When a bakery truck driver from Mesquite Ridge, Texas, opened his cargo door to make a routine delivery, he found more than the muffins he expected.

Fernando Martinez reported to police that on Nov. 9, he discovered what he first thought was a woman hiding in his truck. Instead, what he saw was a strange creature. Mr. Martinez described a gray-skinned female figure with fangs, claws, bat-like wings and glowing eyes. (See illustration at right.) His encounter with this creature was brief: She quickly leaped forward, out of the truck, and ran away. Mr. Martinez says he believes the creature was more afraid of him than he was of it.

Mr. Martinez doesn't claim to know the nature of the creature. His only assertion is: "I saw something. I'm not saying I can explain it; I don't know what it was. But I saw it." Mr. Martinez, however, seems to be the only one who isn't speculating.

His mother, Rosa, believes the incident to be a sign to her son that he should resume regular church attendance.

Mesquite Ridge police believe the incident to be nothing more than a belated Halloween prank. It is an explanation that may be supported by the fact that Mr. Martinez's last stop prior to the discovery was a delivery to the Parker State University cafeteria -- was the creature a poor college student hitching a ride downtown?

A local pastor, Paul James of the Church of the Last Watch, is convinced the sighting is evidence of demonic activity. As head of a group within his church, Christians Rising to Oppose Satan's Spawn (C.R.O.S.S.), he is leading this contingent in seeking the source of the "manifestation," with hopes of eradicating it.

"There can be no doubt evil comes forth in whatever guise it finds useful, be it a vision or a physical form," Pastor James says. "This demon first appeared to the truck driver as a female, before he thankfully saw through the illusion. What else could this mean but that the demon was sent to tempt him?"

The pastor suggests the mystery creature might be a succubus, which folklore describes as a demon that takes the form of a woman in order to seduce men in their sleep. He says such demons are the minions of Asmodius, an archdemon associated with lust -- and a being the pastor says holds full sway in these times.

Pastor James raises even darker questions about the creature's activity. "There was a professor of science recently murdered, and the accounts I've read suggest he was killed by something similar to a large animal. Could such an attack be within the powers of demonic forces? I cannot say they are not."

He refers to the death of Professor Harold Francis, who taught biology at Parker State University. His body was found in the attic of the university library on Nov. 5, the victim of a brutal and bloody slaying. Investigation into the shocking murder continues to raise more questions, and no answers. (See sidebar.)

C.R.O.S.S. is joined in its efforts by a self-described "monster hunter," Randy Jackson, from the Texas Panhandle. Mr. Jackson, outfitted in camouflage, carries a strange arsenal. Alongside more conventional weapons, he carries salt, rosemary, an EMF meter, a device that emits high-frequency sound (said to gain the attention of a variety of creatures, including the chupacabra and the Loch Ness monster), night-vision goggles and several recording devices.

Mr. Jackson says his hope is to validate the work of his late father, cryptozoologist Larry Jackson. "I don't know where critters like this come from, whether they're demons or unknown animals or what, but I know they're out there, just like my dad knew they're out there."

There have been no reported sightings of the creature since Nov. 9.

When Fernando saw the article, he had a stern discussion with his mother.

When Randy saw the article, he smirked. No more secret identity for Miss "Dawn." (Also, of course, he preened over the mention he'd garnered.)

And Donnette, knowing that Randy would surely see the article, groaned inwardly when she received Scott's e-mail instructing her to remain in Mesquite Ridge to follow up on the story.

Mac didn't see the article, but if she had, she would have scoffed. Maybe even snorted. Not only because of the absurdity of the article, but because that Pooper Scooper woman had used her line about the "college student hitching a ride" without attribution. As it was, she had other articles on her mind.

"Did y'all know," she said, sorting through The Storm's mail, "there's a yearly Bigfoot convention in Marshall?"

"What?"

"It seems they get quite a few sightings out that way. And did you know that Dr. Francis grew up in Marshall?"

Nick raised an eyebrow. The managing editor, Keesha Vaughn, who was also Mac's longtime roommate, didn't even blink as she continued brainstorming next week's assignments.

