Mortality Bites Box Set [Books 1-6]

by Vance, Ramy

  “Oh, OK,” I mouthed, and turned back to the display.

  He walked up to the hanging uniform and adjusted his glasses as he took a closer look. “Ahh … this is an old tartan, old, indeed. It was donated to the library by the Divine Cherubs—an ancient order of vampire hunters. It belongs to their founder, one Eoghan McMahon from the clan—”

  “Blane.”

  He lifted a curious eyebrow. “Correct. But that is not a common clan, and the crest had been modified to represent his mission to vanquish demons. How did you …?”

  “I’m half-Scottish. My dad was really into our clan’s history. I grew up learning all the patterns.”

  “I see,” he said, still wearing a skeptical look. “Well, then you have heard of the great Eoghan McMahon … It is believed he was the first Scottish vampire hunter, and the man who ultimately created the Order of the Divine Cherub.” He walked up to the display and pointed at the mask. “A baby’s face. Or, more to the point—a cherub’s face. Hence the order’s name. Legend has it they wore masks like this when hunting. Angels to exorcise demons, you see.”

  I sighed in grief, but the old librarian must have interpreted my exhalation as that of a bored teenager. “Don’t dismiss them too quickly,” he said. “After all, we now know that vampires and demons are real. The Order of the Divine Cherub fought them in the shadows for centuries.” The old man tapped the glass, then gave a low chuckle. “Of course, now they mostly meet in log cabins, drink whiskey and talk about the good old days. But make no mistake—back in said good old days, they were a force to be reckoned with.”

  I know that better than most, I thought—and did not speak aloud, thankfully.

  The old librarian pointed at my father’s tartan. “Eoghan McMahon,” he said, reverence in his voice. “Legend has it his daughter was turned and—”

  “—then his daughter turned his wife …” Turning my mom was stupid. As in … Stupidest. Thing. I. Ever. Did, I thought, making sure it was in my head.

  But when I turned, I was so hurt that my father insisted on hunting his little demon daughter down that I did the most passive-aggressive thing I could think of: I turned my mother, too (not my best move, because, well, mothers were one thing … but homicidal, vindictive mothers with supernatural strength and predatory instincts determined to kill you were another thing altogether).

  Still, losing the love of his life to his only daughter hurt him very deeply. And that was exactly what vampire Katrina McMahon was trying to do.

  “And in his grief and rage, he dedicated his life to eliminating the vampire kind from the Earth. Hunting daughter and wife, alike. Yep—I know all about it,” I said with a sad familiarity.

  I walked over to the display in hopes that this old librarian wouldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. Not that I had much hope of that; I was recalling the single most painful memory of my long, long life and I doubt I was able to hide my emotions when I recalled, “A lifetime spent avenging his daughter, only to be taken down by her in Edinburgh on the night of Hogmanay.”

  The librarian nodded, his look of skepticism returned. “Scotland’s New Year’s. He did disappear then, never to be seen or heard from again … but there is no record of what happened that night. As far as the historians know, he simply vanished. Of course, rumors abounded, but …” He took a step forward so he could get a good look at me. “Is there something you can contribute to his history? Something his descendants know but has not necessarily been adopted into canon?”

  “Ahh, no,” I lied, chippering up my voice as much as I could. “It was just what my dad said happened. You know—a romantic ending to the vampire hunter. That kind of stuff.”

  “Your father sounds like a poet.”

  “You have no idea,” I said, looking at the tartan. When I was a vampire, the sight of his mask had stirred no emotion in me. But now that I was human again … I had to fight to hold in the tears. I don’t think I would have been able to do it, except for the old librarian. I couldn’t risk him suspecting what I was.

  So I took in a deep breath and, summoning all the cold-hearted steel I could find in my soul, asked, “How did you get this?”

  “It was donated, just as all the artifacts here were,” the old librarian said. “Most of this came from Others who now live among us—little keepsakes that were on their person when the gods left. And some of it had been passed down generation to generation, humans who had brushes with the creatures behind the veil. But now that the veil is gone, I guess they no longer felt the need to hold on to these artifacts and donated them to this display. Perhaps it helped them move on with their new lives.”

  “I see. But you don’t know who donated this particular tartan, do you? So I can tell my father,” I quickly added. The truth was, I was curious—I had no siblings, and as for my mom …

  The old librarian looked at the display’s accompanying plaque. “It doesn’t say. I can look it up for you, but I’ll have to dig into the archives. I would be willing to do that for you later tonight.”

  “That would be grand,” I said.

  “Grand? That word was antiquated when I was a child.”

  I blushed. “What can I say? I watch a lot of old movies.”

  “I see,” he said. “Now that we have had our little chat, perhaps you can answer my original question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  I told the old librarian about the strange, pale Other—what he looked like, what he wore—and as I spoke, the elderly man picked up book after book, leafing through them as he tried to find the creature I described. After he’d pulled down several books from their shelves, the old librarian put his finger on a page from an old leather-bound tome and asked, “Pale white, you said?”

  “Yep—I’ve seen ghosts with more color.”

  “You said that he had a cane with him?”

