Mysteria Nights

by P. C. Cast

  “Kellmannd Dimension,” he groaned. “Demons . . . this man is done. This girl will take over.”

  “I don’t understand. Do you know how I can get back?”

  “Nobody gets back. We . . . fight. And die. And someone new comes.”

  “Fight? Fight who?”

  The man managed a nod over her shoulder and coughed. She spared a glance . . . and nearly screamed. The ugliest creature she had ever seen was inching toward her, making its way across the blue grass, thick tail dragging, wrathful growls ripping out of its lungs.

  “Take these.” He pulled a knife and a sword from somewhere and handed them to her; they were so slick with gore she nearly dropped them. “And fight. Do not . . . fear. We are . . . the forces for good.”

  Withering had been called many things in her fourteen years, but a force for good wasn’t one of them.

  “Find . . . the others . . . of this man’s kind. And . . . lead.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Behind . . . you . . .”

  She stood, holding the sword straight out, and the monster, which had been coming fast, couldn’t slow in time and impaled itself on the point.

  Not too bright, then. That’s something.

  She yanked the sword free, gagging at all the purple gore, and neatly sidestepped as the thing fell to the ground. She turned back to the man and discovered he had died during the brief fight.

  She stood, looking around the odd landscape, sword dripping, panting slightly from the adrenaline rush. For good or ill, she was stuck here indefinitely. Apparently strangers dropping in out of nowhere was quite the common occurrence around here.

  So. She would fight. She would defend.

  She would live.

  Oh, but her mother and her sisters . . . how could she turn her back on her family? It was too awful, resigning herself to never seeing them again. She’d give anything—anything—to hear her mother scolding her again.

  She resolved to put them out of her mind and to keep them there.

  A solitary tear trickled down one cheek; she wiped her face, wiped the sword on the grass, and went to look for other people.

  Six

  MYSTERIA, SECONDARY EARTH

  NOW

  Withering obediently followed her mother and sisters out of the food place (restaurant? Gods and devils, how long since she had been in a restaurant?), leaving Thad behind to make more pizza pies. She was still having trouble following the events of the last hour. One minute she’d been chasing that horrid Katai, the next there was a crash of light and sound and normal-colored water (except the clear water seemed wrong to her, after all the years of purple water) and she was back with her honored mother and sisters.

  And that strange man! Thick dark hair, wonderful chocolate (ahhh, chocolate! How long since she’d had some?) colored eyes. Lean, muscular body, and very quick on his feet. Spookily quick.

  She had been impressed at how he had rushed over to help; she could sense no magic in him, nothing especially extraordinary. And yet he had jumped into the fray without hesitation.

  And how long since she had looked at a man as a potential mate instead of a fighting partner? Back in the demonic realm, her couplings had been quick and very nearly emotionless; two people trying to snatch a little warmth because one or both would very likely die the next day. Now that she was back, perhaps there would be time for . . .

  No. She had responsibilities. She had to keep the portal between Earth Prime and Secondary Earth closed; Mysteria was a wonderful place and did not deserve demonic infestation. She had to get back, and quickly.

  But why? It isn’t fair! I’m home now, I belong here, not Earth Prime.

  But did she? Did she really? She knew now, as she had not many years ago, that special people fell into the demonic realm every few years, that they were charged with keeping the demons in their place.

  She had been the first to wrest power from the demons and take over the entire realm. But her position would always be precarious; the demons wouldn’t stand for her leadership. Now that she was back—now that her mother’s wish had been granted—did that mean she had to put aside any chance for happiness?

  She did not know.

  “And you remember the home place, Withering, dear.” Her mother was leading her into the old house. Strange how small everything looked! “And we’ll just—ah—your bedroom is—you remember.”

  She did. She looked around the master bedroom (her mother had taken the guest room and had given the triplets the largest bedroom), eyeing the bunk beds and the twin bed against the opposite wall. She looked at the dressers and closet, which would be filled with clothes that were too small, not to mention age-inappropriate.

