Mortality Bites Box Set [Books 1-6]

by Vance, Ramy

  When I met the ground, I let my body roll with the gravity and sprang back up, never breaking stride as I ran across the springy grass. I followed Wilcox into the building. Given how grievously wounded she was, Wilcox was surprisingly spry. She made it to the door before me and slammed it behind her, gaining a precious head start as I wasted valuable seconds breaking the heavy glass with the hilt of my sword. I reached into the hole I’d made and unlocked the door from the inside to let myself in.

  Running up the Z-shaped stairs, I spared only a second to glance out the window at the mess hall. I couldn’t see into the courtyard from this angle, but I was high enough to see the occasional jinni soar up into the open air above the courtyard. Deirdre, Mergen and Egya—as well as thirteen loyal jinn—were making short work of Wilcox’s minions. The battle would be won—victory without casualties.

  Well, victory with very few casualties, I thought as I made it to the seventh-floor landing.

  I could hear the door to the communal bathroom fly open. Wilcox was taking refuge in a defensible room. She still had one good hand and a gun, which made her very dangerous, indeed. I had no idea what her plan was. I doubt she did, either.

  She’d lost, and now she was cornered.

  Cornered rats don’t make plans.

  But they also don’t hesitate to do anything batshit crazy to get out of said corner.

  I pushed open the bathroom door. Three gunshots rang out. Looking up, I saw light stream through three bullet holes about a foot above my head.

  “Thank the GoneGods I’m short.”

  “Not ‘gone’ gods if you’d let me finish my ritual, you bitch!” Wilcox screamed back.

  “Wilcox,” I said. “It’s over.”

  “NO, IT’S NOT OVER! They’ll come back! They have to!”

  “Your ritual failed. And even if it had succeeded, I doubt it would have made a difference.”

  Wilcox didn’t respond. Instead, I could hear her mumbling to herself. I had to really concentrate to make out what she was saying … and as soon as I was able to lock on to a couple of words, I knew her plan.

  Crap.

  I burst through the door and saw exactly what I’d expected. Nate on his knees, Wilcox’s gun at his head. She was chanting the Incan incantation.

  If she couldn’t sacrifice several hundred kids to the gods, then she could still give them one.

  And now that Nate was no longer under Sal’s protective spell, nothing would come to possibly save him.

  Nothing—except for me.

  Without hesitation or second thought, I hurled my dirk at Wilcox. It whirled through the air in dazzling slow motion. She tried to veer to the right, but she wasn’t fast enough. Instead of the sword splitting her down the center of her skull, it hit her just above her left eye.

  Wilcox went down with a sickening thud.

  Nate burst into tears—but not tears for his dead cousin. They were tears of relief, joy—tears of emancipation, of one who had finally found freedom. Sure, Nate had called me a bitch at Dr. Dewey’s vigil, but in all of this, he was just as much a victim as anyone else. He muttered one word over and over again, and this time it wasn’t “bitch.”

  “Sorry, sorry … SORRY.”

  I thought he was looking at me, but he wasn’t. He was staring behind me. I looked over my shoulder.

  It was Sal. I guess, in all the chaos, the apu had found a way out of the mess-hall courtyard and came up here to see if he could help, too. That’s the thing about protectors. It’s not easy for them to stop loving those they protect.

  Sal walked past me, drew close to Nate and gave him a powerful hug. As he held Nate, he turned to me and said, “What now?”

  I shook my head. I honestly didn’t know, and at the moment I was staring at Wilcox’s body. I killed, I thought as I pulled my sword out of her skull. “And not a Class C Other this time. A human. Even if I argued self-defense—"

  “No one will ever know what you did here,” Sal said.

  This was one instant where I was glad for my little quirk of speaking my thoughts aloud.

  What the apu did next was nothing short of astonishing.

  He spread his hands out across the marble tiles of the bathroom floor, and right before our eyes, everything turned to rock, slowly absorbing Wilcox’s body into it. Within moments she was gone, along with any trace of what I had done to her.

