Did she really deserve anything less?
Mexico was the only viable option now. Bernard had enemies there, so he would be less likely to follow her into the country. She could stick close to the beaches and use her aquamancy to earn a living. Very few from the House of Sharks lived landlocked, choosing to live in seaside towns or on islands or on boats. Her water gift wasn’t strong enough for her to seek refuge from the House—and Sharks tended to be cold, far too practical, not to mention predatory. People with her level of skills found themselves either in the entertainment business or as glorified dishwashers.
At this point, she was so broke that she was more than willing to wash dishes for a few bucks. It was better to barter for the things she needed than to try to earn coin to pay for them. She could trade her skills for food and shelter in Mexico. Magic wasn’t as regulated, and it would be easier to hide there, too.
Up ahead, Lucinda saw the square brick buildings that lined Main Street. Unlike most small towns, Nevermore hadn’t embraced modern progress. There weren’t any strip malls or fast-food joints like those that plagued other places. Most small towns attempted to preserve some of their heritage, mostly for the sake of tourism, while inviting in as much big city as they could handle.
Nevermore probably looked the same now as it had in 1845.
She hadn’t seen a car or a person since she’d left Gray’s home. It was lonely out here.
The gentle rain changed its intensity and rhythm. It slashed down, cold and angry. Adjusting the strap, Lucinda heaved the duffel bag over her shoulder and quickened her pace. By the time she reached the Piney Woods Café, which sat on a corner intersected by Brujo Boulevard and Main Street, she was soaked to the skin. Above the row of fogged plate glass windows was a peeling hand-painted sign. A shower of gold sparks spit out around a scraggly bunch of pines shaped to form the name of the restaurant. She assumed the sparks were supposed to represent magic, but instead it looked like the trees were going up in flames. Beneath this travesty of art was the claim that the diner had been serving Nevermore for more than a hundred and fifty years.
She stood outside, shivering, unable to seek the warmth and shelter she needed. She was so tired of being judged and rejected. Not one person she’d asked had helped her. Going to her sister had been out of the question. Kerren had always been a bitch, but the night she sacrificed Gray, she became something worse: a half demon. She apparently hadn’t read the fine print on her marriage to Kahl. Three days every month, Kerren returned to her human form and the earthly plane, usually to wreak havoc on her husband’s behalf—and hit whatever shopping mecca was nearby.
Lucinda swung open the door, cringing as a bell clanged above her head. Was it too much to ask to walk into a place without gaining every occupant’s immediate notice? Not that she could’ve hidden the fact she was wet, a witch, or a stranger.
She remembered how Gray had often spoken about the coziness of small-town living, but he’d also said most everyone knew your business—sometimes before you did.
That did not appeal to her.
Back then, Gray always had a twinkle in his eye and a kind word for everyone. She’d been too caught up in her own teenage drama to pay him much mind. He’d been her older sister’s boyfriend, and therefore someone to be dismissed. His and Kerren’s wedding had taken place at a small venue with family and close friends: A battle Gray had won, since her sister had very much wanted a huge, glamorous affair. She remembered very little about the nuptials—only that they had interrupted her own, more important plans for a Saturday afternoon.
She shuddered to think about the girl she’d been. And the woman she’d become hadn’t been much better.
Maybe she, more than any other, deserved the Rackmore curse.
Now that Lucinda stood inside the establishment, she wasn’t sure what to do next. The utter silence frayed her nerves. Water from her soaked cloak dripped onto the cracked linoleum, and she watched the drops splatter. Courage fled, but she managed to peek from underneath her hood.
Everyone was staring at her.
“Sorry. We’re closed.” The speaker was a chubby woman sitting behind the counter, a magazine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She wore a pink jogging suit and a pair of scuffed white Keds. Her hair was a tight cap of dull gray curls, her eyes icy blue, and her mouth a thin line of censure.
Lucinda’s gaze flicked to the full café, and back to the woman.
“I’ll wait for a table,” she said.
“No need,” said the woman. “We ain’t serving.”
