“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.”
“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.
Five
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 trick
s,” 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.
Six
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.
He found a spare set of earphones at the shooter’s table, slipped them on, then said, between her shots, “Shouldn’t you be a little farther away?”
She didn’t turn around, just kept banging away in the general direction of the targets. The gun in her hand was so big she could barely hold it upright. It made him feel slightly ill to look at it. Hunting with lead and pieces of metal seemed kind of . . . he wasn’t sure. Cheating? If you couldn’t bring someone down with your hands and feet and teeth, it—
“Don’t you have a hot date with Pot?”
“No.”
She slipped the earphones off her ears, popped the cylinder on the revolver, set it on the small, waist-high stand, and turned to face him. “And you better watch out for the triplets. They could get a guy like you in big trouble.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
“Is it true?”
He blinked. “Is what true?”
“That you’re a werewolf?”
“Sure.”
“Is Pot helping you—you know—find others of your kind?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Interestingly, her scent went from sharp suspicion to sweet surprise—honey over oatmeal. It made for a pleasant change from the gunpowder. “Well, maybe I can help you. I’ve, uh, had some experience in this stuff.”
“Selling houses to werewolves?”
“No, no. I’m a . . .” She paused dramatically, then rushed out with, “I’m a vampire slayer!”
“But I’m not a vampire,” he said mildly.
“That’s okay, I’m not really a slayer. I’m more like a vampire beater-upper. I don’t like killing them. Hey, the undead are people, too.”
She was lying. But he was so used to it—people lying like they breathed—that it wasn’t especially alarming. He assumed that she was stressed and tense about her job(s), and couldn’t tell him the full truth about her night business. But a vampire beater-upper might be handy, if she could—
“I’ve run into lots of werewolves,” she assured him. “I bet I could help you find some of your kind.”
“One of my kind lives in this town,” he reminded her.
“Right, right. But I meant, your herd. Find your herd.”
“Oh.” He almost smiled at her, and didn’t at the last minute. His smile made people afraid. “That would be good.”
“Yes, indeed, I’ve seen more creatures of the night than you can shake a stick at,” she continued, slipping her tinted shooting glasses off her face. And now she was telling the whole truth . . . probably a truth anyone living in Mysteria could tell. “We’ll get you hooked up.”
“I’d like to get hooked up,” he said, and this time he did smile. Oddly, she wasn’t afraid; instead, she blushed prettily, and he wondered just how important finding the others really was.
Seven
“The first thing we ought to do,” Charlene was telling him after they had parked in front of a small house north of Main Street, “is leave Justin a note.”
“A note?”
“I told you, I’m pretty sure he’d be helpful to you, but he’s out of town right now.”
“For a vampire slayer—”
“Vampire beater-upper.”
“—you’re not very aggressive.”
“I’m a little bit of a pacifist,” she admitted, scribbling something on a piece of stationery and getting out to slip it into the mailbox.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Uh . . . we wait until Justin reads his note?”
“Isn’t there anything else we could do? Isn’t there an underground contact you can call, or e-mail?”
“Oh, sure, loads of them. Tons. But right now, they’re all sleeping. See?” She pointed to the sun, fat on the horizon and tinting the clouds orange. He couldn’t believe it was almost evening. They’d been driving around and chatting all day as she gave him a tour of his new town. “Everybody’s resting up for their nightly battle against the scourges of the underworld.”
“Oh.”
“So, why don’t you come over to my house for supper? I stuck a roast in the Crock-Pot this morning; there’ll be plenty.”
“Oh.” He thought that one over. If he went to her house, there would be food, and her company, and that would be pleasurable. But he would want to—
“I guess you don’t want to,” she said, and blood had rushed to her face again, that charming blush.
“I do want to,” he assured her. “I’m just not sure I’d want to leave.”
“Well,” she said, blushing harder and starting the car, “who said you’d have to leave?”
Pot roast was awkward, but delicious. He couldn’t get what she’d said out of his mind. She was so there it was driving him crazy; he wanted to be done with potatoes and carrots and meat and just get her on the floor and fuck her until they were both slick with sweat and out of breath.
But you didn’t just do that. He was pretty sure. There were women in his old neighborhood, of course, but nobody like Charlene. What was the protocol? Goddammit!
He was never more aware of being a werewolf than when he wanted to get laid. Sex made the difference between species yawn like a chasm, a bottomless one. Because he knew when the woman wanted to do it, but she rarely c
ame out and said it.
So he had to sit there (at the movies, at dinner, at a car show, whatever) and pretend he couldn’t smell her lust. And she pretended she wasn’t giving off enough hormones to make him feel like he was losing his mind. The whole thing made his balls hurt.
Charlene wanted him. He wanted her. She’d joked about him spending the night. She’d made him supper. She was helping him find his—what was the term? Herd. His herd. And she’d been helpful in a hundred other ways, too, professionally and personally.
So—what? Jump on her? Ask for seconds? Get a refill on his milk glass? Ask her out for the next night and go home and try to sleep with a raging hard-on? (He didn’t know about other werewolves, but masturbation had always seemed to him silly and wasteful.) What?
“Do you want a refill?”
“No,” he snapped.
“Cripes, sorry. Well, why don’t we just get to it, then? But let me clear the dishes first.”
He sat like a lump while she cleaned off the small kitchen table, rinsed dishes, put the milk back in the fridge.
Had he heard her right? Get to it? Get to what? Maybe she had a slide show all prepared, or puppets in the closet, or something. It sure as shit couldn’t be what he was thinking. Nothing in his life had come easy; he didn’t expect things to change now.
He caught another whiff as she went by
(ummmmm)
and then realization hit and he backed up so fast his chair fell over.
“You’re ovulating!” he cried, and it was as much an accusation as “You’re the killer!”
She blinked owlish eyes at him; her pupils were enormous, and ringed in dark green. Nocturnal, a voice in the bottom of his brain told him, a voice that didn’t speak up very often.
“What?” she was asking. “I mean, I am, but how can you tell?”
“Because you smell like peaches in syrup. I was so distracted by all the other smells, I didn’t—no, no!” He backed away from her. “I have to go home now.”
She pouted. Her full lower lip actually poked out and he thought about sucking it into his—“But I wanted you to spend the night.”
“No way. Not if there’s a chance you’ll get pregnant.”