Then her strawberry bounced into the air. She snatched it. Before she could take a bite out of it and pretend nothing was wrong, she saw a tiny green creature hanging from the stem.
A little green man.
“Ah!” She dropped the berry into her grits with a noisy plop. Her mother glanced at her sharply. “A caterpillar,” she explained breathlessly. “The countryside is full of them.” Where did the green man go? Was it drowning?
Then Damon’s cup jerked forward. His hand slammed over it. “Aye, nothing we do seems to stop them.” Then he leaned over and whispered in her ear. He sounded sick at heart. “Snotlings.”
“What are those?” Her voice sounded strained and shaky, and a little bit crazed. “Wait, it doesn’t matter. How do we get rid of them?” She reached for the pitcher of water, and he caught her hand.
“Water has no effect,” he whispered. Harmony could see her family trying to catch a snatch of their hushed conversation. “They are the smallest of the green-skinned races. The orcs and goblins use them as slaves for simple tasks because they’re not intelligent creatures.”
A snotling peeked out from under her father’s plate. Harmony watched in dread as her father cut into his strawberry with his knife and fork. “They seem smart enough to me.”
“I mean, they are not a threat on their own to other creatures. They form gangs to attack.”
Jake Jr.’s strawberry rolled to the edge of the table. He caught it in his palm before it leaped off the edge. “Your table needs leveling, kiddo,” he informed Harmony. “The food is rolling off.”
She made a weak laugh. “There’s still so much to do around here.” Something green darted across her plate. She squished it under a biscuit. Her mother frowned at her, as if she were a child playing with her food. But that impression was better than the alternative.
The fork on Great-grandma’s plate rattled. Utterly calm, Eudora covered it with her napkin. What if Daddy’s plate was attacked next? Or Mama’s? What if they saw they weren’t caterpillars or flies? Perspiration trickled between Harmony’s breasts. Her heartbeat was erratic. She was never going to make it through this meal without passing out. Short of screaming fire, how was she going to evacuate her family from the kitchen?
“Bullies,” Damon muttered softly. “That’s all they are. Ye canna be afraid. Goodness will always win out. We are stronger than them. Far stronger.”
“Then why do they keep returning?” Harmony whispered.
“Because they can,” Eudora said. “Damon is correct. You have the power to eliminate them.”
“We’ve tried. Nothing works.”
“Call a pest control company,” Jake Jr. suggested, biting into a piece of bacon.
“Monday,” Harmony mumbled. “I’ll give them a call. If I’m not dead by then.”
The old woman frowned. “Satan torments you because your panic makes it fun. Take away the reason for his amusement, and he’ll forget about this place and move on. Not forever, mind you, but for now.”
Harmony tried to read the woman’s mysterious expression. “How do you know so much about Satan?”
Her eyes seemed suddenly ancient. “Oh, we’ve crossed paths before.”
“Grandma . . . please.” Daddy shook his head. “Let’s keep our mealtime conversations on happier things. Heaven, for instance, as opposed to Hell.”
Eudora placed her hands in her lap, primly, but Harmony didn’t buy it for a moment. “It’s always good to be grateful for what we have so much in abundance in this family,” she reminded him. “Our goodness.”
Murmurs of agreement went around the table.
Eudora continued with her little homily, addressing her father, even though Harmony knew the lesson was intended for her and Damon. “Because of your position and power, Jake, Satan toyed with our family more than once. He places temptation in our path, tries to ruin us, but I’m always ready for him. Always ready.”
She took Harmony’s hand and Damon’s and brought them together under the table. Damon’s fingers were hot and dry. Her body gave a little leap, remembering the feel of that hand sliding over her bare skin, doing the most amazing things. . . .
A cup clattered against a plate. Harmony squeaked and tried to pull away, but Eudora hissed at her. “No.”
“But—”
“No!” Eudora placed her arms over Harmony’s shoulders, Damon’s, too, and drew them close. “Believe in your power to defeat him, and you will. Fill your minds with goodness, and together push it outward. He’ll not be able to stand against you.”
