Mortality Bites Box Set [Books 1-6]

by Vance, Ramy

  Given how still my mother became, I guessed she came to the same conclusion. She confirmed it by saying, “It’s no use.”

  So much for fighting to our last breath.

  “Oh please, darling, that’s the crap they try to sell us in movies. In the real world, most people realize when they’re screwed and stop trying. You know that better than most.”

  I did—it always amazed me how many of my victims just stopped running. Granted, there was no hope. I was faster, immune to fatigue and relentless. But still, they’d just stop.

  Stop … and get to their knees.

  Then they’d start to pray. To God or the gods. To angels and saints. Hell, a few of them prayed to their dearly departed mothers, asking them to come down from Heaven and save them.

  And when their prayers were not answered (and I can tell you that in my three hundred years standing over countless victims, their prayers were never, ever answered—the gods may as well have never been here in the first place), they’d try another tact.

  Begging.

  When it became evident that begging was of no use, they’d go into terror mode—screaming and wailing—before (seconds before death, at this point) realizing that fear was useless. Everything was useless. They’d usually give into cursing, which always puzzled me—cursing their god or saint or dearly departed mother just moments after having prayed to the same. Then, once they got all that out of their system, they’d finally accept their fate with an often definite “Just do it” or “Get it over with.”

  And I would.

  I call this the 7 Steps to Being Hunted and Caught:

  Run

  Stop

  Pray

  Beg

  Terror

  Cursing

  Acceptance.

  Damn. I should write a paper on that. Psych prof would love it.

  The point is, none of them ever got away. Which isn’t to say that some of them didn’t survive my hunt. But it usually was the ones that kept their wits about them, thought their way through the problem and fought me off, or tricked me.

  Those, and the truly lucky.

  Everyone else was dinner.

  I don’t know where my mother and I were on the 7 Steps to Being Hunted and Caught spectrum. I suppose our experience on the other side of the duct tape made us special cases—and we both just jumped straight to Acceptance.

  What came after that, I wasn’t sure.

  But had I known, my underdeveloped sense of self-awareness would have done anything to not know.

  ↔

  My mother let out a deep, mournful sigh and said, “I know what happened. To Simione.”

  “What?” I asked, wondering if we’d given up squirming too soon.

  “He asked it the question—how I should die—and the amulet told him something else entirely. Probably unrelated to me. And from his reaction, something he didn’t want to hear.”

  I tried to rotate my head enough to see my mother—not an easy feat, given that little Cherub duct taped my forehead to the beam. But with the little wiggle room I’d made for myself and using my periphery vision, I could see her out of the corner of my eye. “You asked it a question—didn’t you?”

  “I did,” she said in a mournful voice.

  “Did you ask it where the gods went?”

  Silence.

  “Mother …”

  More silence.

  “We’re going to die … you might as well tell me. After all, what difference does it make?”

  More silence. Just when I thought that she wasn’t going to say anything, she whispered, “Because I don’t want to die with you being angry at me.”

  I could see several tears escape her eye. So she really, truly didn’t want me to know what she’d asked the amulet. And in our final moments on this Earth, I should have been understanding. Loving.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Nae bother.”

  “I love you …”

  But curiosity, when it didn’t kill the cat, did lead it down a dark and terrible path … and I was dying to know. I wanted to know so badly that I might have died before Simione got a chance to kill me.

  “Tell me,” I said, and when my mother didn’t answer, I tried a different tact. One that might have never occurred to me had I not met Mergen and seen the power of the Truth—capital T.

  “Mother—of everything I have done in my life, I have three things that I would have changed had I not been so proud and … well … afraid.”

  I could almost hear my mother’s curiosity. No dead cat this time. Not yet.

  “The first one I won’t tell you,” I continued. “That is a story for another time. But number two of my oh-so-very-long list of regrets … is turning you.” I paused as I summoned the courage to say my third regret. “And number three is that once I turned you, I abandoned you. And for both those offences against you, I am truly and deeply sorry.”

  As soon as the words left my lips, I was struck by a very sudden and strong realization that I wasn’t telling her this because I wanted to know her secret, but because I wanted her to know how sorry I was for what I had done to her.

  I loved my mother as a human, hated her as a vampire … and wasn’t sure how I felt about her now that I was human again. All I did know was that I wanted to love her again. I wanted to be part of her life and have her be part of mine.

  I also knew that I’d forgive her for whatever question she had asked the amulet. I didn’t even have to hear it.

  “Thank you, darling. Thank you for being so brave and so honest. I love you—”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Hey. I’m ready to forgive. And yeah … to love. Not to talk about it. Gimme some space?”

  My mother understood. Hell, she probably felt the same way—after all, the poisonous apple doesn’t roll far from the cauldron.

  There was a long silence between us, but unlike so much of the other kinds of silence that makes me uncomfortable, this one was pleasant. Daughter and mother, just enjoying a moment together … tied to a beam.

