Mysteria Nights

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to “the girls”: Susan, Gena, and P. C. for their support; they made this such a fun project, I was bummed when it was time to turn it in.

Thanks also to our editors at Berkley for their enthusiasm for Mysteria and its, ah, interesting inhabitants. Without their thumbs-up, this book wouldn’t be here.

Thanks also to all those who wrote me asking about the goings-on in Mysteria; the girls and I got kind of curious about that, too. So here you go.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The events of this novella take place three months after the events in Bewitched, Bothered, and Bevampyred, available at www.triskelion.com, and a year after the events in Derik’s Bane (Berkley Sensation).

Also, triplets aren’t necessarily evil. And most horses don’t behave like the night mare. But there are, of course, exceptions.

Prologue

The house sat in the center of two gently rising hills, looking like a jewel on a beautiful woman’s bosom. It was, in fact, the color of crushed rubies; the shutters were black. It was a two-bedroom in the Cape Cod style, two stories, one and a half bath, with an assumable mortgage at a fixed rate; the heater and central air were both up to code.

Inside, the walls were the bland color of good cream; the floors were oak. There was a dishwasher, but no garbage disposal. The house was built in 1870, and so was sorely lacking in closet space. Still, at sixteen hundred square feet, it was of a respectable size; the perfect starter home.

Of course, it was haunted. In 1914, one of the roofers (hired to fix the holes brought by the Big-Ass Hailstorm of the Spring of ’14) fell off and, after dying, had the bad manners to linger. But she was helpful, really; a squeaky door would magically fix itself, the heater, though thirty years old, ran without a hiccup. If her views on the doings of the Mysteria City Council were noisily and frequently expressed, it was a small price to pay for never having to call a handyman.

The backyard went straight back, like an arrow, and the garden sat at the top of the yard like an arrowhead. It had grown over, of course, but could be brought back again; it was the right size for a salsa garden, or perhaps some cutting flowers.

The front yard ran straight up to the road and was small, almost an afterthought. There was no sidewalk; just a paved driveway that led to the small detached garage.

In the front yard was a sign: white, with stark black lettering. It looked like a For Sale sign, but the largest letters read FOR CRYING, and the rest of the sign read:

. . . out loud, think about what you’re doing! This is a weird weird weird town. There’s a reason this house has been on the market going on ten years. Think carefully before you so much as set foot on the lawn.

(It was a large sign.)

Then, in smaller letters, accompanied by a red smiley face: DON’T FORGET TO TAKE A BROCHURE!

The house sat like a jewel, and waited.

One

His first memory was of the moon, a shining, broad black face with the whitest teeth and the darkest eyes beaming down at him. When he checked his medical records years later and did the math, he figured out it would have been his third trip to the hospital; his second broken arm.

Mama Zee, the most sought-after foster mother in the county, had taken him home after signing all the paperwork (her righteous name, according to the most-helpful chart, was Ms. Zahara J. Jones) and put him in the battered wooden crib in her tiny third bedroom. (Willie and Konnie were in the other bedroom, and Jenna slept on the foldout couch in the living room.)

He did not remember the foster father breaking his arm, or the other foster father breaking his other arm, and he did not remember doctors or the hours of pain, but to the end of his days he would remember her smiling face. That, and waiting. It seemed he was always waiting: for a ride, for a class to start, for a job, for a hug, for a friend.

He was just a dumb baby then, and didn’t know what the moon really was, but for a long time that was how he thought of her: Mama Zee, the moon.

In the end, he always came back to her. He loved the moon, but could not stay: for one thing, the noise drove him fucking nuts. Mama Zee always had kids around. There were always toys underfoot; the cupboard was always stuffed with little applesauce containers. Even as a small boy, at four, at six, at nine, he would have to get out, wander about on his own for a while.

After a while, the cops never ever caught him; he was too quick, and too quiet. But he always came back, and after the first two times, when Mama Zee saw that no matter how many times she smacked him with the dish towel or yelled, no matter what she did or how she worried, he would leave, he was compelled to go. But he always came back. And so she didn’t worry. Or, if she did, she never spoke to him about it.

She even gave him a book once (well, she gave him lots of books, many times, but this one he remembered especially) about a kid named Jack who could travel between dimensions; his family called him Traveling Jack. “That’s like you,” she told him, “you just can’t stay in one spot, boyo. And that’s fine.”

Well, no, he thought. I can’t stay here, is what it is. But he didn’t say it out loud. He’d bite off his own fingers before he’d say something so mean to her.

In fact, the entire neighborhood treated Mama Zee as a bomb that might blow up in their faces, because they knew he was quick, and quiet. And strong.

Mama Zee had all the help she needed getting groceries delivered (and because she usually had between three and seven foster kids at any one time, the milk bill alone was staggering), all the extensions needed to pay local vendors, and nobody ever broke in.

Occasionally, on his travels, Someone Bad would take it in their head that he might have something they wanted. It always went badly for Someone Bad and the older he got, the easier it got.

At first he put up with it, because he knew the bloody nose, the black eye, the whatever, would be all better in a day or two, sometimes less, depending on the moon. It was the price you paid for choosing not to sleep under a roof; that, and cold feet.

And then, one day it was like he had a lightning flash, only inside his brain. And the flash was made up of words: Not today, pal. He was nine when he realized he could make a grown man cry. It was shockingly easy.

He wasn’t a bully (Mama Zee would have smacked him half to death with that dish towel), but he’d crunched up quite a few of them.

He wasn’t very good in school—something about sitting still in a classroom reminded him of Mama Zee’s noisy, toy-strewn living room. But he was good at other things.

When he got big—and thanks to Mama Zee’s cooking, he got really big—he found out people would pay to get and keep a bully out of their lives. Pay a lot, sometimes. And sometimes it wasn’t a bully; it was an ex-husband or a mean boss or a bad cop (but really, under their outside skin, they were all bullies). And the older he got, the more they paid him. Almost like if he didn’t do the job, they were afraid he’d do them, so they practically threw money at him.

Of course he wouldn’t; he was still a little nervous about Mama Zee’s dish towel, though he had twelve inches of height and sixty pounds of muscle on her, and she was old; she was fifty-four. But the people didn’t know that, and so they gave him money.

He didn’t know what to do with it; he tried giving it to Mama Zee, but she only took enough to pay off her little house in Revere. He knew better than to talk her into retiring; the moon did not get tired of changing the tides, and Mama Zee loved kids. And she wouldn’t move to a nicer neighborhood. She wouldn’t take a car, either; not that a person needed one in that area.

He paid for Jenna’s college; she was grown now, and still sleeping on the couch. She took it with thanks, and moved out, and Mama Zee didn’t say anything, but he heard her crying later. Only it was the good kind of crying, so he wasn’t sure what to do about that. In the end he did nothing.

Finally, Mama Zee said to him, “You’re grown, boyo. Don’t you want a place of your own?”

He just shrugged; his skin was itchy and he kept looking at the door. The new kid, Bryan, had colic. It was noisier than usual in the small house on Winthrop Avenue.

“Stop that twitching and pay attention to me; you can go soon enough. Don’t you ever think about getting a girl and settling down?”

“No,” he told her, and it was the truth, naturally. He couldn’t imagine lying to her. Like he couldn’t imagine taking a woman for his own, and cursing her as he was cursed. He would never.

That made her look sad, for some reason, and she slammed a cup of applesauce in front of him. She felt better when he ate.

He hated applesauce.

He got a spoon and started eating.

“You should take some of that money and buy a house of your own,” she finally said. She watched him eat every bite of the pulped fruit. “Your own house, where it can be as quiet as you want it. And then, maybe . . . the rest will come.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Because—I’ve been thinking about this a lot, boyo, and you can’t be the only one. The only one in the whole entire world. Right? You can’t.”

He shrugged.

“Just because you never ran across another werewolf,” she added sharply, as if he had contradicted her, “doesn’t mean there aren’t any others out there. If only your birth parents—”

She stopped talking, and he was glad. He had never known them, but he didn’t like them. They had been killed in a car accident, and left him.

“You need to go,” she added, nicer. “Go and find someone like you, maybe a whole bunch of people like you. Not that there’s anyone exactly like you, boy.” She looked at him closely. “No, you’re one of a kind.”

He grunted.

