Never Again (31 page)
“So?”
“No one in my family got powers.”
“Your brother’s a magical, too, but just a little. Not like you.” She gestured at the rosebushes that ringed them. “The magic is here. These flowers feel like you. It’s the same sorta energy. They love you, you know.”
“The plants love me?” Ant chuckled. “C’mon, now.”
“It’s true, and you know it. You really think a regular gardener can create wonders like this? You talk to them, don’t you? Coax them into beauty and light. And yes, you love them.”
Ant wanted her to stop talking. He felt uneasy about her assertions. If he was a magical, he would’ve known by now. His family had been one of the original mundanes to found Nevermore. As far as he knew, no Mooreland born here had ever been a magical. Happy’s insistence that he was, that she could sense his power, made him feel off-kilter. His world had been just fine until she’d wandered into it.
“We gotta get going,” said Ant.
“Where?”
“Into town. Unless you wanna tell me where I can drop you off?”
Something akin to panic crossed her features, and then he was left only with her disappointed expression. “Town’s fine.”
Ant nodded. “I’ll see you back at the house.”
He left before he did something stupid.
Like kiss her.
Lucinda hadn’t expected a cemetery to look so inviting. The huge wrought iron gates, a shiny, pristine black, were open to allow the passage of cars. On the left was a darling whitewashed cottage. She pulled into the driveway and got out of the truck. The porch and shutters had been painted a sky blue, and wind chimes shaped like stars dangled from the entryway. They made a soft, pleasant jangling. The postage-stamp-sized front yard was trimmed, and a concrete path led from the drive to the porch steps. On the far side of the yard was a gazebo with a big white swing. All kinds of plants and trees thrived. Lucinda had noticed how spring had hit Nevermore early. Nearly everything here was green and growing.
Even at the graveyard.
“Good morning!” A woman pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch. She was tall and willowy, and wore a white dress that flared at her knees. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted a pale pink. Her auburn hair was drawn into a French braid, a big white blossom tucked just so on the left side. Her gray eyes were kind, and her smile was genuine. She seemed to emit peace and calm, no doubt because she’d spent her whole life dealing with the bereaved.
Lucinda shut the truck door, and walked to the porch. “You’re Mordi?”
“Yes. And you’re Lucy.”
Lucinda nodded. “It seems odd to say this, but you have a lovely cemetery.”
Mordi’s smile widened, obviously in pleasure at the compliment. “Why, thank you. Did you come to visit Marcy?”
“Yes.” Lucinda hesitated. Then she pulled a piece of paper out of her front jean pocket. “And to pay for Cathleen’s headstone.”
Mordi’s eyes widened. “Whatever for?”
“Gray said the same thing,” said Lucinda. “Cathleen wasn’t a very nice person, but . . . some people have a hard time accepting kindness. If you’ve been sleeping in nettles your whole life and someone gives you a soft blanket, it hurts too much. You’re used to the stinging, you see.”
“Well, you certainly do.”
“I know what it’s like to want to be a better person.” Lucinda shrugged. “Maybe I’m doing this to help me more than her.”
“Either way, it’s a nice gesture.”
Lucinda stepped onto the porch and handed Mordi the paper. “It’s a voucher. Gray said it would work just the same.” She looked away. “I’m a Rackmore, so I couldn’t bring the money myself.”
Mordi accepted the paper. “This is fine. Come in. I’ll make tea and you can look at the catalog with the headstone choices.” She paused. “I thought you married Gray.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that makes you a Calhoun, doesn’t it?” Mordi led the way into the kitchen, where a small table and two chairs occupied a nook. She gestured for Lucinda to take a seat. Then she grabbed a mason jar filled with coins from the top of the fridge. “Have you ever heard of Charon’s obol?”
“Is that a band?”
Mordi paused in her efforts to dig through the change. She stared at Lucinda for a long moment, and then chuckled. “Oh. That was a joke.”
“A bad one, I’m afraid. You were saying?”
“Aha!” Mordi plucked out a silver coin, and returned the jar to its place. Then she sat across from Lucinda, pushing the coin across the table to her. “In Greek mythology, Charon was the ferryman who took souls across the river that separates the living from the dead. The obol was used as a payment . . . eh, more like a bribe.”
