Mysteria Nights
An omnibus of novels by P C Cast, MaryJanice Davidson, Susan Grant and Gena Showalter
Introduction
Once upon a time in a land closer than anyone might be comfortable with, a demon high lord was sent to destroy a small, starving (and, let’s face it, weird) band of settlers who were fleeing the last town they’d tried to settle in (a place eventually known as Kansas City, Missouri, the Show Me State, which did indeed show them tar and feathers and the road west). The group was composed of magical misfits and outcasts: a bloodaphobic vampire, a black-magic witch and her white-magic husband, a pack of amorous (translation: hump-happy) werewolves, and a man named John, who had gotten confused and joined the wrong wagon train. When the demon spied this ragged, rejected bunch, he (for a reason known only to himself but which had to do with uncontrollable random acts of kindness) decided not just to spare them but to create a magical haven for them.
And so, nestled in a beautiful valley in the Rocky Mountains, the town of Mysteria was founded. Over the years, it became a refuge for creatures of the night and those unwanted by traditional society. No one—or thing—was turned away. Magic thrived, aphrodisiacs laced the pollen, and fairy tales came true.
The first settlers eventually died (those that weren’t already dead or undead, that is), but they left pieces of themselves behind. The vampire invented a powerful blood-appetite suppressant for any other vampires with a fear of blood. The witch and the warlock created a wishing well—a wishing well that swirled and churned with both white and black magic, a dangerous combination. The hump-happy werewolves left the essence of perpetual springtime and love (translation: they peed all around the boundary of the city, so that everyone— or thing—that entered or left Mysteria was, well, marked). John, the only nonmagical being in the group, left his confused but mundane genes, founding a family that would ultimately spawn more humans of nonmagical abilities who remained in Mysteria because finding their way out was just too much like geometry.
Each of the settlers thought, as their spirits floated to the heavens—all right, some of them went straight to hell, the naughty sinners—that their best contribution to the fantastical town of Mysteria was a happily-ever-after for their descendants. If only they could have known the events that would one day unfold . . .
MORTAL IN MYSTERIA
Susan Grant
For my three children:
Connor and Courtney (the human ones)
and Tala (the furry one).
All my love.
One
The dirty, sweat-soaked demon dropped to his knees. His hands, bound at the wrists with chains, rested awkwardly at the small of his back. Nevertheless, he formed his mouth into a smile he hoped appeared as contrite as his posture. ’Tis better if you do not infuriate the boss any more than you have already, he thought. “I am prepared to pay for my transgressions, Master.”
“And pay for them, you shall!” The Devil’s forked tongue darted out to moisten thin, malice-curved lips. “I have thought long and hard about your crimes,” he hissed with the very faintest of lisps. “Now, prepare to receive your sentence, Demon.”
“Aye, Master.” All the demons were named “Demon” down here in Hell. To their master they were all but indistinguishable. Only Lucifer stood apart, with his trademark black goatee, the horns, the pitchfork, and the crimson suit. Proof that the whimsies of fashion in Hell had been at a standstill since the birth of time.
Fashion? Hell’s bells, didn’t he have more important things to worry about? Like losing his head, or some other body part of which he’d grown fond? The demon winced. His concentration simply wasn’t what it used to be after the century of torture he’d endured for his crimes. Or had it been two or three centuries that he’d been paying for his terrible deeds? It had become difficult to keep track. Ah, but what was an extra century or two in the grand scheme of things? He’d existed for more than ten thousand years, tasked to bring the worst sort of doubt into the miserable, pitifully abbreviated lives of human beings. Far from being just any demon, he was a demon lord, and one of the most ancient of them alclass="underline" the Demon High Lord of Self-Doubt and Second Thoughts, the bane of many a human failure, simpering creatures all too eager to listen to the fears that he could so easily plant in their weak minds. You can’t, he’d whisper until they believed it. You won’t. Try, and you will surely fail.
Countless men who could have ruled the world had never stepped beyond their front doors because he’d made them doubt their abilities, made them afraid to take chances, to risk failure. Nor were women any safer from his dark murmurings through the eons. He’d frightened countless wenches, silencing their voices by playing up their fears of sounding too shrill, too stupid, too . . . different.
Humanity’s failures—he’d been the force behind so many of them. Until that fateful day when he’d glimpsed true courage and couldn’t bring himself to destroy it, giving the Will-to-Go-On to a small, starving band of settlers wandering in the snowy woods of the Rocky Mountains. He wasn’t sure exactly why he’d spared them, why he’d given them the inner strength to push themselves until they reached warmth and shelter, but he had—and it had felt damned good, too. In fact, it had felt so damned good being good to the damned that he repeated the deed all around the globe, losing himself for years in a virtual frenzy of beneficence. That is, until he was finally caught red-handed in the midst of one of those random acts of kindness, a crime considered so heinous that Lucifer himself had marched upstairs and dragged him back down to Hell.
On the positive side, he’d come out the other side with all his body parts intact, the important body parts, at any rate. It could have gone much worse for him. And perhaps it still would. The devil, as always, was in the details.
The demon bowed his head. “Tell me what I must do to appease you, Master.”
“There will be no appeasement! None! There is but one fitting punishment for such atrocities. Banishment!”
The demon’s head jerked up. “Banishment?”
“Yes.” The fiery red orbs that passed for Lucifer’s eyes narrowed to pulsing slits. “I hereby banish you from Hell.”
It cannot be! The demon had expected a reduction in rank, the loss of freedom to come and go as he pleased, perhaps, but permanent eviction? His salary, his benefits—phoosh, gone! Just like that. Hell’s bells, he’d slaved ten thousand years—for nothing! Done the Devil’s deeds only to end up like this: out of date, out of use, and without a transferable retirement plan!
“Is this truly to be forevermore?” the demon almost croaked, knowing how the Devil so enjoyed toying with his minions.
Lucifer chuckled. “Not really. I have made you mortal, as well.”
“Mortal . . .” The mere word tangled around the demon’s tongue like a serving of snake entrails.
“Never fear. Because of your newly finite life, you won’t have many years to fret your fate. Consider it a favor for your years of service to the Dark Empire.” Lucifer waved a clawed hand. “No need to thank me.”
A growl rumbled in the demon’s throat. Of all the many things he’d like to give Lucifer at that moment, thanks was not one of them. Yet, something told him it wasn’t mortality itself he needed to fear as much as the locale in which he would suffer it. “Where am I to be sent?”
“Why, to the very epicenter of your initial act of kindness.” Lucifer spat out that last word. Literally. A glob of moisture sizzled in one of the many fires burning deep within the bowels of the earth. “Mysteria. I trust you remember the place.”