Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore

by Michele Bardsley

  It was creeping toward four a.m., well past the witching hour and edging into the territory of time owned by roosters and farmers. Trent Whitefeather, knee-deep in his uncle’s office crap, kept glancing in Elizabeth’s direction. It was almost as if he needed to make sure she was still there and that she was still his.

  He stopped pretending to work and just watched her sort through the stack of paperwork that had never made it into Uncle Atwood’s poor excuse of a filing system.

  “Can you stare at me and work?” she asked, her tone teasing. “Not that I don’t enjoy digging through garbage service receipts. I found one from 1952. How long has Atwood owned this place?”

  “Family biz,” said Trent, trying to sound nonchalant. He was embarrassed she’d caught him acting all moon-eyed. He needed to keep it cool. “The Stephens were one of the founding families in Nevermore. Started out as just the go-to people for the newspaper. When the Guardian decided to add in garbage services, the Stephens ended up with that duty, too.” He snorted a laugh. “To hear my unc tell it, nobody wanted to be responsible for picking up the town’s trash—even with extra incentive money for trucks and workers. He said all the business owners had to do a lottery. My great-great-grandfather ended up with the short stick.”

  “I suppose it’s a better method than ‘Eeny, meeny, miny, mo.’ ”

  Trent looked up and grinned. “Yeah. But not by much.”

  She grinned back, her eyes going soft, and that look…Oh shit. That look was what set his heart to pounding and his dick to hardening. He wanted to bend her over the desk right now. Claim her in the space that was his legacy. Give himself, too. To her. Show her that he understood there was something special between them. She was Mordi to everyone else, but to him, she’d always be Elizabeth.

  “What will you do with the businesses?” she asked.

  “Carry on,” he said absentmindedly. It seemed weird to be trying to organize Atwood’s things. He kept thinking his uncle would barrel in, demanding in that hoarse huffing voice just what the hell Trent thought he was doing. He’d attempted to put some order to the madness before, and every time, he met with furious resistance from Atwood. Why the man liked living in such a horrific mess was beyond Trent’s comprehension. His own room was neat as a pin, as organized and clean as Atwood’s living and working spaces were disorganized and filthy.

  Still, he’d happily live in this crap hole forever, just as it was, if it meant he’d get his uncle back. They’d never been too close, at least not before he’d moved to Nevermore. He always got the feeling that Atwood didn’t necessarily approve of his sister hooking up with…Well, a nonwhite was probably the kindest way to think about it. Not that Atwood ever messed with him. He’d like to think his uncle actually loved him.

  Trent’s dad had been a Cherokee, and Trent preferred to follow the tenets of his father’s people. There were magicals in the native peoples of this continent, just as there were magicals in any race. And Atwood didn’t seem particularly fond of magicals, either, though he lived in a town with them. And yet, he hadn’t hesitated when Trent’s parents died, coming to Oklahoma to pick him up and give him a home, a purpose.

  His uncle hadn’t tried to interfere with his magical studies, either. Trent practiced his gifts with the same intensity and purpose he had when studying for school or for crushing on Elizabeth. He barely managed to stop the goofy grin that wanted to crease his face as his thoughts returned to her.

  He couldn’t believe that Elizabeth liked him the way he did her. Sure, they were young, but young didn’t mean a person couldn’t commit to another, or shout from the rooftops about falling head over heels for her. They could marry. Have children. Run the garbage service, and the newspaper, and the cemetery together.

  He stared down into the dark drawer he’d opened. He’d been emptying it absentmindedly, and now that there was nothing in it, he used it almost as though it were a crystal ball. What was their future? Would it eventually end? Or would it go on, as he hoped, until their dying days? Maybe they’d share a nursing home room together. They’d be old and wrinkly and wouldn’t care. Love didn’t see with the eyes, only with the heart.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Elizabeth.

  She was staring at him now, her expression etched with an emotion he couldn’t quite discern. Shit. He’d been doing the goofy grin after all as he imagined their future together. But that expression of hers…He shivered. The way she was looking at him made him uncomfortable. That look so subtly carved on her face was somehow caught between love and regret. He felt his heart drop to his toes, and his throat closed. Was something wrong already? Was she going to let him go before they’d even had a chance to really explore what could be between them?