Lucinda picked up the silver disk. It looked ancient. On one side was the fearsome head of Medusa, and on the other, an anchor. “I studied religious mythologies in school. The Greeks knew about magic, but I still don’t see how they came up with all those stories about gods and goddesses. The Goddess Scrolls are older than all of the known religions.”
“But most were undiscovered back then,” said Mordi. “It was the Romans who found the first ones—later, which is why they started the Houses. They called Charon’s obol
viaticum
, which roughly means ‘sustenance, or provision, for a journey.’ The obol was worth one-sixth of a drachma. Either it or a danake was used, sometimes put on the eyes, or most often in the mouth.”
viaticum
, which roughly means ‘sustenance, or provision, for a journey.’ The obol was worth one-sixth of a drachma. Either it or a danake was used, sometimes put on the eyes, or most often in the mouth.”
“It’s an interesting piece of history to have for your own.”
“My family collects all things dead.” Mordi grinned. “That sounded weird even to me. I mean, we collect stories, items, pictures. . . . Not everyone understands the fascination. It’s not only my job—it’s my passion.”
“It shows.” Lucinda offered Mordi the coin. “In a good way.”
“Keep it.”
“I couldn’t. It’s obviously valuable, and it’s still money. I lose money.”
“If you do, then someone else will find it, no doubt the person who needs it more than I do.”
“And if I don’t?” asked Lucinda as she once again picked up the coin and studied it.
“It means the curse no longer considers you a Rackmore.”
Lucinda couldn’t stop hope from swimming through her doubts. She wanted very much to believe that taking Gray’s family name had nullified her family’s curse. She was sure plenty of Rackmores had been married in the ten years since the curse initiated, and she’d never heard a word about it making a difference. As far as anyone knew, only Kerren had escaped with her wealth—but she’d paid a huge price to keep her money, and her power.
“Thank you,” said Lucinda. She tucked the obol into the back pocket of her jeans.
“You are most welcome. Now, I’ll brew the tea,” said Mordi as she rose from the table. “And you can look at headstones.”
Arlene straightened her desk for the umpteenth time. She’d done all the filing, dusted the window ledges, and swept the floor. Oh, she was
dying
to know what the sheriff had discovered at the café. She wouldn’t have doubted for a minute that Cathleen would torch the place outta spite. But she couldn’t imagine the woman would kill herself. Leastways not on purpose. She’d peeked out the window enough to know that Gray and Ember had started the cleansing. Purple and red magic sparkled left and right as they worked together to create balance. Humph. As off-kilter as that place was, it would probably take all day to work the kinks out.
dying
to know what the sheriff had discovered at the café. She wouldn’t have doubted for a minute that Cathleen would torch the place outta spite. But she couldn’t imagine the woman would kill herself. Leastways not on purpose. She’d peeked out the window enough to know that Gray and Ember had started the cleansing. Purple and red magic sparkled left and right as they worked together to create balance. Humph. As off-kilter as that place was, it would probably take all day to work the kinks out.
Keeping busy was the only way to control her overwhelming curiosity (she was, as her husband so often teased her, a Nosy Posy), but there wasn’t much left to do. Just when she was contemplating cleaning out the break room fridge, Ren came through the door.
“Well?” she demanded.
He halted in the middle of the checkered linoleum and stared at her, brows raised. “Well, what?”
“Did Cathleen burn down the café and her fool self?”
“Looks like.” He took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “We found shards of broken whiskey bottle. And the basement door had been left open—even down there, it’s a shambles.”
“It’s a wonder she didn’t burn down the whole block,” said Arlene. “Did the Sew ’n’ Sew get damaged?”
“Doesn’t look like it. It’s just the café. I wouldn’t be surprised if Gray tore the whole thing down and started over.”
“We sure need some kind of eating place around here.”
“Josie’s starting up a lunch wagon,” said Ren. “Her dad’s fixing up an old truck with the equipment. She says she’ll park in the town square and feed folks. At least for lunchtime.”
“Well, now. That’s some good news right there.” Curiosity somewhat satisfied, Arlene sank into the chair behind her desk. “You staying?”
“With Taylor shadowing Gray and Ember while they do the cleansings, I’m the man on call.” Ren sighed. “Speaking of which, I gotta head to the library. My aunts think the ghost has stolen their grandfather’s ink-and-quill set again.”
“They misplaced it, no doubt,” said Arlene. “Poor darlings. They’re getting too old to run the library.”
