Mysteria Nights

by P. C. Cast

  They were subdemons, he realized.

  Though different breeds were formed every day and he’d never encountered this type, Hunter recognized their scent: sulfur. As a monster hunter—pretending to be nothing more than a bar owner—he’d stalked and killed their kind most of his life. Demons, vampires, predators of the night—the scum of the earth, in his opinion. They were creatures who survived on human carnage. They were pure evil, and he despised them all.

  Killing them had always been one of his favorite pastimes.

  “Did someone wish for excitement?” one of them asked.

  Genevieve gasped. “Oh, my Goddess. No, no. I take it back. No excitement.”

  “I suggest you leave,” Hunter told them, the actual words nearly undetectable, laced with rage. Genevieve slipped her hand into his, and he felt a tremor rush through her. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take care of this,” he assured her quietly.

  “No.” The demon who had spoken, the tallest of the bunch—which wasn’t saying much, since he only reached Hunter’s navel—stepped forward and grinned slowly, anticipatingly. “I think we’ll stay.”

  The grainy, high-pitched voice sent shudders through him. “Your kind isn’t wanted here.”

  The creature’s stance became cocky, arms crossed over his chest, legs slightly parted, his expression taunting. His dark, broken wings fluttered like an erratic heartbeat. “Your woman doesn’t agree. She wished for excitement, so excitement we’ll give her.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.” Fighting past her fear, Genevieve stepped beside Hunter. She maintained her hold on him. Inside, her magic churned and swirled, dark and dangerous, ready for release. Sometimes the darkness of her powers frightened her more than her opponent; now she felt only fear for Hunter’s safety. “He asked you to leave nicely. If you don’t, I’ll wreak such horrible vengeance upon you that you’ll go home crying to the devil like little girls.”

  “We’re not going anywhere until we’ve granted your wish. Master’s orders.” Laughing, the demons broke apart, knocking over tables, throwing chairs, climbing up and down the walls, and tearing off chunks of stone. Men and women, fairies and gnomes, gasped and raced (or flew) out of the way. That the gnomes, stumpy, trunklike monsters with more brawn than brain, were scared, added to her worries.

  “Go upstairs and lock yourself in my room,” Hunter demanded.

  “I won’t leave you to deal with them alone. I can make them go away.” Amid shrieks of horror, the frantic pitter-patter of frightened people, and the evil vibrations of demon laughter, Genevieve raised her hands high in the air. “Burn to ash these demons shall, never a night again to prowl.”

  As she spoke, the demons flinched, anticipating the bombardment of her magic.

  “Pain and suffering you will endure,” she finished, “of this I am very sure.”

  Nothing happened.

  Shocked, frowning, she tried again. Again, nothing.

  The demons smiled slowly. “Looks like the witchy-poo has lost her powers.”

  More shock pounded through her; she uttered the spell for the third time. Still, no results. Why? “I—I don’t understand.” Why wouldn’t her magic work? A side effect of the love potion? No, surely not, but Glory had told her to only drink half. The demons should be writhing balls of fire. Instead, they were chuckling and amused.

  “Playtime is over,” a grating voice proclaimed. The demon snarled and flashed his dripping fangs. “Get her!”

  “Genevieve!” Hunter shouted as a creature lunged for her. Hunter grabbed it by the forearms and tossed it to the ground. He kicked and hit the demon with expert precision. His arms arched through the air so quickly the movements were barely visible. He ducked and spun, leaped and struck with poetic menace.

  Falon joined the fray, stabbing at the monkey wannabes with broken liquor bottles and wood shards.

  With the men occupied, another demon dove for her, slamming her into a table and knocking every ounce of air from her lungs. Dizzy, she sank to the ground. The only people she’d ever fought were her sisters, yet they hadn’t wanted to actually kill her. Still, she knew the basics of self-defense and how to fight dirty.

  Her opponent jumped astride her, pinning her where she lay. It licked its lips and tried to wrap its claws around her neck. She put her newly filed nails to use and poked it in the eyes. It howled, its attention on its pain, and she smashed her palm into its nose. In the next instant, Hunter kicked the demon away from her and grappled the hell spawn to the ground.