"Apparently, he used to be quite a name in the field of creatures that don't exist. This was, of course, before he became a quiet little biology professor."

"That's weird."

"That's a lead."

Keesha smirked. "You think he was killed by Bigfoot? I guess that makes as much sense as any of the other theories."

Mac rolled her eyes. "My point is, what else don't we know about this guy? Anyway, I think Bigfoot's supposed to be a vegetarian."

"Does this mean I'm taking you somewhere?" Nick asked.

"Oh, I don't know." She tore open a hand-addressed envelope. "People might start getting suspicious. Anyway, Marshall's kind of far to go when we've got class tomorrow."

Inside the envelope was a single folded sheet of notebook paper. It had clearly come from a spiral-bound pad. On it was scrawled a single sentence: THE WISE KNOW WHEN TO LEAVE WELL ENOUGH ALONE.

Mac scowled and said, apparently addressing the sheet of paper, "Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?"

Keesha looked up from her notes long enough to read the message. "Ooh, you got the bad fortune cookie."

Mac waved the paper over her head. "Don't they know this sort of thing only exacerbates my curiosity?"

"Does what to your curiosity?"

"Intensifies," Keesha supplied, scribbling away once more. "You may have noticed Mac tends a little toward the melodramatic."

"It's the only way to stay sane after four years covering Student Government." Mac pinned the note onto the bulletin board.

Nick picked up his assignment sheet. "I've got calculus in ten minutes." He ignored Mac's exaggerated shudder. "Call me if you need anything else."

Once they were alone, Keesha said, "Anything wrong, Jojo? You seem really stressed today. More than you always are, I mean."

Only she was permitted to call Mac "Jojo," and only when nobody else could hear. The nickname Mac had devised for Keesha was "Deedee" -- short for "Dallas Debutante," rather than her bra size.

"In addition to all the usual things? Had a fight with my mom. Apparently, we're going to my stepdad's parents' for Thanksgiving. I like Steve okay, but I can't stand his folks, and they can't stand me. They insist on comparing me to my father."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

"Hey, why don't you come home with me instead?"

"Thank you, Pastor. I appreciate you having me here today." Randy took off his hunting jacket and placed it, not on the coat rack in the hallway, but draped over a nearby chair. Paul James made no comment.

An old man rose from an overstuffed recliner in the living room. "You must be the demon investigator from ... where was it again?"

"Borger. In the panhandle." He took the man's outstretched hand. "Randy Jackson."

"I'm Matthew James, Paul's father. Bethany will be out shortly, I'm sure. Come on in."

The men took seats and talked, accompanied by the sounds of the pastor's mother preparing the Thanksgiving meal in the kitchen. Randy learned that though the elder Jameses were born and raised right there in Mesquite Ridge, they had lived in the Dallas area for around twenty years and were only up to visit. Matthew James seemed keen to question Randy about his "hobby," though he cared nothing for alien abductions and chupacabras and such -- he was interested only in demons, and appeared to be under the impression that this was the focus of Randy's hunts. Matthew James made clear he believed the world was currently in the middle of the events foretold in the Book of Revelations, and was bewildered that so many seemed unable to see it.

"Lunch is ready," came a voice from the kitchen at last.

Bethany James looked every bit as old and tired as her husband, and was dressed in a long skirt and turtleneck. It didn't seem like an outfit that would be comfortable for cooking in. Behind her in the kitchen was a table adorned with a pristine white lace cloth and heaped with an enormous spread, considering there were only four diners. The pastor's mother had produced what might be the world's tidiest turducken, along with green beans cooked with pork fat, sweetened carrots, diced red potatoes with bacon, corn on the cob floating in butter, homemade stuffing with just a bit of bacon grease, sweet potatoes piled with marshmallows, two kinds of bread, two kinds of casseroles, and four different pies with sugar on top. It was, Randy thought, a feast to give a Jew, Muslim, vegetarian, diabetic or heart patient nightmares. But he was none of those, so he did not hesitate to take a seat.

