P.C. Cast - Mysteria Nights

“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.

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.

“. . . 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.”