She even gave him a book once (well, she gave him lots of books, many times, but this one he remembered especially) about a kid named Jack who could travel between dimensions; his family called him Traveling Jack. “That’s like you,” she told him, “you just can’t stay in one spot, boyo. And that’s fine.”
Well, no, he thought. I can’t stay here, is what it is. But he didn’t say it out loud. He’d bite off his own fingers before he’d say something so mean to her.
In fact, the entire neighborhood treated Mama Zee as a bomb that might blow up in their faces, because they knew he was quick, and quiet. And strong.
Mama Zee had all the help she needed getting groceries delivered (and because she usually had between three and seven foster kids at any one time, the milk bill alone was staggering), all the extensions needed to pay local vendors, and nobody ever broke in.
Occasionally, on his travels, Someone Bad would take it in their head that he might have something they wanted. It always went badly for Someone Bad and the older he got, the easier it got.
At first he put up with it, because he knew the bloody nose, the black eye, the whatever, would be all better in a day or two, sometimes less, depending on the moon. It was the price you paid for choosing not to sleep under a roof; that, and cold feet.
And then, one day it was like he had a lightning flash, only inside his brain. And the flash was made up of words: Not today, pal. He was nine when he realized he could make a grown man cry. It was shockingly easy.
He wasn’t a bully (Mama Zee would have smacked him half to death with that dish towel), but he’d crunched up quite a few of them.
He wasn’t very good in school—something about sitting still in a classroom reminded him of Mama Zee’s noisy, toy-strewn living room. But he was good at other things.
When he got big—and thanks to Mama Zee’s cooking, he got really big—he found out people would pay to get and keep a bully out of their lives. Pay a lot, sometimes. And sometimes it wasn’t a bully; it was an ex-husband or a mean boss or a bad cop (but really, under their outside skin, they were all bullies). And the older he got, the more they paid him. Almost like if he didn’t do the job, they were afraid he’d do them, so they practically threw money at him.
Of course he wouldn’t; he was still a little nervous about Mama Zee’s dish towel, though he had twelve inches of height and sixty pounds of muscle on her, and she was old; she was fifty-four. But the people didn’t know that, and so they gave him money.
He didn’t know what to do with it; he tried giving it to Mama Zee, but she only took enough to pay off her little house in Revere. He knew better than to talk her into retiring; the moon did not get tired of changing the tides, and Mama Zee loved kids. And she wouldn’t move to a nicer neighborhood. She wouldn’t take a car, either; not that a person needed one in that area.
He paid for Jenna’s college; she was grown now, and still sleeping on the couch. She took it with thanks, and moved out, and Mama Zee didn’t say anything, but he heard her crying later. Only it was the good kind of crying, so he wasn’t sure what to do about that. In the end he did nothing.
Finally, Mama Zee said to him, “You’re grown, boyo. Don’t you want a place of your own?”
He just shrugged; his skin was itchy and he kept looking at the door. The new kid, Bryan, had colic. It was noisier than usual in the small house on Winthrop Avenue.
“Stop that twitching and pay attention to me; you can go soon enough. Don’t you ever think about getting a girl and settling down?”
“No,” he told her, and it was the truth, naturally. He couldn’t imagine lying to her. Like he couldn’t imagine taking a woman for his own, and cursing her as he was cursed. He would never.
That made her look sad, for some reason, and she slammed a cup of applesauce in front of him. She felt better when he ate.
He hated applesauce.
He got a spoon and started eating.
“You should take some of that money and buy a house of your own,” she finally said. She watched him eat every bite of the pulped fruit. “Your own house, where it can be as quiet as you want it. And then, maybe . . . the rest will come.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Because—I’ve been thinking about this a lot, boyo, and you can’t be the only one. The only one in the whole entire world. Right? You can’t.”
He shrugged.
“Just because you never ran across another werewolf,” she added sharply, as if he had contradicted her, “doesn’t mean there aren’t any others out there. If only your birth parents—”
She stopped talking, and he was glad. He had never known them, but he didn’t like them. They had been killed in a car accident, and left him.
“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.
Two
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 h
e 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.
Three
“. . . 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.”
“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.
Four
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?”
&nbs
p; “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—”