The pastor, of course, said grace. "Dear Heavenly Father, Lord Almighty, we thank You that You have seen fit to allow us another year upon this earth, and rewarded our faithfulness with prosperity; and that You have sheltered and defended us from the evil and the degenerate; and that You continue to deliver victories into the hands of the righteous, and guide our leaders on their worthy crusades against those who do not respect Your name and laws. May we have our souls fortified to continue to do Your work. Amen."

They set to work upon the plates piled high, and talked about the usual things people talk about when they do not know each other well -- hometowns, current events, Biblical prophesies. The subject turned at last to family. Randy mentioned that he was the youngest of four brothers, and asked if the elder Jameses had any other children.

"No," Matthew said quickly, interrupting Bethany, who had gotten no farther than opening her mouth.

"No," she agreed quietly. "I only gave birth to one."

"Rebecca, I think I'll just adopt you," Linda said, smiling. "You know you don't have to do that, right? You're our guest."

"I know," the girl said, looking up from where she was arranging silverware on the card table. "I like to, though."

"Hot gravy coming through." Morgan squeezed her slender body past her mother, who was putting the last touches on the salad at the counter in the tiny kitchen.

Linda surveyed the dishes. Stuffing from a small packet. A tiny bowl of mashed potatoes. One can of mixed vegetables. The world's smallest turkey breast. The salad. One box of strawberry Jell-O with a can of fruit cocktail added. That was it. It was the saddest spread she'd ever had, and she'd only been able to afford that much because she'd heard there were discounted groceries at the Methodist Church. She noticed where her train of thought was headed and quickly felt ashamed for feeling sorry for herself. It could be so much worse. There was a roof over her daughter's head. She wasn't spending Thanksgiving standing with Morgan in a soup kitchen line. Still, she couldn't help regretting that last doctor visit that had ruined her November budget. They still couldn't tell her anything.

"Mom? I think we're just about ready."

"Coming." She looked up and saw how nicely the girls had arranged the table, with one of Morgan's big white candles in the middle, and mustered some cheer.

The three women sat in folding chairs around the card table, and held hands -- a suggestion of Morgan's -- for grace. Linda took a moment to think. The Whites were pretty casual about religious trappings; in fact, Thanksgiving was the only time they had a formal grace, and Linda wanted to word it so it didn't leave anybody out. "We thank You ... Who watches over us ... that we are together today, and that we have this meal to share. May all people have what they need, and may there be peace, and may we all be blessed with kindness and understanding. Amen."

They started in on the meager meal, and Linda asked Rebecca what she had been up to, as she hadn't seen too much of her lately.

"One of my professors has me working on a decoding project. It's pretty tricky, but I've been making some progress. Other than that, I haven't really been up to much. How about you?"

"Just keeping busy working."

"You had a date!" Morgan put in.

"If you can call it that. I had coffee with one of the guys who comes into the bowling alley. Didn't really have much to talk about. Honestly I'd have rather stayed home and watched a movie. I'm just not that interested in dating at this point in my life, I guess." She smirked. "'Less I can marry some rich guy and get us moved into a nice house."

"Oh my god, your house is made of awesome." Mac had just taken a tour of the Vaughns' expansive brownstone, which stood on a hill in Dallas. She didn't tend to be the sort of person impressed by fancy houses, but she had to admit, this one was gorgeous. She was particularly charmed, for some reason, by the symmetrical spiral staircases, though there were snazzy details all over the place -- the suede living room furniture, the Tuscan kitchen tile, the huge bay window full of tropical plants, the built-in bookcases, the African art.

"Heh." Keesha looked out the nearest window. "Looks like my parents are back."

Only Consuela, the cook, had been home when the girls arrived -- the other members of the Vaughn family had gone to the airport to pick up Auntie Delphina, whom Keesha had described as a scary voodoo lady from New Orleans (currently living with other relatives in East Texas, as there was not much left of that city these days). Mac had thought her friend was kidding. Joining her at the window, however, she now found she was not so sure. Auntie Delphina was a large, sour-looking woman in her sixties with dreadlocks down to her elbows, held in check with a red headscarf, and wore a flowing dress in a bright stripey cloth -- "kente," Mac believed it was called -- and a long necklace of cowrie shells.

