Never Look Back

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "You didn't know exactly what he looked liked, either."

  Just then, Raven swooped down from his nest, his wings whooshing. Daniel stood perfectly still and the bird landed on the easel, where he faced the stranger Allie had brought home.

  Silence.

  Allie moved forward, and Raven cooed softly and stretched toward her. Her heart went soft. She missed him terribly, wishing he were a man, wishing he could hold her.

  "He's incredible," Daniel whispered.

  And territorial, she thought. He grabbed Daniel's glasses and held them in his bill. A second later, he flew off with them.

  "Hey," Daniel called out. "I can't see without those."

  Raven made his infamous chuckling sound and retreated to his nest, where he stayed with Daniel's glasses. He even tried to put them on, maneuvering them against his face.

  Allie couldn't help but laugh. Daniel laughed, too. Then they turned to look at each other, and a male-female moment passed between them.

  Raven watched from the rafters.

  "I can't do this," she said to Daniel, speaking softly.

  "Do what?" His voice was low, too.

  "Get attracted to you."

  "It's already happening. You already feel something."

  "But it isn't right. It isn't healthy. I think I'm reaching out to you because I'm afraid that I'm going to lose Raven. That what he said is true."

  He glanced up at the bird, then at her. "That he is going to die, even if you break the curse?"

  "Yes," she responded, determined to keep her faculties, to stay focused.

  "Then I'll do whatever I can to help you save him." He caught her gaze, snared it like a hare in a trap. "We won't let him die."

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  Another gaze. Another trap. The discomfort between them bobbed like a buoy. She considered putting her hand against his cheek, but touching him wouldn't accomplish a thing.

  Raven cawed, and they both jerked.

  Daniel broke eye contact, all business, all modern-day warrior. "What's next on your agenda?" he asked. "The Witchcraft Museum?"

  She nodded, grateful the moment had passed. "I'm going to check it out tomorrow."

  "I have to work," he told her. "But I can try to rearrange my schedule."

  "It's okay. I can handle the museum by myself."

  "What about the pen-pal list from the prison? When will Joyce have that?"

  "In a few days. She's trying to get a rush on it."

  "I'll check with auction houses about the amulet," he said. "See if any information surfaces. If not, I'll delve into the black market."

  "I appreciate your help."

  "Sure." He squared his shoulders. "I should get going."

  She looked up at Raven, telling him to return Daniel's glasses. He did, without a fight, without any trickery.

  Daniel didn't linger. He said goodbye and exited the loft.

  Leaving Allie and Raven alone.

  * * *

  The Witchcraft Museum was a privately owned facility located on a side street off Hollywood Boulevard. The one-story stucco building was painted a pale shade of coral, with paned windows, green trim and a flat roof.

  Allie parked her car and went inside, where her radar ran amok. The entrance housed a retail store that was connected to the museum, and it was filled with customers.

  She glanced around. The lavish décor presented ornate display cases and carved wooden shelves. Everything under the moon was for sale, including jewelry, books, greeting cards, spell kits, crystals, stones and altar and ritual items. She noticed quite a few spirit boards, variations of the Ouija Daniel had suggested.

  Two twentysomething clerks, male and female, manned the front desk. The woman was fair and blond, with Celtic jewelry and a colorful dress. The man, swathed in black, looked like a cross between Alice Cooper and Gene Simmons in their heyday, with a touch of Marilyn Manson thrown in. He wasn't a pretty sight. Either way, both employees behaved in a professional manner, peddling the store's wares.

  The touch-of-Marilyn guy looked up and smiled. The white makeup on his face yellowed his teeth. "Are you looking for something special?" he asked.

  "I'm Allie Whirlwind. I called this morning and made an appointment with Rory Bramwell. He said he could see me at two."

  Touch-of-Marilyn glanced at an ornate clock on the wall. "Oh, sure. This way." He directed her to the entrance of the museum, an archway blocked with a velvet-wrapped chain.

  After he removed the barrier, he escorted her to Rory's office, which was located in an out-of-the-way corner of the museum.