  Her sisters said nothing, only watched her.

  And suddenly, she felt like crying.

  Seven

  Janameides knocked on the door of the red house with black shingles. He was on a mission from his queen, Potameides, a river nymph whose territory encompassed the entire Mississippi River.

  After a moment, the door opened, and a short, chubby brunette stood in the doorway.

  “Hey!” she said by way of greeting. “You look like my friend Pot!”

  “It is my honor,” he said, “to be her subject. I am Janameides.”

  “Well, come in, come in. My husband’s not here right now, but I—”

  “I am here to see you, madam.”

  “Okeydokey.” She stepped back and let him in. The house was all right (he preferred open water), with wooden floors and cream-colored walls.

  “Who the hell is that?” a rude voice said out of nowhere.

  “It’s Janameides. He’s a friend of Pot’s.”

  “Well, what the hell is he doing here?”

  “I dunno. I’m Charlene,” she said to him, “but I imagine you knew that.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Is that the ghost?” he asked in a near whisper.

  “I can hear you,” the ghost snapped.

  “Sorry. Who is she?”

  “I can still hear you. If you must know, I was a roofer and got my stupid self killed patching a hole.”

  “And had the bad manners to stick around,” Charlene said cheerfully. “Now. What can we do for you, Janameides?”

  “My queen asked me to check on her friends. As you may know, she became very attached to some of Mysteria’s residents during her exile here.”

  Charlene nodded. Pot—Potameides—had been exiled from her beloved river and had only been able to go back last year, when a coup returned her to power. Since then, there hadn’t been a word.

  “You know my name, ma’am,” Janameides said politely to the ghost. “Might I have yours?”

  “Mind your own damned business.”

  “It’s Rae,” Charlene said helpfully.

  “Traitor!”

  “Oh, hush up.” She turned back to a bemused Janameides. “As you can see, we’re doing just fine. Please give Pot our warmest regards.”

  “Don’t give her my regards,” Rae bitched. “She took off, so she’s dead to me.”

  “Says the dead woman,” Charlene muttered.

  “I heard that!”

  “What are you still doing here, Rae?” Janameides asked.

  “Why do you care?”

  “I do not know,” he admitted. His queen had told him about the ghost, not glossing over her unpleasant personality, but he was intrigued despite his queen’s well-meant warning. He felt sorry for Rae, stuck in this house for almost a century. “But I am interested.”

  “I’m the handyman.”

  “It’s true,” Charlene piped up. “She keeps the furnace running, she keeps everything up to code. I never have to so much as call a plumber.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” the ghost said sourly.

  “But do you not wish to—to move on?”

  “Move on where?”

  “Wherever people go when they die.”

  “Rae will never admit it,” Charlene said, “but she loves
it here. And she loved Potameides.”

  “Didn’t!”

  “Without a house to take care of and my husband and me to nag, she’d be lost.”

  “Lies!”

  From down the hall, they heard a baby start to cry. “Oh, nice going,” Charlene said, exasperated. “You woke the baby.”

  “Oh, like that’s a big trick. That thing doesn’t sleep; it catnaps for thirty seconds at a time.”

  “That thing,” she said sternly, “is my daughter, and that’s quite enough of your attitude, miss.”

  “Mmmph,” the ghost said.

  “Excuse me,” Charlene said, and hurried out of the room.

  “So, Jan,” the ghost said, “anybody ever tell you, you smell like the deep end of a swimming pool?”

  “No.”

  “Not that it’s a bad smell,” she added hastily. “It’s just different. Pot smelled the same way, that abandoning cow.”

  “I must ask you not to speak so about my queen.”

  “Ask away, pal, and see where that gets you.”

  “She did warn me about you,” he admitted.

  “What? That jerk was talking about me? What’d she say? Ooooh, I’ll kill her!”

