Mysteria Nights

by P. C. Cast

  “He’s only a year old, lass. In time he’ll learn to control his powers.” Powers that Damon predicted would grow even stronger as he aged. “It’s of utmost importance that we keep his abilities secret from Lucifer.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, seeing that I haven’t talked to your former boss in”—Harmony pretended to concentrate—“ages. Our paths just never seem to cross,” she quipped sarcastically. Then she noticed how serious he was, and her eyes opened wide. “Will Satan be able to sense him? Will he know what our baby can do? Oh, Lord, Damon, will he try to hurt our child?”

  Fear gripped Damon. Anger, too. “We’ll do everything in our power to ensure that never happens, lass. But one day the boy will rise as a powerful rival to the Devil.”

  Little Damon giggled, and the ice cubes in the pitcher of ice tea rattled. “Damon Junior!” Harmony scolded in unison with Damon. Then she whirled on him, eyes ablaze. “As for your last comment, Damon of Mysteria, don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaked that in. There will be no ultimate showdowns between our baby and the Devil. Do you hear me? I forbid it.”

  Outside, thunder rumbled as Harmony took a seat at the table. She mumbled grace before serving lunch, which they ate awed into silence by the prospect of epic battles of good and evil. A few moments later, the first raindrops began to fall.

  The doors to Hell opened with a belch of heat, expelling a single demon before slamming closed again. The forest sang with the squeaks and scrabbling of the few winged subdemons and goblins released when the hellhole opened. The lesser beasts scattered into the mist, off to their wanton mischief, but the demon, experienced and centuries-old, scurried with purpose through the rain. There were miles yet to cover before reaching the hamlet of Mysteria.

  Mindful was the demon of keeping out of the sight of humans. It could not be interrupted, stymied, or sidetracked. It had a job to do. Find the child. Kill it before it grew to adulthood and challenged Lucifer himself.

  “Fail, and I will erase you, eradicate you, stamp you out—for all eternity! No matter where you run, no matter where you hide, I will find you, and end you.”

  The she-demon cowered and hissed, crouching out of sight as she took on her traditional human form. Her coarse red hide fell away, replaced by smooth, creamy flesh. Cloven hooves elongated into two feet, complete with ten perfect shell-pink toenails. Gone were the horns sprouting from her skull; in their place were jaw-length waves in rich, reddish brown. Slits no longer dominated her copper-colored eyes. They were rimmed with dark lashes, appearing completely human. No one would be able to tell what she was and what she’d come here to do.

  Kill. The wind howled and shook the canopy of rain-drenched trees. Under the cloak of low-hanging clouds, Shay lurched forward and down the hillside, knowing exactly where to go.

  Two

  “Can you really smell a demon a mile away?”

  Quel Laredo stood in front of Mysteria’s wishing fountain, surveying the town square. A breeze whipped his duster around his long, denim-clad legs. Water from the fountain sent mist into the dry, Rocky Mountain air. Sniffing, his eyes in a perpetual squint, he sampled that air, tasting it. The storm had passed, allowing the sunset to break through, but something wasn’t quite right about this twilight. He couldn’t figure out what.

  “Can you, Mr. Laredo?”

  “Yeah.” The wide-eyed boy was one of the O’Cleary grandchildren, he guessed. He’d lost count of them all. They weren’t a family; they were a herd. “Two miles if the wind is right.”

  “Like now?” the boy breathed in fearful wonder.

  Nodding, Quel peered into the deepening shadows in the woods at the edge of town. The scent of evil was growing stronger. There was definitely something out there.

  “Hey, Laredo, do you want to buy me a drink? Come on, you know you do.” A comely enchantress brushed her hand along his arm as she passed by with her female friends. “We’ll be at Knight Caps. Afterward, I’m free.”

  “I’m working.”

  “Late?”

  “Late.”

  “Shame.” Her voice turned husky. “All work and no play makes Quel a dull boy.” In the face of his silence, she tried to recant. “I mean, not that I find you dull. Not at all. It’s just a saying.”

  He tipped his hat. “That’s all right.”