  Allie's radar went mad again. But she couldn't tell if it was because of Rory or the exhibits on display.

  Touch-of-Marilyn knocked on the curator's open door and waited for Rory to invite Allie inside. From there, the sales clerk bowed, leaving her alone with the other man.

  Rory Bramwell stood to greet her, and she assessed his appearance. Trendy. Early forties. He wore his medium brown hair in a slightly longish style, threaded with fine lines of gray. Wire-framed glasses rested easily on his nose and curved around his eyebrows. He was cleanly shaven and sported a tiny silver hoop in his left ear. His clothes consisted of khaki trousers and a matching sweater.

  His small but immaculate office presented an L-shaped desk and two guest chairs. He offered Allie a seat, waited for her to sit, then resumed his spot behind his desk.

  "So you're one of the Whirlwind sisters," he said.

  "Yes."

  "The psychic?"

  "No. The artist."

  "Ah. Fairies and dragons and pretty mermaids. The romantic."

  His evaluation made her uncomfortable. "You're familiar with my paintings?"

  "Your mother told me about them. Isn't that why you're here? To discuss Yvonne's exhibit?"

  Her stomach churned. "You're giving my mother a spot in the museum? On what basis?"

  "Yvonne wrote to me several months ago, asking if I was interested in locating an amulet her grandmother had used to curse a warrior at Fort Sill." He sat back in his chair. "I have to admit, her story about the amulet, The Vanessa, fascinated me."

  "So you agreed to give my mother an exhibit in exchange for information about the amulet?"

  "Yes, but only a small display, alongside the amulet. This is a museum, not a shrine for killers."

  "So you're not trying to capitalize on my mother's celebrity?"

  "Maybe a little," he admitted. "But that's as far as I'm willing to go. I'm not getting involved in Yvonne's other scheme."

  "Which is?"

  "Using the amulet to fulfill the hundred-year prophecy of the curse." Rory clasped his hands on the desk. "That's just not possible."

  She raised her eyebrows at him. "You're the curator of a witchcraft museum, but you don't believe in witchcraft?"

  "I rely on fact, not fiction. It's true that a warrior disappeared from the military reservation nearly a hundred years ago and that the amulet belonged to him, but that's where the historical parallel ends." He unclasped his hands. "Fort Sill records indicate that he escaped."

  "You think he just left his wife behind?"

  "Yes, but only because he thought he was protecting her. I suspect that Thomas Raven got scared when his amulet was stolen," Rory said. "That he fled to get away from your ancestors, the witches who'd been threatening him."

  Allie all but stared. "Thomas Raven?"

  "That was his name."

  Thomas? Why hadn't Raven told her that? "How did my mother describe the curse?"

  "She said that Zinna, her dead grandmother, who exists as an owl, turned Thomas into a raven. And that Zinna's nine-year-old daughter, Sorrel, assisted in the deed." His voice was concise, direct. "It's a magnificently woven tale, but it's just that—a tale. Apache folklore."

  "But you're still willing to exhibit The Vanessa?"

  "Absolutely. But will I attempt to use it for malevolent purposes? To make Zinna more powerful and thrust poor Thoma
s into eternal damnation?" He paused for effect, for drama. "Not a chance. Even if it were possible."

  Was he lying? Allie couldn't tell. "I'll bet my mother is angry with you."

  "I've had witches angry at me before."

  And he didn't seem the least bit concerned.

  "Would you like a tour of the museum?" he asked. "I'd be glad to show you around."

  "Yes. Thank you." She would take whatever she could get. Gauging Rory's sincerity was like defanging a cobra. An amateur had no business trying it. Yet here she was, doing her damnedest.

  They left his office, and he escorted her into the heart of the museum, where the hardwood floor gleamed, walls curved and glass cases beckoned.

  "Our collections are divided into classifications, depending on the era, region or type of witchcraft. Anthropologic, Dianic, Gothic, Gardnerian, Stregheria…just to name a few." His loafers sounded on the floor, tapping like a heartbeat, a steady rhythm. "Your family would be classified as Native American, with a Southwest subdivision."