  “How can you, if you’re discorporated?”

  “Just never mind. What’d she say?”

  “She said you were unpleasant and rude as a defensive mechanism because you’re really quite lonely.”

  “Lies!”

  “Well,” he said, drumming his long fingers on the kitchen table, “perhaps we can discuss that.”

  Eight

  Thad managed to stay away from Withering Desdaine for a whole day, until he gave in and brought a pizza to her house. He was knocking on the door when he felt cold steel slip around his throat. This was disconcerting, to put it mildly.

  “Uh . . .” He coughed. Cripes, he hadn’t heard her move, much less get the drop on him. “Lunch?”

  “Oh! This woman apologizes. Old habits, you know.” He turned and saw Withering sheathe her knife. She had obviously been taken shopping, because she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, both of which fit snugly. Also, she had on her sword and both knives. It was startlingly sexy.

  “And you brought food!” She greedily snatched the pizza box from him. “This woman is so grateful.”

  “This man says it’s no sweat. Invite me in?”

  She blinked at him with those big baby blues. “Why?”

  “Uh . . . so we can share the pizza?”

  “Oh. Oh! Of course. Yes, indeed, please come in. My honored mother is at her job, but my sisters are here.”

  “Terrific,” he muttered, following her inside.

  “Oh,” Scornful said, eyeing him in a distinctly unfriendly way. “It’s you.”

  “It’s me,” he agreed. “Want some pizza?”

  “No.”

  “Please excuse me for a moment,” Withering said. “I was just about to urinate when you came.”

  “Oh. No problem.”

  Withering was barely out of the room when Scornful started in. “Look, pal, I know what you’re up to.”

  “You do?” It was downright unnerving, looking at a much younger version of Withering. Same blond hair, same riveting blue eyes. “Odd, because I hardly know myself.”

  “You’re sniffing around my sister like some kind of speed freak dog.”

  “A speed freak d—?”

  “Leave her alone! She’s still adjusting to being back. And we’re still adjusting to her being—ugh—a grown-up.”

  “It’s just a pizza,” he huffed, offended.

  “Suuuuuure, McHorny, whatever you say.” She was seated at the kitchen table, flipping through a book that was not written in English but instead covered in runes and various squigglings. She slammed the book shut and added, “Look, you think we don’t know she’s a knockout? That whole polite/tough/vulnerable thing prob’ly works on you like a hormone shot.”

  “We are not,” he decided, “having this conversation.”

  “Look, we get it. But she’s got enough on her mind right now. Not to mention she’s trying to find a way back. Or, at least, we think she is,” Scornful added in a barely audible mutter. “It’s hard for us to tell what she’s up to; she sure keeps her cards close to the vest.”

  “Wants to go back? Why in the hell—”

  “We don’t know, nimrod! She’s not talking.”

  “All right, calm down, don’t have a stroke and don’t cast a spell on me. I hate that shit. Can’t she just hop back in the wishing well?”

  “You know how capricious that thing is. There’s no guarantee she’d end up exactly where she wanted to be.”

  “Why would she even want to—” He shut up as Withering entered the room. “Have a slice of pepperoni?” he finished.

  Scornful looked amused but said nothing.

  “Do you think Derisive would like some food?” Withering asked.

  “No. She’s deep in the Web right now, trying to research your weirdo demon kingdom.”

  “She’s in a web?” Withering looked alarmed. “That doesn’t sound safe at all.”

  Scornful stifled a groan. “Never mind.”

  “How could she search for another dimension on our Web?” Thad asked.

  “Magic, dummy.”

  “Scornful,” Withering said sharply.

  “Hey, you’re technically the same age as me, so back off.”

  “I certainly am not; I am your elder, if not necessarily your better, and you will treat our honored guest with respect.”

  Scornful made a retching sound. “Honored guest? Withering, what the Christ happened to you over there?”

  “Several things,” Withering said dryly. “Watch your language. Now eat, dear one, or begone.”

