Never Look Back

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  Raven angled his head, making his hair fall in a razor-sharp line. "He did this because your mother hurt him?"

  Allie placed her tea on a wrought-iron table. "She left him for another man."

  "But your father was not Apache?"

  "No. He was Lakota."

  "An Apache man can punish his wife for being unfaithful. He can whip her, cut her nose or kill her."

  "They can't do that anymore. There are laws."

  He frowned a little. "There were moral laws then. The leaders would try to discourage a wronged husband from committing violence. But sometimes a man would kill himself after he killed his adulterous wife."

  Allie didn't know what to say, and within a heartbeat, the absence of speech dangled between them, swaying like a paper moon. Thin and silvery. Strangely tangible.

  She glanced at the mural where shadows still stirred. She knew Raven was thinking about his wife. "What do you think happened to Vanessa after you disappeared? Would she have assumed you were dead?"

  "Not without a body. She would have suspected witchcraft."

  "Even so, would the tribe have treated her like a widow? She was without a husband."

  "She wouldn't have allowed them to treat her so. Nor would she remarry. She would have waited for me, hoping I found a way to return to her."

  "But you couldn't."

  And now his wife was dead. A hundred bewitched years had passed, leaving a gothic gap between them. To Allie, it seemed tragically romantic. But it made her envious, too. She'd always wanted someone to love her in the way Raven loved Vanessa.

  "How did you meet her?" she asked.

  "We attended the same boarding school, and we had feelings for each other then. But I didn't ask her to marry me until we were older. Until I danced with her at Fort Sill."

  She tried to picture a social event on the military reservation, but her mind drew a blank. "Will you tell me about it sometime?"

  "Sometime," he repeated, as though speaking of it now would make him sad.

  "I should alter the painting." She stood up, thinking about the night Vanessa had waited for him, the same night Sorrel had crushed the colors of his soul. He wasn't an angel. He was a warrior, fighting to survive, to bear the loneliness he'd endured.

  The destruction of his life.

  His life. Suddenly those two words hit her like a fist. A jolt of danger. A warning.

  She looked at Raven and the lights went out. Nothing glowed but the vanilla-scented candle she'd lit earlier.

  Then that went out, too. But not from the storm.

  Allie sensed a witch.

  "Raven?" She said his name. She couldn't see him, not even the slightest outline of his body, of his wings. The room was pitch-black.

  He didn't answer.

  She heard the whoosh of air, and when the lights returned, he was gone.

  * * *

  Samantha wouldn't quit hissing.

  "I know," Allie said. She was scared, too. Her pulse was pounding harder than the rain.

  Was Zinna's magic returning? Or was there another dead sorceress at work? For all she knew, Grandma Sorrel had popped in from the grave.

  She had to search the loft. If Raven was still here, she had to find him. And if he wasn't…

  Cautious, Allie walked from room to room. Samantha followed, eager to fight off evil forces. Of course at any given moment she could turn tail and run. Or hide under the nearest chair. Lately that seemed to be her strong suit.

  When Allie came to Olivia's room, she stalled, apprehensive to enter. The door was ajar. But that was how Olivia had left it.

  "Okay," she whispered. "Here goes." With a deep breath, she went inside and turned on the light.

  The bed was draped with a satin quilt, reminding her of the lining of a coffin. The sheers on the windows were Victorian lace, but they could have been ghouls in bridal gowns.

  She looked at the closet-door mirror. The only reflection was hers. And Sam's. They just stood there, staring at themselves.

  Then the cat spun around and growled.

  Raven was perched on top of Olivia's armoire. Yes, perched. He was a bird once again.

  Allie's pulse quit pounding.

  Apparently the whoosh of air she'd heard in the dark was him shape-shifting and flying away. But she wasn't sure what had drawn him to this particular room, if it was coincidence or if the witch had pulled him in this direction.

  Not that there was a sorceress in sight. Nothing stirred. No shimmering shadows. No supernatural surprises.