  He couldn’t breathe.

  “Trent.” She moved from the floor where she’d been sitting and crossed to the desk chair he occupied. She sat on his lap and kissed him gently. “I’m yours,” she said simply.

  His lungs filled with air, his heart with tenderness, and his mind with plans for a future with sweet, sweet Elizabeth.

  “Lenore.” Taylor lay on the grass, naked and aroused. Above them was the night sky, and all around them were the huge blue stones that guarded the nemeton.

  Lenore’s small, pale, perfect body lay next to him. She was trembling, her gaze luminous. What emotion glittered there?

  Lenore offered him what he wanted—not just her body, but sharing a life together.

  You can’t save her.

  The hell, he said to the voice that echoed inside his skull.

  Her hands slid up his chest, making him writhe under her touch. He slid his hands over her breasts, those perfect, beautiful breasts, and nearly died from the sensation.

  “It’s been so long,” he said. “It’s almost like I was waiting for you.”

  “I know I was waiting for you,” she said.

  He brushed his fingertips across her trembling belly, dipping down into the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. He stroked her clit, watching her eyes go dark. Her breath hissed out of her mouth, and she bit her lower lip, moving closer to his touch.

  Taylor cupped the most intimate part of her. She moaned and rubbed her slick flesh against his palm. She knew only pleasure—not his anguish. I can save her, he thought desperately.

  But he couldn’t think about that.

  Only this.

  He trailed soft, slow kisses down the curve of her stomach. He pressed his lips against her belly and prayed to the Goddess—and yes, he prayed—that Lenore would live.

  Sweat dewed her skin. He licked the tiny droplets, drawing patterns in her flesh with his tongue before parting her trembling thighs.

  Her swollen clit was as juicy, as sweet, as a ripe berry. He tugged the morsel between his lips and sucked. She arced against his mouth, her restless hands tugging on his hair.

  “Please,” she begged.

  He slid his hands under her buttocks and pulled her close, breathing in her scent. It was earthy, intoxicating.

  Mine.

  He stroked her with his tongue, torturing her clit with tiny, brief suckles. She moved against his mouth, taking her pleasure with an innocent wonder that pierced the heart of him.

  “Only you,” she murmured. “Only you, Taylor.”

  She stilled, thighs quivering, and cried out as she came.

  For a long moment, Taylor stared at her, watching as she recovered from her orgasm. She was luminous. That female satisfaction that curled in her smile made him want to do it all over again.

  Taylor kissed his way up her belly. He paused at those gorgeous breasts and paid glorious attention to them. Her nipples were beaded, and he pulled one into his mouth, licking and sucking.

  She moaned.

  Everything inside him tightened in pleasure. Taylor positioned himself above her and slowly entered. She was wet and ready and tight. He closed his eyes and drew in a steadying breath.

  Oh, sweet hell.

  Another stroke sent more pleasure ripp
ling through him. She pulled him close, grasping with hungry hands; her body moved against him, and he thrust harder and faster, her breathy moans battering away at his control.

  “Taylor!” She moved her hips, her hands sliding to grasp his buttocks. “More,” she whispered, her breath feathering his ear. “More.”

  He gave the lady what she wanted.

  The pulsations of her orgasm tugged at his cock, and he tried to hold on, tried to give her the time to savor her pleasure again.

  Then he was sailing over the edge with her, saying her name, desperation and love pounding in every beat of his heart.

  Then the scene changed.…Darkness flowed over them.

  “You can’t help me,” Lenore said. Her voice held placid acceptance. Goddess above! She made his heart ache. “Just go, Taylor.”

  “Not without you.” He reached for her, but the darkness swirled, as heavy as iron, yet as intangible as smoke. He couldn’t reach through that magical ether. He wasn’t powerful enough. She needed him, and he was failing her all over again. “Don’t do this.”

  “Save Nevermore,” she said. “Save yourself.” Then she was fading, fading into the raven blackness, into the night embrace of Ekros, who had once ruled the world of death. The smell of incense was thick, the chanting voices rising higher and higher, and inside, Taylor felt something claw through him, something electric and cold and vengeful.