  But blessed silence is only blessed for so long, and this moment we were having was broken by my mother’s confession.

  “You know,” she started. “When the gods left, I actually went to church.”

  That was interesting. Vampires hated churches. We hated those places because, as strange as this sounds, light killed us. Sunlight burned us, but the light of spirituality and faith—that utterly devastated our beings.

  “I gave confessional to a priest until …” She paused, searching for the right word. “Until I found my purpose in this GoneGod world.”

  “And what purpose is that?”

  My mother ignored my question. “I found … no, we’re being honest … I find being human so terribly hard. And not just me—I have met many ex-vampires and ex-weres that struggle. In many ways they have it harder than Others.”

  “I don’t know about that—Others have it pretty hard.”

  “True,” my mother said, “but everyone knows that an Other is an Other. They look at us and think we’re a normal human just like them. They don’t know what we were … and they don’t understand what we gave up.”

  I silently agreed. Probably the hardest part of being human again was pretending that we were born—in my case—nineteen years ago and that we had a normal childhood and that we … well, we were like everyone else. The constant lying became tedious and tiresome, and atrophied our ability to move on with the rest of our lives.

  But that wasn’t what my mother was referring to. “What did we give up, Mother?”

  I expected her to say the strength or speed or any number of other powers we had. What she said, though, truly shocked me.

  “Faith,” she sighed.

  “Faith … as in, you know, faith in the guys who left us?”

  “No, no, darling. Don’t be daft. Faith in myself. Faith that no matter what happened, I was safe, that I was enough to deal with whatever life threw at me. Now I have a problem and I have
no faith in myself to solve it. I just putter along, doing my best—”

  “I think you’re selling yourself a wee bit short. You were pretty spectacular at the diner and then at the Rust Yard. You’re pretty badass, Mom.”

  “Humph—you called me Mom. You normally call me Mother—it’s so formal. So impersonal.”

  I nodded (well, tried to). I let “Mom” slip every once in a while, but I usually defaulted to the formality. She was right. “You are pretty capable, Mom.”

  “Thank you, darling. Thank you … Kat,” she said, and although I couldn’t see her, I could sense her smile from her tone. “I guess that brings us to the point of this conversation … what question did I ask the amulet?”

  “Mom—you don’t have to—”

  “No, you were right … let us clear the air before, well, you know.”

  And then she told me her question. And although I had promised myself I wouldn’t get angry no matter what, my very being was consumed by a soul-fire of rage that the gods of peace from every religion the world ever knew could not temper.

  Selfish Questions, Selfish Boys

  “You asked it WHAT?!” I yelled.

  “Darling, please, you’ll draw those awful people back inside with your yelling.”

  “Mother, at this point I would welcome whatever horrible death they have in store for us than suffer another minute with you.”

  “Darling—you’re being unreasonable.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you figure, Charlie?”

  “Oh, please—you yourself admitted that being human was hard.”

  “I did—but as hard as it is, I’m not trying to find a way to become a vampire again!”

  “Technically, darling, I’m trying to find the Soul Jar. There’s a lot more I’ll have to do to actually become a vampire. You have to figure out how to extract the soul from the body without killing it … then actually get the soul into the jar. And let’s not forget that all of that doesn’t guarantee our powers would come back just like that. We might just turn into these soulless husks with—”

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up! I can’t believe you actually want to become a vampire again. What about the rest of the shit you told me—all lies?”

  “Like what?”

  “The organization you work for.”

  “Mmm, more like a support group for ex-vampires. We’re quite large. National, actually.”

  “And who did I speak to? It wasn’t the President.”

  “Ah, that … yes, you were the victim of our little play, I’m afraid. You did speak to the president, technically.”

  “Of the United States?”

  “Of our organization. Interesting fellow. Raspy voice, though. Did you know he was one of the first Grand Inquisitors—”

  “And the whole ‘keep the amulet out of people’s hands to protect the secret of where the gods went’?”

  “That was true! We really are concerned about it falling into the wrong hands and causing an ideological problem for the world.”

  “You are the wrong hands!”

  “Oh, pish posh,” she said in her usual derivative tone. But just when I thought she’d go into some tirade or other, her voice became very somber, and I sensed true remorse in her voice. “Besides,” she said in barely a whisper, “it didn’t work.”

  “What didn’t?”

  Now my mother started crying. And I don’t mean a couple conservative tears, I mean proper tears. Twice in one day. I was speechless.

  “My question,” she said between sniffs. “I asked the damn thing where the Soul Jar is, and I had another question answered altogether. Do you want to know what question it answered?”

  I took several deep breaths as I tried to come to grips with the fact that my mother was part of some scheme to restore humans back to their former vampiric selves. She wanted to bring back the blood sucking and hunting, the torturing and hurting, the power and … what was the word she used … faith in herself.