Mama Zee got up, opened the fridge, unwrapped a raw hamburger, put it on a clean plate, and handed it to him. “Thank you for eating the sauce. I don’t think you—”

“Get enough fruit and vegetables in my diet,” he finished for her. He used the same spoon to wolf down the raw meat.

“Don’t be smart, boyo. You gonna do what I said?”

“Sure,” he replied.

Two

Cole Jones stared at the small red house, then looked back down at the map of Colorado folded in his hand, then back up at the house.

Mysteria.

Specifically, 232 Roselawn Lane, Mysteria, mail code 678. No city, county, or state.

He had literally followed his nose here; for that matter, he wasn’t entirely sure where here was. Certainly, the small town hadn’t been on any map. Small, charming, and quiet, he had found it mesmerizing and interesting. And the smells! The fields smelled like newly mown hay (a good trick in autumn), the main street smelled like fresh pie, shit, even the town dump hadn’t been bad. Just interesting.

And it was so quiet. The little red house sat alone on the lane, and there wasn’t a crying baby for miles—downtown Mysteria was almost five miles away. A true country house. He had assumed, being city born (well, city raised) that he wouldn’t like the country, but the quiet seemed to him like the most marvelous thing.

There was, in fact, only one house for sale, and he was looking at it. He had read the puzzling yard sign three times, and almost smiled. It didn’t frighten him; it made him want to sprint to the bank and throw all his money at the first teller he could sniff out.

And speaking of sniffing, he could smell the small car seconds before he heard it. And in another minute, there was the groan of poorly maintained brakes, a door slamming, and he turned to see a short, chubby brunette with a nipped-in waist, wonderful deep breasts, and sweetly plump thighs

(ummmm)

hurrying toward him.

“I’m sorry,” she called to him in the flat accent of a Midwesterner, probably upper North Dakota or Minnesota, “have you been waiting long?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She appeared to mull that one over for a moment, then said, blinking, “I’ll be glad to take you inside for a tour.”

Her eyes were the exact color of oak leaves, greenish brown, and large. Her brows were a shade darker than her hair, almost black. She was very pale, like a marshmallow. A juicy, gorgeous, mouthwatering marshmallow. He was almost knocked over by the—by the intensity of her. It was like she was more there than other people. He had never smelled anything like it.

“That’s fine,” he said, trying not to be overtly sniffing. Maybe she’d think he had a cold. Or was hooked on coke. That would be great!

“What’s fine?”

Juicy and intense, but not the sharpest claw in the pad. “A tour. But you don’t have to. I’ll take it.”

“You what?”

She was staring at him, but that was fine; he was used to it. It used to make him mad when he was younger, to have someone gape right into his eyes, challenging, gawking—it always made him feel like hitting, or biting. But he didn’t mind anymore; he figured he’d outgrown his youthful temper. He was old, twenty-seven.

“I have a cashier’s check,” he added helpfully.

“Er, what? I mean, great. The down payment—”

“For the asking price.” He pulled out the piece of paper and tried to hand it to her, but her arms were frozen at her sides and she was opening and closing her

(red-lipped, rosy, like berries, like ripe berries)

mouth like a bass.

She looked down at herself, and he looked, too. A green suit, a white blouse. No stockings. Black pumps. Then she looked around, as if wondering if what was happening was actually happening. Finally, she said, “Er, yes. Ah, look, Mr. Jones, I have to tell you, this—Mysteria, I mean—this isn’t—I mean, it’s a great town, the greatest town in the world, but—but it’s—I mean, it’s—” She took another look at him, audibly gulped, then smiled. A real smile, one that made her eyes crinkle at the corners and a dimple pop up in her left cheek. He couldn’t help it; he smiled back.

“On second thought,” she said, “I think you’ll fit right in here.”

“No,” he said, “but I like the house anyway.”

“I’m Charlene Houtenan.”

“I know,” he said, and shook her hand, and ignored the impulse to nibble on her knuckles and tell her she smelled like wet clover.

Three

“. . . And if you’ll sign here . . . and here . . . and here . . .”

He signed patiently: Cole Jones. Cole Jones. CJ. CJ.

“. . . and we’ve got the cashier’s check, and these are your copies—I must say, this is the fastest closing I’ve ever done, and I’ve been a Realtor since—for a long time.”

He ate more pie, and tucked the wad of paperwork into the folder she offered him, then dropped it on the seat beside him. They were doing the closing at Pot’s on the main drag in Mysteria. He was glad. The pie was amazing.

“And I guess that’s it.” Charlene was resting her small chin on her hands and staring at him as he wolfed down his third piece. “Congratulations, Mr. Jones.”

“Cole,” he told her again.

“Right. And I’m Char.”

“Right.”

“Do you know what her secret is?” she almost whispered.

“No.”

“She puts seaweed in the crust.”

“Umm.”

“And she also sells them to go,” Charlene added, “in case you wanted, you know, not to worry about fixing supper tonight.”

Pot “My full name is too hard to pronounce” herself came up to their table. She was awesomely tall, the tallest woman he had ever seen, and too thin. He could see her skull beneath her face; see the bones stretching through on her limbs. Her hair was the greenish color blondes got when they spent the summer in the pool. Her eyes were the oddest green he had ever seen on a person, the color of the Boston harbor on a good day. Her eyebrows were so light and fine, they nearly disappeared into her face.

“Fourths?” she asked, drumming abnormally long fingers on their table. Her voice was low and slurring. Her nose was a blade.

“No. But I’d like two more chicken pies to go.”

She placed two blue pie boxes, tied neatly with white string, on their table, then put the check on top of the box.

“Thanks, Pot. I’ve got it,” Charlene said quickly, snatching the check before Cole could put down his fork. Pot nodded and made a graceful exit.

“You don’t have to,” he said, chewing. If Mama Zee could see him talking with his mouth full, there’d be hell to pay. “I have money.”

“Ha! You’re a homeowner; you’re poor now.”

“Okay.”

The café door opened and three girls trooped in and, though he knew it was rude, he stared a little. He had never seen identical triplets before; they were like preteen Barbies: all blonde hair, perfect teeth, and tans. They were identically dressed in khaki clam diggers, red shirts, and white flip-flops, as if it was August instead of September. As one, they looked at him with their blue, blue eyes, then marched up to the counter where there was a pickup order waiting.

Over the muted hum of voices, he heard one of them ask, “Who is that?”

“Someone too old for you,” Pot replied.

“Oh, yuck,” the second one said. “Pot, that’s gross.”

“New guy?” the third one asked.

“Obviously,” Pot said, popping open the cash register and dropping the triplets’ money into the drawer.

“Touch-ee! What’s wrong, Pot, red tide getting you down?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Good-bye, girls.”

“Nice,” the first one said.

“So rude!” the second one said.

“One day we’ll learn to cook as good as you,” the third one threatened, “and then you’ll be out of business.”

Pot laughed at them, the sound like a spring trickling through the woods.

“You’ll rue the day,” the first one said mildly, trotting out behind her sisters.

“Those were the Desdaine triplets,” Charlene said as the door whooshed closed behind them. She was grinning a little. “You should be nice to them; when they take over the world, they might spare your life.”

“Umm,” he said, scraping the plate. Seaweed in the crust? Whatever was in the crust, it was buttery, flaky, tangy and salty and mouthwatering. The chicken was tender and juicy, the vegetables perfectly cooked.

He could hardly wait to get to his new house and reheat another one. Assuming he had a microwave. Or a kitchen. Maybe he should have had the home inspected after all....

“Excuse me,” Charlene said as she got up to pay the bill. Another woman was manning the cash register, and Pot glided up to his table. She smiled at him and he saw her teeth were small, like pearls, and pointed, like thorns.

“Hello,” he said politely.

“Mr. Cole.”

“Will you come over to my house tonight?” he asked.

“Indeed. Eleven o’clock?”

“Yes. It’s—”

“I know which one it is,” she said, then glided past Charlene, who was looking at him with not a little hurt in her gaze. It puzzled him, and as usual, when he didn’t know what to do, he did nothing.

Four

He did have a kitchen. Spotless, with the longest counters he’d ever seen, and the smallest microwave. A chicken pie just fit.

