Mysteria Nights

by P. C. Cast

  Candice sighed. “I can’t call him. I feel like an idiot.”

  “Do you want me to cast a little—”

  “Hell, no! Godiva Tawdry, promise me right now that you will not put any kind of love spell, or anything like a love spell, on Justin.”

  “Okay! I promise. But I still think you should call him.” She brightened. “Hey, I could have Romeo talk to—”

  “No! God, I feel like I’m trapped in a dream where I’m back in high school trying to figure out my locker combination and realizing I’m butt-ass naked. Just leave it alone, Godiva. If Justin wanted to see me again, he’d figure out a way to do it.” And she knew it was true. Candice had only been with him for a short time, but she believed in his tenacity. He’d set his sights on seducing her, and he’d certainly accomplished his goal. If he had any desire to talk to her or see her, he’d get it done. But even though his behavior had changed drastically since the night she’d almost had him neutered, he had stayed completely away from her. Not that she cared.

  “Candice?”

  “Oh, sorry, what did you say?”

  “I asked what your last poetry assignment was about.”

  “We have to write two poems about heartbreak. One free verse. One sonnet. And neither can be clichéd.”

  “Oh, a real uplifting assignment.”

  “Yeah, it’s just one laugh after another over here.”

  “Are they done?”

  “Almost. I just have to finish tweaking the couplet to conclude the sonnet. Then I’m going to set them aside for a day or so, and do a quick rewrite before I have to turn them in next week.”

  “After you do that, why don’t you and I get all dressed up and go into Denver for some excellent Italian food? I’ll even drive.”

  “I’m not flying on that damn broom of yours.”

  “I said drive.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Candice said.

  Godiva paused. She was almost afraid to ask the next question, but she knew she had to. Her talent was, after all, healing. Resolutely, she said, “Candy, what happened with Justin really did break your heart, didn’t it?” It took her friend several seconds to answer her.

  “Yeah,” she finally whispered into the phone. “Isn’t that stupid?”

  “No, it’s not stupid. It’s what can happen when we love someone, and you have rarely let yourself love anyone.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it? And I’m the one who’s been married a zillion times.”

  “You didn’t really love any of the ex-husnumbers. But there was something about Justin that got to you.”

  “I wish . . . ,” Candy began.

  “What, honey?”

  “I wish your magic worked on me.”

  “So do I, honey. So do I.”

  After she hung up, Godiva sat staring at the phone a long time. There had to be some way she could help her friend. After all, it was her fault this whole thing had happened. First, she’d cast the drawing spell that had brought them together. Then she’d spilled the beans about Justin’s promiscuous ways. Who knew the wolf was going to have some big, hairy epiphany and learn to zip his pants? And now the gossip tree said that he was really getting his shit together. Seems he was spearheading the acquisition of a new restaurant for his family, and the eavesdropping fairies, who seemed to have a real soft spot for the wolf, had even heard whispers that he’d reenrolled in college. Was it just her? Wasn’t it obvious to everyone that Justin was trying to make himself worthy of Candice?

  And Candice was moping around like she’d been stuck in a classroom with the horrid Desdaine triplets (Godiva shuddered—Goddess! What a wretched thought! Those girls were the brat pack.). Something had to be done.

  Maybe if Justin knew how miserable Candice was . . . maybe then he’d call her and they’d live happily ever after!

  But she’d promised Candice she wouldn’t cast any love spells on him. Godiva tapped her long fingernail against her chin. Then she smiled. Candice was writing poems about heartbreak. What if Justin were to read them? He wouldn’t know that they were an assignment! He’d just think she was pining over him—which she was. That was it; the fairies would be only too happy to help....

  Humming to herself, Godiva began gathering four-leaf clovers . . . the little dried white things from the tops of dandelions . . . a pinch of frog snot . . . and various other delightful things she would need for the spell. . . .

