
Sheriff Billings decided to retire and move to Florida.
Click.
That same week Grit’s illness took a turn for the worse and Gray took him to Leticia’s house in Washington, where she called in some big-time healers. Gray returned a few days later, looking haggard and soul-sick, and informed everyone he was the new Guardian.
Click.
One of his first acts was appointing Taylor as the new sheriff.
Click.
Less than a month after he became sheriff, his mother fell and hit her head. She died alone on the floor of the kitchen.
Click.
Sheriff Billings decided to retire and move to Florida.
Click.
That same week Grit’s illness took a turn for the worse and Gray took him to Leticia’s house in Washington, where she called in some big-time healers. Gray returned a few days later, looking haggard and soul-sick, and informed everyone he was the new Guardian.
Click.
One of his first acts was appointing Taylor as the new sheriff.
Click.
Less than a month after he became sheriff, his mother fell and hit her head. She died alone on the floor of the kitchen.
Boom.
The doc compared it to dropping a glass. If it hit at its weakest point, it shattered. His mother had been baking, and dropped an egg. Slipped in the yolk. Hit her skull at just the right angle on the edge of the counter, and was unconscious before she hit the linoleum. The fall, that second blow to her head, did her in.
After the funeral, Carrie asked to go live with Annalise and Onna, and he helped her pack. She’d stayed in Denver and eventually became manager of Annalise and Onna’s art gallery. He didn’t blame her, or any of his other siblings, for not visiting too often. Hell, he couldn’t walk through the kitchen without thinking about his mother lying on the floor breathing her last. To this day, he avoided going in there as much as possible.
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