The End of Magic (The Witches of Echo Park #3)(31)

        

It wasn't too terribly different from the earthly plane they'd just left behind them. They were still in a parking lot. It was still night. There were still the same glowing neon letters spelling out Tessa's Roadsider in hot pink and fuchsia . . . only as Lyse and the others watched, the neon letters in the giant sign began to melt like cotton candy stuffed into a microwave and set to high.

"Are you seeing this?" Arrabelle asked, but it was rhetorical. No question that they were all seeing it.

"Watch out, Bell," Evan said, taking a protective stance in front of Arrabelle. "The Dumpster's going the same way as the neon sign."

Lyse followed Evan's example and moved out of the way just as a load of sludge (which, until only moments before, had been a heavy-gauge-steel trash bin) headed for her feet. The sludge had a mind of its own, and that mind did not follow the rules of traditional Earth-based physics. It immediately changed its direction, veering to the left as it chased after Lyse and the others.

"Head for the car," Evan said, but Arrabelle shook her head.

"What car?"

Arrabelle's little red rental was gone, replaced by a grinning red plastic skull the size of a car.

"What the hell is that?" Evan asked.

"Skull," Niamh replied, which got a withering look from Arrabelle.

"No, I got that," Evan said, grinning. "But why?"

"That's the million-dollar question," Lyse said, as she began to circle around the edge of the diner toward the front of the building. "Maybe there's an answer in there."

She pointed to the entrance of Tessa's Roadsider diner.

"C'mon," she said, jogging toward the chrome-and-glass double doors.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Arrabelle asked, but she and Evan were already following Lyse toward the entrance. Niamh was the only holdout, still staring at the neon sign as it slowly began to melt into a pile of sludge the color and texture of Pepto-Bismol.

"I think the sludge is coming with us," Niamh said, pointing to the pink goo that was getting dangerously close to her sneakers.

"Start walking," Lyse said as she reached the entrance and pushed open the door marked In, getting a blast of chilled air to the face. "We don't know what it'll do if it touches you."

"I've seen The Blob," Niamh said, joining the others at the entrance. "I know what goo can do." 

"It smells amazing in here," Lyse said, holding the door open for Evan and Arrabelle as the greasy perfume of French fries bubbling in a deep fryer and burger patties sizzling on the grill assailed their nostrils.

From the sparkly, ruby-red vinyl booths, the polished chrome-and-Formica dine-in counter-with requisite ruby-red vinyl-covered swivel seats-and the pristine white-tiled floors, this place was old-school/retro diner heaven.

"It's like America on steroids," Arrabelle said, wrinkling her nose as she passed Lyse. "Not a huge fan of all that fried crap."

Niamh, the last one of them inside, disagreed.

"Oh, yeah, I like it in here," she said, a wistful smile on her face. "Our parents took Laragh and me to a place like this near Seattle once. We could order anything we wanted . . . it was the first time I ever had a milkshake . . . it was strawberry."

"Do you smell that?" Arrabelle asked-and Lyse nodded: She sure did.

Fresh strawberries, vanilla, and heavy whipping cream. This new aroma displaced the diner smells, though no matter where Lyse looked she could find no one doing any cooking.

"Uh, I think we're being followed," Arrabelle said, looking pointedly at the white-tiled floor.

Lyse followed Arrabelle's gaze to the entrance. The Pepto-Bismol-colored sludge had pushed open one of the glass doors and was now making its way inside the diner. The closer the sludge got to them, the stronger the strawberry milkshake aroma became until it was almost overpowering.

"I think we've found the origin of the milkshake smell," Evan said, pulling Arrabelle along with him as he moved away from the sludge and farther into the diner.

"No kidding," Lyse said. As a finger of sludge snaked toward her sneaker, she hopped up onto the seat of one of the booths, the soles of her shoes squeaking on the red vinyl. "Niamh! Get on a booth or one of the counter stools."

"No, I think it's okay," Niamh said-and Lyse watched in horror as the younger woman knelt down beside the goop to examine it.

"Niamh-" Evan said, a warning in his tone.

"It's okay, Evan," she said, and tentatively stuck a finger into the thick goo.

Lyse closed her eyes, not wanting to see Niamh's finger dissolved down to the bone.

"Mmm . . . that's yummy."