  That last thought tempered my rage just enough for me to realize that maybe my mother hadn’t considered all the consequences of finding a way back to vampirehood. She didn’t think about all the new innocent victims that would suffer in the GoneGod world.

  She was just thinking about herself.

  I took several deep breaths and considered my next words when, finally calm enough, I heard what my mother was muttering over and over again in between sobs and tears.

  “Do you want to know what question it answered?

  “Do you want to know what question it answered?

  “Do you want to know what question it answered?”

  I couldn’t take it anymore and with a resigned huff, I said, “Yes. Please tell me—what question did it answer?”

  My mother took a deep breath, evidently trying to get her tears under control. “What I want most in this new GoneGod world. Do you want to know what that is?”

  “Yes, Charlie,” I said, hoping she’d hear me rolling my eyes.

  “It was—”

  “Oye … what you two blabbering on about?” yelled one of the Cherubs.

  I guess I wasn’t going to find out what my mother desired more than anything. Given that it was probably a castle or unlimited wealth or a harem of Chippendale dancers, I wasn’t too concerned. I was ready for my death to end this.

  ↔

  Two of them came back without Simione and took off their masks. I could see why they joined the Divine Cherub club—they were both hideous. The smaller one looked like a battered version of Ringo Starr (it was uncanny—let the conspiracy theories abound) and the larger of the two had a George Harrison vibe going for him. But not the cute, early-days George. He was the skinny, mustache-wearing, bad-haircut George of the 1970s. (Believe me, I know George—he was my favorite Beatle, pre- and post-Yoko. I like the quiet types.)

  George walked up to me and did probably the creepiest thing a guy can do to a tied-up girl—he sniffed me. Yuck.

  “George—what are you doing?” Evidently, he didn’t just look like George—he was named George. And who said the gods didn’t have a sense of humor (when they were around, that is)?

  “Just taking a whiff.”

  “Simione said not to touch them.”

  “I know,” George said, clearly irritated. “But Simione isn’t here, is he?”

  “Where is he?” I asked, figuring I had nothing to lose by asking.

  “Oh, oh, oh, he’s gone to get something very special for you two,” George chuckled. “Very, very special.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “And ruin the surprise?” he said.

  “Good point,” I said. “We like surprises, don’t we, Mother?”

  “I don’t think we’ll like this one, darling.” Evidently, she wasn’t in a mood for playing around.

  George took another sniff and ran the back of his hand along my cheek. It took all my strength not to shudder. “Probably not. But then again, who knows what kind of kinky stuff you sluts are into?”

  Seriously—is this guy really trying to chat me up here and now? And with a word like “slut” to boot. Who is this guy? Magna cum laude from porn school?

  They both chuckled at this.

  Speaking rather than just thinking out loud, I said, “So when will he be back?”

  Remember what I said about the 7 Steps of Being Hunted and Caught? Those guys never survived. It was the ones who maintained their calm—who could form a plan. And I was beginning to form a plan of my own.

  “A couple hours,” George said.

  “And then what? Curtains for us? If so, maybe you’d honor me by making my last few hours a little bit more comfortable. I’d be ever so grateful.” I turned on my sultry, bring-it-on voice … the one I reserved for nights when I was feeling particularly adventurous.

  “ ‘Curtains for us’? Who talks like that? Oh yeah, vampire bitches who think everyone is stupid but them.” He punched me in the gut, which hurt way more
than it should have given my whole ribs situation.

  “Too far?” I asked, my voice just a groan.

  “Too much like a porn,” he said. “Remember, I’m one of their best students.”

  So not as stupid as I hoped. GoneGodDammit!

  Out of plans—and apparently not as seductive as I thought I was—I had no clue what to do next, so I fell into silence and did what I always did when I was trapped: I started to play a movie in my head. It was a technique I learned to do from a yogi in one of the most sacred of places—SoHo. If you’ve never been, go. The experience will positively enlighten you.

  I was running through my playlist when my mother decided to ruin my last hours of life. “You know, George, you weren’t far off by calling my daughter a slut. In fact, this whole predicament we find ourselves in is because she couldn’t keep her hormones in check. Isn’t that true, darling?”

  This was a surprise. And insulting. “What are you getting at, Mother?”

  “Gareth? The cèilidh? Fornicating on the bluff near the loch in the middle of night? Remember that?”

  “I do, Mother, but I was a victim.”

  “Were you? Or were you inviting this curse on yourself because you were a selfish little girl? Are still a selfish little girl?”

  “Mother—this is hardly the time for—”

  “And once you were turned, you couldn’t just leave us alone. You killed me, and don’t think for one second, missy, that I don’t know what you did to your father.”

  I stopped, my eyes widening. Did she know? I hadn’t told her what happened, I haven’t told anyone … I couldn’t possibly see how she would know.

  Whether I said that out loud or not, my mother went on. “You killed him. By fang or because you set him on his impossible mission to save the world from monsters like you, you killed him.”