  “Demons of the night,” she chanted, standing, arms high in the air, “you will die now, I don’t care how.”

  The fight continued without interruption.

  Damn it! She glared down at her hands. Why wasn’t her magic working? She felt the power of it inside her, as potent as ever, yet it refused to be released.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a demon’s razor-sharp claws lengthen and slash at Hunter’s chest. He didn’t move in time, and blood began to ooze from the gaping wound. She gasped. Screamed. Fury and fear bubbled inside her.

  “Run, baby,” he panted, struggling to keep the creature from his throat.

  “No, I won’t leave you.” Nearing panic, she grabbed a long, splintered wood shard and raced toward the battling pair just as Hunter punched the bastard in the face and rolled away. “Catch!” She tossed him the shard.

  He caught it, and when the demon advanced, Hunter stabbed it dead center in the chest.

  The creature burst into flames.

  As the orange-gold flickers licked the walls and dissolved into ash, the tallest of the demons stopped tormenting a screaming gnome long enough to focus narrowed eyes on Hunter, who was pushing to his feet.

  “You’ll pay for that, human.” Two other demons approached the leader’s side, each of them glaring with hostility. “Oh, you’ll pay.”

  Genevieve grabbed a beer bottle, broke the end on the bar, and held the jagged amber glass in front of her. “You’ll have to fight me, as well,” she said bravely. At least, she hoped she sounded brave.

  “With pleasure, little witch,” was the delighted reply.

  “Damn it, Genevieve,” Hunter said. “When this is over I’m going to teach you to obey my orders.” He closed in on the demon, and a bleeding Falon closed into step at his side. Both men wore expressions of certain death—demon death.

  Her heart drummed in her chest. What should I do, what should I do, what should I do? When she’d wished for excitement, she hadn’t meant this.

  Distracted as she was, she didn’t notice as one of the demons sprinted to her. It reached her and knocked the glass from her hand before tossing her to the ground. Suddenly breathless, she lay still for a long while. Or perhaps she lay for mere seconds. Her attacker jumped on top of her and she fought like a wildcat, kicking and scratching. As it attempted to subdue her, its rancid breath fanned her face.

  “Be still!” it hissed. Its forked tongue slithered from between thin lips.

  She bit its arm, the taste of salt and ash filling her mouth.

  “Bitch!”

  “That’s witch to you.” She worked her arms free and clashed her hands together, then backhanded the creature across the face.

  “Dead witch.” Its sharp, lethal fangs emerged, dripping with . . . what? Not saliva. This smelled bad. Worse than bad. Evil. Like death. It gripped her wrists and held them down, its head inching toward her. She knew it was moving quickly, about to sink its fangs into her neck, but her mind processed it in slow motion.

  She pulled her knees to her chest and slammed her feet into the demon’s chest. Surprisingly, it flew backward and propelled across the bar. Gasping for air, trembling in fear, she jolted to a sitting position.

  “You okay?” Hunter panted, at her side. He dropped to his knees. Sweat and blood dripped from his temples. His gaze roved over her body frantically, over her ripped dress, searching for injury.

  “I’m fine. But you—”

  “Look out!” Falon s
houted.

  Hunter whipped around; Genevieve gazed, horrified, past his shoulder. The demon she’d kicked was flying at her, hate in its eyes, a long shard of glass in its outstretched hand, mere seconds away from reaching her. Instinctively, she dove to the side. Anticipating such a move, the demon moved with her. Hunter, damn him, sprang in front of her, taking the blow himself.

  “Hunter!” she screamed.

  Eyes wide, he looked down at his chest.

  “Got him.” Laughing, the demon and the rest of his cohorts raced away. Some jumped through windows, the sound of tinkling glass echoing from the walls. Others rushed out the same way they’d entered. Hinges squeaked as the front doors burst into shattered pieces.

  Genevieve’s mind registered only one thing. “You’re hurt. Hunter, you’re hurt.” Still on her knees, she scrambled in front of him. Blood dripped from his chest, the glass embedded so deeply she could only see the tip.

