Mysteria Nights

This is for the girls, who know who they are (if you want to know who they are, check the dedication page from Mysteria). They turn these projects into an awfully good time. Who said writing was work? Okay, my grandpa. And Jenny Hildebrandt. And Jessica Growette. And my sister. And my sister-in-law. And—well, I like it, anyway.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I owe many people thanks for this story, primarily all the readers who bought Mysteria without which, natch, there would be no sequel. So thanks for unlimbering the credit cards, y’all!

Thanks also are due to my long-suffering editor, Cindy Hwang, and my agent, Ethan Ellenberg, who really didn’t suffer much at all.

Triplet: One of three children born at one birth.

—The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language

Too good for mere wit. It contains a deep practical truth, this triplet.

—Herbert J. C. Grierson, The Good Morrow

Prologue

When the Desdaine triplets were born on a frigid February night (Withering came first, then Derisive, then Scornful, all sunny-side up and staring with big blue eyes at the ceiling), the doctor and attending nurse screamed and screamed. This startled Mrs. Desdaine, who started doing quite a bit of screaming herself, despite the epidural. Two other nurses and a resident also came running, and so did a custodian, wielding a mop like a lance.

The doctor was screaming because the nurse had dropped a tray full of sterilized instruments on his foot, and a scalpel was sticking out of his little toe. The nurse was screaming because he knew his clumsiness was going to cost him his job. Derisive, Scornful, and Withering just stared at the hysteria greeting their first moments out of the womb, then obligingly yowled when the cold air bit their fair skin and they were poked and prodded and (finally) swaddled in warm blankets. (The janitor went away, presumably to mop something; ditto the superfluous personnel.)

Of course, even in a town like Mysteria, natural triplets (that is, triplets born without the aid of artificial means like IVF or a really good splitting spell) were rare, and triplets that brought about screaming fits from qualified medical personnel were rarer still.

So it wasn’t long before stories began to spring up about the Desdaine triplets. The why behind the stories became blurred over time, but the plain truth behind the stories—the triplets were weird—never shaded much one way or the other.

On their second birthday, the girls discovered they could do magic.

On their third birthday, they discovered if they cooperated, they could do more magic.

On their fifth birthday, they decided being good guys was for suckers.

And on their sixth, they decided they could count on no one but themselves, but that was perfectly all right. Mom was scolding and loving and superb at not noticing things; Dad had died a month before they were born.

And so time passed, probably the only magic those who don’t live in Mysteria are aware of or care about. And the triplets grew older, but not fast enough to suit them or their mother.

One

“Ho-ho,” Derisive chortled. “Here he comes.”

The triplets were sunning themselves by the wishing well, a charming stone well shaded by trees in the center of town. They had chased the night mare away for the sixth night in a row with a combination of charms and spit spells and were celebrating by torturing the mailman, who was a drunk, a kicker of cats, and unpleasant besides.

The girls, who were beautiful and knew it (bad) but attached no importance to it (not so bad), were identically dressed in denim shorts, red tank tops, and white flip-flops. Although most twins and triplets outgrew the dressing-in-the-same-outfit stage by, oh, sixteen months, the Desdaines liked it. The better to fool you with, my dear.

“Mom alert?” Withering asked, squinting. Their mother, thank all the devils, was nowhere in sight.

Scornful waved her hand in the direction of the Begorra Irish Emporium. “Still looking at those tacky little leprechauns.”

“Not so tacky,” Withering reminded her sister. “They do grant one wish.”

“Yawn,” Scornful replied. “Little silly wishes, like not overdoing the turkey. Nothing significant.”

“Do-gooder alert?”

Derisive also waved a hand. “Do-gooder” encompassed three-fourths of the town; there were so few really evil people around these days. That would change when they grew up. As it was, at fourteen, they were formidable. If a Mysteria resident wasn’t a do-gooder, they were neutral, and stayed out of things. This suited the triplets fine. “No problems. Everybody’s at lunch.”

“Here he comes,” Withering said, her nails sinking into Scornful’s arm like talons. She ignored her sister’s yelp of pain. Her conscience was clear, but then, it usually was. Besides, Mr. Raggle, the postal carrier, wouldn’t be the focus of their wrath if he hadn’t called their mother That Name. And in front of the whole pizza parlor, too. “Jerkweed,” she added.

“Now,” Derisive said, and all three girls made the sign of a V with their fingers, spat through the Vs, then stomped on the spit. They visualized Mr. Raggle coming to harm and, before the thought had barely formed in their treacherous teenaged minds—

“Hey! Help! Aaaagggghhh!”

