Mysteria Nights

“It’s the pollen.” Harmony dabbed at her eyes. “I think I might be allergic.”

The woman winked. “Who’s the special man?”

Harmony’s heart fell to the plank floor with a thud. Or at least it felt that way. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

Mrs. O’Cleary winked and wagged her finger. “Don’t deny it. I know just by looking at you, young lady. You’re in love.”

“What you see is my love for my work, Mrs. O’Cleary. I love this town and the people in it.”

“Pah.” She waved her hand.

“I haven’t been dating anyone. I haven’t met anyone.” Except for Damon. Harmony’s face flooded with heat. “I haven’t known anyone long enough to be in love.”

“Silly girl. Time makes no difference. Sometimes you just know.”

Sometimes you just know. Harmony thought of Damon and her heart contracted. Then she shook her head. She couldn’t let the eccentric residents of Mysteria—or the pink pollen—get to her. It was her job as pastor to be the voice of reason—of God—in this town. “I need to pick up a few things for the church,” she said, changing the subject as she stepped sideways down the aisle that contained everything from baseball caps to panty hose—and a display of Hanes underwear.

“Nails? Plaster? A nice . . . long . . . screw?”

Harmony shot the old woman a startled glance. The knowing amusement she saw in those crinkly blue eyes almost made her blush. “I hired someone at the church. He needs clothes.”

The old woman grinned wickedly.

Harmony tried not to react. “Work clothes,” she explained, choosing jeans, shirts, thick cotton socks, and boots, hesitating only when she turned her attention to the Hanes display. Boxers or briefs?

Harmony could feel Mrs. O’Cleary’s eyes boring into the back of her head. “Do you need a particular size?” the woman inquired helpfully.

“Extra large. I mean, he’s not fat. He’s just . . . large.” Incredibly so. She squeezed her eyes shut. Just shut up, Harmony. She chose several pairs of boxers in generic colors like beige gingham check and powder blue, studiously avoiding the designer black silks that practically begged to jump into her arms. Would Damon look awesome in those, or what?

Or did he look best in nothing?

In nothing, she decided.

Harmony, please. He’s your employee.

Not trusting her facial expression, Harmony kept her chin buried in the pile of clothing in her arms and dumped the entire pile of clothes on the counter by the cash register.

Mrs. O’Cleary smiled at the Hanes packages as she rang them up. Harmony paid for the purchases with as much self-consciousness as if she were buying a package of condoms.

It was a relief to return to Bubba’s innocent, unquestioning eyes. With several heavy shopping bags hanging from her hands, she headed home with the puppy. The closer she got to the farm, the faster she walked. And the only reason she could come up with was that she anticipated returning home to Damon a little more than she felt comfortable admitting.

Six

Sated with a belly full of the divine delicacy called Oreo—and he’d eaten every last one in the box—Damon sprawled on his back in bed in the hayloft to the rear of the vast empty interior of the barn. Sunlight leaked between the timbers and provided the only illumination. He breathed deep, sampling the air. The scent of Mysteria had not changed much in three hundred years, aside from the oily background odor of fossil-fueled machinery and the more acrid smell of electrical equipment. The barn smelled like dust and hay, and faintly of livestock that had not lived here for a year or more. Although his animalsharp sense of smell was fading rapidly, he could still pick out the faint pungent odor of mouse droppings and that of the young black dog. Despite so many different scents, Harmony’s scent stood out above all else, perhaps because he’d so focused on it. Her essence was on the wooden handles of the tools, on his very skin.

She had not the scent of another male about her; he’d noticed that straightaway, glad he’d held on to his demon’s sense of smell long enough not to have to guess. She was free, unattached.

Smiling, he wedged his hands behind his head, laced his fingers together as he inhaled the lingering scent of the beautiful lass. Harmony had ordered him to get some rest, and he was trying—without much success. He had not done the labor required, he supposed. Tonight, it would be different, for this afternoon, he’d start work. Aye, but there were some other labors he had in mind when it came to Harmony Faithfull. Exhausting labors he would more than care to try.

“Ah, lass,” he murmured, “ye are beautiful; no denying that. Inside and out.” He liked the way she listened to him, so very carefully, how she’d taken him in and given him shelter with few questions asked.

Harmony’s open and generous heart was something that not all humans possessed; but rarer still was her uncanny ability to look him in the eye and sense his needs, his fears, even—a gift that brought great risk for him. If the lass ever discovered that he had no soul, she’d be repelled by him, would even fear him.

“Everyone has a soul,” she’d insisted.

Bah! ’Twas an observation based on her innocence of creatures like him, a demon that was never meant for a mortal life, a good life. He was a monster created out of darkness and intended to remain in the shadows, carrying out the Devil’s deeds. The fact he was here at all was due to the Devil’s whim, and the Devil’s whim was never good, not in all the ten thousand years Damon had watched Lucifer in action.

There was only one solution: stay far enough away so that Harmony didn’t discover his dark secret, and yet close enough to savor the way she made him feel: warm, happy, hopeful—just the sort of emotions to which he was unaccustomed and woefully ill-equipped to sort out. He couldn’t have her, not in the way he wanted, but he could do good deeds for her, become indispensable in other, less intimate ways. Perhaps this was Lucifer’s plan all along, this punishment of placing him within arm’s reach of a woman like Harmony Faithfull, without being allowed to truly touch her.

Damon could think of no crueler sentence.

A scrabbling noise in the barn dragged him to full alert. He peered into the dim light, scanning for an obvious explanation for the brief sound. His demon eyesight was still strong enough to discern what crept down there in the shadows. Although he saw nothing, he knew he was no longer alone.

A dark creature had joined him.

With stealthy quiet, Damon vaulted off the sleeping berth and landed in a crouch, hands up and ready for battle. “Show yourself!”

“She likes you,” rasped a voice from the shadows. “Yes, she does.”

Hell’s bells, ’twas a goblin! Useless monsters, always underfoot. “Too many eyes,” Damon growled. “And too few brains.”

The creature came into view. It had the dark green skin of a frog, gleaming and lumpy with boils. That the little goblin hadn’t called him “Lord” reminded Damon just how far he’d fallen.

No, not fallen. Risen. Damon had to think differently now.

The little monster waved something at him. “I have me a souvenir.”

Between the goblin’s spindly fingers was a long strand of wavy dark hair. Harmony’s hair. Damon’s heart dropped. If the goblin brought part of Harmony back to Hell—any part: a fingernail, this strand of hair—it would forge a link between the underworld and this farm, and would make other night creatures more brazen. They’d come looking for souvenirs of their own, mementos far more precious.

Damon advanced on the goblin, snarling, but the goblin danced out of his reach. “No, no, you can’t have it, mortal. It’s a prize too sweet. A prize all mine. Mine, mine, mine. Soon she will like me, too. She will like me, she will, better than you.” A slimy, warty tongue darted out between the goblin’s lips and slid down the entire length of the hair, a sensation Harmony would feel in her sleep night after night unless Damon ended it here.