Mysteria Nights

by P. C. Cast

  “Hello, Rae,” he burbled cheerfully.

  “Hello yourself, you big, wet weirdo. What’s on your squishy mind today?”

  “You,” he said baldly.

  She laughed, the sound echoing throughout the empty (well, not anymore) house. “Then you got problems, squishy.”

  “Perhaps. How may you be released?”

  “Eh?”

  He was pacing in the kitchen, every step a squish. Charlene was going to freak when she saw the mess. “Released. Freed from this prison of a house.”

  “Hey, this prison has a fixed mortgage rate of six point nine. Not to mention authentic hardwood floors and all the original woodwork. And, if I do say so myself, the place runs like a frickin’ top.”

  “But your immortal soul is trapped on this plane. We must release you.”

  “‘We,’ huh? Why all the weird, creepy concern, Jan, Jan, the river man?”

  “I have never met anyone like you before,” he said simply. “It distresses me to think of your imprisonment.”

  “Imprisonment!” she hooted. “Ho-ho! Let me explain something about the afterlife to you, chumly. It’s all about free will. Sure, you see the bright light and all, you see Grandma and your dog Ralph—”

  “I never had a dog named—”

  “—you feel like reaching out to it and being warm forever and ever. But you don’t have to go. Especially if you feel bad because you left the house a mess.”

  “Left the house a—?”

  “Stop interrupting, squishy! So, like I said. You don’t have to follow the light. Especially if you like the town you’ve been in and want to find out—oh, I dunno. It’s like walking out in the middle of a great movie. You feel cheated. You want to see how it ends.”

  “And have you seen how it ends, Rae?”

  “Here? In this town? Not even close, chumly. Not even a little bit close.” She paused. What came next went against her nature, and she could hardly believe she was thinking it, much less saying it. “But it’s really nice of you to be concerned. I, uh—” She was struck with a sudden coughing fit, recovered, and finished, “I appreciate it.”

  “But you cannot remain stuck here for—for a lifetime!”

  “Says the guy whose people live for centuries. You ever thought about what it’s like to be human? With a life span of maybe sixty years? Well. It was sixty years in my day. It’s more like eighty-some now.”

  “At eighty-some,” he admitted, “we have barely attained maturity.”

  “Right. So why would I want to check out early? Huh? Huh?”

  “But are you not lonely? Do not lie. I know you are.”

  “You don’t know shit, chumly.”

  “I do indeed know shit, Rae.”

  “How so?”

  “Because,” he replied, “I am lonely, also.”

  “You?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. Also her irritation at his incessant probing. “But you’ve got a zillion river nymphs to hang out with. You’ve got your queen back after she was exiled here for—what? A hundred years? You’ve got the whole Mississippi River to run around in. And you’re lonely?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “Well, jeez.” She paused, chewing on that one. “That’s the saddest damned thing I’ve ever heard. And I saw the Depression.”

  Ten

  Withering whipped the ball down the lane, envisioning the pins as a pack of Daniir demons, and watched with total satisfaction as they scattered and disappeared. She threw her arms over her head in triumph. “Die! Die, you filthy, unearthly scum! Die, die, die! Yessssss!”

  “Uh, okay, that’s another strike.” Thad was eyeing the other bowlers, who were eyeing Withering. “Just simmer down, okay?”

  “This is a battle like any other,” she said grimly, snatching up another ball, testing its heft, and readying herself to hurl it down the lane. All strength, no finesse—which had always worked fine for her. “And I will win it.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he muttered, marking down her score.

  “Although I detest wearing group shoes.”

  “Hey, they spray ’em every night with a disinfectant.”

  “This woman is not comforted.”

  “This woman,” he sighed, “is kicking my ass at a game she barely remembered and has never played before. If I can put up with that humiliation, you can wear the bowling shoes without bitching.”

  “The man has a point.” Kuh-clank, Bam! “Die, die, die! Arrrrghh! There’s one still alive.”