  “I’ll be fine.” Weakness and pain tinged his voice. “Did they hurt you? Are you cut anywhere?”

  “I’m okay, damn you. I’m okay.” He looked so pale, causing her panic to intensify. Not even when she’d first spied the demons inside the bar had she felt this much fear. “You should have let him stab me.” Her chin trembled. “You should have let him stab me.”

  “I’m glad you’re well.” His eyelids drifted shut for a long moment. “I’d have to become a ghost and do the revenge thing if they’d harmed you.”

  “I need to pull out the glass and bandage your wounds, okay? I need to—”

  “It’s too late. Demon saliva . . . is poison, and one of them managed to bite me. Genevieve,” Hunter said, his voice so raspy she had trouble hearing him. “I want you . . . to know, you were totally . . . worth it.”

  Her arms anchored around him, her head burrowing against his chest. His heartbeat thumped weakly, sporadically. “Hunter, listen to me. You’re going to be okay. Let’s get you to my sister. She’s a healer.” She gazed at the bar, wild and desperate. “Someone call Godiva. Call her right now.”

  “I’ll do it,” Falon said.

  “My head is spinning.” Hunter’s forehead bobbed forward. “Help me lie down, sweetheart.”

  His full weight fell into her. She absorbed it as best she could, locking one hand at the base of his neck and the other at his lower back. Leaning forward, she slowly and as gently as possible lowered him. Seconds dragged by. By the time he lay completely prone, her arms burned and shook with exertion.

  “I wish I could have had more time with you,” he said. He didn’t open his eyes. “That’s my only regret.”

  “Stop. Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be fine.” Her chin trembled all the harder; her blood ran cold. She tore the shirt from his chest and studied the rest of his wounds. What she saw made her mouth dry up. Long, jagged scratches ran like bloody rivers over his ribs. Several teeth marks adorned his neck, the skin already black. Already dead.

  She covered her mouth with her hand to cut off her horrified cry. “I love you, and I need you. Tell me you’re going to be okay.”

  His lips lifted in a weak smile. “I wish . . . I wish . . .” As his voice tapered to quiet, his head drifted to the side.

  Genevieve screamed. “No.” She gripped his shoulders and shook him. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” Violently, she continued to shake him. “Open your eyes, damn it. Open them right now or I’ll curse you to live in a monastery.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Falon approached slowly and crouched down. He reached out and placed two fingers over Hunter’s neck. Tears filled his eyes. “I’m sorry, Genevieve, but he was dead the second the demon bit him. They produce a poison that no human can survive.”

  “No. No. When my sisters get here, we’ll cast a spell and he’ll be fine. You’ll see. He’ll be fine.” A huge lump formed in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. “He’s going to be fine,” she whispered raggedly, more for herself than Falon.

  Yet even after she and her sisters cast their spells, Hunter remained motionless. Lifeless. Dead.

  Yes, Hunter Knight was dead. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  Four

  “Uh, Mr. Collins. I think you should know something.”

  Roger Collins, owner and operator of Mysteria Mortuary—as well as a closet shape-shifter (spotted owl)—looked up from his desk and faced his apprentice, a freckle-faced boy with a pasty, almost gray complexion. “What’s happened, hoo hoo, now?”

  “Hunter Knight’s body has disappeared.”

  Exasperated, Roger scratched his shoulder with his nose. Things like this were always happening, and he was tired of it. “Let’s keep this between us, hoo hoo. No reason to alert the town.” They’d only cancel the burial, and he’d be out a hefty chunk of change. No thanks. “Knight’s funeral, hoo hoo, will happen as scheduled.”

  “Huuunnnterrrrr. Hunter Knight, you silly boy. Wake up, s’il vous plait.”

  The voice called to him from a long, dark tunnel. Hunter tried to blink open his eyes, but it hurt too badly so he left them shut. Did lead weights hold the lids down? His mouth was dry, and his limbs were weak. Most of all, his neck throbbed.

  What had happened to him?

  He remembered fighting the demons, remembered Genevieve leaning over him. Remembered a black shadow swooping him up and carrying him away. And then, nothing. He remembered nothing after that.

