Kerren was dressed in a diaphanous silver gown that clung to her curves, and offered him a feast. He knew well what lay underneath that simple dress, and he couldn’t wait to take it off her. She was so lovely. Her long blond hair hung in silky curls that draped her shoulders. One hand reached out for him, while the other stayed behind her back.
“What are you hiding?” he asked, amused. It was a game they often played. Sometimes, she had a can of whipped cream or a jar of caramel, and other times, she presented him with trinkets she’d found on her shopping excursions.
“It’s a surprise,” she said coyly.
“Can’t wait,” he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips across hers. “How’s your family?”
“Oh, fine,” she said. “They’ve already made arrangements—but they did say thank you for offering them the spare rooms.”
“Our house is big enough for ten people.”
She sighed. “You’re not going to talk about having babies again, are you?”
“No,” said Gray, though he very much wanted to start a family. Kerren said she wanted children, but she always tabled the topic whenever he broached it. Instead of saying anything else, he lowered his head to give her a proper kiss.
“Gray,” she murmured, stalling his progress.
He looked up, brows raised. “Hmm?”
“You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” he said instantly.
She stepped out of his embrace, but kept her hand on his forearm. Her eyes gleamed. “I had hoped to keep you,” she said with a regretful smile.
Before he could respond to such a strange declaration, she placed that pale, perfect hand against his chest and whispered, “Kahl.”
Pain radiated through him, clogging his throat, throbbing in his eyes, bubbling in his veins. He tried to scream, but no sound could escape through the agony crawling up his windpipe.
His vision grayed at the edges as he stared down at his wife.
“You said you’d do anything for me.” The arm she’d had tucked behind her swung up in a wide arc. In her hand, she clasped an obsidian cudgel. The smooth stone smacked him hard in the temple.
Stars exploded behind his eyes.
Then the world went black.
Gray awoke to the stench of sulfur, and the chill of stone beneath his bare skin. His wrists and ankles were manacled to the granite. He felt the dark magic pulsing in the metal, and the thick ugliness of it stifling the room. His right side burned, as though acid had been dribbled from his temple to his shoulder.
He tried to call his magic, but it was useless. The metal dampened his abilities. Besides, not only was there no living thing from which to borrow energy, but also the negative vibrations of this prison suffocated any hint of good.
Bile rose in his throat.
“The heart of a Dragon.” Kerren’s voice issued from the darkness, seconds ahead of the woman. As she walked toward him, looking coldly beautiful in that damned silver gown, torches flamed to life. He could see now that he was in a small cavern, the craggy walls a mixture of black and red. The rectangular rock on which he was pinned was the centerpiece. “All that my lord wanted was me—and the heart of a Dragon.”
“Your lord?” he rasped. Betrayal sat like an anvil on his chest. “What have you done, Kerren?”
“What I must.” She stopped near the edge of the altar and let her gaze rove his naked body. “Such a shameful waste.” She trailed a hand down his inner thigh, then encircled his hip with a sharp nail.
He hissed in pain.
She grinned, and he saw the madness glittering in those chocolate brown eyes, the hint of crazy proffered by that cruel mouth. Oh, Goddess. Not Kerren. Not his wife. “This is a nightmare,” he whispered.
“Not yet,” she said. “You know, Gray, you were very sweet to be so worried about me.” She patted the wound she’d caused on his hip. “The Rackmores weren’t all that interested in their own history—not until today. All our collective paperwork was tossed into our private archives at the Great Library. Piles and piles of moldering ledgers and diaries and personal letters. When I was seventeen, a small indiscretion of mine angered my father so much, he decided to punish me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
She spread her fingers against his lips. “Shush. I’m telling a story. I’m not without compassion, you see. I thought you should know why you’re going to die.”
The blood drained from his face. Kerren wanted to kill him? Why?
“No more questions, Gray.” Her gaze was that of a stranger, as hard and cold as muddy ice. “If you interrupt me again, I’ll stab you through the heart, and you can go to the darkness not knowing a gods-be-damned thing.”
