P.C. Cast - Mysteria Nights

She reached into the fridge for a leftover apple pie, a baked ham, rolls, mayo, and mustard. Big men ate big; that, she already knew from the five super-sized men in her family. Grabbing utensils and napkins, she dropped a slice of ham in Bubba’s bowl on her way back to the table, where she cut Damon a huge slab of pie and slid the plate next to the overloaded one that held a lumberjack-sized ham sandwich. After she made herself a much smaller sandwich, she carried her plate to the table to sit across from Damon as he downed his water with thirsty gulps. She poured him some more. “Feeling better?” she asked after he finished the second glass.

“Aye.” He winked, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, in a truly medieval way, to dab at the droplets of water left behind. “How can a man not feel better, taken in with kindness, tended by such a beautiful wench?”

She lifted a brow. “Wench. Is that Scottish for strong, capable, intelligent woman, I hope?

“Nay. ’Tis old English. Old, old English.”

“But you’re Scottish, aren’t you? The brogue.”

“I do have a brogue, don’t I? You can thank my ex-employer for that, lass. His sense of humor knew no bounds.” He winked at her and lifted the ham sandwich, sniffing it, his eyes closing. His pleasure in the scent was so palpable, his anticipation so sharp, that by the time the breathless second had passed and he’d dived in with a hearty bite, her throat was dry and she was left wondering what she’d just witnessed.

Did he approach all activities with the same explosive, allconsuming passion?

Harmony . . . behave.

Damon was thorough, but neat. Hardly a crumb escaped him. In short order, the massive sandwich was gone. Next, he turned to the slice of pie, hesitating for a moment as if he’d remembered at the last minute that he’d better use a utensil in her presence. In no more than four shovels of the fork, the pie was gone, too.

“More?” Strangely drained, she shoveled another slice onto his plate, and he started on that, too, without taking a breath. She might as well fix him another sandwich, because he was still going strong. “Something must appeal about my cooking, or you haven’t eaten in about a thousand years.”

“Ten thousand,” he said, wiping his mouth and hunting around for more food. She slid the pie plate toward him and let him serve himself, which he did with as much grace as speedy efficiency. When the first bite of pie reached his mouth, he closed his eyes, savoring the taste, and was that a shudder that ran through him?

Fascinated, she balanced her chin on her hand, smiling as she watched him. “I don’t know what to make of you, Mr. Damon of Mysteria.”

“Make of me whatever you wish, fair maiden.”

“Fair maiden. I like that better than wench.”

His gaze went soft again. “It fits ye better, too.”

She swallowed against the feelings his gentle, sexy tone fired up inside her. Sitting straighter, she tried to gather the scattered shreds of her professionalism. “Maybe you’d better call your family to let them know you’re okay.”

He shook his head. “There is no one.”

“No one at all? You’re not married?” She immediately bit her lip.

But he’d turned thoughtful. “Nay . . . never thought of it. My livelihood would have made such a pairing difficult. Impossible, rather. But, perhaps now that has changed. . . .” When he returned his attention to her face, it was with such bold intensity, such raw consideration, that this time she did blush.

Harmony got up too quickly, sloshing water out of the pitcher. She grabbed a dish towel and started mopping at the puddle. Damon grabbed her wrist.

All at once, his thoughts burst inside her skull. His experiences, his emotions, too. They spun in a blur too fast for her to interpret, like subtitles set on fast-forward, but in those few heartbeats, she was able to gain a sense of the man: his confusion, his lack of guile, and his genuine fear—something she sensed he was not used to feeling.

Harmony, you’re not Great-grandmother Eudora. You’re insane. Your overactive hormones are finally taking their toll. You should have stuck to talking to the dog .

She studied his big hand and then his face. She didn’t know how to explain what had just happened—nor did she want to. Her brain felt like a snow globe that had been shaken too hard. If he let go, maybe everything would settle down. “I’m a third-degree black belt,” she said softly. “And my dog will rip your throat out if you try anything stupid.”

Bubba protested with a little whimper, looking from her to Damon and back again. Harmony had the sudden feeling that she might not want to test the puppy’s loyalties.

Damon let go. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

Harmony sat back down, her heart thumping. What had just happened? Somehow, she regained her composure. “I’d like to help you. But to do that, you’re going to have to tell me how you came to be under my apple tree.” She left out the naked part. Those were details he could fill in. “I’ll keep in confidence what you tell me.”

Damon leaned forward. The maple café chair creaked under the shift in weight. “The true story?”

She leaned forward, too. “No,” she whispered. “I want you to lie to me.”

He took a deep breath, and then spilled. “I am the ten-thousand-year-old Demon High Lord of Self-Doubt and Second Thoughts, or I was until I was kicked out of Hell by Lucifer for committing random acts of kindness. After centuries of torture, I forget how many now, I was made mortal and banished to live out my days here, in Mysteria, the site of my original crime of beneficence.”

Harmony stared at him. Damon stared back, as serious as they came. “I was just kidding about the lying,” she said.

He opened his mouth to say something then seemed to change his mind. He drummed blunt-tipped fingers, glanced out the window as if seeking inspiration before returning his gaze to her. “I worked for a corrupt employer for many years. I carried out my orders until I learned what it was to be good. I learned that I liked being good over being bad. My employer punished me for it—for changing—and then he . . . he did this to me. He let me go. And so now I’m here, in Mysteria. With no home, no job, and”—he cleared his throat—“no clothes.”

“You’ve been through hell, haven’t you?” With a bit of an alarmed expression, he agreed. She shook her head sympathetically. He was a strapping, healthy guy down on his luck; admitting he was jobless and homeless couldn’t have been easy.

Jobless. Homeless. Here.

Inspiration hit like a thunderbolt straight from heaven. “I have an idea.” She opened her hands so Damon could see the calluses, cuts, and paint stains. “I’ve been looking for someone to hire—a handyman and groundskeeper. It’d be a huge help to have someone here for the heavier work, so I can concentrate on the church. The fields haven’t been planted, the fence needs repair, and the barn needs fixing. I’d like to make it into a social hall, eventually, maybe a school, or even a gym, and I thought if I had some help, it’d leave me more time for recruiting more parishioners. In fact, any parishioners.” She sighed.

“No one comes?”

She shook her head. “Just this morning I asked God to help me. To show me how to bring people here. I asked for a sign. And what do I find in my yard? A naked Demon. Oh! I meant Damon. Sorry!” She threw her face into her hands to muffle the giggles bubbling up.

Through her fingers, she heard Damon assuring her, “’Tis an understandable mistake,” in a surprisingly earnest tone.

She peeked between her hands and saw that his expression matched his dead-serious tone of voice. Her giggles turned to laughter. Something must have struck Damon as funny because he, too, fell into genuine laughter, rich and deep.