  He led her to an area where an entire row of taxidermy owls stared blindly at her. Rory put his hand on her shoulder, and she tried not to flinch.

  "I wasn't surprised that Yvonne claimed that Zinna was an owl," he said. "Dead witches take the form of owls. Or so the Apache believe."

  She turned to face him. "I know all of that."

  "Of course you do. I'm just giving you the tour. And as you can see, we don't have an impressive Southwest division. Just a few odds and ends."

  She glanced around and noticed image dolls made of clay and sand paintings made of ashes. A grouping of white beans showcased a dangerous ritual, along with what was labeled as a magic bow. A faded sketch of Pueblo witches, depicting masked men in loose-fitting clothing was catalogued next to an ancient drawing of a Navajo skinwalker.

  Rory spoke again. "The Vanessa would make an exceptional addition. As well as the legend of the curse." He gestured to a well-lit cove. "This is where I intend to put it. Along with a biography of your mother and some photographs of her and her ancestors." He moved a little closer. "If you'd like to donate something, maybe one of your paintings—"

  Allie glared at him, and he dropped the suggestion. Did he know she'd done a watercolor of Raven? Was that the painting he was after?

  "I only came here to ask you about The Vanessa," she said. "To see how close you are to finding it."

  "I'm close." He gave her a confident smile. "I promise to send an announcement when I make the acquisition."

  Pompous jerk. "You do that. Unless I find it first."

  He quit smiling. "Please, if you do, contact me. I'd be happy to negotiate a buy."

  Why? So he could fulfill the curse? "I'd just as soon keep The Vanessa."

  "Not to help your mother, I hope. I'd hate to see you perform a ritual that's destined to fail."

  Allie still had no idea what to make of Rory Bramwell. "Why do you think that Glynis Mitchell called you a creep?"

  He took a step back. "You've spoken to her recently?"

  "Yes." And she wasn't about to admit that Glynis had called her a creep, too.

  "We used to date. Back in the day. The eighties," he clarified. "When she owned a death rock club. Things ended badly. But we were both coked out of our heads most of the time. I got clean before she did."

  Well now, Allie thought. The plot thickens. Or turns white as snow.

  "I'm not a creep," he said.

  "You're in a creepy business."

  "All witchcraft isn't evil. Please don't make the mistake of lumping it together."

  In that regard, she cut him some slack. "You're right."

  "Then let's finish the tour."

  He took her through all of the exhibits, playing the proper host. She paid attention to everything, right down to the inflection of his voice.

  But by the time she left, Rory was still a mystery.

  On her way to the car, she couldn't shake the witch energy. Her radar wouldn't quit.

  Then someone called her name. "Ms. Whirlwind?"

  She spun around and saw the female salesclerk—the fair-skinned blonde with the Celtic jewelry.

  "I just wanted to give you this." The other woman, who looked bright and pretty in the sunlight, slipped a folded piece of paper into her hand, then darted off, returning to the storefront.

  Allie opened the note and read it silently.

  My name is Fallon. Here's my number.

  Call me. I'm looking for The Vanessa, too.

  Chapter 10

  Allie climbed in her car and decided to make the call once she got home. She feared that jumping on her cell phone a few seconds after she'd acquired the note would make her seem desperate. And that wasn't an image she wanted to convey, even if she was desperate, eager to get her hands on the amulet before someone else did.

  What was Fallon's interest in The Vanessa? Was she trying to undermine Rory? Was she the witch helping Yvonne? Or was she an innocent who'd gotten caught up in this somehow?

  Allie's stomach grumbled, so she stopped for some Chinese takeout, realizing she hadn't eaten yet today. Food was fuel. She needed it to survive.

  Anxious to get home, she took the freeway, making it to the loft in record time, even at the onset of the traffic hour. But it was only a few exits away.

  Shifting a plastic bag with containers of vegetable stir-fry and white rice, she unlocked the front door and went inside.

  Then got attacked by Raven.

  Not the bird.

  The man.

  Thomas.

  "What the hell are you doing?" She had no idea when he'd shape-shifted, but he was as hungry as a wolf.

