Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore

by Michele Bardsley

  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.

  “Rumors say”—Leticia paused and waved her hand as though dispelling the wispy nature of rumors—“that he’s afraid of you.”

  Cullen snorted. Maybe Leopold was scared of him, but he doubted it. And he couldn’t fathom why his father, a powerful Raven in magic and political power, would give a damn about a son who had few abilities. He’d known his father didn’t like him, and he had known that since he was five. He could pinpoint it exactly to the night Father had found him in the living room, sitting next to the hearth where his mother’s body lay. Mary Deshane’s throat had been cut. The pool of blood gleamed wetly in the flickering firelight. Cullen remembered that singular moment from his childhood—his father had rushed in, his Italian leather shoes slapping against the marble floor, his breath harsh and uneven and his face contorted with rage.

  He stumbled past the huge Christmas tree with its bounty of gaily wrapped gifts and crouched next to him. He grabbed Cullen’s face, his fingers digging cruelly into his son’s cheeks. “What the fuck did you do?” he screamed.

  Cullen remembered nothing else, nothing before he was five, before that terrible night, and after that…Well, his father had sent him away.

  From the speculative look on her face, it seemed the Consul was following his thoughts. Usually he was better at controlling his expressions.

  “He sent you into private care when you were very young,” she said, her voice soft with empathy.

  Such a diplomatic way of saying it, thought Cullen. The family vacation home in upper New York had been turned into a state-of-the-art clinic, and he’d been the only patient. It was a luxurious prison filled with people whose daily jobs were to make sure he was comfortable and to remind him that he was, indeed, deranged.

  “It was an old farm, very isolated. I stayed there until I was ten, when I was deemed mentally sound, and then my father shipped me off to boarding school.” It had been a special boarding school for fuckups like him. His whole life he’d been in prison in one form or another. Getting put away in the Institute for Magical Reform, especially since he had little magic at all, hadn’t been much different from all the institutions he’d been in.

  “You deserved so much better.”

  “Did I?” He snorted a laugh. The Consul thought she knew him? He schooled his features. Life had turned him into a cynical bastard. She wanted something, and all the tea and sympathy in the world wouldn’t cover up that single fact.

  Leticia resumed sipping from her delicate cup, watching Cullen with a careful expression. “Do you remember very much about your mother?”

  “No,” he lied. “I hardly remember her at all.” After she died, his father had taken down every picture, put away every reminder. On the few visits Cullen made to the family estate over the years, he noticed how empty and cold the house was without his mother in it. She’d been the soft one, the one ready with a smile or a hug, the one who took away the fear his father had been so good at instilling. His jaw tightened. Yes, he remembered his mother, but those faint memories belonged to him, and to him alone.

  “I went to high school with Mary in Nevermore, Texas,” said Leticia. “I was a senior, and she was a freshman. We knew each other, of course—it’s impossible to be a stranger in Nevermore. Still, I wouldn’t say we were friends. Mary left town right after graduation. She wanted to be an actress. The last anyone heard, she’d moved to Los Angeles. I didn’t know that she’d married Leopold and moved to Washington. Of course, Ravens and Dragons rarely mix socially, which may be why I never ran into her before she died.” She paused, gauging his reaction. Everyone believed that Mary Clark Deshane had committed suicide. He wasn’t at all sure about the details of that night, but he remembered quite clearly the blood. He’d often wondered if his father believed that Cullen had killed Mother. Maybe Leo had been afraid of his son on some level, after all. Well, maybe Cullen didn’t remember the events of that night, but he was damned sure he hadn’t slit his own mother’s throat.

  “Do I have any other relatives?” he asked.

  Leticia’s eye flickered with sorrow. “The last living Clark passed away almost two years ago. Your grandmother—Thelma.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment flickered, but he tamped it down. His grandmother might be dead, but the connection his mother had to her and to Nevermore still existed. That was something, at least.

  “That was why I invited you to visit with me,” said Leticia. “You’re the Clark heir. You can claim your grandmother’s home and business. It appears that your father made sure the bills were paid on both, so they were never returned to the town Guardian.” Leticia offered a delicate cough. “Of course, if you choose to live there, you will have to swear fealty to the Dragons. Since you are the son of a Raven, that might not be…politically correct.”

  “I’m not a Raven,” said Cullen
. “Nor am I a Dragon.” An inheritance in Nevermore. Goddess above! He felt as if someone had just knifed him in the belly. “Did you forget I was in jail? I can’t claim anything, lady.”

