Anthology 2. Mysteria Lane.pdf

Mysteria Lane

MaryJanice Davidson,

Susan Grant,

Gena Showalter,

P. C Cast

Introduction

The Town of Mysteria ...

Hundreds of years ago, in the mountains of Colorado, the small town of Mysteria was

“accidentally” founded by a random act of demonic kindness. Over time, it has become a

veritable magnet for the supernatural—a place where magic has quietly coexisted with the

mundane world.

It’s a town like any other town, where the high school’s Fighting Fairies give fans something

to cheer about, where everyone knows your name—if not exactly what you are—at the

local bar, and where the wishing well actually lives up to its name. Strange occurrences

happen every day, but now the ladies of Mysteria are about to unleash a tempest of

seduction that will have tongues wagging for centuries to come . . .

DISDAINING TROUBLE

Mary Janice Davidson

Prologue

When the Desdaine triplets were born on a frigid February night (Withering came first, then

Derisive, then Scornful, all sunny‐side up and staring with big blue eyes at the ceiling), the

doctor and attending nurse screamed and screamed. This startled Mrs. Desdaine, who

started doing quite a bit of screaming herself, despite the epidural. Two other nurses and a

resident also came running, and so did a custodian, wielding a mop like a lance.

The doctor was screaming because the nurse had dropped a tray full of sterilized

instruments on his foot, and a scalpel was sticking out of his little toe. The nurse was

screaming because he knew his clumsiness was going to cost him his job. Derisive, Scornful,

and Withering just stared at the hysteria greeting their first moments out of the womb,

then obligingly yowled when the cold air bit their fair skin and they were poked and

prodded and (finally) swaddled in warm blankets. (The janitor went away, presumably to

mop something; ditto the superfluous personnel.)

Of course, even in a town like Mysteria, natural triplets (that is, triplets born without the aid

of artificial means like IVF or a really good splitting spell) were rare, and triplets that

brought about screaming fits from qualified medical personnel were rarer still.

So it wasn’t long before stories began to spring up about the Desdaine triplets. The why

behind the stories became blurred over time, but the plain truth behind the stories—the

triplets were weird—never shaded much one way or the other.

On their second birthday, the girls discovered they could do magic.

On their third birthday, they discovered if they cooperated, they could do more magic.

On their fifth birthday, they decided being good guys was for suckers.

And on their sixth, they decided they could count on no one but themselves, but that was

perfectly all right. Mom was scolding and loving and superb at not noticing things; Dad had

died a month before they were born.

And so time passed, probably the only magic those who don’t live in Mysteria are aware of

or care about. And the triplets grew older, but not fast enough to suit them or their mother.

One

“Ho‐ho,” Derisive chortled. “Here he comes.”

The triplets were sunning themselves by the wishing well, a charming stone well shaded by

trees in the center of town. They had chased the nightmare away for the sixth night in a

row with a combination of charms and spit spells and were celebrating by torturing the

mailman, who was a drunk, a kicker of cats, and unpleasant besides.

The girls, who were beautiful and knew it (bad) but attached no importance to it (not so

bad), were identically dressed in denim shorts, red tank tops, and white flip‐flops. Although

most twins and triplets outgrew the dressing‐in‐the‐same‐outfit stage by, oh, sixteen

months, the Desdaines liked it. The better to fool you with, my dear.

“Mom alert?” Withering asked, squinting. Their mother, thank all the devils, was nowhere

in sight.

Scornful waved her hand in the direction of the Begorra Irish Emporium. “Still looking at

those tacky little leprechauns.”

“Not so tacky,” Withering reminded her sister. “They do grant one wish.”

“Yawn,” Scornful replied. “Little silly wishes, like not overdoing the turkey. Nothing

significant.”

“Do‐gooder alert?”

Derisive also waved a hand. “Do‐gooder” encompassed three‐fourths of the town; there

were so few really evil people around these days. That would change when they grew up.

As it was, at fourteen, they were formidable. If a Mysteria resident wasn’t a do‐gooder,

they were neutral, and stayed out of things. This suited the triplets fine. “No problems.

Everybody’s at lunch.”

“Here he comes,” Withering said, her nails sinking into Scornful’s arm like talons. She

ignored her sister’s yelp of pain. Her conscience was clear, but then, it usually was. Besides,

Mr. Raggle, the postal carrier, wouldn’t be the focus of their wrath if he hadn’t called their

mother That Name. And in front of the whole pizza parlor, too. “Jerkweed,” she added.

“Now,” Derisive said, and all three girls made the sign of a V with their fingers, spat through

the V s, then stomped on the spit. They visualized Mr. Raggle coming to harm and, before

the thought had barely formed in their treacherous teenaged minds—

“Hey! Help! Aaaagggghhh!”

“Scared of heights,” Scornful said thoughtfully, eyeing the postal carrier who had been

picked up by unseen forces and flung into the highest branch of the closest maple tree.

“Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that where you could hear,” Withering said, smiling

with approval. She rarely smiled, and both her sisters took it as a gift, and not without

astonishment.

“Teach him to call our mother names,” Derisive added, and spat again for good measure.

“Girls!”

“Uh‐oh.”

Derisive craned to look. “Must have run out of leprechauns to look at.”

“You girls!” Their mother was running toward them at full speed, black curly hair bobbing

all over the place. The triplets knew they took after their late father; their mother was

petite, while they already had two inches on her; she was dark‐eyed, while their eyes were

sky‐colored; and they had straight blond hair that hardly moved in gale‐force winds. “Girls! I

swear, I can’t turn my back on you for five seconds!”

“That’s true,” Withering said. “You can’t.”

“Get him down! Right . . . now !”

The triplets studied their mother, whom they loved but did not like, and tried to gauge the

seriousness of her mood. A grounding, they did not need. Not with Halloween only three

months away.

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