  And not for food.

  He knocked the bag out of her hand. Her purse and keys went down with it. And so did she, right to the floor. He climbed on top of her, kissing her, putting his scrumptious mouth all over hers. He was half naked, wearing a pair of West's jeans, the snap and zipper already undone.

  Her mind reeled. There were so many things she needed to discuss with him. His name. Rory and Fallon. The lizards. Vanessa's ghost. Her suicide.

  Oh, God.

  He kissed her again. Sleek. Hot. Carnal.

  How could she tell him that his wife had killed herself?

  He got even more aggressive, tugging at her blouse, popping buttons. Wild. Free. Animalistic.

  Rabid sex.

  She wanted it, too. Lord help her, she did. But not at the expense of his emotions, of a heart that was sure to break. He needed to know what was going on. She put her hand against his bare chest, signaling "stop" against his skin.

  "Raven, we have to talk."

  "But we don't have much time," he argued. "I'm going to shift soon. I can feel it." He softened his voice. "I've been waiting for you. For hours."

  "So much has happened," she said.

  "It doesn't matter. Not right now."

  "But it does."

  "No." He pinned her beneath him, refusing to budge.

  Well, hell, she thought. A knee to the groin would set him straight. Allie knew that was the best defense a woman could take to get out of this position.

  But he wasn't her attacker.

  He was her lover.

  Still…

  She didn't go for the groin, but she caught him off guard and managed to free herself, pinning him beneath her instead.

  Stunned, he stared at her. Then he smiled. He thought it was a sexual game.

  "We need to talk," she reiterated.

  He frowned. He wasn't enjoying the game anymore.

  Big, macho Apache. "Did you hear me?" she asked.

  "Yes." He was still frowning. "I won't fight you. Not physically. You would lose."

  She grappled with her pride. She'd been training for a year. He'd been born a warrior. The odds weren't in her favor. "I'd give you the fight of your life."

  "I suspect you would. Chiricahua women can be fierce."

  She accepted his compliment, loosening her hold on him. "Why didn't you tell
me that Thomas Raven is your real name?"

  "Because it isn't. At school, they translated Raven to English and gave it to me as a surname. Then they told me I would be called Thomas. I prefer Raven."

  "Why did they choose Thomas?"

  "They said it meant 'twin.' And that I could be like two men. But I am only one."

  In a strange way, they were right, she thought. He wasn't two men, but he existed as two life forces. "Did the school give Vanessa her name, too?"

  "Yes, but she was pleased with it. It's similar to her Apache name." He took her hand and placed it against his fly, against the open zipper. "Are we done conversing now?"

  She fought the urge to take what he wanted to give her. Slipping her hand down his pants would be so easy, so sweetly naughty. Especially here on the entryway floor, with her spilled purse and toppled Chinese food. The stir-fry container had popped open, scenting the air with a yummy aroma.

  She removed her hand. "There's still more to say."

  "Then talk," he urged, impatient with her.

  Yes, she told herself. Talk. "Why are lizards significant to the Apache?"

  "Lizard helped Child of Water."

  "Child of Water is a deity?"

  Raven nodded. "He is the son of White Painted Woman."

  A female deity, Allie thought. She should know this, but her mother had never taught her. Yvonne rarely spoke of Apache customs, not unless they were dark and dangerous.

  He continued. "Lizard triumphed over monsters. Lizard is a source of supernatural power."

  So what did that mean? Were the lizards Vanessa's way of asking for help, of trying to battle the monsters—the witches? Allie's chest constricted. She dreaded telling Raven that Vanessa had taken her own life. He'd been through so much already.

  "I saw the way Daniel looked at you," he said.

  She started. She hadn't expected him to change the subject, not like this. "Is that why you're so eager to have sex?"

  "Maybe." He slipped his arms around her. She was still on top of him. "Daniel looked at you in the way I used to look at Vanessa."

  Allie skimmed his jaw. How could she tell him about Vanessa now? How could she destroy what was happening between them? "You're jealous?"

  "I'm fighting for what is mine."

  She went warm and syrupy. "I'm yours?"