“That sounds too simple.”
“It is. That’s what too few people remember. Good and evil. Right versus wrong. Yes versus no. There’s nothing complicated about it. Good repels wickedness. If it were otherwise, the world would have gone to hell in more ways than one eons ago.”
“Aye,” Harmony heard Damon murmur, as if he understood.
“Hold it right there, you three.” Robbie pushed back from the table. “Great picture!” He snapped a shot on his digital, and in the distraction of showing everyone the image, Eudora spoke under her breath to Harmony and Damon.
“Whenever it seems the Devil is near, join hands and think of goodness—of God.”
“Like a séance?” Robbie asked.
Eudora frowned at him. “Eat your eggs. Go on,” she urged Harmony and Damon. “The two of you. Try it. You are weak alone and most powerful together against the force of evil. Gather the light of goodness around you, the power, and then use it to fight Satan—to thrust him away. Let the light expand out from you, then push. Together, you will not lose.”
“Grandmother,” Daddy warned.
“Hush, boy! Can’t you see I’m teaching a lesson here? What is it with this family sometimes?” Eudora made a cluck of annoyance. “Together you can fight him off. And in fighting him off, you can fight them off.”
“The snotlings,” Harmony whispered.
“Now, let’s practice. Close your eyes and hold hands.”
Damon’s hand closed over Harmony’s as he shut his eyes. Their arms rested on Eudora’s lap, on the bright blue wool of her skirt.
“You, too, girl. Close your eyes.”
“Yes, Great-grandma.” Oh, how she didn’t want to listen! Not with little green men on the loose. If her mother were to see them, or Daddy, then the explanations would have to follow, and they’d learn about Damon—
“Now,” Eudora growled.
Harmony squeezed her eyes shut.
She could hear something scratching on her plate. Maybe the snotling was trying to dig out from under the biscuit. If she could just squish it back down . . .
But Damon held fast to her hand. Eudora pressed her hands over their clasped ones. “Think of good . . . as hard as you ever have.”
Harmony pursed her lips and concentrated, thinking of heaven and light, of faith and eternity . . . and the quiet hush of a snowy morning, of the softness of a baby’s head, the ripple of grass in the fields . . . the tenderness of Damon’s kiss, and that way he looked at her that morning in the twilight of dawn, when he’d held her so close. . . .
To her amazement a sense of assurance came over her, a strange and quiet confidence. And then, she sensed the press of Damon’s mind against hers, the first time she’d felt him reaching out to her with his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, she opened up and let him in.
A burst of light exploded behind her eyes. Damon’s hand convulsed in hers, and Eudora made a quiet sound of approval. “Yes, children. That’s what you do. Now fight. Push.”
Gather the light, Harmony thought. Gather the light and throw it outward. In her imagination, she visualized pooling her strength with Damon’s, and together they chased away the shadows, letting the light seep into every crevice, letting it pool and overflow, until there was no darkness left.
The table started vibrating. Harmony’s eyes shot open. The orange juice in everyone’s glasses shook, and the silverware rattled.
“He’s angry,” D
amon murmured.
The shaking continued and Mama made a gasp. “What is it, Jake? An earthquake?”
“A small aftershock to one we had some time back,” Damon explained with utter calm.
The little kitchen chandelier swung crazily, and juice splashed on the tablecloth. But Harmony wasn’t afraid anymore. She had control now. “Bring it on,” she told Lucifer and gripped Damon’s hand with all her might. “I’m ready to kick some devil’s ass.”
“Harmony!”
Harmony smiled a bit sheepishly at her mother’s incredulous glare. “Sorry, Mama. It just slipped out. Great-grandma’s got me all fired up about good versus evil.”
Her brothers laughed.
A tearing noise dragged all their gazes upward. The tremors had knocked the chandelier loose. Plaster sprinkled down. It dropped a couple of inches, swinging on its wire. Then it plunged to the table with a mighty crash.
The tremors stopped. Bracing herself, Harmony glanced around the table with the fallen chandelier looking like a gaudy centerpiece. The strawberries were behaving like strawberries were supposed to behave. Same with the cups. And no little green men cavorted over the tablecloth.