  Only a raven peering down at her, and a cat that slipped under the coffinlike bed.

  Raven cawed in the silence, his call unmistakably loud, deep-pitched and powerful. Allie thought about Edgar Allen Poe's poem, wishing she knew the words.

  He expanded his wings, and she realized they were staring at each other. And then she recalled what he'd said. He was a raven with a man's mind. Yet he couldn't control the instincts that made him a bird.

  He was right, she thought. It was confusing.

  "I don't know what's going on," she said. Other than a sense of familiarity, a connection neither of them could deny.

  He swooped down, startling her. She caught her breath and felt his feathers brush her skin. She knew he'd done it so he could touch her.

  Ravens were tricksters, she thought. He was playing an emotional game, making her long for him to be a man once again.

  What if the curse couldn't be broken? If her painting coming to life was a magical fluke? If he never returned to being human? If he remained a raven until Zinna took the other half of his soul?

  No, she thought. She wouldn't let that happen. She was his protector. His shaman.

  Without speaking, she left the room, heading to her studio. She was going to alter his portrait, like she'd promised she would.

  She covered her nightgown with a smock and stood in front of the easel, sable brush in hand.

  Working diligently, she looked into his eyes. The eyes she had painted.

  Raven flew into the loft and settled into the rafters. She didn't say anything to him. He didn't use his voice, either.

  Rain pounded between them.

  A mystic rain, she thought. From a witch she couldn't identify.

  She went back to the painting. She spent hours altering his image, making his angel wings disappear.

  When the change was complete, she glanced up at him. He looked down at her, too.

  Only nothing happened. Her magic didn't work. He didn't shape-shift into a man.

  Raven was still a raven.

  * * *

  Allie stepped out of the shower, dried off with a crisp white towel and put on a fluffy blue robe. She'd tossed and turned last night, restless in her own bed. Raven had slept in the studio, where he'd built a nest in the rafters.

  She'd fed him fruits and vegetables this morning, the only food she had available, but he hadn't liked his meal. He'd dashed into the kitchen and eaten out of Sam's bowl instead, stealing the chicken from her canned chicken and gravy. Which, of course, had gotten a rise out of the cat.

  And now Allie was gazing at her worn-out expression. She put a dollop of moisturizer of her face, preparing to do her makeup. Raven had fought her tooth and nail, refusing to let her lock him up or close any of the doors. Sam had thrown the same fit. So they were both free, chasing each other, destroying the loft. Somewhere in the midst of their mayhem, they'd begun to play, to enjoy each other's natural-enemies company.

  But Allie was too emotional to appreciate their uncharacteristic friendship. All she could think about was her failed powers.

  Raven flew into the bathroom and landed on the counter, where he knocked over her blow-dryer and a bottle of her favorite perfume. He was too rowdy for the cramped space.

  She righted her belongings. Earlier she'd found splotches of bird poop in the studio. Some of his habits were downright dastardly.

  "I'm sorry, but you can't hang out in here," she said.

  He puffed up his
feathers, making himself look bigger.

  Great. That was all she needed. Animal machismo.

  She tried to complete her toilet, but he pestered her for attention, pecking around at her makeup case. He picked up her mascara and held it in his bill.

  Samantha peeked into the open doorway and hissed, trying to get Raven to resume their game. He flicked his head and tossed the mascara at her. Sam took off running, but the bird didn't follow. He made a cackling noise that sounded like laughter. Then he mimicked the cat's hiss.

  "Listen to you." Allie remembered Daniel saying that ravens could imitate just about anything. She picked up the mascara. "You're a little devil."

  He puffed up his feathers again.

  "A big devil," she corrected. Apparently he was trying to make her feel better, to snap her out of her depression. She decided that she was going to get him back to normal, no matter what it took. She wasn't going to let that curse defeat her.

  He flew off and returned with a pair of her underwear, an itty-bitty thong, no less. Good grief. She grabbed the stretchy fabric, and they struggled in a tug of war.

  Finally, she let go and the thong flung back at him, snapping him like a slingshot.

