Mysteria Nights

by P. C. Cast

  Evie sighed. And yes, she was still smiling. “Go think somewhere else.”

  “You left your door open, so no afterglow for you. One year,” she said in her best “Soup Nazi” impersonation. Glory tangled a hand through her hair, surprised as always that it was cool to the touch. Every time she saw the flame red tresses in the mirror, she expected smoke. I can do this. “Remember a few months ago, when Hunter was ignoring you—again—and you promised me a favor if I helped you win his heart? I told you that in return for helping you, I wanted you to give me something to ruin Falon’s life, and you said okay, so I gave you a potion and you—”

  “I know what I did. Jeez.” Nibbling on her lower lip, Evie moved her hazels to Hunter.

  He knew the full story, but Glory suspected Evie didn’t like to remind him. He’d died because of Evie, after all, killed by demons the lovesick fool had accidentally summoned. Then he’d been turned into a vampire—a species he’d once hoped to destroy. It had been difficult for him to adjust to the change.

  “You want to ruin Falon’s life? Why?” Hunter’s vampire-pale arms tightened around Evie. Obviously no bad feelings remained on his part. But he did frown over at Glory as if she had sprouted a second head. With horns. Falon was his best friend and right-hand man.

  At least, Glory thought Falon was a man. In Mysteria, it was sometimes hard to tell. He could have been a demon for all she knew. Now that made sense. “Just . . . because,” she said, then squared her shoulders and raised her chin. She refused to say more about her reasoning. “Evie owes me. That should be enough.”

  Evie threw up her arms and let them fall heavily onto the bed. “Can’t you drop this? I don’t know what he did to you . . .” She paused, probably waiting for Glory to pipe up with the answer. When she didn’t, Evie sighed again. “You live in Bizarro World, little sis. You’re supposed to be the good witch, and I’m supposed to be wicked.”

  Glory arched a brow, her mind caught on the first part of Evie’s speech. “No, I can’t let this go.” The bastard deserved to die. Slowly. Painfully. Eternally. “You reneging on me?”

  Hot color bloomed in her sister’s cheeks. “No. Of course not.”

  “Evie,” Hunter said.

  “I promised her, baby.”

  Glory anchored her hands on her hips. “If it makes you feel any better, Hunter, know that Falon brought this on himself. He hurt me.”

  Hunter’s green gaze sharpened. “Hurt you? How?”

  Once again, she raised her chin and pressed her lips together. She hadn’t planned on admitting even that much.

  Realizing she’d say no more, he scrubbed a hand down the harsh, rugged plains of his face. “You know I’ll warn Falon, right? I’ll tell him what’s going on.”

  “Like that scares me.” Glory wanted Falon know she was gunning for him. She wanted him to be scared, to tremble and jump at every snapping twig in the night. Hell, maybe she was a wicked witch, because she chuckled every time she thought of him dropping to the ground in a fetal ball and crying for his mother.

  Sure, he was six feet four of solid—delicious—muscle. Sure, he’d kicked more ass in the few years he’d lived in Mysteria than the town’s citizens were currently nailing. And sure, he probably made the creatures of the underworld pee their pants in fear of him. A girl could dream, though.

  “Now.” She rubbed her hands together. “Evie, my revenge, if you please. I’ve tried to bring it up several times, and you ignored me, ran from me, or let your boy toy sweep you off your feet. Literally. I’m not waiting anymore!”

  “Whatever he did, I’ll talk to him,” Hunter said. “He’ll apologize.”

  Glory shook her head, long hair slapping her across the face. It was too late for that. “I’ll talk to him. Evie . . .”

  “Fine.” Frowning, Evie uncurled from her lover’s body and rose from the bed, taking the sheet with her.

  Cheeks heating, Glory quickly turned and faced the hallway. She so had not needed to see Hunter’s crowning grandeur. Did she appreciate it? Yeah. Boy was blessed! Still. Her sister’s boyfriend was not meant to be eye candy for her, and besides, she didn’t need to add fuel to the fire of her constantly unsatisfied desires.

  Behind her, she heard cloth rustling, the slide of a drawer, then things bumping together.

  “Ah, here it is!” her sister said.

