Mortality Bites Box Set [Books 1-6]

by Vance, Ramy

  “I had the same thought, milady,” Deirdre said. “Gloved hands hide guilty fingers.”

  Remi lifted his gloved hands in a very self-conscious manner before regaining his scowl. “I have a condition, and am very self-conscious about my hands. My gloves are not an indication of guilt, but merely a sign of my shyness and further proof of my sensitive nature. And one more thing, my dear young lady. Where were you when—”

  “What … what is going on?” a soft voice asked.

  Although the voice was low, we all stopped arguing and turned. Sarah stood with her black guide dog at the bedroom door’s threshold. Her head was tilted so her left ear faced us, and she wore a confused, almost frightened look. Behind her stood Jarvis and Freol, both staring at Oighrig End’s body with silent, disbelieving eyes.

  “It seems, my dear, that our guest of honor has met an untimely end,” Remi said in a cautious tone.

  “By the hands of our changeling guest,” Orange added.

  “I did no such thing.” Deirdre’s voice quavered as if trying to hold back tears.

  “You arrogant Seelie Court, biased moron,” I turned to Orange. “We don’t go throwing around accusations based on racial profiling.”

  “Why not?” Orange asked. I could tell the question was genuine; he really didn’t understand my objections, and from the way he waited for my response, I gathered that the Seelie Court did judge on the basis of where people came from, their particular subspecies, and all sorts of other racially motivated profiling.

  “Because,” I said as an oh so witty comeback.

  Remi sighed, and I thought he was going to renew his attack on Deirdre, but instead he said, “The young lady is right: we cannot assume that just because one has the capacity to kill, they have actually killed. We have, as of yet, no proof that the changeling is the murderer. That is not how things are done anymore. Not since the gods left, at least.”

  Orange gave Remi a look that could have shattered glass, and Remi, by way of self-defense, shrugged.

  “I do apologize,” Sarah said, “but I am at a visual disadvantage. Oighrig End is dead?”

  I nodded, and then realized how ridiculous nodding was. “Yes.”

  “How?” Sarah asked.

  The question drove home, because in my desperation to defend Deirdre, I had never examined the body. I walked over to Oighrig End and, without touching him, took a closer look at his wounds.

  “Oh please,” Orange said in a condescending tone, “what could you possibly be looking for? He was stabbed.”

  “Yes,” I said, still examining the body. Deirdre and Remi did the same. “But there is much we can learn from a stab wound.”

  Remi gave me a curious look.

  “Forensics class. I’m thinking of training as a policeman. Well, woman.”

  “I see.” Remi returned his gaze to the body.

  The three of us took a closer look. Whoever killed Oighrig End did so in a fit of abject hate; he had been stabbed multiple times all over his chest, but the wounds had no pattern.

  Usually when someone stabs their victim multiple times, they do so at a particular angle, and the radius of the wounds are closely bunched together, all penetrating the body from that angle. But Oighrig End’s wounds were all over his chest, and the angles made no sense, as if the killer had switched hands in the middle of the stabbing.

  And there was one more unusual thing: the wounds varied in intensity. Some were light, barely scratches. Others were deep cuts, obviously inflicted by powerful hands.

  Whoever killed Oighrig End must have done so in a fit of rage and doubt to inflict such a wide array of wounds. And from my best guess, that meant the killer both loved and hated the man. This was a tidbit I’d keep to myself, given how much Deirdre revered Oighrig End and how deeply she was hurt by his insults.

  I looked up to see that Remi had concluded his investigation quite quickly, evidently ascertaining everything he could with a cursory glance. Either he didn’t know enough about these types of wounds to really learn anything (which meant he was a lot less experienced than he claimed), or he had seen something that satisfied his curiosity.

  Deirdre circled the body before leaning in close. Then she did that thing she always does when surprised or wanting to keep a secret: her eyes widened slightly and her nose flared. That girl should never play poker.