  Candice rubbed her neck and stretched. Well, the couplet that ended the sonnet was done. Good thing, too, it was getting dark and she should move inside from her porch. But she didn’t get up. She liked sitting out there. And it wasn’t because she remembered another evening on the porch, one that had been filled with hope and magic and love. . . .

  No. It was just that the woods were quiet, and their somberness reflected her recent mood. It was nice to sit out on her balcony and write, even if what she wrote was damn depressing. She lifted the paper that had the final draft of both poems written on it and shook her head sadly. They were good. She knew it. But if they did evoke feelings, the feelings would be sadness, loss, longing. . . .

  She put the paper down, remembering how not long ago she had dreamed of writing things that evoked brighter emotions.

  What was wrong with her? So she’d had a little fling that had ended abruptly and, quite frankly, not very well. It was ridiculous that it was still making her feel this sad. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair. What was it about Justin that stayed with her? Was it just because he’d been so damn handsome? That couldn’t be it. Ex-husband numbers one and four had been very handsome men. Well, was it the sex? No. Ex-husband numbers one and three had been fantastic in the sack. She’d gotten over all of them, more easily than she usually cared to admit. So why was Justin still haunting her dreams?

  Against her closed eyes the warm evening breeze had picked up. It felt good, almost like a caress against her skin. It made her think of the summer, when dandelions dried and their little white heads blew all over fields of four-leaf clovers. She sighed and relaxed, feeling suddenly sleepy. . . .

  . . . Until she heard the wild flapping and opened her eyes in time to see her homework papers being lifted by the crazy wind. She leaped up, grabbing at papers, sure she saw translucent pastel wings fluttering in among the notebook pages as her poetry scattered out into the forest.

  “Fucking fairies!” she screamed, running after the trail of paper.

  An hour later she had still not found the final drafts of both poems. Grumbling about hanging sticky flypaper and a giant bug zapper to get rid of the fairy problem, she gave up, resigning herself to rewriting the finals again. At least she’d just finished both poems that day. It shouldn’t be too hard for her to remember exactly what she’d written. . . .

  He’d gone for a walk. Justin hadn’t even understood why, but all of a sudden it had been very important that he take a walk in the woods, and before he knew it, he was heading south. Toward her house. He’d just realized how close he was to her little log cabin when the wind changed directions and, in a flutter of iridescent wings, two papers blew straight into his hands. He felt a jolt at the familiar writing.

  Poetry . . . her poetry!

  Then he started reading, and his heart clenched. Candice’s words were like a mirror of what was going on inside him. Could it be? Could she really care as much as he did? He read on, and images began to form in his mind, and with them a plan. Maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to reach her.

  Ten

  To some people it might seem counterproductive to jog to town simply to eat a triple fudge banana split. To Candice it made perfect sense. She sat outside the One-Stop Mart and tried to tune out the sounds of the arguing Desdaine triplets as they fought over God knew what. Those monsters were always into something. And that poor sweet preacher, what was her name? Pastor Harmony? She’d somehow gotten trapped in there with those little demons. Candice could hear the woman trying to end the argument before any of
the three little terrors could permanently disable some hapless passerby, which was just damn brave of the preacher. No wonder everyone said she was honestly nice—that she accepted everyone no matter how magical or nonmagical (or how disdainfully horrid).

  Something crashed inside the store and Candice cringed. How old were those brats now? Eleven? Twelve? She’d damn sure better be out of teaching before, like a plague of locusts, they descended upon Mysteria High. Just another reason to land that fabulous job as an editor in Denver. Candice ate her ice cream slowly, dreaming of the romantic possibilities of her future profession. She’d have three-martini lunches with authors. She’d wear amazing clothes and have a loft near downtown. She’d discover the next Nora Roberts!

  “Candice! There you are. Holy bat shit! You will not believe what the vampire is displaying in his gallery!” Godiva rushed up to her friend, her large round bosoms heaving with excitement.