He prowled around the house, extremely satisfied, and made a mental note to get the computer and land lines hooked up in the morning. He had already called Mama Zee to tell her he had moved, er, somewhere, and was now a homeowner full of pie. She had been surprised, but delighted, puzzled over his address, but determined to send him a case of applesauce as a housewarming present. He would rather have a case of manure, but of course didn’t tell her that.

When the ghost spoke, he was so startled he nearly fell down the stairs. He’d had no warning; it wasn’t like she had a scent.

“Just so you know, your name on the deed doesn’t mean this is your house.”

“That’s exactly what it means,” he replied, recovering.

“Okay, well, what I meant was, it doesn’t mean you belong.”

“I’ve never belonged anywhere.”

The ghost yawned. “How sad, boo-hoo.”

He was looking out windows, in closets, smelling corners, and peeking into bathrooms. “Where are you?”

“Mind your own business, homeowner.”

“Char told me a roofer was killed working on the house.”

“So?”

“So, what do you want?”

There was a long, puzzled silence; Cole had the sense no one had asked her that before. “I guess I want what anybody wants: to putter around in my own house, to be left alone.”

“Okay.”

“Chatty, aren’t we?”

“Um. What’s your name?”

“Also none of your business.”

“But we’re roommates. You probably know my name.”

“It’s Rae, all right? And don’t go thinking we can get all chummy and such. You’re still green, homeowner, talk to me when you’ve been in this town for a decade or so.”

“Okay.”

“And no women coming and going at all hours of the night, either!”

“Pot is coming at eleven.”

“Goddammit!” the ghost cursed, then sulked and wouldn’t talk to him anymore, which was a relief.

Pot was early and, interestingly, did not knock. Just walked right in. She smiled like a shark when she saw the two empty pie plates on his counter.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello.”

He cast about; what was polite? What did normal people say? “Thanks for coming.”

“I couldn’t resist. I’m sorry to be so early, but I was very anxious to see what was on your agenda.”

Right. Time to get to it. He appreciated her directness; it was a trait he rarely ran across. “I’m different,” he said, “like you.”

“Not like me.”

“Okay.”

“I’m a river nymph,” she explained patiently, “you’re a werewolf.”

“I don’t know what that is,” he admitted, as startled as when the ghost had first spoken.

“Which one?” She opened his fridge, sighed happily when she saw it was full of food and drink, and helped herself to a bottle of water.

“A river nymph.”

She drained the bottle in two gulps, something he had not thought physically possible. “Couldn’t you tell by looking at me? By my scent?”

“You smell like the deep end of the pool,” he told her.

She grabbed another bottle, popped the top, chugged it down. “Yes, indeed. There are two rivers that run parallel to Mysteria—”

“There are?” He was startled; he’d only seen one on his way in.

She grinned again, showing her pointy teeth—good, he imagined, for eating raw fish. “You have to really be looking to find the other one. Or, I have to be inclined to let you see it. Never mind, it’s not the point. Potameides Naiad, that’s me, and have you noticed how dry it is in here?”

“Potameides is much nicer than Pot,” he told her.

“I don’t care,” she told him, working on bottle number three, “and I doubt you do, either.”

“Why do you make pies and run around in a hot kitchen all day?”

“Mysteria is my home; in that small way, I contribute to the community.”

“But why are you here?”

“I had planned to ask you the same thing. This is my home now, that’s why.” She looked at her floor, and her long, greenish blonde hair fell forward, obscuring her face. “I saw you and thought—maybe—we were kindred spirits.”

“Are you looking for others like you, too?” Perhaps they would team up. They’d have to stick to the coast, of course, and he would be sorry to see his red house go, not to mention Charlene, but the entire reason he was even here was to—

“No. I know where my people are; they can come to me whenever they wish. I was banished.”

“Banished from the river, Pot?”

“From a particular river, so I came here.” She lifted her head and stared at him defiantly; he felt like he might slip and drown in her glare. “And it’s Queen Potameides, werewolf.”

“Sorry.” A displaced queen! Who was a river nymph, no less. Evil triplets. Gorgeous Realtors with heart-shaped butts. And it was only his first day. “Maybe your people will relent, soon.”

She laughed without humor. “I doubt it, Mr. Jones. I’ve been here for over a hundred years. Not long for my people, but long to be away from friends.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your problem. Why were you sent away? That’s really what I must know. Particularly if your people are having the same, ah—difficulties—as mine.”

“Oh. I wasn’t sent away.” He didn’t think. “I was raised by ordinary humans.” If Mama Zee had heard him refer to her as ordinary . . . he shuddered, then went on. “I never knew my birth family.”

“And you’re a werewolf? But that’s terrible!” Queen Potameides seemed genuinely distressed, which was pleasant, as she’d just met him. “Did the humans ever lock you up, or—”

“No. My foster mother understood. She’s the one who made me go away. In a nice way,” he added, since the river queen looked alarmed again. “To find others like me.”

“Oh. Well, there’s a werewolf in town—”

“There is? Where?” He looked around as if the creature was hiding in his kitchen.

“His name’s Justin, but calm down, he’s actually out of town right now. But he could answer your questions when he returns, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Queen Potameides.”

She smiled shyly. “I am pleased you don’t share my particular woe. When you find your people, will you leave?”

Er. Uh. Good question. Back in Revere, he had assumed Mysteria would be a stepping-stone. Now he wasn’t so sure. He liked the house. He liked Charlene. He loved the pies. He liked the river goddess. In one day, he’d felt more at home, more real, than in his entire childhood in Massachusetts.

Maybe he could commute to the werewolves. Maybe they wouldn’t insist on his living with them. Maybe—

“Hey, Pot, looks like you’re done. Don’t let the door hit you in your damp ass on the way out.”

“Shush, Rae,” the queen said sternly, and the ghost hushed. “You don’t have to put up with that one if you don’t want,” she added to Cole. “There’s an exorcist in town who could get rid of her like that.” She snapped her fingers, which squished; the ends were wrinkled and damp, as if she’d been swimming all day instead of baking.

“Ha!” the ghost crowed. “He wishes. He’s been trying to exorcise me for years.”

“It’s true,” the queen added in a low voice. “His heart really isn’t in it. He knew Rae in life, you see.”

“Also,” Rae summed up, “he couldn’t exorcise a ghost if you threw them in a blender together.”

“You’re mistaking compassion for weakness,” the queen said. “Again.”

“Has anyone ever told you, you smell like wet dog?”

“You dare speak to me that way again, dead thing, and I’ll . . .”

“Drip through me? Make water stains on the floor? Hock a big ole salty loogey into one of your pies, which I can’t eat anyway, so why would I give a crap?”

“Ladies, ladies. Don’t fight. It’s all right,” Cole said, wondering what he would do if they did fight. Try to stop them? Leave? Distract the queen by filling the bathtub? “It’s all right,” he said again.

“How?” the queen demanded. “How is it all right?”

“She—the, you know—” He gestured vaguely to the air.

“The ghost, you idiot,” the air snapped back.

“She doesn’t make any trouble,” he finished unconvincingly.

The queen sighed. “That’s what they all say.”

“Squirt it out your ear, Potty.”

“Thank you,” she replied with the dignity of a centuries-old royal line, “for your hospitality, Mr. Jones. No need to see me out.”

Fortified with Aquafina, the queen left, every step a squish. Cole took a minute to mop up the tracks, feeling oddly cheerful. There was a werewolf in town (well, would be soon), he had a roommate who never gave him any trouble (so far . . . and not too much) and didn’t eat baby food (probably) or get colic (again, probably), the queen could cook, and the realtor had a terrific body. It was like a smorgasbord of thought: where to go, what to do, what to think about first?

Exhausted, he went to bed.

Five

The next morning, after breakfast at the café, he asked where Charlene was.

“The range,” one of the triplets told him. They were sitting across from him in his booth, watching with amazement while he ate. He was a little amazed himself at their interest.

And his own, in Charlene. He’d stopped by her small Realtor’s office (on the outside, it looked like a small, weather-beaten Cape Cod, though they weren’t on Cape Cod . . . right?) on the way to breakfast, but it was locked, with a Closed sign hanging in the window. Well, after her commission from yesterday, she could probably afford to take a day off. And he was used to eating alone.

Not that he was eating alone this morning. “The range?” he repeated, mopping up the juice from his blueberry pie with the crust from his apple pie.