  One single eyebrow lifted at his crude manner, and he felt properly chastised. He knew how to be polite, but he’d been sideswiped, and, damn it, he was tired of his chain being yanked. Hope was dangerous. It made a person want what he couldn’t have.

  “That’s the good news, Cullen. Given the evidence that your father committed the crime you were incarcerated for, you’re being released.”

  And the blows kept coming. He took a moment to absorb the news. “There was evidence that my father framed me for burning down Raven’s Heart?”

  “Yes.” She grimaced. “That was a terrible tragedy in many ways, not the least of which was finding out the place’s true purpose. It’s the magical community’s great shame we weren’t better protectors of our young. It’s horrible that the Ravens were…securing children for various illegal purposes.”

  Horrible wasn’t a bad enough description in Cullen’s opinion. Reprehensible was closer, but even that word couldn’t give voice to the heinousness of Raven’s Heart.

  “Eight children and two caretakers had died in the blaze,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Leticia. “Did you know that bodies of other children had been found buried in the basement? All of them poisoned.”

  Cullen’s throat went dry. “No, I didn’t know.”

  “Such a tragedy,” Leticia repeated, shaking her head. “After Bernard Franco’s truth spells released his secrets, the Ravens did all they could to separate themselves from the more unseemly of their members. They claimed Leopold was part of a fanatical faction of their Order, and he and his so-called followers were responsible for what went on at Raven’s Heart. They made quite a show of discovering the offenders, banning them from the House and then prosecuting them.” She grimaced. “Your father set that fire to destroy the evidence of the true purpose of Raven’s Heart. Perhaps he was a fanatic, but it’s more likely the Ravens, who are not known for their altruism, knew full well what was going on there.”

  “My father framed me,” said Cullen tightly. “People believed I was capable of burning children alive.” He drew in a shaky breath; he knew he was close to just freaking losing it. “When did this evidence that he had committed the crime come to light?” he asked. She didn’t answer right away, and his stomach dropped.

  “Franco died in March,” she said carefully. “It took the Grand Court committees months to cull through all the information received and determine validity.”

  “So, my innocence has been known since March?” he asked. Anger twisted inside him.

  “Ah. Well.” She paused for tea. “Franco’s truth spells have altered—or destroyed—many lives,” she said.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly an apology, was it?

  “He could only destroy the lives of those who deserved it,” he said.

  “Debatable, in some cases.” She cast a look at him, one he couldn’t interpret.

  Cullen decided to hold his tongue. He wanted to rail against the unfairness of sitting in jail for a crime he hadn’t committed…but he had other sins staining his soul—sins that no amount of prison time would erase, or make easier to bear.

  “You will receive compensation from the Grand Court for your suffering.”

  His anger receded, a little. He supposed compensation would soothe some of his wounds—but not all. And he would never get back the time he’d spent paying for a crime he hadn’t committed. Damn. He wished the Consul had offered something stronger than tea. He could use a good slug of scotch right about now. Holy Goddess. He was about to be set free. And he was getting a settlement. His father had long since cut him off from the family money. With whatever the Grand Court gave him, he could do anything and go anywhere. He flicked a glance at the woman studying him. “I take it you think I should accept my inheritance. Move to Nevermore.”

  “The Goddess,” said Leticia, “or rather, the Goddess speaking through Her prophet thinks you should.”

  “The Goddess?” he asked, cynicism lacing his tone.

  “Yes,” said Leticia softly. She shook her head, bemused. “I admit that I had my doubts about your situation. And I am sorry for that. I know you have less reason than most to trust Her wisdom, but I would like to ask you to at least go to Nevermore. Check out the property, the house. You might find you like the town.”

  He doubted it. But he was curious about his mother’s past, about the grandmother he’d never known. He didn’t really think small-town life was for him. And he wasn’t the type to settle down, not after spending most of his life being manipulated by his father. For the first time in forever, though, he could be his own man, make his own choices—and just days away from his thirtieth birthday, too.

  “All right,” said Cullen. “I’ll go. I make no promises about staying, though.”

  “Of course,” said Leticia. “You can travel with me. I’m leaving for Nevermore in a couple of days. My son is the town Guardian, and he can help you get settled in.”

  “Gray Calhoun.” Cullen remembered the scandal of the man being sacrificed by his own wife to a demon, and how he’d given up his career, hell, his whole life. Cullen knew too well what it was like to be betrayed by someone who was supposed to love you.