  “More porno dressed up as art?” Candice said, interest definitely aroused. She was always up for some full-frontal male nudity. Actually, it might be just the thing to help her get over the Justin Blues. Unfortunately, Godiva shook her head.

  “No. It’s not porn.”

  “Damn. Then what’s the big deal? You know I don’t like those bloody pictures the vamps think are cool. I don’t know why vampires are so into art, anyway. You’d think they’d choose a more, I don’t know, nocturnal profession.”

  “Candice! Just come with me. I cannot begin to explain what you’re going to see.”

  “Can I finish my banana split first?”

  “Bring it. This can’t wait.”

  Grumbling, Candice let Godiva shoo her down Main Street to Mysteria’s only art gallery, Dark Shadows. A crowd was gathered around the front display window, and as she got closer, she realized that all of them were staring in the window, and they all were crying.

  Crying? The exhibition was so bad it was making the populace cry? Sheesh.

  Godiva grabbed her arm and shoved her forward so she could get a better look. At first she was so completely distracted by the beauty of the pieces and the amazing talent of the artist that she didn’t understand exactly what it was she was seeing. There were two watercolor paintings on display. Her immediate impression of them was that they were dream images, and they vaguely brought to mind Michael Parks’s sexy fantasy work. One was of a woman who was in a cage that looked like it had been carved from ice. All around the outside of the walls of ice were big tufts of a delicately leafed plant in full purple bloom. Lavender, she thought. They’re bunches of blooming lavender. Candice looked more closely at the woman in the center of the cage. She was sitting on the floor, with one hand pressed against the nearest translucent wall, almost as if she were trying to push her way out. She was wearing only a white hooded cloak. Parts of her shapely bare legs were showing, but her face was in shadows—all except her eyes, which were large and mesmerizing with their mossy green sadness. There was something else about her eyes. . . .

  Candice shifted her attention to the other painting. It, too, was amazingly rich in detail and color. It showed a woman sleeping on a bed that was in the middle of what looked to be a dark room in a castle. Mist, or maybe fog, hung around the bed, further obscuring the woman. A single tall, narrow window slit let in two pearl-winged doves, as well as a ray of moonlight, which fell across the bed, illuminating the side of the woman’s face so that a single tear at the corner of her eye was visible. This woman’s face was also in shadow. Her blonde hair spilled around her on the dark bed, drawing Candice’s eye. What was it about her hair?

  Then she realized that displayed beside each painting was a framed poem. She pushed her way farther through the sobbing crowd until she was so close to the window that she pressed her fingers against the cold glass. Candice began reading the elaborate calligraphy of the first poem.

  Come, icy wall of silence

  encase my weary heart

  protect me with your hold, hard strength

  till no pain may trespass here.

  Make still my battered feelings

  within your protective fortress

  safe

  request I this sanctuary from life’s storm.

  But, what of this ensorcelled heart?

  Will it struggle so encased?

  Or will walls forged to keep harm out

  cause love’s flame to flicker low

  till silence meant as soothing balm

  does its work too well, and

  no more breath can escape

  to melt the fortress of frozen tears.

  Candice couldn’t breathe. She felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Frantically, her eyes went to the second poem. It was a sonnet, and it was written in the same meticulous calligraphy.

  The dreamer dreamed a thousand wasted years

  Captive of wondrous images she slept

  Swathed close in sighs and moans and blissful tears

  Reliving promises made, but not kept.

  The moon’s deft watch through narrow casement fell

  Its silvered light caressed her silken face

  Like a dove’s soft wings colored gray and shell

  Shadowy thoughts frozen in time and place.

  He watched her breath like silver mist depart

  And he longed to join her murderous sleep

  But truth rare listens to the wounded heart

  Hence even hero souls must sometimes weep.

  Now love’s pinions can never more take flight,

  Entombed forever in grief’s endless night.