“Scared of heights,” Scornful said thoughtfully, eyeing the postal carrier who had been picked up by unseen forces and flung into the highest branch of the closest maple tree.

“Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that where you could hear,” Withering said, smiling with approval. She rarely smiled, and both her sisters took it as a gift, and not without astonishment.

“Teach him to call our mother names,” Derisive added, and spat again for good measure.

“Girls!”

“Uh-oh.”

Derisive craned to look. “Must have run out of leprechauns to look at.”

“You girls!” Their mother was running toward them at full speed, black curly hair bobbing all over the place. The triplets knew they took after their late father; their mother was petite, while they already had two inches on her; she was dark-eyed, while their eyes were sky-colored; and they had straight blond hair that hardly moved in gale-force winds. “Girls! I swear, I can’t turn my back on you for five seconds!”

“That’s true,” Withering said. “You can’t.”

“Get him down! Right . . . now!”

The triplets studied their mother, whom they loved but did not like, and tried to gauge the seriousness of her mood. A grounding, they did not need. Not with Halloween only three months away.

“Girls!” Panting, shoving her hair out of her eyes, even wheezing a little, Giselle Desdaine staggered up to her girls and glared at them so hard her eyeballs actually bulged. That was enough for the triplets, who, as one, made the V with their fingers, said, “Extant,” in unison, and spat.

Mr. Raggle shot out of the tree just as their mother said, “Why don’t you just grow up?!?” He plowed into Withering, knocking them both back into the wishing well.

Two

Thad Wilson was back in Mysteria, and not at all happy about it. Unfortunately, he had been born here, lived the first twelve years of his life here, and had taken fifteen years to realize that Mysteria got into your blood like a poison. The kind that wouldn’t kill you but just kept you generally miserable.

An air force brat, his father had re-upped the spring he was in seventh grade (Thad, not his father), and around and around the country they went: Boston, Minot, Ellsworth, San Antonio, Vance, Nellis, Cannon. No wishing wells that really worked, no werewolves who disappeared during the full moon. No witches, no horses that brought nightmares. No wish-granting knickknacks. Just missile silos and PXs.

He’d been so bored he thought he’d puke. And as if bouncing around with his folks hadn’t been enough, once he was of legal age, he’d moved to six cities in five years. Finally, he’d given up and come back to Mysteria. He’d had no doubts about finding it. Once you lived there, you could always get back.

As it happened, the local river nymph (what had her name been? Pat? Pit?) had sold the building, and he’d bought it, turning it into a pizza place. Living in Chicago and Boston had taught him what real pizza was supposed to taste like, and by God, he’d show the other Mysteria residents just what—

He heard shrieking, dropped the dough, and bolted out the door. Lettering in track in both high school and college stood him in good stead now; his long legs took him to the scene of the crime (because, since the Desdaine triplets were involved, what else could it be?) in no time.

“You girls!” Mrs. Desdaine was yelling. The girls—whom Thad had very studiously avoided since getting back to town, they just reeked of trouble and were way too cute for jailbait—looked uncomfortable and unrepentant. “Get him down right now! Girls!”

That’s when he noticed the mailman, an unpleasant drunk named—what? Ragman? Raggle?—come sailing out of the tree and slam one of the triplets into the wishing well.

“Oh, shit,” he said, screeching to a halt before he could topple into the well himself.

Three

Mrs. Desdaine had helped the wet and enraged postal employee out of the fountain, and the man had run off without so much as a thank-you, which surprised Thad not at all.

Almost immediately after that, a creature shockingly ugly popped up out of the fountain. It smelled, if possible, worse than it looked: like rotten eggs marinating in vomit. It was about five feet tall, squat, with four arms and a long, balancing tail. It was poison green and had what appeared to be a thousand teeth.

Then Thad noticed that the creature turned the exact same shade of gray as the blocks making up the well. Ugly as hell, and a chameleon, too. Terrific.

Mrs. Desdaine was screaming. The two (dry) triplets were screaming. People were starting to come out of their stores, much too slowly, and he put on speed.

He was, in the language of the fey, naragai, which literally translated to “no will.”

What it actually meant was that he had inherited nothing from his fairy mother: not the immortality, not the strength, not the wings, not even the height (at six feet four inches, his mother was five inches taller than he was). Human genes, he had decided long ago, must be super dominant, because he took after his father in every way.

But he could run like a bastard, which he did now.

“Watch out, watch out!” he yelled, nearly toppling into the fountain himself as he tried to put on the brakes.

“That thing ate Withering!” one of the triplets wailed.

“My baby!” Mrs. Desdaine yowled.

The thing—it looked like a cross between a man and a velociraptor—climbed out of the fountain and stood on the brick walk, dripping and growling and slashing its tail back and forth like a whip.