He pressed his lips together, mostly because he didn’t want to feel the soft reminders of comfort and pleasure the treacherous woman had once given to him. She feathered her fingertips down his cheek and let them rest on his aching shoulder as she leaned against the altar. He knew he should try to think of ways to free himself, or reason with her, but shock had numbed him. His thought processes felt sluggish, and his body clumsy, probably the result of the poisonous magic that surrounded him.
“My punishment was to organize the archives. It took a whole summer. My stupid baby sister went to Paris while I toiled away in that tomb. But I found some very interesting things. For instance, the Earl of Mersey’s diary, his personal spellbook, and a little prophecy he’d written before his death. Imagine my surprise when I read all about the demon bargain and found out that in a few short years, I would be penniless.
“Me? Poor? I don’t think so. I used the same summoning spell, and called forth my own demon lord. He’s very handsome and virile—a real devil in bed.” She winked at him, and nausea churned in his guts. “In exchange for me keeping my wealth and accumulated pretties, all he wanted—other than me, of course—was the heart of a Dragon. Your heart, to be precise.”
“You don’t love me.” The realization slashed at him, and self-pity was the salt on those wounds. Everything he’d believed about the woman he’d married was wrong. He’d been fooled and cuckolded.
Kerren watched the play of emotions on his face with avid interest, and Gray realized he was giving his sociopathic wife quite the show. He did his best to blank his features, but she merely laughed. “You can’t hide from me. Or from destiny.”
Then she produced a wicked dagger and pressed it against his chest. Blood welled where it bit into his skin.
“I liked you. I enjoyed you. I fucked you.” She leaned close, her breath ghosting over his mouth. “But no, my darling, I never loved you.”
“Please,” he said as tears fell. He wasn’t sure what he was begging for—mercy or death—but he couldn’t stop the rejoinders. “Please, Kerren. Please.”
Disgust entered her gaze. She curled back her lips. “I never expected you to simper. You’re pathetic.” Then she raised the dagger and screamed, “For Kahl!”
Her aim was true, vicious, and supernaturally strong.
The double-bladed dagger slid through muscle, bone, heart, lung, flesh. He heard the tip of the blade scratch the stone; then he managed one hoarse scream before the sharp agony abruptly faded.
In the viscid dark of hell, Gray’s soul struggled.
Trapped, whispered a thousand voices, betrayed. You are nothing. No one. You are unloved. Unwelcome. Unheralded.
No, he screamed. I am Gray Calhoun. I am a Dragon. I will live.
Become one with us. You are the dark. You will always be the dark.
Pain ripped through him. Though he had no body now, the agony was just as real. He accepted every lightning bolt of anguish, every jagged strike of terror. I will not bow to you, he yelled. You will not break me!
Then the monster appeared. Its awful smile displayed razor-sharp rows of bloodstained teeth. Gray could discern no other form to go with its terrifying visage—just soulless black eyes, leathery skin, and that terrible grin.
The heart, it demanded, give me the heart.
I will not give you anything. Ever. Gray battled through the sludge, exerting his will. I belong to the Goddess. I call upon the blood of my ancestors, the righteousness of all good Dragons, to help me.
You are the dark, cried the voices, you are one of us.
Light burst through the blackness, and the voices screamed in frustration.
A huge claw reached through golden brightness and grabbed Gray. He was slammed back into his body. The knife was expelled, the horrific wound closed, the chains shattered, and then he was lifted from the altar, and shoved up, up, up through fire, through rock, through earth, until he came to rest on soft, dewy grass.
Gray took a shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Above him, he saw leafy tree branches reaching up as if trying to tickle the full moon. A glance around confirmed he was in some sort of wooded clearing—which could be located in California or France or anywhere in between. He had no idea where he was, only that he was free.
Within himself, he felt the slither of scales, the heat and shape of something foreign.