  Smiling, she backed up, almost stumbling on her high heels before hurrying away to join her friends.

  Her lush little ass swayed as she shimmied away. A nice piece, but Quel didn’t feel much like company. There was something about the air tonight. It was different from anything he’d detected before. Something very old and very dark had been unleashed, and he wouldn’t let down his guard until he figured out what it was.

  Making snuffling sounds, the boy screwed up his face. “You smell anything yet, Mr. Laredo? I don’t.”

  “Hurry on home, boy. Your mama’s going to be worried.”

  Half in awe, half-terrified, the boy ran off. Not all that different of a reaction from the women in town, Quel thought. Not that he blamed others for the way they acted around him. He’d grown up tough, eight foster families in ten years, but that wasn’t it, entirely. It was what people saw in his eyes that scared them away. His eyes reflected what he’d seen—and continued to see: demons.

  Growing up, he thought demons were make-believe. Now he knew more about them than he wanted to know. The first time he’d laid eyes on a demon was on a battlefield in Iraq. He’d woken up bleeding from his head and chest after a roadside bomb had taken out the convoy he was escorting. He’d been working private security for Blackstone, he was experienced and sought out for it, but this time the terrorists had been kids—nothing but damn kids, no more than fourteen, fifteen years old. They did what few others had ever been able to pull off: they caught Quel Laredo by surprise. The attack was quick and on target. He’d woken to see a gangly, leather-skinned monster crouched next to one of the wounded soldiers. At the time, Quel was sure he was hallucinating. “You see that?” he croaked to his buddy, Hauser, who’d dragged him out of the hot sun.

  “We’re gonna get you patched up, Laredo. Hang in there.”

  Hang in there? As clear as day, Quel saw a medic fighting to save the soldier, pumping his heart even as the demon drained his soul. “I’m losing him,” the frustrated rescuer shouted, oblivious of the demon.

  Quel fought off Hauser. “Get it the fuck away from him!” The soldier would die if they didn’t. Quel got to his hands and knees and dragged himself to the dying man, shoving the demon off his chest. The monster came back—this time for him. Don’t look at its eyes. Quel remembered thinking that. The whirling red balls sucked his strength, his very life, leaving despair and terror in its place. No!

  They rolled over the sand, grabbing for each other’s throats. Then, remembering every last horror movie he’d ever seen, Quel stabbed him with the cross his mother had given him before she died.

  Quel wasn’t religious—he didn’t follow much of anything—but the necklace was the only link he allowed to his past. The silver sank between the demon’s ribs, sizzling as the creature convulsed, shrieking. By the time the surviving guys on his team got him wrestled to the ground, the damn thing was dead.

  Everyone assumed he’d suffered a hallucination. So did Quel, until he started seeing demons all across Iraq. No wonder there was a damned war going on. Evil fueled it.

  He put in his papers and left the Gulf. After a few months kicking around a friend’s ranch in Montana, dogged by restlessness and too many memories, he ran into more demons. This time he knew what to do. People were more grateful than they were skeptical, and now even more afraid of him, but he was used to that. Might as well use his ability to see demons to make a living. Now he was Quel Laredo, demon hunter. It kept him on the move. Moving was good. It gave him less time to think. As a demon hunter, he could do some good, and he didn’t have to face his past. A win-win situation, in his mind.

  He had a lot to learn at first, an
d there was no shortage of people wanting to help him. Over the years, he’d studied with everyone from ninjas to witches. He learned that some demons were obvious to the human eye and that others preferred to be invisible, either by disguising themselves as humans or by using dark magic to remain unseen. Quel grabbed freelance demon-hunting jobs where he could find them, never staying long in one place or with any one person. He was like a swift river, sure and cold, always moving on. When Mysteria was hiring, he took the job—just for the winter, he’d thought—but he ended up staying. It had been a year now. He liked it. Maybe he just felt at home with the collection of other lost souls there.

  The lost souls he’d sworn to protect.