"Take my advice and lose the hat before she gets in here," Keesha said.

Mac quickly stashed her maroon ballcap in the hall closet where she'd left her coat and ran her comb a couple times through her short hair, hoping it wasn't sticking up. The door opened.

"Hello, baby!" Auntie Delphina gathered Keesha up in a wide embrace. "Who is your friend here?"

"Auntie, everyone, this is Mac, my roommate, editor, and partner in crime."

The teenager standing behind the Vaughn parents rolled her eyes. Keesha pretended not to notice. "Mac: my little sister Cherie, my mama Vanessa, my daddy Monroe, and my Auntie Delphina. Mama's auntie, actually."

"Hey. Thanks for having me."

"We're pleased you could come," Mrs. Vaughn said. She wore a classy gray and red business suit and an immaculately-coiffed afro-inspired hairstyle. Mac could envision this lady rolling out of bed without a crease in her pajamas or a hair out of place.

"We've heard so much about you," Mr. Vaughn added. He tended a little to the geekier side in his khaki pants, diamond-patterned dark purple sweater and big glasses. He was a writer, though.

"I'll categorically deny all allegations of improper conduct." She hoped she came off as amusing rather than flippant. Damn, rich people made her nervous. Even ones well-known for their social activism.

The older Vaughns chuckled indulgently. Cherie looked Mac up and down and smirked.

"I'll go see how Consuela's doing," Mrs. Vaughn said. "Excuse me."

Everyone else settled down in the living room and chatted. Mr. Vaughn answered Mac's questions about his publishing company. Mrs. Vaughn returned from the kitchen and preferred to talk about her most recent charity work rather than her lawyering. Cherie prattled on and on about her quickly-approaching debutante ball. Keesha speculated on when she and Darius (in Austin with his own family for Thanksgiving) might get engaged. Auntie Delphina (as she insisted Mac call her, rather than Ms. Thomas) expressed her disappointment with the slow progress in restoring New Orleans. Mac talked about the gruesome death of Dr. Francis, the continuing lack of answers, and the city paper's short attention span in the matter, because it was the most interesting thing she could think of to talk about.

Soon enough, dinner was ready. Mac was a bit surprised to see Consuela was joining them. Keesha whispered that the cook was widowed and had no other family with whom to spend the holiday. Cherie did not seem pleased. Her mother shot her a sharp look.

They sat, Mac flanked by her friend and the cook and opposite Auntie Delphina, a person she found quite interesting. She was still wondering whether the distinctively-garbed woman really was a "scary voodoo lady," or whether Keesha had been pulling her leg. Delphina certainly didn't seem scary at Thanksgiving dinner, though Mac could imagine situations in which she would be formidable. She wondered what question she might ask that would reveal the woman's voodoo or non-voodoo status without being overt and rude. "Do you do voodoo?" rhymed nicely, but wasn't a particularly appropriate thing to ask a new acquaintance. She reminded herself about curiosity and what it did to cats.

Mac was distracted by Mrs. Vaughn, who asked about her hometown. She answered that Hope Springs was okay, she guessed, though it was pretty boring and provincial. "I didn't know any of your kind of people growing up."

Silence and staring. Mac realized that her statement had been misinterpreted and squirmed. Cherie made a strange face, and Mac realized that Keesha had kicked her sister under the table preemptively.

"It's one of those oil boom towns that's whithered away so much, you wonder how it's hung on this long," Keesha chimed in.

"Yeah. Nobody had any big gorgeous homes like this one," Mac continued, trying to pretend she hadn't picked up on the awkwardness. She wanted to sink into the floor.

"Home is not just the building you live in," Auntie Delphina said. "Home is a spirit. It's made of the family, and the community, and the land. You carry it with you, 'cause it's part of who you are. You might as well get along with it."

Mac looked at Auntie Delphina, and imagined Hope Springs being washed away the way this lady's city had been. "You're right," she said quietly.

"I wish Brian was home," Robby mumbled as he picked at his pecan pie. "I wanted to show him my trophy."