“I imagine that’s what they hoped my mama would do,” he said. “Then me, at least until I asked for the deputy job.”
“Now, now. They’re real proud of you, Ren.” Arlene sent him a sympathetic look. She’d always felt sorry for the boy. Harley hadn’t been much of a father, spending too much time alone drinking away his sorrows. “I’m sorry, honey. It’s such a shame what happened to your mama. You know the Wilson twins just call you so they can get some company.”
Ren rolled his eyes. “I visit ’em every week. There’s only so much pink and doilies a man can take.”
The door to the lobby burst open, letting in the big ol’ lazy carcass of Atwood. Arlene
tsk
ed. The man looked a sight. His face shone with sweat. He was panting, as if breathing was too much of an effort. He wore a gray shirt opened enough to reveal the sweat-stained undershirt, as well as gray pants, and black cowboy boots. With his lumbering gait, not to mention his balding head, small eyes, squished-in nose, and sagging cheeks, he always reminded of her of an exhausted rhinoceros.
tsk
ed. The man looked a sight. His face shone with sweat. He was panting, as if breathing was too much of an effort. He wore a gray shirt opened enough to reveal the sweat-stained undershirt, as well as gray pants, and black cowboy boots. With his lumbering gait, not to mention his balding head, small eyes, squished-in nose, and sagging cheeks, he always reminded of her of an exhausted rhinoceros.
“Y’all seen Trent?” he asked.
“Not today, Atwood,” said Arlene.
“He missing?” asked Ren.
“Haven’t seen him since last night.” Atwood took a handkerchief out of his front shirt pocket and wiped his face. “You see him before you went to bed?”
“No,” said Ren. “He woke me up, said there was a fire. I just assumed he went down to the café like the rest of us.”
Atwood shook his head. “It ain’t like him. You’d think that kid would have all kinds of baggage with what happened to his folks, but he’s got his head on straight. Never misses a day of work, or school. He’s respectful, too. Sandra and Tommy raised him right.”
“You don’t think he ran away?” asked Arlene.
“Not a chance. I’ve done some lookin’, but I cain’t get far with this ol’ ticker of mine.” He mopped his face again, and then squinted at Arlene. “What’s this I hear about Ant picking up a hitchhiker?”
“Hitchhiker?” Ren frowned. “Taylor didn’t say anything to me.”
Arlene waved off Atwood’s question. “Her name is Happy, and Taylor thinks she’s a runaway. She won’t tell anyone why she was hitching to Nevermore, but don’t you worry about it. She’s just a scared girl who needs a hug and some chocolate cake.”
“Happy?” asked Atwood. “Who names a kid Happy?”
“I think it’s the perfect name for a child,” said Arlene, sniffing disapproval. Sometimes, Atwood got on her raw nerve. He didn’t have any kids of his own, which made him less tolerant of others’. No one had been more surprised than Arlene when he took in Trent. “Ant’s dropping her by in a little bit. So I’ll take care of her. You take care of your own business.”
“Go on back home and wait there in case Trent returns,” said Ren. “Arlene, start the call tree and round up some volunteers for a search party. Way things have been around here lately, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Atwood nodded, and he turned, wheezing as he walked out. The door slammed shut behind him.
“Man’s heart is gonna explode if he doesn’t start takin’ care of himself,” muttered Arlene. She started flipping through the Rolodex. “Where do you want folks to meet?”
“Town square, by the dragon statue. I’ll meet everyone there soon as I see to my aunts.”
“All right,” said Arlene. Then she started to dial.
Ant hadn’t said much to her since their conversation in the garden. Happy wondered what she’d said or done to piss him off so much. Then she decided his bad mood was his problem, not hers.
Anyway. Happy hoped that she could come back and visit Ant’s gardens again. There was so much beauty to explore—Ant’s imagination rendered in plants. How the heck he could believe he was just a mundane was beyond her. Not that mundanes couldn’t be talented geniuses—they could . . .They were. But she knew magic.
And the garden buzzed with it.
While Ant took a shower and got dressed, Happy occupied herself by doing the dishes and straightening up the kitchen. Just as she finished lining the chairs against the table, Ant strolled in looking all yummy in a tight T-shirt, faded jeans, and worn cowboy boots. He wore the same cowboy hat as yesterday. Maybe he only had one—or that one was his favorite.
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