“Yes,” Harmony whispered. “Yes. Thank you, Great-grandma.”
Cackling softly, Eudora patted Harmony on the thigh and resumed eating her breakfast. Jake Jr. moved the chandelier to the floor, and Mama plucked a piece of plaster out of her coffee. After a few nervous comments about the rarity of earthquakes in the Rocky Mountains, the conversation returned to its normal volume and enthusiasm.
“A toast,” her father called out and raised his glass of orange juice. “To getting to know our daughter’s new friend. Damon.”
“Do you think you can join us for Christmas, honey?” Mama asked him. Then her apologetic gaze swerved to Harmony. “Or will that be too soon?”
Harmony smiled. “No, not too soon at all. I’m kind of hoping he’ll be staying around for a while.”
The look in Damon’s gold-brown eyes was one she’d never forget. “Aye, lass. I’ll be around for a while. As close to forever as heaven allows.”
Harmony was terrified no one would ever return to church after the flying monkeys, but as the week went on the casseroles started arriving, brought by sympathetic townspeople, and even cookies, baked, incredibly, by the terror triplets Withering, Scornful, and Derisive. Jeanie stopped by, of course, and the Tawdrys, Mrs. O’Cleary, and her great-granddaughter Annabelle, all impressing the Faithfulls with their good words about Harmony and Mysteria Community Church, while Damon devoted his energy to acting the part of the perfect suitor, an ex-demon trying to win the hand of the preacher’s daughter. It drove home the uniqueness of Mysteria. Everyone was welcome here, no one was ostracized, no matter who—or what—you were.
When the crowds returned that next Sunday, Harmony smiled from the pulpit at her father, looking so proud as the guest of honor in the front pew. Next to him were her brothers, Mama, and Great-grandmother Eudora, whose hand rested affectionately, and rather appreciatively, on Damon’s rock-hard thigh.
Later that night, after the Sunday dinner dishes were cleaned and put away, and her family was gathered around the television in the living room, Harmony and Damon sneaked outside.
Taking her hand, Damon led her to the garden and under the apple tree where he’d landed naked only a few months before. Fireflies floated all around them. Frogs and crickets provided a ceaseless chorus. Damon slung his arms low around her waist and pulled her close. They stood there simply holding each other. With soft, warm lips, he nuzzled her neck. “Good, good, good,” he murmured.
She giggled. “They’ll be gone tomorrow and we’ll finally have some private time to . . . well, you know.”
“Aye, I do know. How could I forget? I’ve thought of it day and night, lass. Day and night.” He slid his hands over her butt and pulled her closer. Yes, he was thinking about their lovemaking, no doubt about it. His body made that fact obvious.
She tipped her head to gaze up at him. “At one time, you weren’t too happy about being mortal in Mysteria. Does this mean now you are?”
Damon chuckled. “Aye. ’Tis all I ever want to be.”
“When I used to look at this church, all I could see was its emptiness, but it was my emptiness that was the problem,” she confessed. “And then you came and everything changed.”
His handsome face was luminescent with love. “This is only the beginning. ’Twill get better and better with us.” Swallowing nervously, he crouched down on one knee. “Forgive me if I dinna do this properly.” Then he clasped her hands in his. “Harmony, will you do me the pleasure of one day taking me as your husband?”
She whooped then slapped a hand over her mouth. “Yes,” she mumbled joyfully through her fingers. “Yes.”
He lifted her up and swung her around, kissing her hard. Then, with devilish intent and one hell of a bad-boy grin, he carried her swiftly away from the house to where the lights didn’t reach.
And so, the fair maiden married her dark knight the following spring, and all was right between them . . . or as right as life could be in the strange little hamlet of Mysteria.
That was, until they began to wonder if demon genes could be passed on to their children, the first of which arrived within the year. But that is a story for another day. . . .
ALONE WOLF
MaryJanice Davidson
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to “the girls”: Susan, Gena, and P. C. for their support; they made this such a fun project, I was bummed when it was time to turn it in.
