Three Dead Gods: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (Mortality Bites Book 6)

by Ramy Vance

The funny thing about fear: what you are afraid of rarely happens. What does happen is something else. Something far, far worse.

  At security, I was pulled aside and into a room to be “questioned.” I expected to see General Shouf sitting there with her eyeless face staring at me, but there was no aigamuchab. There was no Other there at all. Instead, I was seated across from a middle-aged man of European origin.

  The guard who had escorted me in bowed and left the room.

  “What’s this about?” I asked.

  The man ignored me at first, before rasping, “It seems, Katrina Darling, that you’ve found your soul and lost mine.”

  (Not) The End

  A Brief, Secondary Epilogue

  The Devil has been living on this island almost since the beginning. Well, the beginning of the end. He came to Kakusareta Taiyo Shima not long after the gods left, seeking to contemplate the situation he was in.

  After all, his pride had been greatly damaged by their departure, for the gods left without him. How dare they? He was the Devil, Lucifer, the Morning Star, the Adversary, the Angel of the Bottomless Pit. His actions influenced the creation of this world in more impactful ways than the gods themselves. No other creature has had the impact he has had, but despite that, they left him behind.

  How dare they?

  And so the Devil sits in seclusion, contemplating his new lot in life—his new, mortal lot.

  Most of his thoughts are preoccupied with anger at the insult thrust upon him. If he could only face the gods, he would tell them exactly what he thinks of their little “creation” experiment. He would berate those gods for abandoning them.

  Us.

  That’s where his thoughts always end. At that one word: us. How could they abandon us? How could they leave us behind? How could they condemn us to the slow death of mortality?

  The Devil doesn’t know what hurts more: their departure or the sad fact that he is no longer the Devil in anything other than name. Now he is an Other, just like the rest of them.

  ↔

  The Devil is sitting in his hut when all the hubbub begins. It starts with human soldiers that insist he evacuate. The soldiers are forceful with the human priestesses and some of the Others on this island. They try to be forceful with him, but the mere sight of him gives the human soldiers pause, their tone no longer forceful, but rather that of fearful children begging forgiveness and offering any and all concessions their limited powers can grant.

  It’s good to know that the sight of him still inspires fear in the humans. The Devil does not want to die, and agrees to leave the island. But he wishes to be the last to board the departing ferry. He requests, in the way that all his requests are in fact demands, that the soldiers fetch him at the last possible moment, and not a second before.

  Then he returns to his hut and continues his contemplations.

  In the adjacent hut resides Father Time, the batty old kook. Of all the creatures in existence, Father Time should have known the gods would leave. Hell, he probably did, not that you can get the old bastard to say anything coherent. He is a being that literally lives in all times at once and such existence drives one mad, even for a preternatural creature such as he.

  Three humans arrive at Father Time’s hut, requesting his help. They speak of the rising gods. Humph, the Devil thinks, you can hardly call Quetzalcoatl, Baldr and Izanami gods. They are weak, barely-deities who died early in the world’s history. They are pathetic, inconsequential gods … who will rise to power if they are not stopped.

  The Devil cannot have that, nor can he get directly involved. There are rules, and one rule is his neutrality in such matters. So the Devil does what he always does: he influences from the shadows.

  He whispers in the ears of the humans, giving them thoughts they believe to be their own, but are really his. He gives them a hint that, if properly utilized, will help them stop the gods.

  Will it work? At this moment it is hard to tell, for the Devil cannot see the future. But if these humans have a chance to stop these gods from rising, it will be because of his help, for a human does not understand how the celestial game is played.

  By simply whispering to the one called Kat, “How does Father Time know what will happen to an event that has yet to happen?” the Devil may have very well saved the world.

  ↔

  The Devil finds himself in a slum called Paradise Lot. Clever name. Not such a clever place, though. He has overseen torture chambers prettier than this place. Still, it is his home now, and now that the world will continue on, he must get used to it.

  “The world will go on,” he muses.