Thad had no idea what he was going to do to it. Kick it? Breathe on it? Try to drown it without getting his face bitten off?

Then another figure rose from the water, this one a tall, luscious blonde dressed in tattered leathers and armed to the teeth; he counted two daggers and one sword, and those were just the ones he could immediately see.

“Wha?” was all he could manage.

She looked like she was in her early twenties, and he was amazed she’d come out of the fountain, which was only eighteen inches deep. Of course, the lizard man had come out of the fountain, too.

She smiled at Lizard Guy. “This will not end well for you.”

Lizard Guy snapped and snarled and wiggled all four arms at her. Its thighs were as big as tree trunks.

The gorgeous blonde did something with her sword; she was so quick he didn’t quite catch it. It was almost like she’d flipped it out of her back sheath and was now holding it easily in her left hand. She saluted the monster with it, smiling a little. Great smile.

“Dakan eei verdant,” she said, trilling her r. “Compara denara.”

Lizard Guy lunged at her. She ducked easily under the swing and parried with one of her own. “I’ve chased you across three worlds and ten years,” she said, almost conversationally. “Did you think I would let you get away now?”

Thad wasn’t sure if this was in addition to what she had said, or if she was translating what she had said. What was interesting was that she wasn’t out of breath, didn’t look excited or flushed . . . just businesslike.

Her backswing lopped off Lizard Guy’s head.

“Cantaka et nu,” she said, saluting the headless (gushing . . . purple blood, ech!) body. “Deren va.”

The other two girls had stopped screaming, and Scornful (or was it Derisive?) kicked Lizard Guy’s head out of the way. Thad had to give her props for her rapid recovery. He was still having trouble following the events of the last forty seconds.

“Are you—are you Withering?” Scornful asked in a tentative voice Thad would not have believed any of the triplets capable of.

The grown woman looked around and frowned. “Cander va iee—I just left, did I not?”

“I—I wished you’d grow up,” Mrs. Desdaine said faintly, looking like she might swoon into the water. “And then you were gone. But you came right back.”

At once the woman went to Mrs. Desdaine and knelt, the point of her sword hitting the bricks with a clunk and actually chipping off a piece. “O my mother, when this woman was a girl, she caused you many trials. This woman would ask forgiveness and would spend her life making things right for thee.”

“What?” the other three Desdaines gasped in unison.

“Please, this woman asks most humbly,” the tall blonde said, her gaze fixed on the bricks.

“That’s not Withering,” the other two said in unison.

“This woman certainly is.”

“Honey, get up off the ground,” Mrs. Desdaine said, pushing back matted dark curls. “It’s fine, everything’s fine. I’m just glad you’re—you’re back.” She choked a bit on that last, but Thad thought she did a fine job of pretending she didn’t mind missing the entire adolescence of one of her children.

“Hi,” Thad said, utterly dazzled. “I’m Thad Wilson; I run the pizza place across the street.”

Slowly, she rose until she was at exact eye level. Her blond hair was matted to her head, and she was dripping all over everything; her sword was stained purple, and he still couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Sir, this woman is pleased to meet you.”

“Look at you!” Derisive (or was it Scornful?) said, circling the woman. “You’re all grown-up and bulgy. And you’re talking with a seriously weird accent.”

“It took many years to find my way back.”

“Let’s talk about it,” Thad suggested, “over a pizza.”

The woman—Withering—cracked a grin. “This woman has not had a pizza in some time. This woman would be delighted.”

And so they trooped across the street.

Four

Withering ate as if someone was going to take it away from her. Given the state of her clothing (clearly homemade from animal skins) and the way her collarbones jutted, Thad guessed her meals were hard to come by.

And where had she been in the five seconds—fifteen years?—she’d been gone? Someplace demanding . . . even unforgiving.

Scornful and Derisive weren’t at all happy with the new development, it was obvious to see. Normally you couldn’t shut them up. But now the girls picked at their lunch and couldn’t stop staring at their sister, then at each other, then at Withering.

Thad couldn’t help staring at Withering, either, but for an entirely different reason.

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Desdaine was saying, mournfully sprinkling red pepper flakes on her pizza slice. “I never should have said something like that around the wishing well. I’ve lived in this town my entire life, and I can’t believe I was so careless—and at my own daughter’s expense!”

“You meant no harm. And, if this woman’s memory is correct, we were causing trouble in the first place.”

“Traitor,” Scornful muttered, picking another slice of pepperoni off her pizza.

“Wicked tall traitor,” Derisive added, pushing her plate away.

“I don’t care!” their mother cried. “You obviously were sent somewhere awful and forced to grow up there. Your clothes—and your weapons—and you’re so thin.”