“The shooting range. East end of town. Where do you put it all?”

“I run it off.”

“Oh,” the second triplet said. They were again disconcertingly dressed alike, this time in felony schoolgirl outfits of red plaid skirts, white blouses, white knee socks, and black loafers. If they didn’t smell so strongly of immature female, he might have been in trouble. As it was, he pitied their parents: it would be hard to keep the boys away. “You know, there are other places to eat in town.”

“Yes. Where is the range?”

“We’ll show you.”

“That’s all right, Withering. Just give me directions.”

“I’m Withering,” the third one pouted, kicking one of her long legs. “That’s Derisive.”

“No, it’s not.”

“How do you know? We got up and switched around when you were ordering your lunch delivery.”

He shrugged. He had no intention of explaining to the preteens that they had distinct smells, and slightly alarming ones: cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. Sharp smells, and not comforting in females. He preferred his women to smell like flowers, grass, or—

“Charlene.”

“What?” Scornful asked.

“Where is she?”

“We really will show you—no tricks,” Withering promised.

“But you have to tell us something,” Derisive added.

“Your deep dark—”

“I’m a werewolf,” he said, already bored with their preteen weirdness. He hadn’t liked seventh-graders when he was one.

“That’s it? Just like that? ‘I’m a werewolf.’”

“It’s not a secret,” he explained.

“It’s not?” the triplets chimed. “We have all kinds of secrets,” Derisive added. “You’d lose your hair just thinking about them.”

“It’s not a secret,” he reminded them. “It’s why I’m here. To find more of my own kind.”

“Well, that’s admirable and all, but you probably shouldn’t just blurt it out to anybody you see.”

“Not even here?”

“Wellllllll . . .” The sisters looked at each other. “Maybe here is okay. Goddess knows it’s a weird place. But still, if we didn’t have to drag it out of you, or trick you . . .”

“We couldn’t trick him,” Scornful said.

“Yes, you could,” he corrected. “I’m not very smart.”

“About that,” Withering said, looking at him thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t be so sure. You’re staying for a while, Mr. Cole? You bought Rae’s house?”

“It’s my house.”

“Right,” Scornful said.

“Better run that one by Rae,” Withering added.

“Or just run,” Scornful suggested.

“Welcome to Mysteria,” her sisters finished in eerie unison.

Six

He found Charlene at a small outdoor shooting range on the east end of town. The triplets had, at the last second, disdained to accompany him, instead giving him a map that disappeared as soon as he saw the range with his own eyes. Disappeared like a trick: poof. He spent five minutes trying to find it in his car before giving up. He wasn’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.

Not that he had needed it; the smell of gunpowder and spent casings was very strong on this end of town; he would eventually have stumbled across it himself. Still, it was good to know the triplets could be helpful when they wished.

He had seen silver slices of the mysterious second river on the road out of town, but every time he got close, it turned out to be a mirage. He could smell water, but it could have been from the river on the other side of town.

Meanwhile, Charlene was gamely plugging away at a series of turkey-shaped silhouettes about fifteen feet away from where she was standing. The silhouettes were made of iron, and he could hear the bullets plinking and whining off of them, and smell the stench of gunpowder. It was so bad he almost didn’t go up to her, but the fact that she overwhelmed even those bad smells decided him. Also, the sight of her butt in denim.

He found a spare set of earphones at the shooter’s table, slipped them on, then said, between her shots, “Shouldn’t you be a little farther away?”

She didn’t turn around, just kept banging away in the general direction of the targets. The gun in her hand was so big she could barely hold it upright. It made him feel slightly ill to look at it. Hunting with lead and pieces of metal seemed kind of . . . he wasn’t sure. Cheating? If you couldn’t bring someone down with your hands and feet and teeth, it—

“Don’t you have a hot date with Pot?”

“No.”

She slipped the earphones off her ears, popped the cylinder on the revolver, set it on the small, waist-high stand, and turned to face him. “And you better watch out for the triplets. They could get a guy like you in big trouble.”

“Thank you for the advice.”

“Is it true?”

He blinked. “Is what true?”

“That you’re a werewolf?”

“Sure.”

“Is Pot helping you—you know—find others of your kind?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Interestingly, her scent went from sharp suspicion to sweet surprise—honey over oatmeal. It made for a pleasant change from the gunpowder. “Well, maybe I can help you. I’ve, uh, had some experience in this stuff.”

“Selling houses to werewolves?”

“No, no. I’m a . . .” She paused dramatically, then rushed out with, “I’m a vampire slayer!”

“But I’m not a vampire,” he said mildly.

“That’s okay, I’m not really a slayer. I’m more like a vampire beater-upper. I don’t like killing them. Hey, the undead are people, too.”

She was lying. But he was so used to it—people lying like they breathed—that it wasn’t especially alarming. He assumed that she was stressed and tense about her job(s), and couldn’t tell him the full truth about her night business. But a vampire beater-upper might be handy, if she could—

“I’ve run into lots of werewolves,” she assured him. “I bet I could help you find some of your kind.”

“One of my kind lives in this town,” he reminded her.

“Right, right. But I meant, your herd. Find your herd.”

“Oh.” He almost smiled at her, and didn’t at the last minute. His smile made people afraid. “That would be good.”

“Yes, indeed, I’ve seen more creatures of the night than you can shake a stick at,” she continued, slipping her tinted shooting glasses off her face. And now she was telling the whole truth . . . probably a truth anyone living in Mysteria could tell. “We’ll get you hooked up.”

“I’d like to get hooked up,” he said, and this time he did smile. Oddly, she wasn’t afraid; instead, she blushed prettily, and he wondered just how important finding the others really was.

Seven

“The first thing we ought to do,” Charlene was telling him after they had parked in front of a small house north of Main Street, “is leave Justin a note.”

“A note?”

“I told you, I’m pretty sure he’d be helpful to you, but he’s out of town right now.”

“For a vampire slayer—”

“Vampire beater-upper.”

“—you’re not very aggressive.”

“I’m a little bit of a pacifist,” she admitted, scribbling something on a piece of stationery and getting out to slip it into the mailbox.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Uh . . . we wait until Justin reads his note?”

“Isn’t there anything else we could do? Isn’t there an underground contact you can call, or e-mail?”

“Oh, sure, loads of them. Tons. But right now, they’re all sleeping. See?” She pointed to the sun, fat on the horizon and tinting the clouds orange. He couldn’t believe it was almost evening. They’d been driving around and chatting all day as she gave him a tour of his new town. “Everybody’s resting up for their nightly battle against the scourges of the underworld.”

“Oh.”

“So, why don’t you come over to my house for supper? I stuck a roast in the Crock-Pot this morning; there’ll be plenty.”

“Oh.” He thought that one over. If he went to her house, there would be food, and her company, and that would be pleasurable. But he would want to—

“I guess you don’t want to,” she said, and blood had rushed to her face again, that charming blush.

“I do want to,” he assured her. “I’m just not sure I’d want to leave.”

“Well,” she said, blushing harder and starting the car, “who said you’d have to leave?”

Pot roast was awkward, but delicious. He couldn’t get what she’d said out of his mind. She was so there it was driving him crazy; he wanted to be done with potatoes and carrots and meat and just get her on the floor and fuck her until they were both slick with sweat and out of breath.

But you didn’t just do that. He was pretty sure. There were women in his old neighborhood, of course, but nobody like Charlene. What was the protocol? Goddammit!

He was never more aware of being a werewolf than when he wanted to get laid. Sex made the difference between species yawn like a chasm, a bottomless one. Because he knew when the woman wanted to do it, but she rarely came out and said it.

So he had to sit there (at the movies, at dinner, at a car show, whatever) and pretend he couldn’t smell her lust. And she pretended she wasn’t giving off enough hormones to make him feel like he was losing his mind. The whole thing made his balls hurt.

Charlene wanted him. He wanted her. She’d joked about him spending the night. She’d made him supper. She was helping him find his—what was the term? Herd. His herd. And she’d been helpful in a hundred other ways, too, professionally and personally.

So—what? Jump on her? Ask for seconds? Get a refill on his milk glass? Ask her out for the next night and go home and try to sleep with a raging hard-on? (He didn’t know about other werewolves, but masturbation had always seemed to him silly and wasteful.) What?

“Do you want a refill?”