  I quickly looked at Remi to see if he had noticed, but he was too busy lost in thought, presumably mulling over everything his investigation of the body revealed to him. Good, I thought, filing this away to ask her about later.

  Whatever Deirdre saw was enough for her, and she backed away from the body toward the wall, where she stood erect and still, saying nothing. The changeling guard stance. It looked impassive, but given the way changelings were trained in combat, that stance meant she was ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

  I knew that. So did the others.

  Way to not admit guilt, Deirdre, I thought, and backed away from the body myself. “OK, I’m done.”

  “And are you satisfied?” Orange asked.

  “Not really. I still have no idea who did this. But at least I know more than I did before.”

  “And what have you learned?” Sarah asked.

  “No—not now, and not here. Besides, I want to know what Soldier Boy here knows, too. I suggest we head to the conference room where we can hurl accusations at one another while we wait for the authorities to show up.”

  Orange shifted nervously at the mention of the police.

  “What?” I asked the ugly elf. “Nervous to have real detectives searching for clues?”

  “No, not at all,” he said with an uneven, nervous grin. “It’s just the storm. It’s killed all communications and, well—until the storm passes, I’m afraid we’re on our own.”

  You Did It! No, You Did!

  So we’re on our own, I thought as I looked out the window of the lecture hall. Outside, heavy snow fell in a near curtain of white.

  My cell phone’s screen read Call Failed with the name Egya above it. I couldn’t reach him—or anyone, for that matter. Even the internet didn’t work, nor did any of the landlines in the Douglas Hall offices. Orange wasn’t kidding when he said we were cut off.

  I turned to see everyone milling about in the room. Well, everyone except Oighrig End. He was still lying on Deirdre’s bed. Sarah sat on the stage holding her dog close, petting his gruff, black-furred neck. Jack was at the back, standing perfectly still. Remi paced the back of the room, the abatwas huddled together on the speakers and Deirdre stood at the back of room in her aggressive changeling stance. As for the rest, Jarvis, Freol and Orange sat on the outermost seats, as if they wanted to be as far apart as possible.

  There was something off about all of them, but especially Freol. It bugged me that he didn’t speak and didn’t seem to acknowledge me or anyone else. He just stared impassively at a space on the wall, still dressed in that funeral suit.

  Every now and then, one of them would look out at the falling snow with a heavy sigh. That no one could get to us was one thing. Now we were not only on our own, but our cellphones didn’t work, the internet was down … we were literally cut off from the world. When I was a young vampire, it was normal to find yourself somewhere far from others, alone and with no way to talk to anyone.

  But in the modern world, the constant ability to reach someone—anyone—became a part of who we are. We’re so used to being connected that when those tethers to the outside world are cut, we get nervous. These fae may have only been introduced to cell phones and the World Wide Web a few years ago, but they were used to these modern comforts and were just as nervous as any human would be about being cut off.

  Add to that a dead body lying on a double bed upstairs and, well, it made sense that everyone was shaken up. I suspected every time they looked out the window, they were trying to will the snow away.

  ↔

  No one spoke, no one looked at each other, and we might have stayed that
way for a long time had I not thought out loud, Anyone here is strong enough to have killed him.

  “Including you,” Orange said.

  “Orange,” Sarah said in an admonishing tone, “you’re not helping.”

  “Maybe,” the ugly elf admitted, “but I’m also not going to let Miss Human over there play innocent.”

  “You know,” Remi said, stopping his pacing, “I am curious about you, Miss Darling. You claim to be a schoolgirl, but what Sarah and Orange told me is that you pulled out a checkbook from a very expensive purse and paid for three tickets like it was nothing.”

  “I’m rich,” I said. “I won’t apologize for that.”

  “Nor should you have to. We’re all rich here. Me: inheritance,” he gestured that it was my turn to tell them where my money came from.

  I put a hand on my chest and said in an exaggerated tone, “Me: none of your business.”