Withering looked surprised, as if she wasn’t used to anyone worrying about her. Probably she wasn’t. “This woman adapted.”

“Can you use some pronouns now?” Derisive snapped. “The whole ‘this woman’ bit is getting real old.”

“You shush, Derisive,” their mother ordered. “Tell me, Withering, dear. How long were you—were you wherever you were?”

Withering shrugged. “This wom—I didn’t keep count. Long enough to survive and take over the realm.”

“Realm?” Thad said, speaking for the first time.

“The demonic realm I fell into. I learned to fight by killing demons. And when the time was right, I killed the leader and took over. The one you saw in the water—that was someone trying to snatch back the crown.”

“So you’re like a queen in that other place?” Scornful said, finally sounding a little—just a little—impressed.

Withering shrugged. “I lead. But now . . .” She looked around the nearly deserted pizza parlor. “I know not where my place is.”

“It’s with your family, of course,” her mother said firmly.

“Perhaps, O my mother,” she replied, but she looked doubtful.

“Well, why not?” Thad asked.

Withering looked uncomfortable. “It may not be . . . safe. For me to remain here.”

“Of course you’re going to remain here,” her mother said sharply.

“Yes,” Scornful added, then giggled. “This woman will stay.”

“You don’t have to decide anything right this minute,” Thad pointed out and was rewarded with one of her rare, rich smiles.

Five

KELLMANND DIMENSION, EARTH PRIME

TWELVE YEARS AGO

Withering landed in black dust with a skull-rattling thud. The breath whooshed out of her lungs, and for a moment she just lay there, gasping and inhaling that strange dust.

She painfully climbed to her feet, looking around in bewilderment. She was in an utterly strange, utterly alien place. The colors and textures were all wrong; they actually hurt her eyes. She was in a large circle of black dust, beyond which was bright blue grass. It appeared to be an oasis of some kind, because beyond the grass was a waterfall gushing purple water over green rocks.

What had happened? Where the hell was she?

She remembered her mother shouting, she remembered that nasty postal worker knocking her into the—

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

“Mother! Please come get me!” In her extremity of terror, she was screaming. “Please don’t leave me here!”

“This man . . . is pleased . . . to see this girl.”

Her head snapped around, and she saw a grievously wounded man lying about ten feet away, on the edge of the blue grass. He had blood all over him, and every time he gasped for breath, blood bubbles foamed across his lips.

She scrambled over to him. “Where am I? What happened to you?”

His pupils were blown, actually bleeding into the whites of his eyes. She was awfully afraid she was going to barf. Never had she seen someone so hurt. And everything was happening so fast, she couldn’t—

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

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

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

“Fight? Fight who?”

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

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

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

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

“But I don’t—”

“Behind . . . you . . .”

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

Not too bright, then. That’s something.

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

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

So. She would fight. She would defend.

She would live.

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

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

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

Six

MYSTERIA, SECONDARY EARTH

NOW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She did not know.

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

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

Her sisters said nothing, only watched her.

And suddenly, she felt like crying.

Seven

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

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

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

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

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

“I am here to see you, madam.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can hear you,” the ghost snapped.

“Sorry. Who is she?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mind your own damned business.”

“It’s Rae,” Charlene said helpfully.

“Traitor!”

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

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

“Says the dead woman,” Charlene muttered.

“I heard that!”

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

“Why do you care?”

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

“I’m the handyman.”

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

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

“But do you not wish to—to move on?”

“Move on where?”

“Wherever people go when they die.”

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

“Didn’t!”

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

“Lies!”

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

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

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

“Mmmph,” the ghost said.

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just never mind. What’d she say?”

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

“Lies!”

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

Eight

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh . . . so we can share the pizza?”

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

“Terrific,” he muttered, following her inside.

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

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

“No.”

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

“Oh. No problem.”

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

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

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

“A speed freak d—?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wants to go back? Why in the hell—”

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

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

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

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

Scornful looked amused but said nothing.

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

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

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

Scornful stifled a groan. “Never mind.”

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

“Magic, dummy.”

“Scornful,” Withering said sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About five seconds our time.”

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

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

Withering shrugged again.

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

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

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

She nearly choked on her pizza. “No?”

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

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

“Thad.”

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

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

“Vacation?” she asked blankly.

“Or a date?”

“Date?” she asked, just as mystified.

“Do you like bowling?”

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

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

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

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

“I—I did not consider that.”

“So. I’ll pick you up tonight.”

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

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

“I could care less about that sister.”

“Eh?”

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

Nine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Rae,” he burbled cheerfully.

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

“You,” he said baldly.