  Claim what’s yours.

  Pain exploded in the middle of his forehead—a lightning strike that left him breathless, helpless.

  “Lenore!” Taylor woke up with her name bursting from his lips. His head hurt, and he cradled it in his hands while he tried to catch his breath. Fuck all. What was going on?

  The nightmare was already fading, and so was the pain that had taken root in his brain. And Holy Goddess! Making love to Lenore?

  He needed to keep his brain—and his dick—in line. He shoved away the covers and stood up. In deference to their female guest, he’d pulled on a pair of sweats. Usually he just slept in his boxers.

  Scrubbing his hands through his hair, he got out of bed and walked out of his bedroom. He needed to check on Lenore—just once—and make sure she was still resting well, still safe. That damned dream had tainted his sleep; he didn’t think he could lie down again. He’d try, but he had no doubt he’d spend more time staring at the ceiling than getting any shut-eye. He wasn’t functioning on all cylinders, so he decided to table the self-flagellation for later.

  He yawned so hard that his jaw cracked. He stumbled down the hallway, scratching at his belly like a true Neanderthal, and paused by the open door of Lenore’s room.

  She was gone.

  Taylor snapped fully awake. He hadn’t even processed that he was moving before he found himself taking the stairs two at a time. Where did she go? Had she awakened and taken off? Had someone kidnapped her? With the protections that Gray had added around the house, there was no way anyone could’ve gotten in or out without setting off an alarm. Although Lenore could leave.…What if she’d woken up and gotten scared or upset? Was she wandering around outside?

  His heart skipped a beat.

  He skidded into the kitchen, only thinking about getting his boots on before he took off outside to find his lost Lenore.

  She was standing in the kitchen, a glass of orange juice in her hand. She gave him a startled look, and then her gaze dropped appreciatively to his chest. Taylor resisted the urge to cross his arms over his pectorals, and then he had to kill the impulse to puff up like a rooster. He kept in shape, and he had the muscles to show for it.

  Not that he had to prove anything.

  “You okay?” he asked gruffly.

  She nodded. Then she took a long drink of juice. She licked the residual liquid off her lips, and that small gesture of tongue against mouth had his cock jumping. Shit. That was all he needed—a big ol’ hard-on. That would inspire confidence in the woman, no doubt. She didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, focusing instead on finishing off the OJ.

  To forestall further potential embarrassment, he strode to the fridge and opened it wide enough to let the cold air flow over him. He leaned down and grabbed the milk, then poured himself a glass. He wasn’t much of a milk drinker, but it was too early for coffee, and Lenore had effectively commandeered the orange juice.

  “You hungry?”

  She looked at him for a moment, and then her gaze skittered away. He knew pride when he saw it, and he was amazed she had any left after what she’d been through—whatever it might have been. He wondered exactly how she’d ended up bloodied and bruised and naked in his woods.

  Her gaze meandered back to his, and she touched her throat, almost apologetically.

  “Oh,” he said, nodding. “You can’t talk. Gray and Ember said they detected a spell on you.”

  One dark brow lifted, and he realized she had no idea who Gray and Ember were. “Gray Calhoun is the Guardian of Nevermore. That’s where you are—Nevermore, Texas. Ember and her husband run the tea shop. She’s…uh, a sorta prophet, I guess.” He knocked back the milk, then put the glass in the sink. She followed suit with her own glass. Standing next to each other at the farmhouse sink created an awkward moment. She glanced up at him, her lips quirking; she reached up and used two fingers to wipe off his upper lip. The strangely intimate gesture stalled out his lungs. She seemed to realize how familiarly she was acting, as though they’d stood in this kitchen next to each other all their lives and had the right to touch each other in such familiar ways.

  And he wanted to touch her.

  A lot.

  “Thank you,” he said. He tore off a paper towel from the roll he kept on the counter and gave it to her so she could dry her fingers. Then he took one and scrubbed at his mouth. He saw the pink taint her cheeks and watched as she drifted away, obviously abashed, the paper towel crumpled in her fist.