“No,” he snapped.

“Cripes, sorry. Well, why don’t we just get to it, then? But let me clear the dishes first.”

He sat like a lump while she cleaned off the small kitchen table, rinsed dishes, put the milk back in the fridge.

Had he heard her right? Get to it? Get to what? Maybe she had a slide show all prepared, or puppets in the closet, or something. It sure as shit couldn’t be what he was thinking. Nothing in his life had come easy; he didn’t expect things to change now.

He caught another whiff as she went by

(ummmmm)

and then realization hit and he backed up so fast his chair fell over.

“You’re ovulating!” he cried, and it was as much an accusation as “You’re the killer!”

She blinked owlish eyes at him; her pupils were enormous, and ringed in dark green. Nocturnal, a voice in the bottom of his brain told him, a voice that didn’t speak up very often.

“What?” she was asking. “I mean, I am, but how can you tell?”

“Because you smell like peaches in syrup. I was so distracted by all the other smells, I didn’t—no, no!” He backed away from her. “I have to go home now.”

She pouted. Her full lower lip actually poked out and he thought about sucking it into his—“But I wanted you to spend the night.”

“No way. Not if there’s a chance you’ll get pregnant.”

She blinked again, slowly. “But I’m on the Pill.”

“You’re lying.” It would only occur to him later to wonder why she had lied about such a thing.

“Well.” That seemed to give her pause. “You could wear a condom.”

“No.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those guys.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but they don’t work,” he explained, as patiently as he could while climbing over the coffee table to stay away from her. “I guess latex doesn’t stop werewolf sperm.”

“Oh.” Weirdly (what the hell was going on?) she seemed pleased at the idea. “I guess you won’t believe me if I tell you I’ve got a diaphragm in the bathroom.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“But we haven’t had dessert!” she wailed, gesturing to the dishes of fresh pie.

And I plan on keeping it that way.

Eight

Annoyingly, she could drive as fast as he could run, or almost, because he had barely slammed and locked his front door when she was hammering on it.

“Cole! Come on, don’t be a baby. Let me in and we’ll talk about this!”

“No!” he yelled back, resting against his front door. If he let her in, they were going to mate. If you put your hand in the fire you got burned, if you jumped into mud you got dirty, and if an ovulating female got too close to a werewolf, he got laid. They both did.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“I don’t want a baby!”

“Then stop acting like one!”

Argh. Faulty human hearing. “I didn’t say I wasn’t acting like one, I said I didn’t want one.”

“But why don’t you?”

“Because I don’t even know you!” he lied. Of all the reasons not to mate with a healthy, gorgeous, sweetly rounded, helpful, intelligent female, not “knowing” her was the least of it. “Now get back into your car and go away!”

“You know, the full moon’s over seven days away,” she said. “I looked it up. It’s not like you’re going to burst into hair right this second.”

“It’s four days away,” he corrected her. “Get lost.”

“Are we really going to have a conversation like this through your door?”

“Not if you get lost.”

She was silent. Thank God! He slumped to the floor, still throbbing, still wanting her. But he could never do that to any woman—curse her with a half man/half beast, a child who didn’t know, and a father who couldn’t help—never mind someone like Charlene. He wouldn’t go near her while she was ovulating. In fact, he was starting to think it was a good idea to stay away from her altogether.

The thought made his heart hurt, actually cramp like when you swam too long and your legs burned. He ignored it; his personal feelings about someone he barely knew—

(yes, that’s right, you don’t even know her)

(is that the human in you, or the werewolf? maybe werewolves make up their minds a little quicker)

He slapped his hands over his eyes and shook his head. How would he know? Anyway, it was a perfect example of why he shouldn’t knock Charlene up. What if his son or daughter wanted to know these things in twenty years?

What the hell could he tell him or her? “Sorry, I was supposed to find out but I got your mom pregnant and settled in Mysteria instead, and never got around to finding my people. Well, good luck and all.”

Never.

He could hear Charlene rustling around the side of his house, doubtless looking for a way to get in. Silly bunny; she had no chance. He wished she would give up and break a window. Argh! He meant give up and go home, yeah, go home, that’s what he wanted.

He heard a double click, and instantly realized what had happened. As Char stepped through the back door, he howled, “Rae!”

“What?” the ghost asked petulantly. “Nobody’s gotten any in this place for decades. I think you should go for it.”

“I had no interest in it before—”

“So—what? That’s an electric drill in your pants?”

“—and I’m sure not doing it if you’re going to watch!”

“Oh, calm down, princess. After all these years, I’ve decided sex is fundamentally boring, at least from a voyeur’s point of view. I’ll be in the basement. Did you know the tap’s been leaking since last night?”

“Go fuck yourself, Rae!”

No answer. Just as well. Somewhere, Mama Zee could probably sense he had been swearing, not to mention rude to a lady. A dead lady, but still.

Charlene was stamping down the hall toward him, her breasts jiggling with every stamp. He tried to look at her face for about a second, immediately gave up the battle, and turned to scrabble at the locked door. His fingers were suddenly too big, the lock the size of a pin head.

If the neighborhood could see him now, the neighborhood enforcer scrambling to escape from a woman who barely came up to his chin . . .

Her arms were around him and she was raining kisses on the back of his neck. He groaned and fought the door as if it was a living thing, but it stubbornly resisted him.

“Come on,” she said, and there was a note of sad urgency in her voice. “I need you. In more ways than you can ever imagine.”

“We can’t,” he groaned. He stopped clawing at the door, and stood still in her arms, leaning his sweaty forehead on the (annoyingly closed) door.

“We have to. I have to.”

“I can’t do it to you.”

“I think,” she whispered, reaching around and cupping his jeans where the zipper came together, “you can.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

“That’s okay,” she said, turning him around. He kissed her, sucked on her full lower lip, even nipped her lightly. She just wriggled closer. “Neither do you.”

Nine

“God, God . . .”

“That’s funny, that’s just what I was saying,” she teased. They were resting on the living room floor, clothes strewn everywhere, and she had slid a chubby thigh over his legs and was stroking his ribs. “Repeatedly. Loudly.”

It had been, to put it mildly, a hectic half hour. Kissing and sucking and stroking and sliding . . . and then they had really gotten down to business. She had been everything he imagined: athletic and indefatigable, with the lips of a devil and the hands of an angel. He wanted to go again. He would go again. Except . . .

“What if you’re pregnant?” he asked anxiously.

“Boy, you are really harshing my buzz. No afterglow at all, huh? No?” She saw he was leaning over her propped up on an elbow in a pose of tense waiting, and answered him, obviously quite puzzled. “Cole, what is the big deal? I told you I was on the Pill.”

“Yes, but that was a lie.”

She pressed her lips together. “And the pitiful remnants of the afterglow . . . gone. Yes, okay, it was a lie. I admit, I wanted to get you into bed. Forgot about that damn nose of yours for two seconds. But I still don’t understand what the big deal is. I wouldn’t tie you down—what year do you think this is? What town, for that matter?”

“But the baby—”

“Ah, the baby.” She said it with such admiration and longing, he was a little afraid of her.

“What if it’s—like me?”

She smiled. “What if it is?”

He got up, starting putting his clothes on. “You’re not getting this at all.”

“Obviously. So explain it to me.”

“I could never make you understand. Now get out.” He paused. “Please.”

“Okay, okay.” She slipped into her blouse, found her underpants wadded up in a corner, stepped into them. “Your postcoital grumpiness has been duly noted.”

“So has your total indifference toward the consequences of intimate relations.”

“What are you, a woman now? And nobody held a gun to your head, I might add. And I might not be pregnant, you know. Maybe you’re not the big ole stud you think you are. How about that?”

“I am, though,” he said gloomily, holding the door open for her. She hopped out, half-dressed and trying to slip into her sneakers.

“Don’t call me!” she yelled as he shut the door.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered.

It was only after she left that he remembered she was supposed to take him around to other supernatural creatures, try to track down his herd.

His lifelong dream, his goal, and it had all flown out of his head right about the time he ripped off her bra. Fucking great. Reason #238 to stay the hell away.

Ten

The child—not a child anymore, a woman in her thirties—had dark hair, long strong legs, and Charlene’s owlish eyes. “Anything?” she was asking him, keeping well away from him, as was her habit. “You can’t tell me anything?”