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

“Perhaps. How may you be released?”

“Eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never had a dog named—”

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

“Left the house a—?”

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

“And have you seen how it ends, Rae?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know shit, chumly.”

“I do indeed know shit, Rae.”

“How so?”

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

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

“Yes,” he said simply.

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

Ten

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

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

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

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

“Although I detest wearing group shoes.”

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

“This woman is not comforted.”

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

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

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

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

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

“This woman does not understand this man.”

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

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

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

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

“Thousands,” she replied simply.

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

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

“No, you only rule one.”

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

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

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

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

“This woman is unfamiliar with that word.”

“It means terrifying warrior queen.”

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

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

“You seem oddly cheerful.”

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

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

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

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

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

Eleven

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

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

“No. I wish to mate. Right now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my God.

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

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

“But did you even come?”

“Come where?”

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

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

Twelve

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

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

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

“You’d better explain,” Scornful said.

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

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

“So talk,” Derisive added.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This time?”

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

“So?” they asked in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Among other things,” Derisive added.

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

Thirteen

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

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

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

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

“She is my queen. I am her subject.”

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

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

“Technically, we are,” Derisive said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The witch doctor?”

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

“Yeah, but he might—”

“He might.”

“So we should—”

“We should.”

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

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

“This woman will see the girls safe.”

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

Fourteen

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

He refused to tell them his name, so Scornful christened him Dr. Demento. As in, “Hey, Dr. Demento! You gonna keep shaking stuff at the toaster, or are we actually going to get to work, here?”

“Dis house, she’s evil, mahn.”

“Evil, my big butt,” the ghost said out of nowhere. The two younger girls jumped; Withering had her knife in her hand by the word my. The witch doctor shook harder. “You realize, I only let you idiots in because nobody’s home, and I’m bored out of my tits. Right?”

“Now, Rae,” Jan said in his bubbling, oddly soothing voice, “just cooperate, and soon your essence will be set free.”

“Sounds nauseating. I think I’ll stay put.”

Dr. Demento reached into his backpack and withdrew a second mysterious object (a good trick, with the backpack strapped behind him as it was), and shook both at the fridge.

“I can’t believe we’ve never been here before,” Scornful whispered to her younger sister.

“I heard that, you little brat. And you don’t have to get your perky little noses into everything in this town.”

“You do not belong here, ghost,” Withering said, the knife point never wavering. “Begone at once.”

“Look who’s talking! Don’t you have a demonic realm to be ruling? Instead, you’re nosing around in my house and poking around in my business.”

“How did you—”

“Ha! The whole damned town is talking about it, that’s how I knew.”

“Then if this woman may so inquire, what is it like to be displaced?”

“If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t be here, get it? So buzz off, and take the witch doctor with you. Better than him have tried and failed.”

Jan protested as Withering sheathed her knife. “But he will set you free, Rae!”

“Aw, that’s super. No sale.”

“Hey, Dr. Demento. Can I shake something at the television?” Scornful tried to get at his backpack, but he whirled and backed away from her, still shaking various homemade tools. “Aw, come on. How come you get to have all the fun?”

“You call this fun?” Rae grumped. “Will you people get lost before the fridge accidentally falls on one of you? Two or three times?”

“Yeesh,” Derisive said.

“You say it’s been tried before? Was that John Harding, by any chance?”

“Sure.”

“But he was alive when you were alive. The way I heard it, his heart wasn’t in it, and that’s why he couldn’t banish you. Dr. Demento here doesn’t care how you got here or where you go.”

“Jan, you got a lot of nerve, bringing the psycho triplets and a witch doctor—a witch doctor of all things!—into this house.”

“But Rae, I wish only to—”

“—be an enormous pain in my ass. At which you’re succeeding beautifully.”

“There is little we can do here,” Withering told her sisters. “I suggest we take our leave.”

“And take Dr. Demento with you!” Rae called.

“No.” Jan actually stomped his foot, which squished. “He will set you free, and you will no longer be imprisoned.”

The refrigerator slid all the way across the room, the yanked plug trailing behind it like a tail.

“We’re out of here,” the younger girls said in unison as Withering grabbed the witch doctor by the elbow and started hauling him toward the front door.

“I’d vamoose, too, if I were you, River Nymph.”

“That’s good advice from the kid,” Rae warned. “Whichever one it was.”

“Thank you,” Jan called as all four made their way to the doorway, “for your assistance.”

“Yeah, and next time, take your damned shoes off in the entryway!” Rae hollered as the front door slammed.

Fifteen

“You tried to get rid of me!”

Jan ducked as the toaster sailed over his head. “It was my dearest wish to see you free, yes.”