  Footsteps sounded, then a delicate finger was tapping Glory on the shoulder. Heart pounding excitedly, she turned. Of course, her gaze flew to Hunter of its own accord hoping for another peek. He’d already tugged on a pair of jeans—jeans with a missing top button. Evie had probably bitten it off.

  Glory’s chest started hurting again.

  Evie waved a black pen in front of her face. “Hello. You paying attention to me?”

  Her gaze latched onto the pen, following its movements. Her frown returned. “You’re giving me a pen? A pen to finally claim revenge against the man who savagely wronged me?”

  “Yes. How did he wrong you?”

  She ignored the question. “What, I’m supposed to draw a mustache on his picture? News flash. That’s not going to leave him crying in his cornflakes.”

  “Why do you want him crying in his cornflakes?”

  Grrr! “No matter how many times you ask, no matter how many ways, I’m not telling.”

  “Well, don’t make him cry too hard. He’s a good man and has always been nice to us.”

  Nice? Nice! Evie had no idea the cruelty that man was capable of. But revealing what he’d done to her would be more mortifying than, say, finding one of her sisters naked and in bed with a vampire, screaming his name as she climaxed.

  “Pay attention, sister dear.” Evie released the pen; it didn’t fall. It hovered in the air between them, swirling, glitter falling like raindrops around it. “This little pen is magical.”

  “Rock on! What will it do?”

  “Anything you write with it will come true.”

  Glory’s eyes widened, the words sinking in. “Anything I write will come true?”

  “Yes. Well, anything physical, nothing emotional. Just be careful. The more you write, the more ink you’ll use, and there’s no way to refill it. Also, the effects don’t last forever, only for a few hours. For proper revenge, it’s best to write about clothes disappearing right off a body in the middle of a crowd and—”

  “Don’t help her,” Hunter growled.

  “Yes, but anything I write comes true?” Glory asked again, just to be sure.

  Evie rolled her eyes. “Physically, yes. I said so, didn’t I?”

  A laugh escaped her, her first true laugh in months. “Oh, this is classic. Truly perfect.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate the irony.”

  “What irony?” Hunter sat up and propped himself against the headboard.

  “Can I tell him?” Evie asked her.

  Why not? “Sure. He’s almost family, and I’ve seen his goods.”

  “She’s a novelist,” Evie threw over her shoulder, “best known for bringing her heroes to their knees. Not always because they fall in love, but mostly because the villains always jack them up with a hammer to the tibia.”

  “Dear God,” Hunter mumbled. “This is bad. Real bad.”

  Glory rubbed her hands together. Yes, it was. Falon the bastard was about to fall. Hard-core!

  Two

  Anticipation hummed through Glory for the rest of the night and the following day, possibilities rolling continually through her mind. She’d hoped Hunter would tell Falon what was going on, Falon would rush to her and beg her to forgive him, and she would get to slam a door in his face, causing him to toss and turn for hours in fear.

  But he never showed up.

  So when the sun finally descended on the second day, she padded to her bedroom, wading through clothes, shoes, and donut wrappers, grabbed a notebook, and climbed onto the bed.

  It was time to test the pen’s powers.

  Ever since Falon had—Do not think about that right now!
You know better. Already, with that tiny half thought, her pulse had kicked into overdrive, and her stomach had clenched, sickness churning inside of it.

  Think about your revenge. For this to work, she needed to be strong, unemotional. Otherwise, she’d do something mean, Falon would look at her with those otherworldly violet eyes of his, and she’d cave. Maybe even apologize. He deserves to suffer.

  How best to torture him?

  She thought about what she knew about him. She’d never slept with him, but she knew what he looked like when he experienced ultimate pleasure. She knew how he tensed, knew his voice dripped harsh and raspy. Knew he roared with the last spasm, pounding his big, hard body into his lover’s.

  Uh, not helping. Breath burned in her lungs, and fire rushed through her veins, but she couldn’t stop her mind from traveling that road. One night she’d stumbled upon Falon in the woods, making love to one of his many women. Or, as Glory liked to call them, one of his many hookers. Anyhoodles, she’d been unable to walk away. He’d been unnaturally beautiful and darkly seductive, whispering the most erotic nothings in the hooker’s ear.