“I’m sorry.” His voice surprised him; it was old, cracked. “I came here and met your mother and that was the end of it.”

“But what about our people?”

He shrugged, then coughed an old man’s cough. Though they were sitting on the porch of his beloved red house, the paint had long faded; now it was his beloved pink house. Many of the windows were broken, but he was too indifferent to fix them—he didn’t feel much in the way of cold, anyway.

Charlene, of course, was years dead. It was just him and the whelp, a woman who avoided him—lived in Reno, of all places—unless she needed something.

“What about my grandparents?”

“Dead.” The black mare was standing patiently on the porch next to his rocking chair and he reached out a wrinkled hand and stroked her velvety nose. “They’re all dead.”

“But these—these things happen to me all the time, things I can’t control.”

“I know.”

“And I’m stronger than everybody. And faster. Everyone else seems like a clumsy—I don’t know—it’s like they’re monkeys or something. I don’t really feel like I belong with them.”

“I know.”

“I can’t marry one of them.”

He yawned. “Then don’t.”

The mare nickered into his palm and he saw the For Sale sign was up again in his yard, facing the house instead of the road, and this time it read DEATH LIVES HERE.

“Dad, you have to help me.”

“I can’t.”

“Dad.”

“Sorry.” The sign changed while he watched: HA. HA. HA.

“But who am I?” the woman asked as she faded from sight, like a ghost.

“I don’t know,” he told her fading figure. “I never knew myself, either.”

The mare nickered again, almost like laughing. The sign now read: TOO BAD, SO SAD, LIE DOWN AND BE BAD.

“Gosh,” Rae’s voice said from behind him. “Don’t you think you should wake up now? This is a doozy of a nightmare. I mean, blech.”

He blinked and coughed his dry old man cough again. His hands were wrinkled claws. He looked at the horse, standing so patiently by his chair.

“Shoo!” Rae said. “Get lost! Go scare somebody else, you creepy nag!”

Startled, the horse clopped down the steps and galloped off.

And he woke up in the middle of a sweaty bed. His hands were normal. He was still young. It had all been a—

“Fucking night mares, they’re always causing trouble,” Rae said from nowhere, and was that a note of sympathy in her voice? “It was just a bad dream, Cole.”

Or a vision of things to come. He leaped out of bed, intent on finding Charlene. He’d been avoiding her for three days, but he had to warn her. Make her understand. And if she didn’t understand, he—he didn’t know.

But . . . like she said, maybe she wasn’t pregnant. Maybe the situation would be salvaged. He would have to leave Mysteria, but the alternative was worse. He had no animosity toward the night mare; she had shown him a future he wanted no part of, a future he needed reminding of, and given him time to fix things.

“I’ve got to see her,” he told Rae, striding toward the door.

“Good plan, Cole. May I suggest clothes? Or at least boxers?”

“Oh. Right. Thanks again.”

“I must say, you’re the most interesting roomie I’ve ever had. Everyone else usually moves out by now.”

“Can we talk about this later, please?”

“Oh, fine, ignore the ghost, see if I care. It’s not like I have feelings or anything!” That last was almost shouted as he slammed the door on his way out. He made a mental note to make it up to her—how, exactly, does one make it up to a ghost?

A problem for later. Right now: Charlene.

Eleven

He bounded up the steps to her house and, before his fist could land on the door, it opened and he fell through the doorway.

“For a werewolf,” she observed, looking down at him, “you’re remarkably clumsy.”

“Buh,” he replied, because she was wearing a Vikings jersey and nothing else. He had never had much interest in organized sports, but he had a sudden urge to watch every Vikings game ever televised.

“You do not,” she observed, “look well. Everything all right?”

He climbed to his feet. “Sorry about barging in on you like that.” A lie, but he had to start somewhere.

“You didn’t really barge,” she pointed out, walking toward the kitchen, big hips rolling sweetly beneath the purple and white. “I heard you jogging down the lane—don’t you ever drive? We live five miles apart, you know. Then, zip! Like the Marathon Man. Is it safe? Anyway, I had the door open by the time you came up the walk.”

“Uh-huh.” It all went over his head, and who cared? He had other things to worry about. He followed her, trying not to obviously sniff. “Why are you up so late? Oh, of course. Vampire beater-upper business.”

“Ah. Yes. About that. I’m not.”

“Not pregnant?”

She froze in the midst of pouring a glass of milk for herself. “Now how would I know that already? It’s been, what? Half an hour since we did it?”

“Seventy-six hours.”

She gave him an odd look and he crept closer. He needed a really good whiff of her hair or her neck, skin on skin would be even better. In fact, best of all would be—

“Riiiiight,” she replied. “Anyway, I’m not a vampire beater-upper. I made the whole thing up.”

“The whole thing?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have dealings with the, uh, depraved underworld of the dead?”

She shook her head. He literally didn’t know what to think: his mind was as blank as a broken TV. The enormity of the lie actually distracted him from the other problem. “But—why?”

“Why do you think? I wanted an excuse to be close to you. You picked out the one house for sale and bought it so damn fast, I had to think of something else. Something you wanted. The truth is, I wouldn’t know a vampire if he came up and slapped me in the face.”

“You’re pretty close to that now,” he said, getting pissed.

“Oh, Cole, stop it. You’d suck up your own barf before you’d hit a woman. And I’m sorry to sound like such a bitch.”

Her switches in temperament were dazzling. “What?” he managed.

“Well, it was a crummy thing to do. I’ve been just sick about it and I wanted to—you know. Get all the cards on the table, as the saying goes.”

“But—”

“Justin really is a werewolf, though,” she added anxiously, watching his face.

Justin—some strange male werewolf—was the last thing on his mind right now. “I don’t—” he began.

“I’m sure he can help you. I can’t, though. I’ve got other stuff to worry about. Stuff you can’t even dream of, so don’t bug me about it,” she added, going from truthful to contrite to defiant in about ten seconds.

He stared at her. “I knew you were lying about part of it, but I didn’t think you were lying about all of it.”

“How does it work, exactly?” she asked. “It’s not like your nose is a lie detector—I mean, it is, and obviously a pretty good one compared to most people’s equipment, but how could you know exactly what was a lie and what wasn’t?”

The irony of the woman who claimed to be able to help him find his herd asking about something as fundamental as scenting was not lost on him.

“I just assumed you were anxious about your work—I was distracted by, uh, other things.” He looked down at his hands. He should, by rights, be strangling her right now. But he had gone along with the lie, hadn’t he? To get laid. To see those fabulous breasts. To be with her. The most important quest of his life and he hadn’t asked any questions. The neighborhood was right: all muscle, no brains.

Charlene put a chubby hand over his, looked up at him earnestly, and said, oblivious of her milk mustache, “I really did have my reasons. I don’t blame you for being mmpphhh-phargle.”

She mmpphh-phargled because he tugged her into his embrace and buried his nose in her hair. Then he held her at arm’s length and almost shouted, “You’re pregnant!”

“I am?” She looked thrilled. “Noooooo. Really? You can really tell so quickly?”

“Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”

“Yes!” She broke out of his embrace, clasped her arms around herself, and spun around in a tight circle. “I don’t suppose you can tell whether it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Charlene, this is a very serious business. You have to stop—stop dancing around your kitchen and listen to me.”

“It’s more serious than you know,” she reminded him, “but I’m listening.”

He stopped. What was there to say now? Stay or go; it was still the same choice it had always been. Only now infinitely more complicated. He didn’t handle complicated well. He tended, in fact, to handle it by leaving.

“What do you mean, more serious than you know? What’s your agenda?” he asked, stalling for time. Stay or go? Have sex with her or throttle her? No, wait. That wasn’t the question.

“I have to have a baby,” she explained. “Do you want a glass of milk?”

“No. Why?”

“I’m a mial.”

He blinked. The name meant nothing to him. “What?”

“A mial.”

“A meal?”

“Mee-all.”

“Yes, but what is it?”

“What’s a human?” she retorted, scrubbing her fingers through her loose hair and almost glaring up at him. “What’s a werewolf, what’s a warlock, what’s a night mare? What’s a witch, what’s a dryad, what’s a vampire? What’s a fairy, a goblin, a troll? It’s just another creature sharing the planet, that’s all.”

“Yes, but what is it?”