  He wobbled like he was drunk.

  She chuckled and took the panties away from him. "You're going to be embarrassed about this later."

  He bobbed his head, and she realized that he was flirting. No matter how cute he was, he was still a raven, the mischief-maker his species was said to be.

  She finished getting ready, and he watched her, his curious eyes following every move she made. She let him see her naked, which was a bold thing to do, but she had no choice. He followed her into her room, waiting for her to get dressed.

  "This is weird," she told him, slipping on the panties he'd stolen. A matching bra came next. "We're both going to remember this when you're a man."

  He made a soft sound. He was perched on her dresser. Allie's room was decorated in pink and gold, in fairy-tale colors that had fascinated her since childhood. The canopy bed reeked of romance, with feminine fabrics and frilly pillows. The black bird looked exceptionally dark next to it.

  She zipped into a pair of embroidered jeans, then put on a lacy top. She tied a long, Aztec-printed scarf around her head and let it trail down her back with her unbound hair. A pair of hoop earrings and several strands of silver beads completed the Native-gypsy look.

  "I have to go. I'm going to consult with someone who might be able to figure out what happened last night."

  She gave Raven and Sam orders to behave. She knew they wouldn't, but she decided to let them play. The sun was shining into the loft. It was turning out to be a beautiful day.

  A far cry from last night's storm.

  She drove to Moon Dust Entertainment, where she'd already set up a meeting with Derek Moon. He was an unusual friend—a Hollywood filmmaker who'd helped Olivia enter the mirror dimension and had taught Allie, albeit recently, how to sense the presence of a witch. But that was because Derek was a witch himself, a man whose magic had gone from evil to good. Or mostly good. He still had an appetite for voyeurism. He liked to watch other people have sex. Which was particularly creepy since he produced family flicks.

  But that made him easy to control. Only a handful of people knew his secrets.

  When she entered his private office, he left his desk to give her a hug. Derek was Mr. L.A. with his graying sideburns, perfect smile and designer suits.

  She returned his embrace. The pomp and circumstance was for show. But the ties that bound them were real. Once upon a time, Allie's mom had been part of Derek's coven. These days, he hated Yvonne as much as she did.

  "Have a seat." He offered her a chair in his elegant sitting area and poured her an iced cranberry juice from the bar. He knew it was her non-alcoholic drink of choice. He fixed himself a club soda with a twist of lime. "Now tell me what's going on."

  "I sensed a witch last night."

  His eyebrows went north. He was a trim man in his midfifties, prone to theatrical expressions. "Are you sure? You're still working on those skills."

  "I'm positive." She hated that his opinion of her was the same as Kyle's. That both of them, no matter how much time they'd spent training her, no matter how much she'd progressed, didn't have complete confidence in her.

  "When did this occur?" he asked. "During that awful storm?"

  "Yes." She told him everything, including her experiences with Raven. She figured it was time to come clean, to admit she was trying to break her great-grandmother's curse.

  "You have a shape-shifter living with you? The warrior who spurned Zinna?" He sat across from her. "Goodness, girl, when will you ever learn?"

  "Don't give me a ration of crap. You have a stake in this, too." He and the other members of his coven were the witches who'd put the binding spell on Zinna. "You're up to your elbows in it."

  "Because you and your sister keep threatening to ruin my reputation if I don't help."

  "And why is that, Derek?"

  He didn't respond. But he didn't need to. He'd made the mistake of using witchcraft to watch Olivia have sex, and they'd made him pay for his perversion ever since, forcing him to take up their causes.

  She tasted her juice, then gazed out a floor-to-ceiling window. His office presented a fifth-floor view of Wilshire Boulevard, where the city came alive with luxurious cars and pedestrian traffic. "So who do you think the witch was that I sensed last night? Do you think Zinna's power is starting to return?"

  "I doubt it. When she regains her power, she'll use an owl to get your attention. That's always been her signature."

  Allie turned away from the window. "But Raven shifted back to a raven. That could have been Zinna's doing."

