P.C. Cast - Mysteria Nights

“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.

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.”