  “You…uh, going back to bed?”

  She turned and glanced over her shoulder. For a moment, Taylor’s brain short-circuited. Lenore was the kind of pretty that had no doubt driven better men than he to their knees. And who wouldn’t worship such a delicate, ethereal beauty? He was tongue-tied, and he felt the heat of embarrassment crawl up his neck.

  She studied him, as if she could see right through him, into the conflict that knotted his gut. He wanted to claim her, and…It was stupid to feel that way. He didn’t know her. She was—hell, she didn’t even know who she was.

  “Your name. Is it Lenore?”

  Her eyes widened. She made a gesture between a nod and a shrug. Then she lifted her hand in a pen motion as though writing. He grabbed the pen and notepad he kept by the kitchen phone. She scribbled on the pad, then handed the paper to him.

  “Norie Whyte,” he said. He looked up and offered a smile. “Hi, Norie. I’m Taylor Mooreland. I’m the sheriff of Nevermore.”

  She smiled back; then she wiggled her fingers in a shy hello.

  He felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. How could just looking at someone make a person feel like an arrow was penetrating his belly? More like a dozen arrows. Taylor realized then that he hadn’t followed up on the question of feeding her. She had to be starving. And though it seemed she had no problem getting herself a drink, it appeared she hadn’t been bold enough to grab something to eat, too, or she hadn’t had a chance. Maybe he’d made her self-conscious.

  “You know, I’m feeling peckish. I make a mean sandwich. You want one, too? We got some ham, turkey, and roast beef, and all the fixings.”

  Norie’s glance skittered toward the fridge. She visibly swallowed, and then, after hesitating a moment more, she gave a slight nod.

  “Terrific. Go on and have a seat.” He grabbed a chair and pulled it out, gesturing toward it for her to sit.

  She stepped forward, then paused, her head tilting and her lips forming a moue.

  He felt it then, the tingle in the air.

  Magic.

  Chapter 5

  As he turned to locate the m
agical threat, Taylor saw that Norie’s eyes were as wide as saucers. She wrapped her arms around herself and started trembling.

  The air felt tainted—as if it were slowly turning metallic. The heat came next, waves and waves of it, and then a smell so putrid, he gagged. Taylor knew evil had somehow wiggled through the protections on his home. How, damn it? Was Gray’s power weak? Or someone else’s magic just a helluva lot stronger?

  There was only one reason why: Norie.

  He crossed the kitchen in three long strides, swept Norie into his arms, and headed toward the stairs. The only magical he knew was on the second floor, snoring away in his bed, and he had to get Norie there, to safety. And Gray had said he’d be alerted if the protections were somehow broken, so his Dragon ass had better show up soon, too.

  Ant was already in the foyer, working his mojo.

  Taylor had never been more relieved to be related to a magical than at that moment. Whatever had infiltrated his home was coming for Norie, and it was damned scary to know he had no way to combat it. But his baby brother did.

  Holy Creator Goddess. He hadn’t realized the extent of Ant’s powers, but as the blue and green swirls of magic ribboned together from his brother’s hands to create a globe of protection, Taylor could feel its depth; it was fulsome, mighty.

  Norie clung to him, still shivering, while her cornflower blue gaze was pinned on Ant. His brother was muttering under his breath, doing long movements with his arms and little flicks and twists of his fingers. Taylor had seen Gray work magic plenty of times, but the Guardian didn’t seem to require much in the way of gestures and such.

  “What the hell is it?” asked Taylor.

  Ant’s eyes were closed, his face scrunched in concentration. He shook his head, obviously unable to concentrate on whatever spellwork he was enacting and have a conversation at the same time. That only confirmed Taylor’s suspicion that whatever was trying to enter his home was big, nasty, and powerful. He clutched Norie and muttered a prayer to the Goddess.

  Claim what’s yours.

  Taylor frowned. That phrase kept popping into his head, and he didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know what it meant. A pulse started to beat in the middle of his forehead. It felt as if light were gathering in the crevices of his brain, bringing heat and pain, and trying to shove something electric into his skull.