Lucinda could smell the typical comfort fare—crispy fried chicken, meat loaf with tomato sauce, and even the peppered gravy that topped homemade mashed potatoes. And she definitely heard the clattering sounds of people in the kitchen whipping up all that wonderful food. Her mouth started to water, and her stomach growled.
“Go on, now,” said the woman, nodding toward the door. “Git.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lucinda stubbornly. Only she did understand. They knew she was a Rackmore, and they wanted nothing to do with her. News in small towns really did travel fast.
“This here is private property. I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone,” said the woman. Her eyes flashed with disgust. “We don’t got nothing here for you.” She smiled grimly. “Maybe you should head on over to Ember’s. Bet that crazy bitch would welcome you with open arms.”
“Mama!” A young woman bustled forward, smiling. The rude lady rolled her eyes and took a drag off the cigarette. The girl was rail thin—opposite in form and manner to her mother. She wore a yellow waitress outfit covered by a frilly white apron. Order pads and pens stuck out of the pockets on the front. Her brown hair was tugged into a ponytail and her blue eyes were much kinder. She sent Lucy an apologetic look. “Welcome to Nevermore,” she said. Then she flinched, obviously not wanting to sound too friendly. “Are you staying in town?”
“No,” said Lucinda.
She nodded, nibbling on her bottom lip. Her glance flicked to her mother, and then back to Lucinda. “I’m so sorry. Really.”
“Don’t apologize,” chastised her mother. “She ain’t got no cause to be here.”
“Ember’s tea shop is just across the street,” said the girl. “Her place is neutral ground.”
Her gaze was filled with urgency, and Lucinda responded to it even though she had no idea why the girl would be so concerned about her welfare.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Hurry yourself on over there,” chirped the waitress, making shooing motions with her hands. She slanted a gaze toward the back of the restaurant, and then looked at Lucinda. “Get some of Ember’s chamomile tea. It’s real soothing.”
Her smile seemed more brittle than bright, and if Lucinda weren’t drowning in her own emotional morass, she might wonder what problems the girl had. It was obvious she wasn’t happy. Then again, dealing every day with that mother of hers would no doubt wear down any soul.
“Good day to you,” she said to the waitress, echoing the dismissal Gray had given her earlier. She pulled up the hood, dragged the duffel over her shoulder, and went back out into the storm.
Even though the rain pelted her relentlessly, she felt as though something heavy had been lifted off her shoulders. The Piney Woods Café had been oppressive, the atmosphere weighted down by the negative emotions of its owner. Though it was worse in the café, the energy imbalance affected the whole town. She’d felt the shift the moment she’d arrived. It was almost as if Nevermore were sliding up and down a teeter-totter. Still, it was a lovely place. Despite the magical quavering, there was an underlying sense of peace—masked, yes, but there. It seemed to be waiting. For what, she didn’t know. Lucinda trudged down the sidewalk. She’d hitched most of the way here, but with the sky wailing like a toddler amidst a temper tantrum, she wouldn’t get a ride to Dallas, much less one all the way to the Mexican border.
Her body shook, from cold, exhaustion, and lack of food. She gripped the strap of
the duffel. C’mon, Luce. You’ll be all right. Sighing deeply, she stopped on the corner, and studied the bricked street. Two lines of black bricks laid in the opposite direction of the red ones delineated the crosswalk. There wasn’t a stoplight, or even a stop sign. She wondered how traffic was managed. Then again, how much traffic could a town with a population of 503 actually have?
Feeling trepidation, Lucinda looked around. Her neck tingled, and she had the distinct impression someone was watching her. Probably a few people from the café had their noses pressed against the window waiting for her to get struck by lightning.
No one was on the street, and though several cars were parked along the curb, none were actually on the move. Nevermore was such a quiet place. What was it that Gray had once told her? Oh, yes. That as soon as the streetlights came on, Nevermore rolled up its sidewalks. After the excitement of living in Europe and New York City, she wouldn’t have thought she’d ever consider living in such a tiny town. No gourmet restaurants, or theater, or coffee shops, or Neiman Marcus anywhere in sight . . . mere months ago she would’ve been appalled. But today, with nothing except a few clothes and even fewer bucks to her name, and no one to give a damn, Nevermore seemed more like sanctuary. It was almost as if she could belong here.