  “Can’t I do both?” she griped, snatching a piece and flouncing out of the room, her book of runes tucked under one arm.

  “I trust you will overlook my dear sister’s rudeness. This is a difficult time for her.”

  “For her?” He couldn’t believe the mature, supercool Withering was sticking up for that brat. If nothing else, being stuck in that hell dimension had sure improved her people skills. He guessed fighting for her life most days and eventually taking over as queen of all demons was almost as good as charm school. “How about for you?”

  Withering shrugged, took her own piece, and chewed. “It is . . . difficult for my family. Seeing me as a grown woman after being gone—how long was I gone?”

  “About five seconds our time.”

  “Interesting. And yet it explains much. You can imagine their difficulty.”

  “Actually, I was a lot more worried about yours.”

  Withering shrugged again.

  “What’s this I hear about you going back?”

  “That, good sir, is none of yours and all of mine.”

  Thad mulled that one over for a moment. “Listen. I normally don’t thrust myself into other people’s lives—”

  She nearly choked on her pizza. “No?”

  “—but I made an exception in your case. You must have missed your family all these years. Now you’re back. Why the hell would you leave again?”

  Withering stared at her pizza slice, then put it down as if she had suddenly lost her appetite. “It’s complicated, good sir.”

  “Thad.”

  “Yes. Thad. I have many responsibilities. And it is not in me to hide in this lovely town while—while things happen that I must prevent.”

  “Don’t you at least deserve a vacation?”

  “Vacation?” she asked blankly.

  “Or a date?”

  “Date?” she asked, just as mystified.

  “Do you like bowling?”

  “I—I don’t quite remember what that is. Is it like hunting?”

  “Sure, except with balls and pins instead of swords and slings.”

  She brightened. “Then I might be good at it!”

  “So. We’ll go. Tonight. Hey, if you have to go back, I respe
ct that—and like you said, it’s none of my business.” This was a rather large lie, as he felt (unreasonably, he knew) everything about Withering was his business. Was there another woman in the world—worlds—like her? He thought not. Was he going to let her go so easily? No damned way. “But before you take off, don’t you deserve some fun?”

  “I—I did not consider that.”

  “So. I’ll pick you up tonight.”

  “You didn’t listen,” Scornful yelled from the living room, “to a word I said, McHorny!”

  Withering glanced in that direction and frowned. “Please overlook my sister’s rudeness.”

  “I could care less about that sister.”

  “Eh?”

  “So,” he added brightly. “Pick you up at seven?”

  Nine

  The late Rae Camille, former roofer and current spirit, watched with interest as Jan the river guy poked around the outside of the house. First he’d knocked on the front door for a good five minutes, but he was shit out of luck. Charlene had taken her smelly baby to a playdate with another drooling, incontinent infant and wouldn’t be back until three. And Char’s werewolf husband was visiting the Cape on Pack business.

  Now he was futzing around in the back garden, and now he was trying the back door. What the hell? Was he some sort of river-nymph thief guy? Yeek.

  Now he was—was he? Yes! He was actually kicking the back door with his long, squishy, pale feet. In fact, he looked a great deal like her old friend Pot, Jan’s queen: ridiculously tall and too thin.

  She could see the skull beneath his face, see the bones stretching through all the limbs. His hair was a sort of greenish blond, like he spent too much time in a chlorinated pool (which, for all she knew, he did). And his eyes were a pale, swimmy green, like a summer pond filled with algae. His eyebrows and lashes were so pale, they actually seemed to disappear. His fingers and toes were weirdly long; his voice low and bubbling, like he was always speaking through water. It should have been creepy, but it was sort of—what? Interesting? Yeah. Even soothing.

  “Rae?” he called in that odd, bubbling voice. “Rae? May I enter?”

  He was here to see her? Yeesh, when was the last time that happened?

  She made the back door unlock itself, and in he came.