  It seems that his tip has indeed saved the world, for the three humans have prevailed, stopping the dead gods from rising.

  It is an odd sensation, saving the world. He feels a sense of pride, but that is to be expected—he is the Devil, after all. What is strange is the adjacent sense of joy that mixes in with the pride. He feels … good for having done something good.

  And that is when an undeniable thought strikes him like lightning from Michael’s sword: in this GoneGod World, the Devil does not need to be evil.

  He can be something else here. Something different.

  Something better.

  And in being something better, he can save the world.

  This thought pleases him very much.

  But still, saving the world is a Herculean task, and he is but one Other. He will need help—allies—to achieve his goal.

  The Devil’s lips curl in thoughtful pleasure as he considers who he will approach first. The male human, Jean—a human whose ear he also whispered in, telling him another secret that, in time, could end the world—spoke of his wife, and how she would do anything to save the world.

  He also spoke of how he would do anything in his power to save his Bella. Such devotion. Such love.

  And if the Devil knows anything, he knows exactly how love can be used.

  Twisted.

  Realigned …

  All in the name of good, of course.

  KAT’S ADVENTURES WILL CONTINUE …

  Want more GONEGOD WORLD?

  Check out our other series … same world, different hero!

  Want more stories set in the GoneGod World? Check out my other series: Keep Evolving …

  Read on for a sample chapter …

  OR

  CLICK HERE TO JUMP STRAIGHT INTO MORE GONE-GOD WORLD!

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  CHAPTER 1

  “Trap the bogeyman, she said. Steal his bell, she said. And what do I do? I listen to her,” I muttered to myself as I laced beads onto a long piece of tread.

  “I listen to my dead wife, who, by the way, speaks to me in my dreams, because, that’s normal. And when she tells me to hang out in a dark, scary park with a Mug Me Here sign on my back because … what? … I’m still pussy-whipped?

  I chuckled at the thought as I laced the last of the ceramic trinkets then walked the thread around three nearby trees to form my own Bermuda’s Triangle of yarn. A cat’s cradle—if the cat were the size of an elephant. “Pussy-whipped from beyond the grave.”

  I carefully placed my Cabbage Patch Kid that I got from my—ehem—collection in the middle of the triangle. Hey, don’t judge me … I love old toys and the Cabbage Patch Kid is a classic. “Open your hearts to a Cabbage Patch Kid … each sold separately,” I hummed as I worked.

  I shook my head. “I need help.”

  Then I pulled out a blue quilt from my baby days, and covered the toy with it. Once my trap was set, I pressed play on a Sony Walkman that I hooked up to a little portable speaker and climbed up a nearby tree.

  The Cabbage Patch cries rang out in the night.

  “Here I am,” I muttered to myself again—or maybe I was complaining to my dead wife just in case she was listening—“a grown man, sitting in a tree, literally waiting for the bogeyman to show up because she told me to do it. I didn’t really listen to her when she was alive
, so why start now?”

  I felt a pang of guilt whenever I thought about Bella in such a callous way. She was the love of life, my soulmate—if such a thing exists—and she was gone forever. I loved her and her being dead hadn’t changed that one bit.

  And the fact that I dreamed of her every night proved that, too. Right? I mean, why else would my dreams be filled with her?

  Not because I couldn’t let go. I can let go. I’m well adjusted.

  Seriously.

  But even I couldn’t deny that dangling from a tree, in the dark, broadcasting a toy baby’s toy cries, was case-and-point to the contrary. Still in love, yes. Well adjusted? Hardly.

  Certifiably insane, most likely.

  At least the “bogeyman” part didn’t make me crazy. He’s real—thank the GoneGods.

  And not just him—they’re all real. Legends, fables, mythical creatures—all of ’em, real as you and me. And all currently living amongst us ever since the gods decided to pack up and leave, closing their heavens and hells and forcing their “Other” creations onto Earth—the only remaining plane of existence they left open in this Universe.