Don’t be silly, Luce.
Even if Gray allowed it—and he wouldn’t—she could probably expect the same treatment she’d gotten at the café. At least in Mexico, no one would care who she was. A lot of outcasts ended up there because, like her, they had nowhere else to go.
Goddess, she was tired.
She stood on the curb, trying to decide if she should head toward the highway, or check out the tea shop—at least until the storm abated. Through the sheets of gray rain, she spied the place across the narrow two-lane street. The corner brick building was two stories, flat on the top, and painted purple. It looked as square and squat as a piece of birthday cake. The gold lettering on the single, large tinted window read:
Ember’s Tea and Pastries All Are Welcome Here
“I hope you mean that,” muttered Lucinda. A hot cup of chamomile with a lemon scone sounded like heaven. She looked both ways, then stepped off the curb and started across the street.
When she got to the middle of the crosswalk, the roar of an engine startled her so badly, she stopped and swung toward the noise. Barreling down the street was a black Mustang with red-and-yellow flames painted on its hood.
It was headed straight for her.
Lucinda immediately tapped into her aquamancy, directing her magic toward the rain. She aimed the swirling blue power toward the raindrops sluicing between her and the car.
“Ice!” she screamed.
Instantly, the drops turned as sharp as daggers. She directed the shards toward the tires. Hundreds of the sharp icy drops dove into the treads.
The car was about twenty feet away when all four tires exploded.
Lucinda dropped her arms and ran across the street, her duffel bouncing on her backside, her heart pounding. Magic trailed in her wake because she hadn’t properly released it. She slipped on the wet sidewalk and skidded toward the building. She grabbed the corner to right herself and then turned around, pressing her back against the purple brick. She called the magic back to her, releasing the glowing blue ropes of power, and offering a quick prayer of thanks to the living things from which she’d borrowed energy.
The spinning car screeched to a halt in middle of the intersection.
The front end pointed directly at her as though it were a compass and she were north. The windows were tinted so darkly, she couldn’t see who was in the car, or how many might be inside. Its engine revved ominously. The driver was letting her know he’d fully intended to mow her down, and given another opportunity, he would do so again.
Yet, he wasn’t so brave that he was getting out of his car to challenge her directly.
“Screw you,” she muttered. She flipped off the Mustang, and whoever the hell was in it, then scuttled toward the door to the tea shop and bolted inside. She wasn’t feeling so brave today, either.
“Well, now. Here you are.” The odd statement tinged with a Jamaican accent was issued by a cocoa-skinned woman standing a mere foot away.
Lucinda warily wondered if the lady had witnessed what had happened outside, and then she wondered if she should explain—or maybe even report the incident. After a moment of consideration, she decided it’d be better to pretend like nothing had happened.
The woman smiled widely, showing off a set of sparkling pearly whites. She wore a pair of purple-tinted glasses. Actually, one side was purple tinted, and the other was blacked out completely. She was at least six feet tall and wore a purple dress that clung to her curvaceous form, and a pair of black high-heeled boots with purple roses stitched on the toes. Her long hair was a mass of tiny braids in various shades of purple, and those not purple were jet-black.
“I’m sensing a theme,” said Lucinda as she stared at the woman. Then she grimaced. “Sorry. That was rude.”
“Was it, now?” asked the woman. “Purple’s me color.’Tis my magic, my juju, you see? Ain’t no shame in embracing who I am.”
“I envy that.”
“Well,” said the woman as she sized up Lucinda. “Got to know who you are first before you can embrace you.” She nodded. “I’m Ember. Come in and rest.”
The simple but heartfelt invitation blindsided her. “Th-thank you.”
“Oh, now. We need some TLC right here.” Ember took the duffel right out of Lucinda’s hand. “C’mon, chil’. I’ll get you fixed right on up.”