“Oh, right. Uh. That’s a tough one to explain. We’re just—we’re just another species here. There’s about . . . um . . .” Her eyes slitted as she thought. “Maybe half a million of us on the planet?”

He thought of Pot, the triplets, the night mare. “What kind of magic can you do?”

She smiled. “No kind. We’re pretty boring. The only thing interesting about us is our life span—the average mial lives to be about twelve.”

“Twelve?” he almost shrieked. “How old are you now?”

“I’m old,” she said wistfully. “Old to be having a baby. Four next month. Don’t worry,” she added, “it’s not creepy or anything that we did it. We reach maturity at ten months.”

“Wh—but—wh—”

“But Cole, listen!” She grabbed his forearms. “Listen to this! If I have a baby with a human or a human hybrid—like a werewolf or a witch or whatever—he or she will have an enormous life span! Fifty or sixty years, at least! Think of that! That’s practically forever.” For a moment she was looking through him, not at him. “My line could go on for centuries. We can’t get a foothold on this planet because everybody else lives eight times as long, but my baby has a chance—we have a chance—”

Definitely the weirdest day ever. And this from a man who routinely turned into a wolf and ate cows. “You want to take over the planet?”

She looked shocked, as if he had slapped her. “Heck, no. We just want to have a chance. We can’t get a chance, you know, because—but my baby will have a chance. My line, my name.”

“Your baby won’t know anything about anything,” he said, almost shouting. “He’ll be stronger and faster than everybody, live longer than his mother’s people, be alone, die alone. You want that? That’s your big plan?” He realized he was towering over her, roaring, and didn’t care. “Because that’s what you’ve got!”

“He’ll have the world! He’ll be able to do whatever he wants!” she shrilled back. “He’ll have more than ten years to live, and that opens up anything you can think of.”

“You’re cursed. I’ve cursed you. And the baby.”

“We’re blessed,” she snapped back, “and you’re a moron. You’ve given the baby great gifts and you don’t even realize. The life span alone is the birthright of practically everyone else here; my child deserves it, too. And she’ll be strong—able to defend herself and stay safe. And live.”

“You are,” he said carefully, “a crazy person.”

“Yeah, well, it takes one to know one.”

“And I’m not having anything to do with this.”

“Who asked you to?”

“If I walk out this door . . . ,” he threatened.

She threw the empty milk glass at him; he ducked easily. “Bye!”

He walked out that door.

Twelve

“And then you left?”

“Well. Yes. I said . . . you know . . . If I walked out that door I was never coming back, and then—”

“She threw the glass at you and good-bye.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve been in town—what? Less than a week?”

He almost groaned; the full moon was a few hours away. He had actually forgotten about the moon, that’s how crazy Charlene was making him. Forgotten! Christ, what next? Forgetting to eat?

“Are you sure you won’t have a piece?” Pot asked, tapping the box with a bony finger.

“No.”

“It’s goat,” she wheedled.

“I’m not hungry.”

“That,” Rae announced, “is seriously screwed up.”

“Hush, ghost. You’re not helping.”

“Come on, Potty. There isn’t one part of that story that isn’t weird. Charlene’s a mial? Whatever that is. And pregnant? All part of her plan? And she’s dying?”

At Cole’s fresh look of alarm, Pot quickly said, “She’s dying as we all are, Rae. Everyone has a time limit. You’re just too silly to acknowledge yours.”

“She can talk,” Rae said as if Pot wasn’t sitting right there at Cole’s kitchen counter. “Her people live for a zillion years. Poor Charlene! Just think, she could be dead before Bush is out of office.”

“I’m going to puke,” Cole said, and went to the bathroom, and did. When he came back after brushing his teeth, Pot was still there. So, presumably, was Rae.

“What are you going to do?” the queen asked.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Boy oh boy,” Rae observed. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“Enough, Rae. Well, Cole? Are you going to stay here with Charlene, raise the baby? See to its upbringing after Charlene—ah, after? Or leave them and find your people?”

“Door number two,” Rae added, “makes you a gigantic loser.”

“That’s not true,” the queen interrupted. “You have no obligation to her; she admitted she tricked you.”

“Which doesn’t sound like it took much effort on her part.”

“Rae!”

“All I’m saying is, Einstein he’s not.”

“As I was saying,” the queen continued, sending looks of irritation to all corners of the kitchen, “you’re not mates, she has what she needs of you, she has in fact released you from any obligation.”

“Yep, she’s totally fine living a life alone, being a single mom, dying young, and leaving your kid an orphan. Don’t give it another thought.”

Cole leaned over far enough to rest his forehead on the counter. It felt smooth and cool. “Why did you come over?” he asked the Formica.

“Well . . .” The queen paused. “I don’t want you to read anything into this, but—”

His front door was thrown open. “My queen, your kingdom awaits!” several people shouted in unison, which was a good trick.

“—I’m leaving town,” she finished.

Thirteen

“Holy Christ on a cracker with Cheez Whiz,” Rae gasped, while Cole stared at the naiads—he assumed they were naiads—milling around in his living room.

“Forgive us, Queen Potameides,” one of them said, and the group—there were seventeen, severely straining his living room space—went into a deep bow. “We have been from you so long, we could not remain in the front yard a moment longer knowing you were not far away, and so we—”

The queen waved the explanation away, and the guard or whoever it was instantly shut up. “Yes, yes, that’s fine.”

“What’s going on?” Rae demanded.

“Probably the ones loyal to her overthrew the ones not loyal to her,” Cole said. At the queen’s unguarded look of surprise, he added, “Violence I understand.”

“Yes. Ah. Yes. My cousin is dead—”

“Long live the queen!” another one interrupted. They all, Cole noticed, looked a great deal like the queen, the same long stringy hair and watery eyes, the same damp smell and long, spidery limbs.

“Right,” the queen finished. “So, I go.”

“This very damned minute?” Rae asked, sounding upset.

“Rae.”

“I mean, you gotta leave right now, pack a bag and your swim fins and off tonight? Without a good-bye or anything?”

“Rae.”

“Because that rots!”

“Rae. The river is my home, and more, my people need me.”

“Well, shit!”

“You must have known I wouldn’t stay forever.”

“Why not? All the other freaks in this town don’t seem to be in any damned rush to leave.” The ghost audibly gulped. “Uh, no offense, Cole.”

“That’s okay,” he replied. To Pot: “So you’re taking the chance to go back and be with your people?”

“As I said. Don’t read anything into that. Our situations are different. I’m an exiled queen and you—”

“Are a chump if you let Charlene get away,” Rae said, “but we’re getting off the subject. Why do you have to leave now? Because I know that look, Pot, you cow, you can’t fool me, once you’re in the wind we’ll none of us see you again, and stop me if you heard this already but that rots.”

“I’m of the royal family of the Naiad,” Pot said sternly, “and I do not have the freedom ordinary people have. The Mississippi is a large territory and I lost it once through carelessness and—”

“The Mississippi River?” Cole asked. “That’s your kingdom?”

“Was,” Pot replied. “And now, is again. But I wanted to come by and say good-bye. In fact, you and Rae are the last ones on my list. I can’t have my kingdom and Mysteria both—don’t read anything into this—so I’ve traded the café to the triplets and their mother for, ah, future favors, and have wrapped up my other affairs. So now—”

“Wait a minute,” Rae interrupted. “We were last on your list?”

“Well . . .” Pot paused. “I went, ah, geographically. This house is the last one.”

“Fine, go then!” Rae shouted. “I never liked you anyway!”

“I will go,” the queen replied, smiling, “and that is a lie. And Rae, I adore you, and that will never change, not if I rule for a thousand years.”

“Go soak your head in the deep end!”

“I go, then.”

One of her hench-naiads opened the front door, but before Pot could grandly sweep out, in the manner of a river queen, a tall dark-haired man blocked the doorway.

“What now?” Rae griped, but Cole could hear the undercurrent of tears in her voice.

“Aside for the queen,” one of the naiads demanded.

“Shush,” the queen said. “He’s not one of my subjects, Mr., ah . . . ?”

“Michael Wyndham.”

“Potameides.”

They shook hands. “Pack leader,” the tall man explained.

“Queen of the Mississippi River naiads,” Pot offered. “Good night.”

“See you.”

She left. She took all the river people with her. The werewolf came in.