He had escaped hell.
But he had not come out alone.
Chapter 1
Present day . . .
“Marry me.”
The man filling up the doorway in front of Lucinda Rackmore didn’t bat an eyelash. His expression didn’t change, either. His blue gaze was still parked between sorrow and cynicism.
Gray Calhoun didn’t look like a wizard. His hair was too long; the shaggy tips brushed his shoulders and the front strands carelessly framed his face. He might’ve been considered handsome if his nose didn’t crook in the middle and if the planes of his face weren’t as sharp as blades. A faded scar on the left side of his face twirled from his temple down his neck, hiding beneath the collar of his T-shirt. The thin white lines formed intricate patterns. She knew he had not healed the disfigurement magically because he was a man who liked reminders.
His tight black T-shirt showed off his muscled form and his faded jeans did the same. His feet were bare, the clean, square nails cut short. Unlike most of his kind, he didn’t display blatant symbols of his power. But she knew that somewhere underneath his T-shirt was the tattoo of the House of Dragons, and the mark that designated his rare status.
“Please,” she said. “Gray.”
She couldn’t stop the recrimination that echoed inside the plea. A muscle ticked in his jaw and pain flickered in his eyes. He’d heard the censure, wrapped in the poor clothes of beggary, and then passed his own judgment.
“Good day to you.” He straightened his six-foot frame. He turned away, as so many had before him, and she knew he would close the door in her face. Though she didn’t deserve even his tiniest consideration, she couldn’t bear another rejection. If only I could rest . . . just for a moment. She couldn’t remember the last time she could take a full breath or what it was like to have a heartbeat unhindered by fear. Her feet throbbed from endless walking. And every day, every moment, she looked over her shoulder, waiting for the inevitable—because she would be found and she would be dragged back to New York.
Bernard Franco was not a forgiving man.
Gray hesitated, clutching the edge of the doorjamb and looking at her coldly.
“You married my sister,” she whispered. Desolation tainted her voice.
“I took vows with her because I loved her.” His twang was more pronounced. He had once called it “cowboy cadence,” the way Texans chewed on their words before letting them out of their mouths. Gray had been born and raised in eastern Texas. He knew something about disgrace, too, though he’d been a victim. She couldn’t claim innocence. She’d had nowhere else to go, so here she was, raw from her own wounds, and forlorn enough to ask for Gray’s help.
“Let me explain. Please.”
His gaze cut past her to the deserted street in front of his house. The yard was overgrown and weed-strewn, the sidewalk leading up to the house cracked and uneven. Not even the wide porch offered a welcome. It was empty of furniture, the planks gray with age and too much rain.
“Even a novice wizard could detect the curse on you,” he said. “You’re poison, Lucinda.”
“It’s a . . . a misunderstanding.” She whispered the lie, afraid to give full voice to it. What she had done to earn the curse hadn’t been a misunderstanding at all.
“What did you do to gain the wrath of your lover?”
So, he knew about Bernard, and his formal tone indicated his opinion about her ex. Or maybe he was trying to keep the distance between them—not that the chasm needed to be any wider. The tiny flame of hope she’d kept alive all the way to his front door petered out and died.
Gray wouldn’t help her.
She reached out to touch his arm, but he pulled back.
“I’ll . . . I’ll pay you.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Even as she realized how far her own desperation had pushed her, she couldn’t snatch back the words, or the sentiment.
Gray’s eyebrows slashed downward, and anger sparked in his eyes. “You know better than to lie to me. You don’t have money anymore, and you never will.” He shook his head. “Getting screwed over by one Rackmore witch was plenty enough for me. Go seek your protection elsewhere.”
Anger punched through her weariness. “I don’t remember you being such a bastard.”
“Ten years ago,” he said, “I wasn’t.” He gave her one last searing look. “You can thank your sister for that.”
“I’m not my sister.”