Ah. Nick had suspected that was probably what had been troubling his little brother all week, but Robby hadn't wanted to talk about it.

"I know, sweetie," Mom said. "We all miss Brian."

The eldest Clark brother was stationed in Afghanistan, and there really hadn't been much chance he'd have been home for Thanksgiving in the first place, though Robby had held out hope. Every day that they did not hear from Brian was a tense one. Dad buried himself in his work and didn't emerge for anything. Mom, usually the twenty-first century Mrs. Cunningham, snapped at her boys. Robby got into trouble at school.

Brian had been able to call, briefly, earlier in the day. He sounded very tired, and said he could be sent to Iraq at any time. They sang "Happy Birthday" over the speakerphone to him, since he was turning 21 next week and he wasn't sure he'd be able to call again then. Mom had sequestered herself in the kitchen for a long time after the call ended. Nick wasn't sure whether actually hearing from his brother really made the family feel better or not. But perhaps it made Brian feel better.

"Hey Robby, do you want to come walk Duke with me?" Nick felt the need to get out of the house for a while. But his brother shook his head and continued using his fork to shred his paper plate. Nick pulled on his jacket and leashed the ancient German shepherd.

It was chilly and damp out. The sky was gray and the leaves were brown, like in that old song. The only thing they'd missed was the washed-out yellow grass. It was pleasantly quiet, though. By now, probably everyone was sleeping off their meals or watching the game. Duke ambled forward slowly, stiff in his joints.

"Wait."

Robby had decided to join them after all. Nick offered the leash to his little brother, and they walked together in silence for several blocks.

"Remember when I was little, and you told me fairy stories?"

Nick chuckled. "What brought that up?"

Robby shrugged. "Mom made me clean out my closet yesterday, and I found some old pictures you drew of fairies. One of them had a bunch of pink hair."

"Kinda miss those days?"

"Yeah. Before Brian left."

Nick rested a hand on Robby's shoulder. "Me too."

"I know you're upset about Grendel, but you have to eat sometime."

"It has been nine days. Why haven't we found him? Of what use is magic if it cannot even assist us in recovering a child?"

They had attempted, several times, to divine for Grendel's whereabouts. Simon could not do it himself, he said, because he had never even seen the boy -- he could not envision for whom he was searching. So Acelyn had to perform the reading, under the wizard's instruction, and had failed spectacularly at every method of divination they had employed.

Angry and frustrated, Acelyn had kept herself to her tiny bedroom above the pawnshop most of the time, caring for the remaining creatures from the lab and keeping the books of the shop. She could make no sense of her situation. Rarely had she proved so inept at an endeavor. Simon still did not seem nearly concerned enough for her brother. She tried not to imagine that the wizard was purposely sabotaging the divinations.

She shoved aside the newspaper she had been scanning. She'd been reading The Tribune most carefully since moving into the pawn shop, and it appeared the writers there had forgotten about the murder of Dr. Francis. They were now embracing irrelevant and inane topics, such as football. She picked at the turkey before her in an effort to end Simon's insistance that she eat.

"I've been thinking, Acelyn. As long as you're living in the outside world, you might as well get to know some of the people in it. I'd introduce you to some of the people in my circles, but somehow I don't think you'd care too much for them. They're all wizards. And you should have some friends more your own age, anyway."

"I have already attempted to socialize via the Internet, as you suggested to me. I cannot bear to sift my way through any more simpletons."

"No. Not the Internet. I think you should actually meet some people face to face."

"They would all be frightened of my face."

"I've been working on a way to disguise you as a human. I still don't know quite what to do about your wings, though -- an illusion can make them look different, but it can't make them not there. I'm hoping to work that out by the end of the year. I thought you might like to enroll in a class at the community college next semester."

"A class? Why not at the university?"

"At the university, then, if you like. I just didn't know if you'd want to go back there after what happened."

"Oh, that is considerate. Thank you. I think I would be all right, however."

Simon smiled. "So you are interested?"

"I see no reason why I should not be interested in visiting my old home. Also, I am always interested in learning."

"Great. I think it'll do you a lot of good."