  Glory had suddenly understood why Falon could fight vampires and demons for hours and hours without breaking a sweat. He was total strength, inexorable stamina. Nothing tired him.

  That night, she’d developed a tiny—enormous—crush on him. Even though he was way out of her league. Glory was a wee bit on the pudgy side, while Falon personified perfection. She exercised by riding her bike into town to buy a bag of Doritos; he worked out slaying his enemies without thought or hesitation. Men ignored her; women flocked to him. She spent hours in front of a computer, living life in her mind; he actually lived. Inside other people’s pants, but whatever.

  Rumor was he knew what a female craved before even she knew, and anyone who experienced the bliss of his sometimes gentle, usually savage touch was never the same again. Watching him, Glory had begun to believe that.

  She’d fallen completely under his spell, haunted for days by his mesmerizing image. She’d yearned to have him in her bed. In her shower. On her floor. Wherever. She hadn’t been picky. She’d just wanted him. Desperately and unequivocally. She’d wanted him naked, slipping and sliding into her, no one else, wrapped around her, cherishing her. She’d wanted her name on his lips, his taste in her mouth. Until . . .

  Her hands clenched into fists. You aren’t supposed to think about this!

  The memories flooded her, anyway. A few months ago, she’d overhead him tell Hunter that one woman was the same as any other, and love was for idiots. Since they shared the same mind-set—love sucked giant elephant balls!—and he didn’t care who he slept with, she’d decided to go for it and throw herself at him.

  Pleasure was seriously lacking in her life, and she would have given all of her powers—well, rather, all of Evie’s powers—to have him look at her with desire. Just once. That’s all she’d needed, all she’d wanted.

  So she’d gone to his house in nothing but a trench coat and heels. And yeah, she’d flashed him.

  He’d taken one look at her and laughed. Laughed!

  “Go home, little girl,” he’d said. “You don’t know what you’re playing at.”

  “I’m twenty-three, not jailbait, and I’m anything but little, as you can clearly see. I’m here for a few hours of fun, that’s all.”

  “Okay, let me put this another way. Get lost. You’re not welcome here.”

  “I’m—I’m not your type, then,” she’d stammered, mortified to her very soul. In that moment, she’d understood. Even though he’d said any woman would do, he’d meant any pretty woman would do.

  His gaze had become hard as it perused her. “No, you’re not my type.”

  He could have spared the remaining tatters of her feminine pride, but another woman had walked up behind Glory. Kaycee, a girl who had graduated a few years ahead of Glory, had obviously craved the same thing as Glory, despite the fact that she’d come with a basket of fruit to “sell.” Just as she’d been in school, Kaycee had been tall and thin and pretty. And Falon had allowed that pink-skinned married fairy hooker inside before shutting the door in Glory’s red-hot face.

  Remembering, Glory gnashed her teeth together. “I will destroy his male pride,” she said, determined. “I will teach him what it’s like to feel unwanted and ugly.”

  But she spent the next hour staring at the notebook, mind blank. Shit! How did a girl teach a man that kind of lesson?

  Just write something. Anything! Pretend this is one of your novels and test the pen’s powers. Let’s see, let’s see. Roman solider? No. Falon didn’t deserve to carry a sword. But she saw all kinds of possibilities in that time period. Gladiator? Oh, yes, yes, yes. Gladiators were slaves, and she really liked the idea of Falon in chains.

  Closing her eyes, she pictured Falon pacing the dirt floors of a barred cell, sweat rolling down the sculpted muscles of his bronzed stomach, pooling in his navel and dipping lower. Fresh from fighting, blood splattered him.

  Licking her lips, Glory shifted against the covers. The scene continued to open up in her mind, painting her thoughts with its descriptions. She sucked in a deep breath and forced her hand to write what she saw . . .

  Falon was lying in bed, cool, dry, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom one moment and inside a dirt-laden cell the next, pacing back and forth, sweat pouring from him. Shocked at the sudden change, he tried to stop. His feet kept moving as though they were no longer connected to his brain.

  What the hell?