“I . . . ” Lucinda froze. Her savior turned and marched toward the back, leaving her no choice but to follow. Yet, she hesitated. The tea shop was dimly lit, and there were swirls of fabric everywhere, but it offered coziness . . . no, more like tranquillity. The small foyer where she stood was a couple feet away from a long counter lined with black leather seats. It looked like a bar, but the bottles lining the glass shelves on the wall behind it had nothing to do with alcohol. It smelled earthy in here, no doubt due to the incense burning at regular intervals.
Then she noticed she had the scrutiny of someone sitting at the bar. He was a big man, not an ounce of fat on him, either. He glared at her from underneath a worn black cowboy hat. His uniform was tan outlined in black, a gold five-point star glittering from the upper right side of his chest. He wore a big black belt with typical law enforcement tools: a gun, handcuffs, a baton, and a pouch, no doubt filled with justice gems or other approved magical items.
She swallowed the knot in her throat.
“New in town?” he said in a gravelly voice. “You check in with our visitors’ center yet?”
“Visitors’ center” was the nice way of saying “magic checkpoint.” Big cities usually had embassies from all the Houses. However, many smaller towns like Nevermore allied themselves with a certain House, in order to receive funding and protection. Any town under the auspices of magicals had to live under the laws enacted by the appointed Guardian.
Nevermore was a Dragon town, and the Calhouns had been its Guardians since day one. Gray didn’t care what happened to her; she seriously doubted he would intervene if the sheriff decided she needed quarantine.
“I’m not staying,” she said. “Just passing through.” She shrugged. “Visiting an old friend, actually. Gray Calhoun.”
His eyes were a bright shade of green, much lighter than her own, and filled with suspicion. He narrowed his gaze. “You know Gray?”
She’d thought throwing Gray’s name out there might buy her a pass from the sheriff’s scrutiny, but she’d been wrong. She’d garnered even more of his attention.
Her tongue felt glued to her mouth. Right. Like she would admit to anyone that she’d come to Texas to beg the protection of her ex-brother-in-law—you know, the man her sister had all but killed more than a decade ago. And she sure as hell wouldn’t admit that she was a Rackmore. It seemed like everyone she’d run into since the gr
eat reckoning had a Rackmore to thank for some kind of misery.
“Shut it, Mooreland. You’re scarin’ me chickie to death,” said Ember as she returned. She wasn’t holding the duffel. Lucinda wanted to trust the woman, but her stomach squeezed at the idea that her worldly possessions were no longer within her view. She didn’t have much, and she didn’t want to lose what few things she had left.
Mooreland looked unrepentant. “Just don’t want any trouble.”
“Then quit makin’ some,” chastised Ember. “My place is neutral ground. You got no jurisdiction here. Drink your tea and meditate on improvin’ your people skills.”
Mooreland’s gaze flicked down at the steaming mug in front of him. He looked at Lucinda as if to say, “I’m watching you, sunshine,” then promptly ignored her. She was surprised he hadn’t responded to Ember’s baiting. Then again, she could throw him out without consequence. Only the holder of the deed determined what happened on neutral ground.
“C’mon.” Ember took Lucinda’s hand and tugged her through a series of small tables, past a stage with flowing purple and silver curtains, and tucked her into the back booth, which kept her hidden from prying eyes. “Let’s get that cloak off you. I’ll throw it in the dryer.”
“You have a dryer?”
“My apartment’s upstairs,” she said. “Me and my husband, Rilton, bought this building a few months ago.”
“You’re new here?” she asked. “And people were nice to you?”
“I don’t move to dis town ’cause I want to meet nice people. I come ’cause dis where I’m supposed to be. We all got destinies, chil’, and mine is here.” Ember’s accent had thickened considerably.
“It’s truly neutral ground?” Gratefully Lucinda slid into the booth, right next to her duffel. She wanted to cuddle up to it and sleep, but it was wet and lumpy and filthy, and she wasn’t exhausted enough to not notice.
“All who enter here are safe.” Ember draped the wet cloak over her arm. “Now. I’ll bring you something, something just right.”
Never Again Page 3