  “Fair enough,” Remi said. “But I have encountered many rich young ladies in my time, and none of them would so happily and fearlessly examine a dead body like you did.”

  “Like I said, I’m thinking of going into law enforcement,” I lied.

  “Please,” Remi said, “don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

  “And what exactly are you bullshitting about?”

  “Oh shut it, the both of you,” Orange screamed. “I’ve had enough of this. Law enforcement might not be able to make it to us, but we can make it to them. I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because everyone needs to stay here until they arrive. We’re all suspects until someone with authority comes to sort us out. We don’t want one of us escaping when—”

  “Are you accusing me of being the killer?” Orange asked.

  “If the wig fits.”

  “Why you insolent, sniveling little …”

  I took a step toward him, fists clenched.

  Deirdre saw my aggressive stance and took a step forward herself.

  Big mistake, because as soon as the changeling showed her anger, Jack the giant stood up and took two massive steps toward her.

  From the way Deirdre moved, I was pretty sure she’d fought giants before. She tucked in real low and waited for Jack to swing. As soon as his arm was in mid-motion, she tumbled forward and to the left and gave the back of his knee a bone-crushing kick.

  He went down to one knee and with his other hand grabbed Deirdre’s legs. Evidently this giant had experience fighting changelings.

  Deirdre clawed at Jack’s hands, drawing blood as her powerful nails dug into his skin.

  They might have literally torn each other apart if Remi and I hadn’t rushed over to them. “Deirdre, enough!” I yelled, placing my hands on her.

  “Jack,” Remi said, “please stop this. Now.” Remi’s voice sounded like a battlefield command, and Jack immediately let go. So much for Remi bullshitting about seeing action. Only someone who had led troops in battle could have given such an unignorable command.

  As soon as the word “Now” left his lips, Jack let go.

  Pulling—as much as you can pull someone stronger than a rhino—at our respective fae, Remi and I managed to get the two warriors to opposite ends of the room.

  “Enough, Deirdre,” I said.

  The changeling was breathing hard, her fingers covered in green blood. That was the thing about Others: they didn’t bleed red like humans. Valkyrie bled yellow, dwarves a dust-colored brown, angels bled light and fae bled various shades of green depending on their type and powers.

  Seeing her blood-stained hands, I had a thought. When I had examined the body, I only saw red. But whoever killed Oighrig End did so in an extremely violent manner. There was no way you could inflict so much damage on the man without hurting yourself. And that doesn’t include anything he would have done to try to escape.

  Murder victims don’t just lie there. They scratch, punch, bite, throw things. The murder scene should have had a bit of non-red blood around, but it didn’t.

  That meant one of two things: either Oighrig End wasn’t killed in Deirdre’s room, or the killer was human.

  ↔

  Of course, that’s what I thought. Convincing seven people I was right was another thing.

  “All I’m saying is that there would be a couple drops of green blood somewhere.”

  “But there weren’t,” Remi said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “So that means either you or I are the killers, given that we bleed red, or he was killed somewhere else.”

  “Are you serious?” Orange yelped. “I don’t see how you can make such assumptions with what we know.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed, looking at the others, “but we should at least look in everyone’s rooms and—”

  “Look for what?”

  “Clues.”

  “Clues?”

  “Yes, because the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced one of you bastards is trying to frame the poor, innocent UnSeelie Court girl.”

  “Because there was no green blood,” Sarah said, not so much asking a question, but digesting the clues.

  “Exactly,” I said. “I’m starting to think it was Mrs. Peacock in the library with the candlestick.”

  “Who the hell is Mrs. Peacock?” Orange growled.

  “No one,” I said. “Just a human joke.” I looked at Remi for backup, but evidently he didn’t find me humorous at all.

  “OK, so we shall walk into each other’s room and look for clues,” Sarah said.

  “That’s what I propose,” I said.

  “Very well,” Sarah said, standing up. “Where shall we start?”