  “It’s a pin, Withering. It’s never been alive, not once.”

  Hmph. Although she found him disturbingly attractive, distractingly attractive, he didn’t have much in the way of a competitive spirit. Did the man not know that everything, every single thing, must be won? No matter how long it took, no matter the cost? Even a silly game of pins and balls? You could never know who was watching, weighing, judging. Deciding the manner of attack based on her most recent actions.

  “I think,” he was blathering, “you could stand to, uh, lighten up a little bit. You’re not fighting demons tonight. Tonight is about taking a break, remember?”

  “This woman does not understand this man.”

  “Well, that makes two of us,” he said, and got up for his turn. Without hardly looking, he tossed the ball down the lane, and it went into the small alley—what was it called? Gutterball. A shameful, humiliating gutterball.

  He cheerfully marked down a zero—how could he stand it? He hadn’t even tried. He didn’t even care. “Like we were talking about earlier,” he continued. “You deserve a break. You’ve spent as much time at war as you spent in Mysteria raising hell with your sisters. I can’t think of anyone who deserves a break more than you.”

  “It is difficult—and unworthy—to take a break from one’s responsibilities. It pleases some on Earth Prime,” she admitted, “to call me queen. But does a queen ever get a vacation from royalty?”

  “But you’re not on Earth Prime. You’re back home. And while we’re on the subject, I think this ought to be Earth Prime. What’d you say this was? Secondary Earth? Jeez. How many are there?”

  “Thousands,” she replied simply.

  “Well, from what you’ve told me, Earth Prime is all weird grass and demons and only a few humans. This Earth has Mysteria and tons of humans and almost no demons. Ergo, we’re Prime.”

  “I,” she said, amused, “did not name the parallel universes.”

  “No, you only rule one.”

  “Hardly that,” she said, laughing a little to hide her discomfort. Why was he looking at her like that? So intently, as if everything she said was exceedingly important? “This woman keeps it safe for those who cannot protect themselves. If it pleases some to call this woman queen, this woman has other things to worry about.”

  “See, see?” He threw another gutter ball, ignoring her groan. “This is what I’m talking about. You won’t even take the spoils of war—a royal title! It’s just kill, kill, kill and work, work, work with you.”

  “And bowl, bowl, bowl,” she said, snatching up another ball. “Now watch this, Thad. You have to look at where the ball goes. Visualize the enemy lying dead and bloody. Then throw.” She hurled the ball; the pins split apart so hard, one actually flew into the next lane. “Then, victory.”

  “Psycho,” he sang under his breath, marking down her score.

  “This woman is unfamiliar with that word.”

  “It means terrifying warrior queen.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Your face does not match your words; this woman thinks you lie.”

  “Well, you’re a pretty smart psycho. We’ll add that to the list of your very fine qualities.”

  “You seem oddly cheerful.”

  “Why not? I’m on a date with a gorgeous warrior queen who bowls like a fiend and can eat half a large pizza by herself.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “You may blame yourself for that last, sir; you make an excellent pizza pie.”


  “It’s true,” he said without a trace of modesty. “I do.”

  “But you cannot bowl,” she teased, then remembered one of Scornful’s favorite epithets, “for shit.”

  “Ouch, nasty! Gorgeous, there’s hope for you yet.”

  Eleven

  They walked outside the bowling alley, to Thad’s serial killer gray van (which his employees occasionally used for deliveries; thus, the logo WILSON’S PIES: YOU COULD DO BETTER, BUT WHY BOTHER? plastered on the sides in bright red paint). Thad was still fumbling with his seat belt when Withering seized him by the shirt and hauled him toward her. His elbow hit the horn, which let out a resonant brronk! and then her mouth was on his.

  “What am I?” he asked, managing to wrench free and gasp for breath, “the spoils of war?”

  “No. I wish to mate. Right now.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” he huffed, straightening his shirt and hair, “but I’m not that kind of guy. I need wooing and romance. I need flowers and dinner. I—oh, fuck it, come back here.”