  Quel checked for his rifle, pistols, ammo, silver BBs for the smaller creatures, garlic, and the cross hanging from his neck as he paced in front of the fountain that was the centerpiece of Mysteria’s town square. The water bubbled, sending up spray. The townspeople insisted the fountain was magic, that wishes made there would come true. Hell, he wouldn’t mind the help. He’d find his demon that much sooner.

  Frowning, he tasted the air again. Yeah, definitely demon. It was getting stronger, too—the scent of demon mixed with something sweeter, almost distracting. He didn’t like that. No one distracted Quel Laredo.

  He pulled on the brim of his hat and kept walking. There was a demon about, and he’d find it before sunrise . . . like he always did.

  The night had cleared. Stars had come out. In the moonlight, Shay followed the road leading into Mysteria. She attracted less attention now that she was no longer naked—thanks to the generosity of some campers. Oh, they were startled to see her waltzing into their campsite wearing nothing but her bare curves. A well-placed thought, a blink of her eyes, and they let her take what she needed, convinced they’d done a good deed. Shay liked to leave mortals believing they’d done good, even when they helped her do things that were very, very bad. Yes, she was like the Good Samaritan except with ulterior motives.

  The jeans were a little tight in the butt, but the T-shirt was just perfect, snug and smooth. ANGEL, it said, BY VICTORIA’S SECRET. Well, Shay had a secret, too: she was no angel. Her laughter floated in the damp, chill air of the mountains as she smoothed her hands over the outfit. She enjoyed showing off her assets. This body was her favorite. It had served her well for most of the last few thousand of years. Why not showcase it—to Damon’s downfall? You’re not to bed him. You’re to kill the child. Yes, she must remember, no sleeping with Damon. She must keep focused on her mission, even at the temporary expense of fashion. Lucifer wanted no delays.

  Eventually she came upon what looked to be an inn. Inside, several couples shared a table as they ate dinner. She sashayed past the line of parked cars, brushing her fingers over the hoods, and paused next to a little red sports car. Her driving had never been as good as her chariot skills, but then she’d not had as many centuries to practice. Still, how could she walk away from this sweet little Porsche, irresistible in devil red? She had a job to do, yes. No one said she couldn’t have some fun while doing it.

  A blink of her eyes, and the locks popped open. The diners behind the restaurant window glanced her way, alarmed. Shay blinked, placed the thought: You see my taking the car as a favor. You want me to have it. Think of it as a little gift. Your generosity makes you feel good.

  They went back to their meal. Smug, Shay slid in behind the wheel and started up the car. A blink of her eyes, and the license plates and registration reflected her human alter ego: Shay d’Mon. She giggled. Oh, how she enjoyed a good play on words. Yes, Miss d’Mon, single, white, twenty-five years old, complete with no living family and a teaching degree. With the engine purring, she smiled and pulled onto the highway and shoved the gas pedal to the floor. “Full speed ahead.”

  A pair of headlights appeared on the road that wound down through the hills into town. Someone was driving way too fast. Outsider, Quel thought, testing the air. Demon. He smelled demon. Yeah, demon and that sweet hint of something delicious underneath that somehow didn’t belong.

  Maybe the car had come in contact with the demon and didn’t contain the creature itself. He’d never known demons to drive, but they were crafty; they adapted. He wouldn’t know until it got closer. Quel cradled his rifle in his arms and waited.

  The car sped toward town, barely staying on the rain-slick road as it made the switchback turns. It was either a demon without a driver’s license or a dumb-ass city boy playing NASCAR.

  A pack of werewolves scampered across the square, headed toward the woods. They’d have to cross the road to do that. Quel glanced at the rising full moon and swore. They’d be too crazed by their hormones to see the danger careening toward them.

  “Watch out,” Quel shouted as the car sped toward them. The sound of brakes being applied shrieked in the night. Werewolves scattered. The car fishtailed and spun. A rear wheel clipped the shoulder of the road, flipping the vehicle over. It rolled all the way down the embankment and landed right side up in the center of the fountain with one helluva splash.

  Now he’d seen everything. Quel cocked his rifle and headed that way. Whoever—or whatever—was driving that car sure knew how to make an entrance.