Fourteen

“Hi,” the werewolf said. He was dark-haired and broad, with gold eyes, big hands, and a feral scruffiness that Cole felt and instantly responded to. He had the weird urge to kill a cow and present it to the stranger. Two cows.

“Hello.”

“I’m Michael Wyndham. In case you didn’t hear me at the door.”

“Cole Jones.” He didn’t offer his hand to shake; he had the very strong sense that the man wouldn’t want his hand. Instead, Wyndham was sizing him up and Cole saw his nostrils flaring as he took everything in. Oddly, this was in no way alarming. It was almost—comforting?

“I can’t believe she just picked up and left with those other weirdos. I didn’t even like her,” Rae said tearfully, “but you talk to someone for fifty years, you get used to them, you know?”

Wyndham flinched. “Who the hell is that?”

“That’s my ghost.”

“Hey, pal.” The tears instantly vanished. “I’m not your anything.”

“Sorry,” Cole said. He kept trying to look Wyndham in the face and his gaze kept skittering away. He had been raised to know that it was polite to look people in the eye when you spoke to them, but Wyndham didn’t seem to mind. “My roommate.”

“A ghost? And a river naiad. I’ve met an eleionomid before—”

“Marsh nymph,” Rae explained, before Cole could ask.

“—right, they’re all over the Cape where I live. Lots of river marshes out there. And lots of witches, but that’s about it. Oh, and you.” Wyndham smiled in a perfectly friendly way, keeping his teeth covered, and Cole, responding to the man’s natural charisma, actually smiled back.

“What—” Cole began, and stopped. Still the weirdest day ever, and getting weirder. And too many damned questions. Pack leader? What was he doing here now, tonight? How had he found Cole? What did he want?

Rae saved him the trouble. “Are you—what?—the boss of all the werewolves, then?”

“I am.”

“So—what? You’re here to—what?”

Wyndham was recovering quickly, and didn’t seem to mind being interrogated by a dead woman. “I’m here to assist a member of my Pack, if he needs it.” To Cole: “You don’t look like you’re in any real peril to me.”

“He knocked up the local Realtor,” Rae offered.

“Oh. Congratulations?”

“We’re, uh, still working that out,” Cole said. “How did you find me?”

“Another Pack member lives here. He got in touch with me—apparently there’s a vampire killer in this town? Someone who knows quite a bit about werewolves?”

“You don’t sound like you believe that all the way.”

“Well”—Wyndham shrugged—“I don’t take chances, period. As you were new, we thought you might need a hand. And with the moon on her way”—Wyndham gestured to the window, which showed nothing but unalleviated darkness; there were no street lights this far out of town—“I thought you might be vulnerable. Normally I wouldn’t travel this close to a Change, but in this case . . .”

While Cole processed this, Rae said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. That stud wannabe Justin told on Charlene?”

Wyndham blinked slowly, like an owl. “My Pack keeps me informed of any potential threat, yes. Which reminds me, Cole, why didn’t you tell me about this vampire killer?” His lips actually curled at the word “vampire,” and Cole instantly knew: the boss werewolf didn’t believe in vampires. But had come anyway. Perhaps he assumed Charlene was a crazy person. God knew there were enough of them in the world. Still, it was nice of him to check up, even if Wyndham had doubted anything would come of it.

And he was waiting for an answer. “My parents were killed when I was a baby,” he explained. “I was raised by regular people. I mean, my foster mother.” Not exactly “regular people.” He prayed word of his slip wouldn’t get back to Mama Zee.

Wyndham was nodding. “Yep, yep, that’s what I figured. I can smell them all over you. That’s not a bad thing,” he added quickly. “You can probably smell them all over me—I married one.”

“Ha!” Rae cried. “There you go. He married a regular person.”

Wyndham laughed. “I didn’t say that.”

“She’s no threat to you,” Cole said quickly. “The vampire killer. She was just trying to—” What? What in the world could he say? Annoyingly (or mercifully), Rae remained silent.

“Are you sure? You’re part of my family, even if you never knew, and I want to help you any way I can.” Wyndham clapped a large hand on Cole’s shoulder. It felt like a brick. “You’re not alone anymore, Cole.”

Then why, he wanted to ask, did hearing that—at long last—make him feel exactly nothing?

Fifteen

“That was, no joke, the most amazing thing. Pot leaves, the werewolf guy shows up, and how nice was he? I mean, wow! He had kind of an Errol Flynn thing going on, did you notice? Yummy. And where’d he go already? You guys didn’t even get a chance to catch up or anything!”

“He left for his Change.” Change. Pack. He could hear the capital letters in his head, sensed their deep meaning. “We don’t like to be in towns or cities when the Change happens.” We. Werewolves. My people. Us. Our.

“How long do you have?”

“About an hour.” Fifty-three minutes.

“So you have time!”

“Time?”

“You’re not fooling me, pal. I heard you sticking up for Charlene. And I heard you tell him you weren’t in any big rush to get out to the Cape.”

“Too many tourists,” he said automatically.

“Ha! The thing you came here for, the reason you blew Charlene off, it’s handed to you on a platter, and what? You’re all Mr. Cool, ‘Oh, well, I’d love to visit, maybe for Christmas.’ Give me a goddamned break.”

He said nothing.

“I mean, look at the situation,” Rae continued. Christ, she loved the sound of her own voice. “You’ve basically got a choice: go off with your people—like Pot did—or stay with what you like and marry a local—like your boss says he did. And he’s soooo helpful: you don’t have to move in with all the werewolves on the Cape. What’d he say again?”

“There are too many in the world to live in one place,” he said automatically.

“I just knew you were paying attention. Aaaaaaand?”

“Any werewolf past the age of consent can live anywhere, with Wyndham’s permission.”

“Which he gave you about five minutes ago. Aaaaaaaand?”

“I don’t have to choose; I can move between worlds, as his mate does.”

“Ding ding ding!”

“What?”

“Cole. For Christ’s sake. What are you still doing here? You’re talking like I didn’t hear you puke at the thought of Charlene dying alone.”

Fifty-one minutes.

“And you’re talking like you have a choice. When really, you never ever did.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“So, again. Stop me if you’ve heard this. What the hell are you waiting for? Does that Wyndham guy have to chisel an invite on your forehead?”

“No,” he said, and practically jumped toward the doorway. But before he could get it open, it opened by itself (but not really) and like magic (but not really; she probably just drove up and he was too distracted to hear the car) Charlene was standing there. Her thereness, her concentrated punch, washed over him like a wave and he wondered why he was surprised. Of course: she had a short life span; her people jammed everything they could into a dozen years. Of course they were more there than ordinary people. And how could he ever have resisted her?

“I knew this would happen,” Rae said, sounding shocked. “I think I’ll see if I can install free cable.”

He opened his mouth, but as usual, the smarter person beat him to the punch.

Sixteen

“Before you leave,” Charlene began, “I’ve come to tell you that I’ve changed my mind, and no matter where you run to, I’ll hunt you down like a rat.”

“I met the head of the werewolves,” he replied. “And it’s pack, not herd.”

“And, it’s fine if you don’t want to get married, but you’re going to be with me until the bitter, gory end.”

“Also,” he added, “the baby is welcome with my people anytime; a drop of werewolf blood is as good as a hundred percent as far as they’re concerned.”

That gave her pause, he saw at once. Her brow wrinkled and then smoothed out, and she said, “You’ve been busy in the last few hours. Days, come to think of it.”

“I was coming to get you,” he told her.

She smiled, and it was like clouds blowing away from the bright, beautiful moon. “That’s funny. I was coming to get you, too.”

A split second later, they were in each other’s arms. “You’re not allowed to die in six years,” he said into her hair, her dark, dark hair.

“Well, I’ve had some thoughts about that. This is Mysteria, you know. The oddest place on earth. Maybe we can find a spell or something. You’re just as much on the edge as I am—what if you’re out chasing rabbits and get hit by a truck? It could happen anytime. It’s the risk we all run.”

“Repeat,” he said, kissing her throat, her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth, “after me: I’m not going to die in six years.”

“Well . . .” She was busy kissing him back. “I won’t if you won’t. Er, how much time do we have before you grow a revolting amount of back hair?”

“Forty-seven minutes.”

She laughed. “Plenty of time.”