For an aching second, she saw pity snake through the fury of his gaze. Then he said, “You’re still a Rackmore. Go away, Lucy. Just . . . go the hell away.”
She wouldn’t make it easy on him. Oh, who was she kidding? Gray’s heart had turned to a husk years ago, and that was certainly his fault. Lucinda stared defiantly into his eyes until the door closed. Its soft click echoed Gray’s apathy. Her throat knotted and her eyes went hot, but . . . Fuck that. The weather seemed to empathize with her, and the ominous gray clouds crowding the sky began to weep.
She picked up the duffel bag filled with all her worldly possessions and dragged her sorry ass to the edge of the portico. Gray’s house was an old Victorian, now a faded, peeling pink. The house looked as neglected and mournful as its owner.
Gray had truly been her last hope. A long shot that hadn’t paid off. The moment Bernard issued his edict, all her friends and acquaintances had turned their backs on her. No one wanted to help her, and she didn’t blame them. Bernard was a difficult man. And by “difficult,” she meant he was a soulless cretin.
That was what she got for being the mistress of a wizard from the House of Ravens. No, that’s what you got for interfering with his sick pleasures.
Sometimes, in her darkest moments, she thought dying would’ve been easier.
No beings born with the ability to wield magic could have their powers stripped. But powers could be bound. Powers could be warped. Bernard’s curse had done such a thing to her thaumaturgy. He hadn’t done anything to her aquamancy, but that particular power wasn’t much of a threat to him.
Only the wizard who issued the curse, or the tribunal of his House, could remove it. No way could she approach the House of Ravens for a pardon. They had more reasons than she could count to hate the Rackmores—and just because one of their politicos had bedded her, that wouldn’t soften their black hearts. The irony was that the Rackmores used to rule the House of Ravens.
Bernard had been busy making sure no wizard from any House would look at her, much less share the same sidewalk with her. Worse, the minute she was spotted anywhere, her location was reported to Bernard.
He almost caught up to her twice. That was when she went off the grid. No using IDs, no staying in motels or renting cars, no hitchhiking on main roads, and using magic only when necessary. It had been three months since she’d escaped, but he wasn’t a man who let go of his possessions. Not ever.
She’d embarrasse
d him. Hurt him. And then she’d stolen from him.
Gray had been right: She was poison and would be until Bernard could be forced to remove the spell, but more than that, she wanted to be free of him. She wouldn’t go back to the penthouse, to him, ever.
Marrying Gray would not nullify the curse, but it would ensure her protection. Not even Bernard would risk the wrath of a Wizard of Honor—the highest level bestowed on any magic wielder—especially one from the House of Dragons. Even though Gray hadn’t been active in years, he was still very well respected. Gray may have given up his place in the House, but the talent, power, and skill that had originally earned him the honorific were still his to command.
Besides, some things you couldn’t give back.
Tucking her chin down and pulling up the hood of her green cloak, Lucinda hurried down the rickety stairs and splashed through the puddles dotting the cracked walkway. In the first week of March, winter still held dominion in Texas. The rain splattered coldly on her face and dribbled mercilessly into her shoes. She trudged away from the Victorian and headed toward the street, which she could follow to downtown. She had enough cash left for a simple meal. Maybe resting for a bit and eating something would clear her mind enough to figure out what to do next.
Anguish filled her as she trudged down the sidewalk. Holy hell, she’d gotten herself into trouble. Nobody who wanted to live got on the wrong side of Bernard Franco. At first, Lucinda had genuinely believed that he’d cared about her. For a while, he’d indulged her fantasy of a real relationship. She hadn’t known she was one among many mistresses—his little harem of horrors. Lucinda realized too late he was incapable of love, just like he was incapable of mercy.
How did I not know?
Even at the end, when she’d figured out what he’d done to her, she had no one to blame but herself. She was in Nevermore begging at the door of Gray Calhoun because of the choices she’d made.
Everything had a price. And now, she was paying what was owed.
Never Again Page 2
