Mysteria Nights Read online

  “Food,” he clarified. “And a place to lay my bones at night.”

  Bones . . . bones . . . she tried to keep her mind out of the gutter. “Okay.” Why was she whispering? She thrust her hand at him. “Deal.”

  He took her hand, and she got the most curious feeling that he’d rather lift it to his soft lips than shake it. “You’ve been kind to me, Harmony Faithfull. Yet, you ask nothing in return.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be kind to you?”

  The hard line of his lips softened into an expression of surprise and pleasure. “That question alone answers mine, lass.” He searched her face in a deeply intense, almost intimate way that made her go all squishy inside. Then he murmured, “Your goodness, it sits around ye like a halo. Are ye sure you’re not an angel?”

  Her smile came partly out of pleasure from his compliments, and partly out of the irony of being viewed as an angel. While her attraction to Damon was definitely heavenly, it was anything but angelic. “Very sure. Kindness exists outside heaven, too, you know.”

  “I’ve not much experience with kindness. With goodness.”

  “We’ll have to change that,” she said, her heart squeezing again.

  “Aye, we will. . . .”

  He released her, then, and she slid her hand under the table. Closing her fist, she secretly held on to the feel of him.

  Five

  Harmony stood on the porch as Damon strode off to the barn to arrange his new home in the hayloft with bedding, supplies, and a box of Oreos (the taste of which had rendered him nearly orgasmic).

  Damon held no menace—raw, smoldering male sexuality, yes, but not menace. But she was an urban girl, born and bred, and it was always wise to make sure a person didn’t have a record a mile long. She considered herself street smart, observant, and never blindly trusting, but she wanted to make darn sure Damon’s looks, charisma, and charm—not to mention her hot-running blood and his miraculously timed arrival—weren’t interfering with her better judgment. Having his fingerprints checked out was the way to go. Any employer would do the same thing.

  Harmony returned to the kitchen and wrapped the glass Damon had used with a paper towel. Carefully, she slipped it into her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. “Come on, Bubba. Let’s go shopping.” She needed to buy Damon some work clothes that fit, but first she’d pay a little visit to Jeanie Tortellini, the sheriff.

  She cut across the field to where a stand of aspens and tall pines marked the beginning of the Rocky Mountain National Forest. After turning right, a quick walk on a dirt trail would bring her right up behind the Mysteria police station and jail.

  Bubba jerked on the leash and started growling. “What, boy, another naked hunk?” At this rate, she’d have a whole staff of them working for her. Not bad for a single girl. But part of her didn’t want an army of muscles at her disposal. She’d rather have Damon, who engaged her on all levels, swinging from weary and jaded to boyish and full of wonder in the space of a heartbeat.

  The puppy tugged hard on the leash and tried to run into the woods. Harmony held on with both hands. “Bubba, stay!”

  Jeanie Tortellini burst out of the forest with a tall blond man trailing behind her. His wrists were bound with her police belt. The loose end Jeanie gripped in her fist.

  Bubba broke into a full-fledged bark. “Hush, boy!” Harmony tried to quiet the pup.

  Jeanie’s smile when she saw Harmony was genuine, if not a little startled. “Good morning!” She used her free hand to brush loose strands of hair away from her face. With pink cheeks, messy hair, and strangely bright eyes, Jeanie looked as if she’d been in a scuffle. But it was the woman’s appearance of having dressed too quickly that puzzled Harmony the most.

  Jeanie’s hand went to her uniform shirt as if she, too, just realized the buttons were in the wrong holes. It must have been quite a struggle, her apprehension of the lawbreaker.

  Harmony stopped about twenty feet from the pair. “I was on my way to see you. I need a favor.” She stole a glance at Jeanie’s prisoner. His white-blond hair swung around his waist, some strands tied in braids. And were those pointed ears peeking through the spun-silk hair? A bit of an unfortunate birth defect, because with his archer’s quiver, dark green tunic, and thigh-high leather boots, he was a dead ringer for Legolas from Lord of the Rings. “But, I see you’re busy.”

  “I was,” Jeanie said. “But I’m not now.”

  Making a quiet sound, the prisoner cast Jeanie a smoldering glance, and Jeanie’s mouth quirked in the barest of smug little smiles. Harmony got the feeling that there was more going on than she probably wanted to know. Par for the course in Mysteria.

  “Behave.” Jeanie tugged on the belt and I’m-too-sexy-for-my-suede-tunic Legolas lowered his eyes dutifully. He had the perfect male pout, sullen and sensual. “How can I help you, Reverend Faithfull?”

  Harmony unwrapped her paper-covered package. “I hired someone at the church this morning—a groundskeeper.” Deciding it was better to keep the lurid details of Damon’s arrival to herself, she moved the paper so Jeanie could see the drinking glass. “He’s not from around here, and as much as I think I believe what he’s told me about his background, it pays to be sure he’s not wanted for a felony. Can you check out his fingerprints?”