  “Not a very good one. It looked like it would crack under his weight—even if he only weighs sixty pounds soaking wet.”

  “So it might not be a cane at all.”

  “Possibly, but he holds on to it like it’s the only thing he has left in this world. Whatever it is, he values it.”

  The librarian turned his book around and showed me a picture of a pale white Other riding a pale white horse, bow in hand. “Is it possible that the staff isn’t a staff at all, but rather an unstrung bow?”

  I took the book from him to study the image more closely. The creature on the horse was white, but unlike the creature I’d helped, this being was proud, strong and slightly overweight. “I guess,” I said uncertainly.

  Coming around to look at the book with me, the librarian said, “Mergen. A Turkish being of wisdom. I believe we’ve found your Other.”

  “But it says here that Mergen was a god.”

  “So?”

  “So the gods are gone.”

  “Ahh. Therein lies the rub—the gods are gone. But not all their avatars are.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Avatars—Earthly representations of the gods. Most gods did not have avatars, but the ones that did often left theirs behind. After all, why would they need an Earthly representative when there was no guarantee that where they were going would have an Earth?”

  “I know what an avatar is, I’ve seen the movie. So these avatars, are they like the gods’ Seconds?”

  “Now it is my turn to say, ‘Excuse me?’ ”

  I laughed softly. I was starting to like this old guy. “In a duel, when you were either too scared or too busy to participate yourself, you sent in your Second. This guy is the god Mergen’s Second.”

  “Exactly. A Second—that term is quite archaic, especially in this context.”

  “Ahh, my dad—”

  “The romantic.”

  “Yeah, him. He was also a history buff. You know, one of those guys who’d dress up like a knight on the weekends and go …”

  The librarian nodded, smiling. “LARPing. Li
ve action role-playing. I know the type.”

  I diverted my gaze back to the book, pretending to be embarrassed rather than a liar. I wasn’t used to lying so much. If I ever needed to get out of a tight situation before, I usually just ripped off someone’s head and had a quick snack.

  I looked at the image of the proud being riding that magnificent horse. “How sad.”

  “How sad, indeed,” the librarian echoed. I looked up, confused by his response. He gave me a knowing smile and said, “How sad that a creature, once-upon-a-time proud and important, be reduced to a beggar, unable to defend himself against three scared human teenagers.”

  “Unable … or unwilling,” I said.

  “Hmm?” He lifted an old, gray eyebrow. “Elaborate.”

  “This Other’s bow tells us he’s a warrior, and myth tells us he’s a sage—in other words, the wise warrior. And what do all wise warriors have in common? They only fight when there are no other options. Mergen knows that if he retaliates against those bullies, he will only scare them more. So they’ll come back with more force, and it will never end. He also knows he can’t kill them. Not in the GoneGod World. That would only cause more fear, more hatred.”

  “So he takes the beating.”

  “Because he is wise enough to know that, in the long run, that is his best option.”

  “That hardly seems fair,” the librarian said. “And not every Other agrees. If you watch the news, we see plenty of Others fighting back.”

  “Which is good for the individual, but not the group. Overall, they’re making it worse for other Others. The Others have to first prove they’re not a threat before we can start talking about what’s fair.”

  “Indeed,” the librarian sighed. “Fairness will only come to them after they endure much that is not fair. So if an Other cannot fight back using their fists and weapons, how then do they fight back? After all, they cannot exist as humanity’s whipping dogs forever.”

  “No, they can’t,” I agreed.

  “So?”

  “I don’t know what to tell this old librarian,” I thought. “It’s not like I have all the answers. Besides, what he’s asking doesn’t have an answer. Not yet. The Others will have to wait and see what happens and—”

  “I disagree,” he said, eyeing me curiously. “And I don’t appreciate being called ‘this old librarian.’ ”

  Crap, I’d been talking out loud again.

  “Then again—I am old, and a librarian …”

  “Ahh, I’m sorry. I meant to think that, not say it.”

  “Doesn’t make me less old.”

  I chuckled at this, glad he wasn’t taking what I’d said too seriously. “Granted. But I don’t know your name, and the ‘old’ thing … well, I tend to think out loud. A lot, and not on purpose. Sorry about that. It’s a bad habit that I’m working on—”

  “Please don’t,” he said, his eyes serious. “Those thoughts you accidently share are always the honest ones. This world needs more people saying what they think and thinking what they say. And as for my name: Old Librarian will do … for now.” He put out his hand.

  I had never thought about it that way before, but he was right. Over my three hundred years, I had spent a lot of time without any living person in sight. Talking to myself was always a way to combat the loneliness. But what came out tended to upset me, and I’d have long, bitter arguments—my voice unwaveringly honest, versus my rationalizing, compromising inner thoughts.

  I looked at his hand for a long moment before taking it in mine. “Nice to meet you, Old Librarian.”

  “And nice to meet you, Peculiar Girl. Now that those pleasantries are out of the way, I wish to disagree with your earlier point. ‘Wait and see’ is not all they can do. Far from it.”

  “I don’t see what else they can do. Not without causing a lot of harm to themselves.”