  They climbed into the back of the van, which was empty, carpeted, and smelled strongly of garlic and pizza sauce. They rolled around the strong-smelling floor, tugging and yanking at each other’s clothes, Thad marveling at her smoothly muscled body: not an ounce of fat anywhere, but my God, the scars!

  They didn’t detract from her beauty; they deepened it, made her seem more like a real woman and less like a goddess. The one arcing across her abdomen was so long and twisted, he wondered how she’d survived the original wound.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist and urged him forward—well, yanked him forward was more like it. He was concerned; he normally liked to give a partner more than eight seconds of foreplay. But she was having none of it, pulling him forward, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips rising off the carpet to meet his.

  “I don’t want to hur—whoa!” Sex with Withering wasn’t unlike being caught in a rowing machine. A hot, limber, blond rowing machine. Used to being the aggressor in sex, Thad just closed his eyes and tried to hang on for the ride. In less than a minute he was spasming inside her and shaking so hard he wondered if the van was rocking.

  “Gah,” he said as she gently pushed him off her. He flopped on his side next to her, trying to catch his breath. “Well. That. Ah. That was—”

  “Very quick,” she said, sounding indecently satisfied. She was rapidly rearranging her clothes, tying her long hair back with a ponytail holder. “Thank you.”

  “I guess it’s all right,” he said slowly, “that swiftness impresses you.”

  “How else would you do it? This way we can clothe ourselves and be ready to face danger.”

  Oh my God.

  “Uh. There are lots of other ways to ‘do it.’ In fact—”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no. Much too dangerous.”

  “But did you even come?”

  “Come where?”

  Oh my God. Please let me teach her the many ways two people can pleasure each other. Please let her stay so I can teach her, please God.

  “I guess,” he said slowly, buckling his belt, “I’d better drive you home.”

  Twelve

  He dropped a cheerful Withering at her front door and began the walk back to the van, when suddenly the sidewalk turned to glue (or so it felt) and he was stuck fast.

  “Cut it out, you two!” he said loudly, struggling to extricate himself.

  Scornful and Derisive peered down at him from their tree house. The town knew the girls were too old for it, as they also knew that was where the triplets (when they were triplets) retreated to work on their more diabolical plans.

  “You’d better explain,” Scornful said.

  “And right now, before the sidewalk ends up over your head.”

  “Unnnf!” he replied. “Nnnnnfff! Mmmmmff!” One foot moved a whole inch.

  “So talk,” Derisive added.

  “Mind—nnf!—your own—mmfff!—damned—argh!—business,” he panted.

  “Our sister is our business. She might look like a hottie grown-up, but she’s a little naive in some areas, like you haven’t noticed.”

  His feet were moving slightly easier. “You can’t—nnff!—do the magic—rrggh!—you could when—mrrgg!—you were the Desdaine triplets.”

  “We can do enough,” Scornful said shortly, and he knew he had touched on a sore spot. He wondered what had happened to Withering’s magic. Out of practice, probably, from the years of fighting. “So what are you doing with her?”

  “None of your damned—ha!—business.” One foot was free. He set to work on the other.

  “It is, too! Is this why you came back to Mysteria? To score on the new girl?”

  “No. And that is none of your business.”

  “We can do a lot more than stick you in cement up to your ankles,” Derisive threatened.

  “Think I don’t know? But what’s between your sister and me is private.”

  “Guess he doesn’t kiss and tell,” Scornful said to her sister.

  “Prob’ly just as well; who needs to puke after that good supper Mom cooked?”

  He knelt to get better leverage as he tugged on his left foot. “You two are a menace!”

  “Tell us something we haven’t heard since we were two. Look, all we want to know is, are you sticking around this time?”

  “This time?”

  “We looked you up in the archives. Your whole family picked up and left when you were a kid. Now you’re back, and you’re sniffing around our sister. So are you in it for the long haul, or just a slap and tickle before you vanish?”