  I made my way down the stairs and back across to the mess hall to find that the battle was, indeed, over. Wilcox’s jinn had all been dispatched, and Egya’s jinn were standing, frozen statues on the stone fountain. And the humans? Many were hovering near Mergen, happy to have his protective presence close by. But even more rushed to the doors as Sal and I pried their gates up high enough for a safe exit.

  By the time everyone had exited the mess hall and felt the refreshing air of the fields outside, the humans spontaneously decided to hoist Egya and Deirdre into the air and crowd-surf them like rock stars. Egya was quick to get down—evidently, he did not like the attention, or the heights. But Deirdre—the changeling warrior—had finally found some acceptance here. They loved her for being a warrior. For being different. And for using that difference to save their lives.

  None of them seemed to notice me, which was good. I’d lost my cherub mask somewhere in the climb over the mess hall, and the last thing I wanted was to be recognized. I was sure I’d be rewarded for saving them by being attacked. And I wasn’t sure I had it in me to kill another, even in self-defense.

  I might have helped save hundreds of lives—but I did so by tarnishing my own, newly human soul.

  As I wandered around the field, I happened upon an item hidden in the grass. I knelt down and, to my surprise, found the mask. Touching its ceramic cheek, I imagined that I caught a glimpse of my father’s own struggles in that angelic face.

  Sometimes doing the right thing hurts, I thought, and then spoke aloud:

  “But that doesn’t make it wrong.”

  An Ending of Sorts

  Sirens climbed the hill as the students sat outside waiting for help to arrive. As best as I could tell, no one was hurt. Sure there were some scrapes and bruises, a few bloody noses and whatnot, and a hell of a lot of terrified, most likely emotionally scarred kids—but no deaths. Well, no deaths except Wilcox … but given how Sal’s magic worked, I was pretty sure her body was absorbed into the bathroom floor of the seventh landing of McConnell Hall forever.

  She was gone for good. But considering what she’d tried to do, I could live with that.

  Really, I could.

  I didn’t wait for the police to show up. I just walked behind the mess hall and into Gardner Hall’s basement, where my room and bed awaited me. I figured that if the police needed to speak to me, they could come find me where I belonged. Under my covers and away from anyone or anything.

  Crawling into bed, I sighed and closed my eyes. Barely a second went by before there was a knock on the door.

  I ignored it.

  Then another knock.

  I ignored that, too.

  But when a heavy fist knocked a third time, I sighed heavily, got up and opened the door.

  I was expecting a cop or ten, but when I saw Justin’s bloodied smile, my heart stopped beating for a couple of seconds (and believe me, I know what it feels like to not have your heart beat).

  “You left,” he said. There was no scorn or anger in his voice. Just matter-of-fact, like he was trying to process what had happened.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “The cops will want to talk to you. Well, not you, but the girl with the cherub mask.”

  “They’ll find me eventually.”

  Justin smirked. “I’m not so sure. I told them I was pretty sure the girl with the angel face was actually an angel who took to the sky after she saved us.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “What?”

  “I mean—not many know who you are … I mean, really, truly are. And those of us who do—Sal, Nate and, well, me—we al
l said the same thing. And that’s not all. Word is getting out. Dozens of students all saying you’re gone. Like Superman or something.”

  “Supergirl, you mean?”

  “Superwhatever,” he said, drawing me in close. With gentle hands, he wiped away a few loose strands of hair from my face. “Thank you. And not just from me. From everyone. You saved us.”

  I blushed. “I had help.”

  “You did … and we’re thankful to them, too. But the kid who emerged from the almost politically incorrect white sheet said you were the one who figured it all out. You were the one who saved us.”

  “I guess,” I said, looking down.

  A firm and kind finger gently lifted my chin so that I was staring directly into Justin’s impossibly beautiful eyes. “Thank you,” he said again as he leaned down and kissed me.