  “True, change is hard. Still, there are ways to minimize the ire they will inevitably draw on themselves as they work for a brighter future. Organized protest and passive resistance, to name a couple.”

  “Like the suffragettes and civil rights movements. Like Gandhi. Mandela.”

  “Yes, but those are grand examples. Back when I ran my congregation, I saw many brave men and women who fought for equal rights in small but very meaningful ways. There were plenty of Rosa Parkses refusing to go to the back of the bus who never made it to the news. Plenty of brave souls who stood up to bullying without ever being recognized for their bravery. And no single one of them invoked change. But the sum of their deeds … that is another story altogether.”

  I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I nodded anyway. I’d mull over his words later. Turning back to the book, I said, “If you’re right and he is Mergen’s avatar, we still don’t know what he eats. All it says is that he’s Turkish and that he’s the deity of Wisdom and Abundance.”

  “That’s a start, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.” I pulled my purse over my shoulder. I supposed figuring out what that poor Other ate would take some time. “Thank you,” I said, and started for the door. Then I stopped, with one more burning question I had to ask. “You referred to your congregation. So, you were a priest before, you know, you became the Old Librarian?” I said, smiling.

  He stared at me over the rims of his glasses. “Who said I am no longer a priest?”

  “You did. You referred to your congregation in the past tense.”

  “Indeed—but only because the flock has thinned after God’s GrandExodus. But His absence doesn’t mean that I don’t have faith anymore. Quite the opposite, in fact. I now have proof that the God I devoted my life to is real.”

  “And gone,” I said, regretting my words instantly. I was being rude.

  He nodded at this, giving me a patient smile. “And gone—you are quite correct. But my faith was not contingent on His presence before He left. That has not changed just because I know He is gone.”

  “So why have it? Faith. Sounds like an unnecessary burden.”

  “Perhaps—but then again, our past defines our future, no matter how hard we try to bury it.”

  I looked over at my father’s tartan. “Maybe. But some of that stuff is best left in the past.”

  “Perhaps. But then again, perhaps not. You have a keen mind. Tell me, do you have a campus job, Miss …?”

  “I thought we weren’t doing names, Old Librarian.”

  “I promise to call you Peculiar Girl, no matter what your name is. I ask for different reasons.” He paused, waiting expectantly.

  I obliged. “Darling. Katrina Darling.”

  “What a pretty real name you have, Peculiar Girl,” he said, smirking but not unkindly. “You have a keen mind, and your banter is something I think I would enjoy. Do you have a job? Or rather, would you like one?”

  “A job?”

  “I need someone to help me catalog and organize this place. The pay is abysmal and the job can take you into the wee hours of the night—but you will have unfettered access to all this.” He gestured around him to the shelves of books bursting with knowledge and the display cases packed with history. “And perhaps we will have time to debate the past and contemplate the future while enjoying the present.”

  That would be nice, I thought. “I like working nights,” I finally said. “I’m kind of an insomniac.”

  “Very well then. I shall put your name down as the new assistant librarian. Officially it is ten hours a week, which means I will only pay you for a fraction of the time you’ll be working.”

  “Great,” I said, wondering if great was the right response when basically agreeing to be an indentured slave.

  “Great, indeed. Address?”

  “Gardner Hall. Room 001.”

  He wrote that down on a little notepad he’d pulled from his breast pocket and said, “You start tomorrow.”

  Then he stuck out his hand. I shook it, and headed to the door. At the threshold, I stopped. I wanted to turn around and tell him how he had made this sc
ared freshman feel welcome and how much I appreciated having not only a job but a bit of a purpose in my new life. But instead, all I mustered was an awkward “Ahh … thanks,” before leaving.

  If I had known that would be the last time I’d see Old Librarian alive, I would have maybe tried to say something a little more meaningful.

  And I would have asked him for his real name.

  End of Part 1

  Part II

  Intermission

  He stands perfectly still in the moonlit night, near the statue of the university founder. He is under the canopy of the large oak tree and is facing east because, although it is near midnight, the moon has yet to fully rise. That will happen in the coming hour. For now, he stands and waits.

  He waits for the moon.

  And for it to call to him.

  In the old days, he would have assumed the form of a hyena with his fellow pack members. They would have all faced west, just as he is now, together waiting for the moon to reach its apex. Then they would have sung out to her in pitch-perfect unison, thanking her for her lunar light under which they would hunt.

  They would praise her beauty and love her for being the mother of night.

  Then the pack would let the frenzy of the hunt take over.

  But that was years ago, before the gods left. Now that the gods are gone, his pack has disbanded. Some embraced their humanity. Some left the old lands to seek new opportunities in this new GoneGod World. Some refused to accept the change and still go out nightly to praise the moon goddess. And some could not handle the change, choosing forever-lasting death over this new life.

  But Egya—Egya is different. A hybrid among his fellow hyenas. He chose to both embrace his humanity and honor his past. The gods may be gone—but the moon goddess still hangs above him. Of that much he is sure.

  The moon is nearing her apex—in moments she will have fully risen. Egya is preparing his howl, summoning the low, guttural hum within.