Mysteria Nights

barf. Never had she seen someone so hurt. And everything was happening so fast, she couldn’t—

“Kellmannd Dimension,” he groaned. “Demons . . . this man is done. This girl will take over.”

“I don’t understand. Do you know how I can get back?”

“Nobody gets back. We . . . fight. And die. And someone new comes.”

“Fight? Fight who?”

The man managed a nod over her shoulder and coughed. She spared a glance . . . and nearly screamed. The ugliest creature she had ever seen was inching toward her, making its way across the blue grass, thick tail dragging, wrathful growls ripping out of its lungs.

“Take these.” He pulled a knife and a sword from somewhere and handed them to her; they were so slick with gore she nearly dropped them. “And fight. Do not . . . fear. We are . . . the forces for good.”

Withering had been called many things in her fourteen years, but a force for good wasn’t one of them.

“Find . . . the others . . . of this man’s kind. And . . . lead.”

“But I don’t—”

“Behind . . . you . . .”

She stood, holding the sword straight out, and the monster, which had been coming fast, couldn’t slow in time and impaled itself on the point.

Not too bright, then. That’s something.

She yanked the sword free, gagging at all the purple gore, and neatly sidestepped as the thing fell to the ground. She turned back to the man and discovered he had died during the brief fight.

She stood, looking around the odd landscape, sword dripping, panting slightly from the adrenaline rush. For good or ill, she was stuck here indefinitely. Apparently strangers dropping in out of nowhere was quite the common occurrence around here.

So. She would fight. She would defend.

She would live.

Oh, but her mother and her sisters . . . how could she turn her back on her family? It was too awful, resigning herself to never seeing them again. She’d give anything—anything—to hear her mother scolding her again.

She resolved to put them out of her mind and to keep them there.

A solitary tear trickled down one cheek; she wiped her face, wiped the sword on the grass, and went to look for other people.

Six

MYSTERIA, SECONDARY EARTH

NOW

Withering obediently followed her mother and sisters out of the food place (restaurant? Gods and devils, how long since she had been in a restaurant?), leaving Thad behind to make more pizza pies. She was still having trouble following the events of the last hour. One minute she’d been chasing that horrid Katai, the next there was a crash of light and sound and normal-colored water (except the clear water seemed wrong to her, after all the years of purple water) and she was back with her honored mother and sisters.

And that strange man! Thick dark hair, wonderful chocolate (ahhh, chocolate! How long since she’d had some?) colored eyes. Lean, muscular body, and very quick on his feet. Spookily quick.

She had been impressed at how he had rushed over to help; she could sense no magic in him, nothing especially extraordinary. And yet he had jumped into the fray without hesitation.

And how long since she had looked at a man as a potential mate instead of a fighting partner? Back in the demonic realm, her couplings had been quick and very nearly emotionless; two people trying to snatch a little warmth because one or both would very likely die the next day. Now that she was back, perhaps there would be time for . . .

No. She had responsibilities. She had to keep the portal between Earth Prime and Secondary Earth closed; Mysteria was a wonderful place and did not deserve demonic infestation. She had to get back, and quickly.

But why? It isn’t fair! I’m home now, I belong here, not Earth Prime.

But did she? Did she really? She knew now, as she had not many years ago, that special people fell into the demonic realm every few years, that they were charged with keeping the demons in their place.

She had been the first to wrest power from the demons and take over the entire realm. But her position would always be precarious; the demons wouldn’t stand for her leadership. Now that she was back—now that her mother’s wish had been granted—did that mean she had to put aside any chance for happiness?

She did not know.

“And you remember the home place, Withering, dear.” Her mother was leading her into the old house. Strange how small everything looked! “And we’ll just—ah—your bedroom is—you remember.”

She did. She looked around the master bedroom (her mother had taken the guest room and had given the triplets the largest bedroom), eyeing the bunk beds and the twin bed against the opposite wall. She looked at the dressers and closet, which would be filled with clothes that were too small, not to mention age-inappropriate.

Her sisters said nothing, only watched her.

And suddenly, she felt like crying.

Seven

Janameides knocked on the door of the red house with black shingles. He was on a mission from his queen, Potameides, a river nymph whose territory encompassed the entire Mississippi River.

After a moment, the door opened, and a short, chubby brunette stood in the doorway.

“Hey!” she said by way of greeting. “You look like my friend Pot!”

“It is my honor,” he said, “to be her subject. I am Janameides.”

“Well, come in, come in. My husband’s not here right now, but I—”

“I am here to see you, madam.”

“Okeydokey.” She stepped back and let him in. The house was all right (he preferred open water), with wooden floors and cream-colored walls.

“Who the hell is that?” a rude voice said out of nowhere.

“It’s Janameides. He’s a friend of Pot’s.”

“Well, what the hell is he doing here?”

“I dunno. I’m Charlene,” she said to him, “but I imagine you knew that.”

“Yes, ma’am. Is that the ghost?” he asked in a near whisper.

“I can hear you,” the ghost snapped.

“Sorry. Who is she?”

“I can still hear you. If you must know, I was a roofer and got my stupid self killed patching a hole.”

“And had the bad manners to stick around,” Charlene said cheerfully. “Now. What can we do for you, Janameides?”

“My queen asked me to check on her friends. As you may know, she became very attached to some of Mysteria’s residents during her exile here.”

Charlene nodded. Pot—Potameides—had been exiled from her beloved river and had only been able to go back last year, when a coup returned her to power. Since then, there hadn’t been a word.

“You know my name, ma’am,” Janameides said politely to the ghost. “Might I have yours?”