  “I’m—never—leaving—again. God damn it, what’d you turn the sidewalk into, rubber cement?”

  “Oh.”

  “Huh,” Scornful added. “Never leaving again?”

  He temporarily abandoned his efforts to escape. “I came back because I thought Mysteria had gotten into my blood. There’s nowhere else like it in the world, kids, but I guess you know that.”

  “So?” they asked in unison.

  “So. Your sister grew up in five seconds, and now I’m here for her. I’ll always be here for her. I’m trying to get her to stay. I’m trying to get her to relax and not be ready to fight all the time. Now get me out of this shit!”

  The girls made identical gestures, as if they were pulling invisible taffy, and his foot popped free, and the sidewalk was solid again. He nearly toppled backward but righted himself in time.

  “I guess that’s all right, then,” Scornful said.

  “We can’t watch her twenty-four/seven,” Derisive added.

  “So nice to have your permission,” he snapped.

  “Don’t kid yourself, Thad. You did need our permission. Unless you like the idea of getting stuck in every sidewalk, driveway, and linoleum floor between here and the shooting range.”

  “Oh, and Thad?” Scornful added sweetly as he stomped down the sidewalk. “Break her heart, and we’ll break your spine.”

  “Among other things,” Derisive added.

  Great, he thought, climbing into his van, teenage mob enforcers. Just what the town needed.

  Thirteen

  “Pardon me,” Janameides said politely, “but do any of you know where I might find an exorcist?”

  He was standing in the Desdaine living room, having been ushered in by Mrs. Desdaine, who had been headed out the door for work. Shrugging at the sight of the river nymph (but not at all worried for her daughters’ safety—she hadn’t been before Withering grew up in an alternate dimension)—Mrs. Desdaine had made herself scarce.

  “This woman would know why the—the man needs an exorcist,” Withering said. She was the only one fully dressed at 7:45 a.m.; the other two girls were in the shorts and T-shirt sets they used as pajamas.

  “Yes, what are you?” Scornful asked. “You look like Pot . . . she’s the lady who used to—”

  “She is my queen. I am her subject.”

  “River nymph!” Derisive said, snapping her
fingers and pointing at him.

  “Just so. And I require an exorcist, please. I was told you three might help.” Jan frowned, the expression much more dour than it could be on a human face. “I was also told you are the same age.”

  “Technically, we are,” Derisive said.

  “But it’s a long story,” Scornful added.

  “Actually, it’s not,” Derisive said, “but who cares? What’s the exorcist for?”

  “A haunted house. But perhaps the three of you could handle the task. I was told your power as triplets—”

  “Is no longer a resource to be tapped,” Withering said.

  Scornful turned to her tall sister. “Yeah? And why is that? Did you forget the spells? Because we can get you books and stuff.”

  “I did not forget. I merely submerged my share of our magic into my fighting skills, an essential component to my survival. As such, I am faster and stronger than most; I also heal from wounds very quickly.”

  “So, you made yourself bionic?” Scornful snorted.

  “I did what I had to,” Withering said simply, “to live.”

  The two girls were, shockingly, shamed into silence. It was only temporary, though. “I think we can help you,” Derisive said. She turned to her younger sister. “The new guy? Not Thad, the other new guy.”

  “The witch doctor?”

  “You’re only assuming that because he’s Jamaican.”

  “Yeah, but he might—”

  “He might.”

  “So we should—”

  “We should.”

  “What my sisters are saying,” Withering explained to an increasingly bewildered Jan, “is that we may be able to assist you. If you will come with us, please?”

  “This has nothing to do with you, gigantic big sister.”

  “This woman will see the girls safe.”

  “Oh, barf,” Scornful said, stomping toward her bedroom to get dressed.

  Fourteen

  The witch doctor shook various homemade implements at various appliances in the kitchen. He had multiple piercings (including four gold rings in each eyebrow), but was dressed in street clothes and carried a blue backpack, from which he pulled various odd things.