  I resisted at first, but feeling his warm lips on my own, I leaned into it. It was the first time I’d kissed anyone. Alive, that is. I died when I was fifteen, before I’d had any serious suitors, and now that I was alive again … well, kissing was good.

  Eventually, we pulled away from each other, and I thought, “Does this mean we’re an item?”

  “An item?” Justin asked, laughing. “What are you—from the sixties?”

  “Ahhh, actually, that expression is from the fifties,” I said. Hey, if I was going to think out loud, I might as well embrace it.

  “OK, then,” he said, kissing me again. “We’re an item.”

  I shook my head. “No—not yet. I need to tell you something. And I’m not quite ready. But I don’t want to start this with a lie … so … no. Not yet.”

  He withdrew, narrowing his eyes. “Not yet, but … there’s hope?”

  Right thing to say, I thought (and this time in my head). “Oh, there’s more than hope,” I said. “But I need time to … to figure out how to be a college student first. How about while I’m figuring it out, we have a couple of dates? Real dates. Court me like I’m a Scottish gal from the eighteenth century.”

  He smiled, stepped back and curtsied. “As you wish.”

  “Actually,” I said, “Scottish suitors didn’t curtsy.”

  “Oh … I figured that with the skirt—”

  “Kilt.”

  “—they curtsied. No?”

  “No,” I said, grabbing his hand and guiding him to my door. “They bowed.”

  Standing outside my door, Justin bowed. “Like I said, as you wish.” And with that, the boy with impossibly beautiful eyes and perfect black hair took his leave to give me time to figure out how to be … well, how to be human.

  Again.

  The next days saw a flurry of activity. Over one hundred human students dropped out, more Others moved in and the university finally found a return to normalcy that—given the circumstances—wasn’t very normal.

  Deirdre, Mousey Girl (whose name, I discovered, was Aimee), Egya and I buried the gargoyle, whose real name was George Paul-Henri Gardien III. We found a quiet spot not too far from the neon cross and laid his stones to rest. Since Georgie was a guardian Other, Deirdre gave him a warrior’s funeral as the rest of us said our farewells.

  Aimee cried.

  And so did I.

  But Georgie got his farewell. And in this new and terrible GoneGod World that had to count for something.

  Days passed, and the routine of college life started to become … well … routine. Classes, dates with Justin that ended with PG-13 kissing, hanging out on campus … the university routine I figured must have taken place in between the wild party scenes from the old college comedies. I was just finding my rhythm when one day—about a month after the O3 party—I opened my mailbox and pulled out a letter from the Other Studies Library—apparently it was open again and I was to report to work starting Monday. I guess Dr. Dewey, the Old Librarian, had put in my application before he died.

  GoneGodsDamn it!

  I mean … oh, yay!

  Monday morning I walked into my first day of work. A funny-looking woman who wore a bright blue blazer and red pants greeted me. She had a name tag that read Jennifer Brovavick and a smile that said, Ask me anything.

  I handed her the letter.

  “Katrina Darling? I heard they were going to send me a little helper. I was half expecting an elf.” She chuckled at her own joke, but when I didn’t, her face went solemn. “Sorry. I take it this must be difficult for you.”

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  “You did know David. Correct?”

  “David?”

  “Yes, the librarian who …” She looked at the back of the room.

  “Dr. Dewey,” I said. “Yes, I knew him. He was the first friend I made here.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I nodded.

  Jennifer Brovavick stood perfectly still for a moment before reaching into her jacket. “I found something amongst his stuff—he left you this.” She handed me an envelope with my name on it. “Take your time.”