  “They’re mine,” Candice whispered. Her stricken voice didn’t carry above the sobs of the people around her. She tore her eyes from the window and looked frantically back at Godiva, who was standing at the edge of the crowd crying softly. She raised her voice so that her friend could hear her. “They’re my poems, Godiva. I wrote them.”

  “Who said that?!”

  Heads swiveled to the tall gaunt figure standing in the doorway of the gallery. Barnabas Vlad (a name everyone in Mysteria knew he had absolutely, beyond any doubt, not been born with) was swathed head to toe in black, holding a small lacy black parasol, and wearing huge blue blocker reflective sunglasses.

  “Who said that she is the poetess?”

  “That would be me,” Candice said reluctantly.

  All the heads then swiveled in her direction and Candice heard weepy murmurs of Oh, they’re so wonderful, and They break my heart, but I love them, and I have to have one of my own and the art that goes with it!

  Barnabas pointed one finger (fully covered in a black opera-length glove) at Candice. “You must come with me at once!” The vampire turned and scuttled through the gallery door.

  Candice couldn’t move. Everyone was staring at her.

  “Let’s go!” Godiva pushed her toward the gallery door, ignoring the gawking crowd. Then, still sobbing softly, she added, “And no way are you going in there without me.”

  Candice had been in the gallery before. It was decidedly on the dark side—walls and floor black instead of the usual clean white of most galleries. It was never well lit, and it was always too damn cold. But she liked the art exhibits, especially the gay pride exhibits Barnabas like to have. She could appreciate full-frontal male nudity, even if it couldn’t appreciate her.

  “Back here, ladies.”

  Barnabas called breathily from the rear office. Godiva and Candice exchanged glances. Both shrugged and followed the vampire’s voice.

  “You’re sure it’s your poetry?” Godiva whispered, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

  “Of course I’m sure,” she hissed at her friend. “How could you even ask me that! They’re the poems about heartbreak I wrote a week or so ago for that poetry class.”

  “Well, it’s just that . . .” But they’d come to Barnabas’s office so Godiva clamped her mouth shut.

  “Ladies, I’m charmed. Come in and sit, s’il vous plaît.” Barnabas fluttered his long fingers at the two delica
te pink silk Louis XIV chairs that sat regally before his ornately carved mahogany desk. When they were seated the vampire launched into a breathy speech in his trademark poorly rendered French accent. “Do pardon my abruptness out there, but it’s been wretchedly stressful since I put up that new display. That is no excuse for moi rudeness, though. It is just such a shock—such a surprise. Mon dieu! Who would have imagined that such a magnificent discovery would have been made at my humble gallery? Oh! How rude of me. Introductions are in order. I am Barnabas Vlad, the proprietor of this humble galerie d’art.” He peered at Godiva for a moment, squinting his eyes so that his iridescent pink eye shadow creased unattractively. Then his expression cleared. “Ah, oui oui oui! I do know you. Are you not Godiva Tawdry, one of the Tawdry witches?”

  Godiva looked pleased at her notoriety. “Oui!” she said. Now that she’d stopped crying she was able to appreciate the humor of the undead guy’s foppishly fake Frenchness.

  He turned to Candice with a smile that showed way too many long, sharp teeth. “And you are our poetess! You look familiar to me, madam, but I’m sorry to say that I have misplaced your name.”

  “I’m Candice Cox,” she said.

  The vampire’s pleasant expression instantly changed to confusion. “Mais non! It is not possible!”

  “Okay, this is really starting to piss me off. I wrote the poems a week or so ago for an online class I’m taking for my master’s. I can prove it. I turned them in last Friday. Now I want to know how you got them, who this artist is who has illustrated them, and why you all”—here she paused to glare at Godiva—“think it’s so impossible that I wrote them. I may be a high school teacher, but I do have a brain!”

  “Madam! I meant no disrespect.” The vampire definitely looked flustered. “It is just . . .” He dabbed at his upper lip with a lacy black hankie before going on. “Are you not the English teacher whose magic is nonmagic?”