  As if Earth didn’t have enough problems with just humans, we now have to add on the divine complications that elves, trolls, oni demons, dragons and all the other Others brought with them—you name it, we got it!

  I listened as my Sony Walkman cried on a loop. The recording was OK given that I got it from a YouTube video and had to really work some cross-generational technical hook-ups, but it worked in the end.

  Not the best baby crying in the world, but good enough. For the mission, at least.

  If only the bogeyman would show up. Where the hell was he? I knew the guy hung out around these parts and my source told me that he frequently cut through the park at night on his way to what he referred to as a gathering. It was night, and this was the park, so why wasn’t he gathering?

  Then again, my source could be wrong. He was, after all, a drunk fallen angel who lived in my attic. Still, it was quite literally in Penemue’s nature to know things—

  Bells. Chiming in a chaotic rhythm, like a dozen nearby churches ringing their Sunday bells a few hours premature.

  The chiming drew closer and my heart sped as I waited for the bogeyman to appear. I had one chance to get this guy in my trap or suffer the consequences. And according to my source, this particular bogeyman travelled with a shelleycoat … and pissing off a shelleycoat had all kinds of nasty bad-for-your-health consequences.

  Legend has it that shelleycoats dealt with those who crossed their path by getting the offender so lost and confused that they would literally die of starvation as they wandered aimlessly looking for the path back home. Even Hansel and Gretel, those clever bastards.

  Stories of bodies lying dead only a few feet away from a clearing or a road littered the shelleycoat’s past. And I was determined not to add my own to the shelleycoat’s present.

  The chiming grew louder and I heard him say with a heavy Scottish brogue, “What’s this? A wee lad lost in the park?”

  So he was a Scottish bogeyman. Cheers, mate.

  The shelleycoat took three steps closer to my Cabbage Patch Doll. Another step and he’d be in my trap … and then—Wham! Bam! Pow! Holy shelleycoat trap, Batman!

  But the shelleycoat didn’t take that last step. Instead, he looked around. And around.

  Until his eyes fixed on me.

  Hell … Hell-le-lujah.

  ↔

  When I was a kid, my PopPop used to tell me all sorts of stories about the bogeyman. The bogeyman, he’d say, would get me if I didn’t sleep, didn’t finish my dinner, didn’t do my chores. Sheesh. Talk about fear-based parenting.

  Still, despite all the stories, I was never really afraid of the bogeyman. I knew that my PopPop, as grandfather-old as he was, would always save me, after all.

  But my PopPop wasn’t here now, dangling from this tree in the dark following my dead wife’s instructions, and I felt old childish fears overrun my soul as I dropped down from the tree to face the bogeyman alone.

  “What do ye want, mortal?” the shelleycoat said.

  On the ground, I got a good glimpse at his coat. It was covered with all sorts of bells, from tiny silver ones all the way up to town-crier brass carillons. He was also considerably shorter than I was and at five foot ten, I’m not particularly tall (or short)—and not even remotely as handsome—with a crooked nose that was a Pinocchio I-didn’t-eat-the-children long.

  Oh, fun.

  “We’re all mortal now,” I said, stepping forward as I tried to push him into my trap.

  I’m pretty strong. I mean, I’m not Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson strong, but I’d probably hold my own against Vin Diesel or Chris Hemsworth. But despite putting everything I had into that shove, I didn’t move the ugly bastard an inch.

  Grinning, he backhand slapped me. I went flying across the ground, by body rolling over dry autumn leaves that crackled as loudly as my bones did. Ouch.

  The shelleycoat took three steps toward me, reaching a bell-jangling arm down as he grabbed my ankle then swung me like a five-iron. I went flying, this time in the direction of my Cabbage Patch Doll/Sony Walkman trap.

  Landing beside the old Walkman, I put it out of its misery, thankful that at least the damn baby’s crying was over.

  Looked like it might be time for my own crying.

  “What do ye want?” the bogeyman asked, taking long strides in my direction.

