P.C. Cast - Mysteria Nights

“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.

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.

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.