“Tossing me like a dead Easter chick!” The small board that normally held car keys soared toward him; he backpedaled on his long feet and handily avoided it.

“Rae, you are reading this entirely the wrong way.”

“If I showed up in the Mississippi River with antinymph spray, how would you take it?”

“Anti what?”

“Oh, never mind. Just get out of here.”

“I will not.” He stood his ground stubbornly, even when Stephen King’s The Stand (hardcover edition, which weighed approximately twenty-seven pounds) hit him in the chest. “You need my help, and I will not leave until you have it.”

“I’ll bet Pot will have something to say about that, Squishy.”

“My queen has given me leave to stay. In fact, she was pleased that one of her people will watch over the town she so loves.”

“Pot said torturing me with witch doctors who wear Dockers is okay? What the blue hell is the world coming to?”

“I do not know. I do know I cannot bear to see you trapped when I have unlimited freedom of movement.”

“But Jan—” Rae’s tone softened, and he tried not to display his surprise. “Jan, by staying here, you’re restricting your own movement. You said it yourself, your home is a long way away from here.”

“My home,” he said firmly, “is wherever you are.”

There was a long, long silence. When she broke it, it sounded like—but of course he must be mistaken—but it sounded like she was crying softly. “You mean it? You want to stay here with me?”

“Yes. I never lie, Rae, and I certainly would not start with you, even if I did.”

“But why?”

“I do not know,” he said simply.

“Because if it’s because you feel sorry for me, I’ll throw the door at your head right now.”

“I did at first pity you. But even in my pity, I greatly admired your fortitude in a difficult situation. And when my queen’s business was finished, I was unable to leave town. Because of you, Rae, I was unable to go back to my people. That is not pity. That is—something else.”

“Something else,” she mused.

“If you will not leave this silly red house and move to the next plane, I have no choice but to also remain.”

“I could build an extension,” she said eagerly. “I could give you your own bathroom and everything. A big hot tub for you to soak in whenever you want!”

“So you do not mind if I remain?”

“Like I can do anything about it?”

“You cannot,” he said smugly.

“Char and her husband might have something to say about it—oh, who am I kidding? They’re always looking for babysitters for the Thing That Poops. And they’ve been reaping the benefits of my free handiwork for ages. Okay, for a few months. But I’ll ramp up the value of the house if I build on another bed and bath. Of course, they’ll have to buy the supplies, but it’s still cheaper than—”

“Rae, do be quiet.”

“Better get used to it, pal. Anybody nutty enough to fall for a ghost—my ghost—and give up his river for Mysteria had better be resigned to everyday chatter. But I’m betting there are compensations.”

“Compensations?” he asked, then gasped as he felt her essence rush through him like a cool wind, raising goose bumps on his arms and causing him to rock backward on his heels. He could feel cool, ghostly hands on him, touching, caressing, stroking, and oh, the sensation was delightful, the coolness was delightful; living humans were just too warm.

He heard her laugh in his ear, and that raised more pleasurable goose bumps, heard her sigh and felt her grip tighten, except it seemed as though she had four hands, ten, a dozen, and they were everywhere, everywhere, touching and cuddling and making him hard and making him shudder and making him spasm all over until he realized he was flat on his back on the kitchen tile.

“Oh,” he gasped, thinking he needed five or six bottles of water. Right now.

“Hmmm,” Rae replied, sounding like she was lying beside him.

“That was—that was—” What? Supremely satisfying? Sublime? Out of this world?

“Fun!”

“For you as well?” He was unable to hide his surprise.

“Whoo, yeah! First orgasm I’ve had in—what century is this again? Never mind. When I went into your body, I could feel everything you were feeling, which made me feel even better, which I projected onto you, which made me feel better—you get the picture.”

“Oh, my,” he gasped. “So you can do that whenever you wish?”

“Apparently so.”

“I may never walk again.”

“So who’s asking you to?” she said and laughed in his ear, the sound a warm caress.

Sixteen

It came from the wishing well and found it was dark in this place; the moon was high, and the stars were bright—and the stars were wrong. It followed the hated woman’s scent through the small park, down the oddly flat lane (the blacktop felt strange beneath its feet and claws) and toward the small red house, her scent getting stronger with every step.

And with every step, it became angrier.

It would find the usurper, the dire queen, and pull her throat out with its teeth until it was gulping her blood and picking its teeth with her vertebrae. Then the land would once again belong to its people, the Krakeen, and this land, too, this ridiculous land of soft pink things. This land with no demons, this land that had spawned the dire queen and foisted her on its people.

It charged up the walk, already drooling at the prospect of chewing on the usurper, and easily pushed down the door, barely noticing the astounding crash the wood made as it hit the floor.