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s time I met his new wife.”

  She didn’t sound exactly thrilled about the prospect. Interesting. He reached across the table and offered his hand. “To new beginnings, Consul.”

  She shook his hand and smiled. “Yes. New beginnings.”

  He pretended not to notice the calculation edging her smile, or the cunning that ghosted across her expression. Leticia Calhoun wanted something from him—obviously. If she tried to drag him into any drama, she’d be sorely disappointed.

  “This calls for something stronger, then,” she said. “To celebrate.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Cullen rose from the table and followed the Consul to the fully stocked bar in the room beyond the parlor. And as he took his first sip of fine scotch—Lagavulin, no less—he grinned.

  Leticia Calhoun wasn’t the only one with an agenda.

  It was creeping toward nine a.m., long past the time by which Taylor had usually left for the office, and he was feeling…off. He hadn’t slept well, mostly because he’d been trying to keep an eye on his new charge. He leaned against the doorjamb and stared at the unconscious woman tucked into bed. She looked so fragile, like one of Ant’s delicate flowers. But he’d seen the steel in her. She was no drooping daisy, waiting for someone to pluck off her petals. She was too strong for that. The sleep spell had been woven by Ember and reinforced by Gray, who could actually enter—even manipulate—someone else’s dreams. He hadn’t tried, though, with Lenore—if that was really her name. Oh, Gray had suggested it, and then he dropped the subject after taking one look at Taylor’s grim expression. This woman had a hold on him, and he didn’t want anyone else, not even the Guardian, messing with her.

  It wasn’t something he could put into words, or hell, even into thoughts. It was a primal feeling of protection. He’d made a promise to her in that ancient place of magic, and by the Goddess, he would keep it.

  “Still not awake?” asked Ant. He paused next to the door and surveyed the sleeping woman.

  “Won’t be for another day, maybe two. It’s a healing sleep,” said Taylor. “Supposed to take care of all those cuts and bruises.”

  “Good. Doesn’t look like she’s had a decent meal in a while,” said Ant.

  “She’s too thin,” agreed Taylor.

  “What the hell do you think happened to her?”

  “Don’t know. As soon as Ember and Lucy arrive to watch over her, I’ll go out and do another survey of the nemeton. Maybe the light of day will reveal something to help us figure out what happened.”

  “Gray going with you?”

  “Yeah. He’s gonna try to
track down more of the magic.” Taylor turned toward his brother. “The wolfie woo-woo lady comin’ today?”

  Ant snorted. “I dare you to call her that to her face. Yeah. Elandra should be here soon.”

  “Nervous?” asked Taylor with a half grin. “You never did like taking tests as I recall.”

  “I’m not nervous about the testing,” said Ant. “But Happy…Well, she’s not too thrilled about me leaving.”

  “She’s seventeen.”

  Ant glanced at his brother and shook his head. “You don’t get it, bro. Yeah, she’s just a kid. Hell, I guess I am, too, but…there’s something about her. I think…shit.” He rubbed his hand over his hair. “I think it will always be her.”

  Taylor nodded, but he turned back to his vigil of Lenore so his little brother wouldn’t see his expression or guess at his cynical thoughts. Aw, hell. Who was he to be telling Ant anything about how he was feeling? Taylor had been dreaming about a woman he’d then actually found naked in the woods. If that wasn’t some kind of…well, crazy, he didn’t know what was. The woman had infiltrated his subconscious before he’d even known she existed. And now that he did, she was there, in his thoughts, all the time. Like a goddamned ghost. Haunted. Yeah, that was the word that described it best. Lenore haunted him.

  It didn’t make sense. Just like Happy and Ant didn’t make sense. But his mother had once told him that the heart wants what the heart wants. But he wasn’t exactly buying that. Not by much. How could the heart want what it hadn’t known was real?

  Lenore.

  He felt his chest squeeze. There was just something about her—something that got to him.

  Maybe he was magicked. Maybe she’d somehow entranced him. But how? Why? All he knew was that falling under a literal magic spell made a helluva lot more sense than this apparent random confluence of events.

  “I’m heading into town,” said Ant. “Elandra’s meeting me at the temple.”

  Taylor raised an eyebrow.

  “Magical stuff,” his brother said. “She’s making an offering to Jaed. It’s sorta like when you bring a bottle of wine to someone else’s dinner party.”