Mysteria Nights

“Rae, you are reading this entirely the wrong way.”

“If I showed up in the Mississippi River with antinymph spray, how would you take it?”

“Anti what?”

“Oh, never mind. Just get out of here.”

“I will not.” He stood his ground stubbornly, even when Stephen King’s The Stand (hardcover edition, which weighed approximately twenty-seven pounds) hit him in the chest. “You need my help, and I will not leave until you have it.”

“I’ll bet Pot will have something to say about that, Squishy.”

“My queen has given me leave to stay. In fact, she was pleased that one of her people will watch over the town she so loves.”

“Pot said torturing me with witch doctors who wear Dockers is okay? What the blue hell is the world coming to?”

“I do not know. I do know I cannot bear to see you trapped when I have unlimited freedom of movement.”

“But Jan—” Rae’s tone softened, and he tried not to display his surprise. “Jan, by staying here, you’re restricting your own movement. You said it yourself, your home is a long way away from here.”

“My home,” he said firmly, “is wherever you are.”

There was a long, long silence. When she broke it, it sounded like—but of course he must be mistaken—but it sounded like she was crying softly. “You mean it? You want to stay here with me?”

“Yes. I never lie, Rae, and I certainly would not start with you, even if I did.”

“But why?”

“I do not know,” he said simply.

“Because if it’s because you feel sorry for me, I’ll throw the door at your head right now.”

“I did at first pity you. But even in my pity, I greatly admired your fortitude in a difficult situation. And when my queen’s business was finished, I was unable to leave town. Because of you, Rae, I was unable to go back to my people. That is not pity. That is—something else.”

“Something else,” she mused.

“If you will not leave this silly red house and move to the next plane, I have no choice but to also remain.”

“I could build an extension,” she said eagerly. “I could give you your own bathroom and everything. A big hot tub for you to soak in whenever you want!”

“So you do not mind if I remain?”

“Like I can do anything about it?”

“You cannot,” he said smugly.

“Char and her husband might have something to say about it—oh, who am I kidding? They’re always looking for babysitters for the Thing That Poops. And they’ve been reaping the benefits of my free handiwork for ages. Okay, for a few months. But I’ll ramp up the value of the house if I build on another bed and bath. Of course, they’ll have to buy the supplies, but it’s still cheaper than—”

“Rae, do be quiet.”

“Better get used to it, pal. Anybody nutty enough to fall for a ghost—my ghost— and give up his river for Mysteria had better be resigned to everyday chatter. But I’m betting there are compensations.”

“Compensations?” he asked, then gasped as he felt her essence rush through him like a cool wind, raising goose bumps on his arms and causing him to rock backward on his heels. He could feel cool, ghostly hands on him, touching, caressing, stroking, and oh, the sensation was delightful, the coolness was delightful; living humans were just too warm.

He heard her laugh in his ear, and that raised more pleasurable goose bumps, heard her sigh and felt her grip tighten, except it seemed as though she had four hands, ten, a dozen, and they were everywhere, everywhere, touching and cuddling and making him hard and making him shudder and making him spasm all over until he realized he was flat on his back on the kitchen tile.

“Oh,” he gasped, thinking he needed five or six bottles of water. Right now.

“Hmmm,” Rae replied, sounding like she was lying beside him.

“That was—that was—” What? Supremely satisfying? Sublime? Out of this world?

“Fun!”

“For you as well?” He was unable to hide his surprise.

“Whoo, yeah! First orgasm I’ve had in—what century is this again? Never mind. When I went into your body, I could feel everything you were feeling, which made me feel even better, which I projected onto you, which made me feel better—you get the picture.”

“Oh, my,” he gasped. “So you can do that whenever you wish?”

“Apparently so.”

“I may never walk again.”

“So who’s asking you to?” she said and laughed in his ear, the sound a warm caress.

Sixteen

It came from the wishing well and found it was dark in this place; the moon was high, and the stars were bright—and the stars were wrong. It followed the hated woman’s scent through the small park, down the oddly flat lane (the blacktop felt strange beneath its feet and claws) and toward the small red house, her scent getting stronger with every step.

And with every step, it became angrier.

It would find the usurper, the dire queen, and pull her throat out with its teeth until it was gulping her blood and picking its teeth with her vertebrae. Then the land would once again belong to its people, the Krakeen, and this land, too, this ridiculous land of soft pink things. This land with no demons, this land that had spawned the dire queen and foisted her on its people.

It charged up the walk, already drooling at the prospect of chewing on the usurper, and easily pushed down the door, barely noticing the astounding crash the wood made as it hit the floor.

It walked into the house, still following the trail, which was stronger here; she had spent some time here, at any rate. But one of the soft pink things wasn’t so soft, because it was standing protectively in front of a female and a baby, and it was baring its teeth at the demon.

“Cole, don’t!” someone without a scent said. “Get Char and get the baby and get the hell out of here!”

The man paid no notice; the man growled and came closer, his eyes seemed almost lit from within, and the Krakeen licked its lips and wondered how the man’s liver might taste.

“Cole!” the voice screamed. “Get your wife and get your kid and get the fuck out of here! Find Withering! Go now!”

The voice seemed to penetrate this time; the man remembered his responsibilities and fled with the female and infant. The Krakeen let them; they were not its rightful prey. This time. Instead, it looked around for the voice —and staggered as some strange, hard object smashed into the back of its head, followed by a rain of smaller objects.

“There’s more drawers, and there’s more silverware,” the voice warned him, “so get lost.”

It growled, dribbling saliva on the floor, and swiped at the air, reaching for the voice.

“Not the brightest bulb, are you?” the voice said, this time from behind him. It whirled in time to catch another heavy object in the face, and it staggered. “How’d the toaster taste? Hey, stand still, so I can crush you underneath the washing machine.”

It roared, infuriated at something it could not see or smell, still wanting the dire queen’s blood but not at all happy at shedding its own—its blood, for like all Krakeen, it had both male and female genitalia.