It walked into the house, still following the trail, which was stronger here; she had spent some time here, at any rate. But one of the soft pink things wasn’t so soft, because it was standing protectively in front of a female and a baby, and it was baring its teeth at the demon.

“Cole, don’t!” someone without a scent said. “Get Char and get the baby and get the hell out of here!”

The man paid no notice; the man growled and came closer, his eyes seemed almost lit from within, and the Krakeen licked its lips and wondered how the man’s liver might taste.

“Cole!” the voice screamed. “Get your wife and get your kid and get the fuck out of here! Find Withering! Go now!”

The voice seemed to penetrate this time; the man remembered his responsibilities and fled with the female and infant. The Krakeen let them; they were not its rightful prey. This time. Instead, it looked around for the voice—and staggered as some strange, hard object smashed into the back of its head, followed by a rain of smaller objects.

“There’s more drawers, and there’s more silverware,” the voice warned him, “so get lost.”

It growled, dribbling saliva on the floor, and swiped at the air, reaching for the voice.

“Not the brightest bulb, are you?” the voice said, this time from behind him. It whirled in time to catch another heavy object in the face, and it staggered. “How’d the toaster taste? Hey, stand still, so I can crush you underneath the washing machine.”

It roared, infuriated at something it could not see or smell, still wanting the dire queen’s blood but not at all happy at shedding its own—its blood, for like all Krakeen, it had both male and female genitalia.

“Boy, did you pick the wrong house,” the voice remarked, and something smashed into the back of its head and shattered, something that smelled sweet and crumbly.

“Char’s gonna kill me; she made that stupid cookie jar in her pottery class. Eh, easy come, easy smash.”

It stepped across the shards, its hide far too tough to be cut or even scratched. The dread queen’s scent was strong here, but then seemed to backtrack, so he followed it toward the door, staggering as the voice hurled something yet again, something that felt like a rock with hard corners.

“Damn it! With no blender, I guess it’s bye-bye Margarita Saturdays.”

Nearing the doorway, it saw the usurper standing on the wooden thing it had knocked down, standing on it with her sword drawn.

“Krakeen demon, this woman will make the demon pay for daring to come here.”

It roared a challenge; it hungered for her blood, her blood for its people, for its land, for the crown she had wrongfully stolen—stolen and then fled!

“You dare come to this land, my town? You dare pollute this place with the stench of your hide? This woman cannot even make clothing out of your skin, you stink so badly.”

It gnashed its teeth and rushed at her, ducking under her swing and slashing at her. She wrenched herself back, and all it could do was scratch her, not gut her as it had intended.

“He shoots and he misses and, oh, ladies and gentlemen, have you ever seen such humiliation?”

Yes, it would kill the dread queen, and then it would hunt down that bedamned voice and kill it, too!

It followed up, swinging its long arms, each finger tipped with a razor-sharp claw an inch and a half long, and she had to backpedal out the doorway to avoid getting cut again. It ducked as she swung, but not quite fast enough, and it lost an ear.

“Oh, man! She’s cutting pieces off you! And you’re the best of the bunch? How embarrassing is that?”

“A fine point, Krakeen,” the usurper said and bared her teeth at him in what the soft pink things called a “smile.” “Rae, remind this woman never to anger you.”

“D’you know how long it’s going to take me to fix this door?” the voice griped in response.

The Krakeen kicked, its powerful feet also tipped with sharp claws, and the dire queen backflipped out of the way, catching it on the underside of its chin as she did. It shook its head and went after her again, only to find its feet were stuck in the hard walk outside the house. It wrenched itself free easily enough and stepped onto the grass, where it caught the usurper’s sword with one hand as the blade descended.

Got you now, dread queen! Your guts will feed my young! Ignoring the blood pouring from its hand, it held the blade away from itself, readying its other paw for the killing blow, when she abruptly let go of the sword. As it staggered in surprise, it felt something hot slide into its throat.

Hot, and then very, very cold. And something was wrong with its throat. It was getting its chest wet. It was getting dizzy. It tried to swing at the dread queen and missed by too much, missed, and then the odd colored grass was rushing up to its face, and the Krakeen demon knew no more.

Seventeen

Withering stepped back, neatly avoiding the splash, and coldly watched the Krakeen fall facedown onto Charlene Hautenan’s lawn. Then she looked up into the nearest oak tree.

“This woman would ask her sisters to come down.”

“Why? We helped, didn’t we?”

“There may be more, dear ones, and this woman would not see you hurt. It is bad enough,” she added sternly, “that you disobeyed me in the manner of following me here.”