  "Or it could have been a reaction to someone else's magic."

  "Like Grandma Sorrel?"

  "Maybe. But there's another possibility." He paused, swirled the ice in his glass. "It could have been an amateur witch, a groupie, who's trying to tap into your family's power."

  She made a face, thinking about all the weirdos out there. "You mean someone who admires my ancestry? Who idolizes Zinna and Sorrel and my mother?"

  He nodded. "It's possible that this groupie was trying to break the binding spell on Zinna last night. That could have been what you sensed, what made the lights go out, what made Raven shift."

  "So I need to be on the lookout for live witches as well as dead ones?"

  "I'm afraid so. It could be anyone, Allie." He leaned forward a little. "Even someone you trust."

  Chapter 5

  On Saturday morning, two days after she'd talked to Derek, Allie sat on the other side of a security-glass partition, waiting for a prison guard to bring her mother into a non-contact booth.

  Derek knew she was here. And so did Kyle and his wife, Joyce. Allie had made a crucial decision, confiding in them about Raven and the curse. Derek had warned her about trusting people, but Kyle and Joyce had battled evil before. They were on the right side of the supernatural law. Plus Joyce was one of the Homicide Special Section detectives who'd arrested Allie's mother. So she'd asked Joyce to help her prepare for this visit, to know what to expect, to understand the prison system.

  Once she'd arrived, she was treated the same as all of the other visitors where clothing restrictions were imposed and metal detectors were mandatory. And on top of that, everyone, including herself, had been prescreened. The forms they'd filled out earlier had led to background checks.

  And now she waited to see her mom. Yvonne was a level four prisoner—an inmate who'd committed heinous crimes.

  The worst of the worst.

  From what Joyce had told her, other condemned inmates despised serial killers. Death row had its prejudices, its social cliques, and her mother would be perceived as a monster.

  But Allie doubted that Yvonne cared.

  Serial killers garnered massive amounts of media attention, turning them into celebrities. Yvonne, The Indian Slasher, probably h
ad death-groupies writing her adoring letters and worshipping her for her deranged fame.

  Was the witch-groupie Derek mentioned a death-groupie? Someone who'd started practicing black magic because he or she was trying to please Yvonne? If so, did the groupie know about the curse? About Raven? About the necklace Sorrel took?

  Nothing had changed at home. Raven was still a raven, and Allie was still on a mission to free him.

  She glanced up and saw her mother being escorted into the booth. Childhood memories assaulted her like a machete, and every bone in her body went cold. There was a time when Allie had loved her mother, when she'd been desperate for her affection.

  Yvonne came forward with her wrists and ankles shackled. She sat in the chair that faced Allie's, and they stared at each other through the glass.

  Neither picked up the phones that would allow them to converse.

  Allie wanted to run, to dash out the door and leave this nightmare behind. But she couldn't. Talking to her mother was imperative. Yvonne was a pathological narcissist. If she knew anything about the amulet, she would spout off just to make herself seem more important.

  Yvonne lifted her chin. She wore a drab uniform and her long black hair was swept into a loose ponytail. A few threads of gray interrupted the ebony flow. She'd aged in the past year, but she was still beautiful. She'd been blessed with remarkable bone structure, deep-set eyes and a full mouth. Allie had inherited some of those features.

  After the staring match ended, Yvonne reached for the phone on her side, maneuvering it carefully. Her restraining chains hindered even the smallest movement.

  Allie picked up her phone, too. And as she clutched the receiver, she steeled her emotions.

  "Hello, darling," Yvonne said, sarcasm dripping like blood-spiked ice.

  Allie hadn't anticipated a warm welcome. She and Olivia had helped put their mother behind bars. "Are you enjoying your incarceration?"

  "Did you come here to taunt me?"

  "No." She wouldn't waste her time with something that petty. "I want to discuss our family."

  "Why?" Yvonne's dark eyes nearly pierced the glass. "Are you afraid Zinna is going to break me out of this place?"