Mysteria Nights

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