  “Mon dieu! Aren’t you just the prettiest little thing.” A soft hand smoothed over his brow. “I could snack on you all day and come back for leftovers.”

  That hand . . . His ears twitched. He could hear the rush of blood underneath the surface of skin. He could even hear the faint thump, thump of a heart. His mouth suddenly flooded with moisture. Hungry, he realized. He was so hungry he could have gnawed off his own arm.

  “Well, don’t just lie there. I know you’re awake. Pay some attention to moi, you naughty boy. I saved your life, after all.” A pause. “Well . . . I kind of saved your life. Maybe a more truthful saying would be I saved your death.”

  The voice was deep enough that he knew it belonged to a man, but it was surprisingly feminine. And that horrible French accent . . . Despite the pain, Hunter forced his eyelids apart. Dank blackness greeted him. But slowly, very slowly his eyes adjusted, and he was able to make out a rocky cavern and a silhouette. The silhouette became a body . . . the body became a man . . . and then he saw everything as clearly as if the sun were shining.

  “Hello, my little love puppet,” the man said. “We’re going to have the best eternity together, oui.”

  “Barnabas?” Hunter asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “None other,” he said with a proud lift of his chin.

  Barnabas Vlad, owner of Mysteria’s only art gallery (“art,” of course, meaning pornographic photos); Hunter had come across the man only a few times. Last time he’d seen him, the man had been inside the bar. Something about him had always set Hunter’s nerves on edge—something besides the fact that Barnabas often hit on him like a sailor on leave.

  Right now Barnabas was dressed in a black, Oriental-styled gown, and he twirled a black parasol in his hand. Usually he wore huge blue sunglasses, but he wasn’t wearing those now.

  His eyes glowed bright red.

  Hunter jumped to his feet, behind the stone dais he had lain upon. He winced in pain, but held his ground. “You’re a vampire.” He spat the word, for it was a foul curse to him.

  “Oui, oui.” Barnabas’s glossed lips stretched into a happy, unconcerned smile. “What do you think of my outfit? It’s new. Very china doll meets modern society, don’t you think?”

  “I think your dress needs a hole in it,” Hunter snarled. “Right in the vicinity of your undead heart.” His gaze circled the cavern, searching for anything he could use as a stake. There were no rocks, no twigs. Damn it. What he would have given for his COTN—creatures of the night—arsenal at home.

  “Why are y
ou looking at me like that?” Barnabas’s smile became a pout, and he splayed his arms wide. “You’re a vampire, too, mon ami.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Oui, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Oui, you are.”

  “No. I’m. Not. I’m a vampire hunter, you disgusting, vile, rotten piece of dog shit.”

  Barnabas took no offense and laughed, actually laughed. “Not anymore. Feel your neck. I drained your blood and gave you mine.”

  There was truth in the vampire’s expression, truth and utter enjoyment. Everything inside Hunter froze. No. No! He couldn’t be a vampire. He’d rather die.

  Hesitant, hand shaky, Hunter reached up. He could taste blood in his mouth, it was true, but the rest . . . His fingertips brushed over the small, very real puncture wounds on the side of his neck. He knew exactly what that meant. No, he thought again. He hunted vampires; he hated them. Before Genevieve, it had been his only purpose in life. “Now . . . you putrid sack of undead flesh.” Glaring, he pointed a finger at Barnabas, wishing it were a stake. “Why would you make me a vampire? Why didn’t you let me die?”

  With a guilty flush, Barnabas hopped onto the dais. “I was in the bar the night those demons attacked you. When you fell, you were covered in blood and, mon dieu, you looked so tasty. I didn’t cop a feel or anything, if that’s what has you so worried.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” he shouted. I’m a monster now. I’m the very thing I despise. He knew a lot about vampires. They were—had been—his business, after all, and he’d seen many people make the change from human to beast. Oh, they tried to fight the urge to drink.

  They never won.

  Always the thirst for blood, for life, seduced and consumed them. They killed the people they once loved—and everyone else around them. I can never allow myself to see Genevieve again. The wretched thought nearly dropped him to his knees. Nearly felled him.