  Jeanie took the paper-wrapped glass. “No problem.” The sheriff slid her gaze over the prisoner. Harmony could almost feel the electric surge of their eye contact. “If that’s all you needed, I’ve got to get this bad boy under lock and key.”

  Legolas’s mouth curved. The idea of a lockdown seemed to invigorate the sexy pseudo-elf. Or did he just like being called a “bad boy”?

  “Thanks, Jeanie,” Harmony said, unable to keep from staring at the man’s pointy ears. “Stop in for coffee this week.”

  “I’ll be there. And be careful with your new help. If you need me, just call.”

  “Will do.”

  Jeanie grinned and gave Harmony a little salute. Then she frowned at Legolas, using the belt to jerk him forward. To Harmony, his stumble seemed a little staged.

  Harmony gave Bubba’s leash a much gentler tug and continued toward town, and the One-Stop Mart, which conveniently did mean one stop in the true rural tradition of general mercantile stores. Since Wal-Mart hadn’t yet invaded Mysteria, and probably never would, it was the only place she’d be able to find work clothes for Damon.

  Puffs of pink pollen whooshed with each of her footfalls on the path, drifting in cotton-candy mounds, a phenomenon that no one seemed to be able—or was willing—to explain to her, and that included the town physician, who Harmony swore, even if she wasn’t supposed to swear, that she’d spied waving a wand as she drove past his office the other day. A wand, as in magic wand, a fairy-godmother model, too, she assumed, because it had sported a shiny star at its tip. Harmony couldn’t imagine what the handsome but terminally distracted Dr. Fogg had been doing, circling the wand over old Mrs. O’Cleary’s white-haired head, but the very next day, when Harmony had seen Mrs. O’Cleary at the One-Stop, not only was the old woman’s arthritic limp gone, but her snow-white, overpermed pin curls had relaxed into soft, shiny blond waves! It was just the sort of weird, supernatural happening Mysteria produced in abundance.

  And you expect people to come to church when the local doctor can perform miracles? How could she compete with that? How?

  After tying Bubba’s leash to the bike rack in front of the store, Harmony pushed open the door to the market. Tin chimes clattered against the glass, and air thick with the scent of vanilla, peppermint, and old cardboard hit her nostrils with her first full breath. A cloud of pollen that had collected by the threshold spun in a powdery pink tornado. Unintentionally, Harmony inhaled a stream of the stuff and sneezed. Eyes tearing, she grew warm all over. Not as warm as when she was around Damon, but the same parts were involved. It was really distracting.

  Mrs. O’Cleary beamed at her from behind the counter. She looked ten years younger than the last time Harmo
ny had seen her—before her visit to Dr. Fogg. “It looks like love is in the air today, Reverend Faithfull!”

  “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 unle
ss Damon ended it here.

  Rage boiled up inside Damon and made his blood burn. Snarling, he grabbed for the little beastie, but it slipped out of his grip. Fury was making him sloppy. In the past, he’d always acted efficiently and without emotion. Now anger drove him. Aye, anger and fear.

  Slow down. Concentrate. Damon forcibly unclenched his teeth and extended an open hand. “Give.”

  “No, no, no. Oh, no. Mine, mine, mine. All mine, not yours.”

  “But all Hell-born are brothers, yes?” The mere thought of pledging a blood bond with a goblin almost made him puke. “’Tis simple. You help me, I help you.” He advanced another step. “Give me the hair and no harm will come to you for your trespassing.”

  “Harm, harm will never come,” the goblin sang. “Your powers are gone, yes, they are.” Spinning in a careless little pirouette, it waved the strand of hair like a victory flag.

  Damon watched. Waited. His gentler tone had made the thing careless. Lost in celebrating, the goblin spun closer.

  Damon bolted forward and grabbed the creature by its skinny wrist before it could dart away. The goblin shrieked in surprise; its lips pulled back in fear, revealing rows of yellowed, needle-sharp teeth. “Ouch, mortal. Hurts—hurts, it does!”

  Damon brought his face very close. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not yet mortal enough to care.”

  With the wriggling, screaming goblin in one hand, he strode across the barn. “No, no, no!”

  “I think yes.” Damon reached for a bucket and threw it under a spigot, turning on the water. A few drops splashed onto the creature’s belly and sizzled like hot oil.

  The beastie screamed in agony and fright. “No! Not that! My lord and master, not that.”

  “Ah, so I’m your lord now, eh?” Methodically, Damon filled the bucket. “Interesting how desperation breeds respect.”

  “Master, Master, please. Let me go!”

  Grim, Damon shut off the water and turned to the goblin dangling from his grip. Its eyes were wide, each blinking at different rates. Thin, blistered fingers curled around his forearm. Damon could feel a rapid pulse in the press of its fingertips. Harmony’s hair still curled from one knotty fist.