“Point,” Scornful replied, and they both climbed down with the speed of monkeys on crack. Then they stood over the body of the dead demon, which was bleeding black all over the grass. “Guh-ross!” she continued. “Those things come from where you used to live? This one’s even nastier-looking than the other one. It’s a miracle you made it out alive!”

“Mom’s gonna freak,” Derisive added.

“Only if you tell the good lady,” Withering said, squatting to wipe her blade on the grass, retrieving her sword, then standing in time to see Thad’s pizza van drive over the curb and straight up to the house, ruining more grass. He leaped out, leaving the engine running, and nearly fell onto the corpse.

“Are you okay? I got your sister’s message. One of your sisters. I don’t know which. Are you okay?” He took her into his arms, feeling her for injuries. “Withering, you nut, you shouldn’t have tackled that thing by yourself!”

“Why?” she asked, honestly puzzled. “Who else should have ‘tackled’ it?”

“You dope! You could have been sliced! Chewed! Skinned! Gutted!”

“Indeed, the Krakeen would have seen to all those things if it could.”

Thad actually staggered. “That statement did not make me feel better. At all.”

“But it did not, and will not, ever.” She gently divested herself of his frantic grip and slid her foot under the body.

“Careful,” Scornful warned. “In the horror movies, this is where it leaps up for one last scare.”

“Not once my knife has been in its throat.” She flipped the body over and examined it carefully. Finally, straightening, she said with surprise, “It is a Krakeen.”

“Yeah, you said that. You called it that. You also mentioned it would have gutted and stabbed and mangled and mutilated you. So?”

“So. Krakeens inhabit the other side of the planet. It once took me the better part of my sixteenth year to reach their territory. This one could have been nowhere near the thin spot where I fell through and, later, returned. That means—”

“I don’t care what it means!” Thad shouted. “You’re not leaving me—or Mysteria! This is your home, and nobody made you killer of demons and giver-upper of a social life.”

She squinted at him. “That doesn’t make any—”

“I don’t care if this thing was from halfway round the planet or the house next door; you’re staying.”

“What he said,” Derisive said.

“Yeah, except without that weird ‘giver-upper’ line,” Scornful added.

“As I was saying,” Withering continued gently, “it would appear the wishing well is now a conduit between Earth Prime and Secondary Earth.”

“Sorry if you’ve heard this before: So?”

“That means a demon from anywhere on Earth Prime might find its way here.”

“Gross,” Scornful commented.

“Not to mention inconvenient,” Derisive added.

“And unless I am here, in Mysteria, to protect its citizens, that could be disastrous. I cannot leave my dear mother and dear sisters to defend themselves against such creatures, nor any citizen of the land.”

“So . . .” Thad held his breath and then, because the stress appeared to be too much, let it out in an explosive sigh. “So you’re staying.”

“Yes. I must. I do not understand why I did not see it before.”

“Because you were too busy jumping Thad’s bones?” Scornful suggested.

“And learning how to pick up a spare?” Derisive added.

“I suspect,” she said, kindly enough, “it is because I was confused about exactly where my responsibilities lie. But I can no longer return to Earth Prime, no matter how noble my intentions, if it means leaving my town exposed to any demon with a whim to take the crown.”

“Where’d Char and the baby go?” Thad asked, seeming to realize their absence all of a sudden.

“To our house, where they remain.”

“You better go tell them they can come back, that Withering took care of their little infestation problem.”

“Little?” Scornful snorted as they started down the street.

“Oh, he just wants to mack on her in private.”

“Perv.”

“Double perv.”

“I can hear you!” Thad called after them. Then he turned to Withering. “Although they have a point.”

“That you are a double perv?”

“No. That I want to do this.” And he took her in his arms, no pretense of looking for injury this time, no indeed, and kissed her, a long, bruising, possessive kiss.

When they came up for air, Thad said, “Don’t even think about leaving this town without me.”

“I won’t even think of leaving this town, if you find that helpful.”

“My front door!” someone wailed, and they turned to see Char and her husband coming up the sidewalk. The baby, Withering presumed, had been left in Mrs. Desdaine’s care. “All smashed up!”

“Wait till you see the inside!” Rae called, though it was difficult to hear her outside the house. “Also, I’ve taken a lover, and he’ll be moving in as soon as I get an extension built.”

“Fine, Rae, fine.” Char and her husband were staring at the corpse on their front lawn. “That’ll be—wait. What?”

“Oh, like you two aren’t doing it every half hour of every day,” Rae snapped. “Don’t judge me, honey!”

“I wasn’t. I just—” Charlene gestured vaguely: at the corpse, at the van parked in her begonias. “This is a lot to take in at once.”

“Welcome,” Withering said dryly, “to Mysteria.”