  She walked away, leaving me with a letter that was quite literally from beyond the grave. With hesitant hands, I opened it. Inside was a short note:

  Dear Ms. Darling,

  Regarding your inquiry as to who donated the McMahon tartan. Upon investigating the matter, I discovered that a Miss Charlotte Darling donated it. Suspecting that she is a relation of yours, but unable to give you her number directly, due to university confidentiality clauses, I gave Miss Darling a ring and—

  No, no, no, no!

  discovered that she is, indeed, your—

  “Kat … Katrina!” I heard an old familiar voice call my name.

  mother. She informed me that she will be up for a visit at her earliest convenience. I do not know if I crossed any lines by mentioning your employment at the Other Studies Library and—

  “Yoo-hooo … Kat, dear. It’s me. It’s—”

  wanted to give you a heads-up just in case I did.

  Your friend,

  David Dewey, the “Old Librarian”

  “—Mom,” the voice called out.

  I groaned. “GoneGodsDamn it.”

  And this time I meant to say it out loud.

  Elsewhere, not too far away —

  The government, it seems, screwed her, and now she’s going to die.

  She did her duty, registered for the amnesty program, scrubbed her slate clean. At least, that’s what she was told she was doing. But that’s just the man sticking it to her again.

  She struggles against the duct tape and rope that bind her to the chair, but she’s been around long enough—bound enough of her own victims—to know that she can’t break free. Not without a miracle … and those are in short supply these days.

  The largest of her three captors stands up and casually walks over to her like he has all the time in the world. And given that they’re in the middle of the woods, she knows he is right.

  “Please,” she says, “I’m just a secretary working at a small real-estate firm. You have the wrong person. You have the—”

  “ ‘Just a secretary,’ she says. ‘The wrong person,’ she says. I will tell you exactly who you are—a vampire, a killer … and now my prey.” As he speaks he adjusts his mask, then saunters over to a table that displays several instruments of torture—fishhooks, hammers, files, saws, nails and, to add insult to injury, a bag of salt. And not the fine-grade stuff. Rock salt.

  She knows there’s a reason for the expression “salt the wound.” It came from sickos like this guy.

  And her. But no—that was before.

  “I … I’m not a vampire.”

  “No … lies!” he screams, his voice echoing off the walls of the abandoned warehouse.

  “I’m not lying. I’m not a vampire. I was … but then the gods … they left—you know. I became human again.”

  He pretends he doesn’t hear her, and with dramatized movements picks up three fishhooks and a hammer.

  “I’m human!” she screams, panic finally rising above the surface, submerging her. S
he tries to break free, but there is no hope. Her bonds are too tight, a true Boy Scout’s knot; the chair too stable, cold steel to the touch.

  “You know,” the man says, his low voice muffled beneath his mask. “When the gods left and all the Others showed up, there was a lot of confusion as to how to deal with the sudden influx of mythical creatures. There were so many problems—fear, violence, racism … well, Other-ism … the list goes on.

  “No one knew what to do about most of the problems. But the one issue that seemed most manageable was the GoneGodDamn amnesty program. I suppose they thought it was the simplest solution. Stupid little people with their stupid little solutions. Like signing a paper will clean all the blood on your hands.”

  “Please … please …”

  But she knows that her words won’t elicit mercy. She is dead. More than dead, because she’ll suffer long before she breathes her last. And as that thought races in her head, she spits at him, “You bastard. You goddamn bastard!”

  He pauses, hooks in hand. “Don’t you mean ‘GoneGodDamn bastard’?” Then he leans in, the fishhooks hovering near her eyes.

  Oh god, she thinks. He means to pierce my eyelids … he means to …

  But the man doesn’t pierce her eyelids; instead he leans back and says, “You know, I have a thought. A win-win, if you will. I will end you quickly. Well … quicker than I had planned, at least. But only if you answer a few questions first.”

  She doesn’t say anything. Tears and snot roll down her face.

  “Charlotte. Do you know where she is?”

  She blinks. “Charlotte? Who are you talking about?”

  Faster than she thought a human could possibly move, he slaps her—fortunately narrowly avoiding her cheek with the pointy ends of the fishhooks. “No, no, no … for our bargain to work, you have to be honest. You know who I am talking about. Your sire … Charlotte McMahon! Surely you know where she is?”