Thanks also to our editors at Berkley for their enthusiasm for Mysteria and its, ah, interesting inhabitants. Without their thumbs-up, this book wouldn’t be here.
Thanks also to all those who wrote me asking about the goings-on in Mysteria; the girls and I got kind of curious about that, too. So here you go.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The events of this novella take place three months after the events in Bewitched, Bothered, and Bevampyred, available at www.triskelion.com, and a year after the events in Derik’s Bane (Berkley Sensation).
Also, triplets aren’t necessarily evil. And most horses don’t behave like the night mare. But there are, of course, exceptions.
Prologue
The house sat in the center of two gently rising hills, looking like a jewel on a beautiful woman’s bosom. It was, in fact, the color of crushed rubies; the shutters were black. It was a two-bedroom in the Cape Cod style, two stories, one and a half bath, with an assumable mortgage at a fixed rate; the heater and central air were both up to code.
Inside, the walls were the bland color of good cream; the floors were oak. There was a dishwasher, but no garbage disposal. The house was built in 1870, and so was sorely lacking in closet space. Still, at sixteen hundred square feet, it was of a respectable size; the perfect starter home.
Of course, it was haunted. In 1914, one of the roofers (hired to fix the holes brought by the Big-Ass Hailstorm of the Spring of ’14) fell off and, after dying, had the bad manners to linger. But she was helpful, really; a squeaky door would magically fix itself, the heater, though thirty years old, ran without a hiccup. If her views on the doings of the Mysteria City Council were noisily and frequently expressed, it was a small price to pay for never having to call a handyman.
The backyard went straight back, like an arrow, and the garden sat at the top of the yard like an arrowhead. It had grown over, of course, but could be brought back again; it was the right size for a salsa garden, or perhaps some cutting flowers.
The front yard ran straight up to the road and was small, almost an afterthought. There was no sidewalk; just a paved driveway that led to the small detached garage.
In the front yard was a sign: white, with stark black lettering. It looked like a For Sale sign, but the largest letters read FOR CRYING, and the rest of the sign read: . . . out loud, think about what you’re doing! This is a weird weird weird town. There’s a reason this house
has been on the market going on ten years. Think carefully before you so much as set foot on the lawn.
(It was a large sign.)
Then, in smaller letters, accompanied by a red smiley face: DON’T FORGET TO TAKE A BROCHURE!
The house sat like a jewel, and waited.
One
His first memory was of the moon, a shining, broad black face with the whitest teeth and the darkest eyes beaming down at him. When he checked his medical records years later and did the math, he figured out it would have been his third trip to the hospital; his second broken arm.
Mama Zee, the most sought-after foster mother in the county, had taken him home after signing all the paperwork (her righteous name, according to the most-helpful chart, was Ms. Zahara J. Jones) and put him in the battered wooden crib in her tiny third bedroom. (Willie and Konnie were in the other bedroom, and Jenna slept on the foldout couch in the living room.)
He did not remember the foster father breaking his arm, or the other foster father breaking his other arm, and he did not remember doctors or the hours of pain, but to the end of his days he would remember her smiling face. That, and waiting. It seemed he was always waiting: for a ride, for a class to start, for a job, for a hug, for a friend.
He was just a dumb baby then, and didn’t know what the moon really was, but for a long time that was how he thought of her: Mama Zee, the moon.
In the end, he always came back to her. He loved the moon, but could not stay: for one thing, the noise drove him fucking nuts. Mama Zee always had kids around. There were always toys underfoot; the cupboard was always stuffed with little applesauce containers. Even as a small boy, at four, at six, at nine, he would have to get out, wander about on his own for a while.
After a while, the cops never ever caught him; he was too quick, and too quiet. But he always came back, and after the first two times, when Mama Zee saw that no matter how many times she smacked him with the dish towel or yelled, no matter what she did or how she worried, he would leave, he was compelled to go. But he always came back. And so she didn’t worry. Or, if she did, she never spoke to him about it.