  Still on my butt, I pushed my feet against the ground as I crab-walked away from him.

  “A bell,” I said.

  “A … bell, you say?” He did a little shimmy that sent all his bells a-ringing and a-ranging. “I got plenty o’ these, but they be mine, not yours, not anyone’s to take. Mine,” he growled with Gollum-esque rage.

  “I know,” I said, shuffling away. “That’s why I did this.”

  I waited until he took another step, then I pulled at the yarn threads I’d lain earlier. A fence-like structure swung up around him. It was no higher than the shelleycoat’s ankles and it was literally made of thread and beads, but it did the trick.

  The shelleycoat stopped dead in his tracks, looking down at a barrier that a kitten could tear through in two seconds flat. But the shelleycoat was no kitten. He was a bogeyman of legend, a monster of old … and those kinds of creatures had rules. And one of the rules, explained to me long ago by my good-ol’ PopPop, was that no shelleycoat can ever cross over a line made from thread and ceramic—hence the beads.

  These days, jails weren’t just iron bars. Glass to hold dwarves, bird cages for sprites …

  And beaded thread for bogeymen.

  “No,” he growled. “Explain the meaning of this! I have done ye or yours no harm. I nae deserve this.”

  I lifted a placating hand. “And I’ll let you go in a minute, I promise. But I needed to get your attention first.”

  “Fer what?”

  “Like I said—a bell. Specifically, the …”

  I thought back to my dream and searched for the word that Bella had used. I should have been able to recall it without a second thought—after all, Bella wasn’t actually my dead wife; she was a figment of my imagination, a manifestation of my broken mind that was unable to accept that she was really gone. The name of the bell wasn’t something she told me about. It was something I knew about and had forgotten. And for some reason that I can’t quite put together, my subconscious decided I needed this damn bell and sent Bella to deliver the message.

  I hummed for a couple seconds longer as I searched for the bell’s name before finally remembering it.

  “Ismick. The Bell of Ismick.”

  “That bell is mine,” he said. I half-expected his nose to grow longer, but it was true.

  “I know, but given that you’re trapped and I really don’t have anywhere to be, I thought—”

  “Thief!” he shrieked, pointing a green finger at me. As he did, his sleeve-bells chimed their accusations in
agreement.

  I mimicked being wounded— “Oh, such harsh accusations! However, will I look at myself in the mirror again.”—before saying, “Don’t worry, ugly, I’m no thief. I offer you an exchange.” I pulled out three obsidian bells from my pocket. “My guy says these were the very bells that were sown to David’s saddle.”

  “David?”

  “As in David and Goliath,” I clarified.

  “They … they be real?” He held out a quivering, bell-chiming hand.

  I threw him one of them. “You tell me.”

  The shelleycoat bogeyman examined the bell like an appraiser might a gem, before nodding. “Very well,” he said, plucking a copper-colored bell from his coat. “This bell for all three.”

  “And how do I know you’re not tricking me? I mean, a bell is a bell to me. Swear you’re giving me the right one.”

  He sighed, grumbling some ancient fae curse under his breath.

  “Swear it,” I repeated, “or I won’t let you go.”

  Swearing, oaths, promises … those were the currency of Others. Once a pledge was given, the creature had to follow through or suffer some wrath from their gods. Of course, with the gods gone, divine wrath was in short supply, but most Others still took their ancient ways seriously. I wasn’t about to remind him of his new GoneGod World rights.

  Luckily, this shelleycoat was no different. He growled before plucking another bell off his coat, this time a silver one with black runes etched into it, and tossed it to me. “I swear that be the bell ye are looking for.”

  “Very well,” I said, tossing him the remaining two bells and cutting the thread barrier, thus setting the bogeyman free.

  ↔

  I prepared myself for another attack, but, once free, the shelleycoat made no indication that he held a grudge. Instead he turned his attention entirely to his newfound treasures and hung his new bells on his coat, then started down the park’s path—most likely toward his gathering, whatever that was.