  Moonlight slithered around him as he passed a crudely crafted bed, then an equally crude bench, kicking dirt with his sandals. Sandals? There was a metallic tang in air. The rustle of chains could be heard beyond the cell, as could moans of . . . injured men? Pleasured men?

  Confusion slithered through him.

  “Yo. Falon.”

  Hearing the husky female voice, he spun and faced the cell’s farthest set of bars. A lone woman stood behind them, shadows covering her face. Glistening white cloth draped her, and gold flowers glinted from her left shoulder and hem. A chain belt circled her waist, cinching the drape around her and revealing slender curves. The scent of pampered, eager woman and desire drifted from her, sweet and exotic.

  His body hardened in hated desire. Hated, because only one woman had that effect on him lately.

  “Glory Tawdry,” he said through clenched teeth. “I should have known.”

  “Great Goddess, it worked!” She clapped her hands, and he could easily imagine her smiling that sultry, white-toothed smile of hers. “I hope you don’t mind, but I decided to write myself into the scene.”

  “Scene What scene?”

  “This one.” As she spoke, she stepped into a ribbon of that golden moonlight.

  He couldn’t help himself. He sucked in a heated breath and drank her in. Long, red hair framed her pretty face—the most sensual face he’d ever seen. Her eyes were large emeralds flecked with gold. Her nose was gently sloped, her cheeks pink and perfectly rounded. Her lips were luxuriant and red, utterly magnificent—but they would have looked better moving over his body.

  You know better than to think like that, you walking penis! “What do you mean, you wrote yourself into the scene? What is this place? How did you get me here?”

  Her sculpted brows rose. “Didn’t Hunter tell you?”

  “Tell me what? I haven’t spoken to him in days.” His friend had stopped coming to Knight Caps, the bar he owned and where Falon bartended, preferring instead to spend every moment with his revenge witch. Disgraceful, if you asked Falon.

  “Evie must have distracted him,” Glory said with a laugh. “Damn, but I do love my sister.”

  That laugh . . . God, it was magical. Almost melted his fury. Almost. His gaze circled the cell. “What have you done to me, Glory?”

  “Nothing much. Yet. This is just a small taste of my revenge.”

  Revenge. He didn’t have to ask why. The night she’d come to his house, flashed him ev
ery one of her spectacular curves, and nearly felled him, he’d resorted to the only thing capable of saving him: cruelty.

  His gaze met hers, and something hot filled his veins. This time, it wasn’t fury. She looked utterly pleased with herself, and the look was good on her. Good enough to eat. She must have sensed the direction of his thoughts because she backed up a step. A pause stretched between them, layered with awareness. Sizzling with need.

  There was something about her that appealed to the beast inside him. Something dark, dangerous, and bone deep that awakened urges inside him he’d thought long dead. Tender urges, savage urges.

  Do not think like that, idiot! He’d made the mistake of willingly dating a witch twice. Once because he’d wanted the woman, once because he’d needed the woman. Both experiences had scarred him for eternity. The relationship with the first, Frederica, had not ended well, and the damn woman had cursed him with impotence. And no amount of Viagra or stimulation had fixed the . . . limpness.

  Falon had been forced to give up a year of his life acting as a slave to Penelope, the second witch, to win his freedom. In return, Penelope had challenged Frederica, who quickly lost and finally reversed her spell. Had the return of his manhood been worth it? He wasn’t sure. Penelope had not been an easy mistress. He’d cooked, cleaned, run errands, supplied her with orgasms and massages, balanced her checkbook, punished her enemies, and fixed her TiVo. So yeah, he fucking hated witches! They always abused their powers.

  That hadn’t stopped him from wanting Glory, though—who was now in the process of abusing her goddamn powers! Yes, he’d hurt her all those months ago. But he’d had to push her away before he’d caved.

  Still, he’d regretted it ever since and had even tried to make it up to her, acting as her protector on several occasions. “I don’t desire this,” he said.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, the hell I don’t! That night in the cemetery, I saved you from hungry corpses.” He wasn’t sure how or why, but since that night on his porch he always seemed to know when she was in trouble. A fierce surge of protectiveness would rise inside him, and the next thing he knew, he’d be rushing to get to her, wherever she was.