  Three

  Satan’s stones! One minute Shay was swerving to avoid hitting what looked like a dog pack, and the next she was submerged up to her neck in cold water that smelled like a stale pond. Her legs were pinned by the crushed front end of the car, while the rest of her was being crushed by something that felt like a giant balloon.

  Cursed air bags. Safety devices were for cowards and mortals with finite life spans.

  It took a few seconds to register, but the water was rising—and rising fast. It bubbled over her chest to her shoulders, creeping toward her neck. She couldn’t kick free; her feet were wedged in too tightly. Her hands hunted for something to hold onto, flailing and splashing. Hell’s bells, she felt like a landed trout!

  More like a landed piranha. She was that angry—at herself. She liked attention—adored it, actually—but not this much attention. The crash would wake everyone in town and maybe put them on guard against her. She was a stranger on a secret mission. Win their trust, Lucifer had advised her. Escapades like this were not going to get her closer to the child.

  The rising water now sloshed at chin level. She sputtered, swearing. Instead of succumbing to panic, she followed the pull of a new and all-encompassing urge—the will to survive—and tried to claw her way out of the air bag.

  Something banged on the outside of the car. A shadowy form moved outside the shattered windshield. “Here,” she called. Fires of hell, here. Never had she been so happy to see a mortal, a silly, selfless human who’d come to save her. She couldn’t afford to drown.

  If she destroyed this body, she’d have to return to Hell and get a new one, starting all over again. What would the Dark Master think of that? Not much. She could picture him now, pacing and spitting in fury. Not a day into this mission, and she’d already faltered. “I will erase you, eradicate you, stamp you out—for all eternity!”

  The human was pounding on the door now, mere inches away. Please, she thought. Please? Since when did Shay beg for anything—or anyone?

  “Snap out of it, Shay,” she muttered through gritted teeth. She used to be resourceful. She tried to reach the door handle herself, but her legs were pinned, wouldn’t let her stretch far enough.

  The urge to survive expanded, filling her chest, growing more powerful with each beat of her heart, as if she were indeed truly alive and not pretending. She’d long wanted to know what that felt like. Now she never would.

  Oh, how she wished otherwise. Over the centuries she’d barely touched what it meant to live, to feel, always wanting more depth of emotion, craving it, but unable to cross the line separating her from what she was and what she’d secretly yearned to be. Always, Lucifer would figure out what she loved most and take it away: Circus Maximus and chariot racing, cuddling in the furs with Swift River
on glacial, star-filled nights. He took them all. The poignancy of loss sliced deep—that which was dealt her and that which she’d caused.

  She’d inflicted much pain. She’d never cared before. Now the knowledge of her deeds hurt in a way she’d never thought imaginable. She regretted not only her recent misdeeds but every evil act she’d ever accomplished.

  You shouldn’t have sent those orphans on a one-way voyage into the sea. Or bedded Aquila the day after his wife told him they were going to have another child.

  She even regretted stealing the red sports car and wrecking it. Remorse and shame flooded her, choking her. I’m sorry . . . Truly sorry.

  She was evil. She deserved to die.

  No, only living creatures died. Monsters like you cease to be.

  Shay tipped her chin up and stole a few last breaths before the water caught up, rising over her eyes, her forehead, and submerging her fully. In no time she’d be waking up back in Hell with Lucifer kicking her ass.

  Instead, a soft, white cushion enveloped her, something she’d never remembered experiencing after her previous accidents. She went from acute remorse to utter serenity and did not question it. The roll bar slipped from her hands, but somehow she knew everything was going to be okay. The feeling of trust was instinctive, all-encompassing.

  For the first time in her life she felt at peace.

  It was no longer dark. Shay looked around in wonder. A field of endless soft snow surrounded her . . . so white, so beautiful. And there, across the way, Swift River waited, dressed in furs, his hair flowing in a wind she couldn’t feel. He opened his arms. Smiling, she took the first step toward him.

  “Goddamn it, breathe.”

  Reality returned in jagged slices. Someone pushing on her chest. A warm mouth sealed over hers. Air swelling her lungs. The scents of sweat and leather, dust and man filling her nostrils. Then she was coughing, her lungs on fire.