  “Jack’s room is on this floor. As good a place as any.” I looked over at the giant, who grunted the same way a walrus might warn us to get out of his territory.

  Spotless Rooms and Dirty Kitchens

  We started with the downstairs, me leading the morbid procession. Our first stop: the giant’s room. It was very neat, considering how small the room was compared to his grand stature. The only thing of note was that his mattress was on the floor, presumably because he was too big to sleep on a bed frame.

  I looked around the room and, other than the mattress, saw that Jack had a bottle of Oban whisky in his room. No green or red blood, no sign of a struggle, no murder weapon.

  Next.

  We went from room to room, and outside of finding nothing, the only surprising thing was how neat everyone was: made beds, folded clothes, toothbrushes in toiletry bags, toothpaste caps on. These fae, unlike my UnSeelie Court changeling of a roommate, were immaculately tidy. And as for the one human, he even had the next day’s clothes laid out on his bed. Uber tidy, but then he did have a butler, so …

  “This is going nowhere,” I said after we walked out of Sarah’s room, the last one in our macabre game of Clue.

  “See,” Orange said, “I told you.”

  “You did,” I said, nodding in agreement.

  I guess the ugly elf had prepared for a retort, and me agreeing surprised him. “Ahh, thank you?” he said, more as a question than a statement.

  “But just because we didn’t find anything doesn’t mean the killer isn’t one of us. All it means is the killer is smart. Which, in this case, means dangerous.”

  “Indeed,” Remi said. “Tell me, young lady … as one who wishes to go into law enforcement, what do you suggest we do now?”

  “Well, I guess a detective would interrogate the suspects.”

  “I agree,” Remi said, “but given that we all are suspects, how does a detective interrogate him or herself?”

  “She or he doesn’t,” I said, “but if we have several detectives, then that’s another story.”

  ↔

  We all gathered once more in the lecture hall, where a simple plan was outlined: we would all question one another and write down our answers. Then we would read out our notes so that everyone got each other’s answers. Think of it as speed dating, only subst
itute finding a murderer instead of a date.

  Using an egg timer to keep each interview under ten minutes, we lined up several chairs into two rows, and then, armed with notebooks and pens, we started one of the most awkward multi-level cross-examinations of all time.

  ↔

  The first person I interviewed was Sarah. I started with the obvious question: “Where were you after dinner?”

  Her dog let a huff, as if that was a stupid question.

  Sarah, on the other hand, was kinder. “My room. I was quite exhausted with the day’s preparations and, well, as exciting as it was to be in Professor End’s presence, I was glad to crawl into my bed.”

  “Is this your first time in Douglas Hall?”

  She tilted her head, giving me more ear than face. “Yes, other than the two visits when we were deciding on the lecture venue.”

  “Given that you haven’t spent much time here, how did you get from the dining hall to your room?”

  Again her dog Tiny snorted. This time Sarah put a hand on his head as if to say Relax. “Tiny guided me.”

  “That’s quite impressive for a dog,” I said, giving the canine a dirty look, “no matter how smart or well-trained.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said with an embarrassed smile, “Remi LaChance was kind enough to escort us to our room.”

  “Escort … and leave?” I asked.

  “Of course. What are you trying to say?” Sarah set a hand on her chest. Her dog let out a little growl just to punctuate her indignation.

  “Just that Remi is an attractive man, and—”

  “He may be attractive, but I fear that doesn’t really factor into my considerations when choosing whom to bed with.” She looked at me head-on as she spoke, removing her sunglasses and widening her eyes so I could get a good look at them.

  Most irises, even those belonging to blind people, were a cloudlike kaleidoscope of green or blue or brown around a black pupil. Sarah’s eyes weren’t that at all: her irises were less cloudlike and more fractal, as if they had been made of a crystal that exploded from the pupil out. Each shard was the standard green and blue common to eyes, but they possessed a light halo of red.