Orphaned Follies: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (Mortality Bites Book 4)

by Ramy Vance

  “Which is?” he asked, reluctantly walking out of my room.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I wish I did, but I don’t.” And with those oh so sensitive and inspiring words as my goodbye, I closed the door.

  Healthy Stalker Relationships Are Hard

  I knew I was in trouble when Legally Blonde did nothing to lift my spirits. Afterward I lay in bed, my eyes on the ceiling.

  A few weeks ago, I was cursed. And not in the fun, colorful, insulting kind of way. I was literally cursed, which in my case meant I was turned into a vampire—again.

  Luckily, the curse was lifted less than twenty-four hours later, after I had only bitten two people—both bad guys—and somehow managed to not kill anyone.

  So all in all, not the worst day of my life. But when the curse was lifted, instead of going back to normal, I felt different. My mood was all over the place: sad, unmotivated, alone, ugly, angry. I felt like I was playing some twisted version of Wheel of Fortune.

  More like Wheel of Feeling Like Shit.

  I figured it was just having all that power, only to have it stripped away a second time. That my malaise was a result of feeling sorry for being human—again.

  I also thought it would go away. And if not go away, at least become less intense. But it wasn’t becoming less anything.

  If anything, I felt like I was slowly descending further and further into my own darkness.

  Just when I was about to curl up into a ball of self-pity, the earpiece in my purse crackled.

  How the hell does he always know to call when I’m at my worst? I thought, and picked up the earpiece.

  ↔

  “Are you spying on me?” I said into the earpiece.

  The man with the raspy voice chuckled, his light laughter more like someone trying to hold back a cancerous coughing fit than harmless mirth.

  “You know that every sound you make is creepy,” I said.

  There was a pause before the man rasped, “Sadly, I do.”

  “It would be less creepy if you just told me who you are.”

  “We will get to that. I promise.”

  “You know, I didn’t believe Harold the Homicidal Maniac when he said some creepy guy was feeding him information about me. That was my first mistake. My second was picking up this damn communicator when I saw it in Harold’s ear. I should have just thrown it away. But noooo, I had to keep it. Curiosity killed the cat. More like boredom killed the Kat—as in me. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go drown myself in a shower and—”

  “I am not,” he rasped.

  “Not what?”

  “In answer to your earlier question: I am not spying on you.”

  “Really?” I said, doubtful. “Then how is it you always manage to call when I’m at my worst?”

  “I told you, our souls both occupy the Rooh Ina’ah, the Soul Jar. It senses your distress and communicates it to me. That is how—”

  “And I told you that I don’t believe in the Rooh Ina’ah, or that my soul is missing, or any of the crap you’re constantly spewing at me.”

  “Then why do you always answer my calls?”

  He had a point. I didn’t know why I did, just like I didn’t know why I wasn’t trying to track him down or, better yet, why I didn’t throw away the earpiece and be rid of him forever. But here I was, dutifully picking up the damn communicator every time it pinged.

  “May I hazard a guess?” he said.

  “Sure.” I plopped myself on my bed.

  “Because you and I are uniquely connected. Two humans with no souls. Two—”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “No. And I will not give up until I am whole again.”

  “So go find the damn thing.”

  “I cannot.”

  I sighed. We were about to go through this whole song and dance for the umpteenth time. Mocking his raspy voice, I said, “ ‘I cannot. The Rooh Ina’ah is hidden, and only someone with the right question in their heart can find the Rooh Ina’ah. The Amulet of Souol is our only hope. If, that is, you hold the right question in your heart. Do you, Katrina Darling? Are you ready to ask the Amulet of Souol the question that burns in both our hearts?’ ”

  There was a pause before a man with an actual raspy voice said, “Well, are you ready to ask the amulet?”

  The Amulet of Souol, not that again. A few weeks ago my mother showed up and the two of us spent some quality mother, daughter time finding the damn thing. At the time, I didn’t know why my mother wanted it, but I do now … the amulet will answer its wearer one question and one question only. But the catch is that the question it will answer isn’t necessarily the one you asked, but rather the question you heart most desires an answer to. And my raspy stalker wanted me to use the amulet to find my soul.

  “Given that I don’t believe you, I guess not. But I was thinking about asking it where the best discounts will be on Boxing Day, or—”

  “You are not ready, but you will be soon. Until then: Adieu, my fair Katrina. I shall call again when I feel your soul cry out in pain.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to call. Maybe I’ll just destroy this communicator and be done with you.”

  “You won’t,” he rasped.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we are two soulless humans in need of one another.”

  “Are we? How about you take your soulless self and—” But before I could blast him with the totally witty retort I had in the chamber, the earpiece crackled into silence.

  Great, I thought, throwing the earpiece back in my purse, I can’t even maintain a relationship with my stalker.

  It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot like Christmas

  All I wanted was time alone to … what? Wallow in self-pity? Contemplate the nature of my possibly missing soul? Or perhaps remain undistracted as I incessantly worried whether this emptiness would ever be filled?

  OK, time alone wasn’t the best thing for me right then. Maybe what I needed was a distraction, something to get my mind off things. But given all I was going through, that “something” would have to be pretty all-consuming.

  And just as that thought ran through my mind, an answer to my all-consuming desire entered the room: Deirdre, my changeling roommate.

  She walked in swooning like a princess in a musical. “I can’t believe it,” she said with a gleam in her eyes that betrayed unfettered joy.

  Good for you, Deirdre. Bitch, I thought before immediately scolding myself. Just because I was depressed didn’t make it OK for me to hate my roommate for her ear-to-ear smile, the skip in her step, and the—oh, screw it. I was jealous.

  Before my thoughts ran down the path of irreversible rage, she said—or rather, practically sang, “The bestest thing ever is happening.”

  “Let me guess, Ryan Reynolds has finally agreed to marry you?”

  She paused, narrowing her eyes as she assessed my joke. When her changeling brain finally comprehended that I was teasing her, she walked over to her poster of Ryan Reynolds and gently touched his cheek. Good for her—she was finally getting human humor.

  “You are right to mock me, milady,” Deirdre said. “Ryan Reynolds coming to profess his love would be the bestest thing ever. As a result, I must adjust my statement to: The second bestest thing ever is happening.”

  So much for Deirdre getting human humor, or any kind of humor. “OK,” I said, “I’ll bite. What is the second bestest thing ever to happen?”

  “The FSA is hosting a Christmas event, the—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but did you say ‘the FSA?’ ”

  “Yes milady, the FSA—the Fae Students’ Association. They are throwing an event to honor the work of Professor Oighrig End. The event will be held at Douglas Hall and shall last from December 23rd until the 26th.”

  “Three days?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll be sleeping there?” I said, really hitting the words you and there hard. I wasn’t going to tell her I thought that wa
s ridiculous. I was going to let my tone do it.

  “Yes, if we sleep,” she said, oblivious to my admonishing tone.

  “Wow,” I said, popping my eyes. If she didn’t get my tone, I was hoping she’d clue in to my facial expressions.

  “I know,” she said, mimicking my popping eyes. So much for facial subtlety. “I, too, was disappointed by the brevity of the event. Normally the UnSeelie Court would honor one such as he for three hundred years, not three days. But alas, now that we are all mortal we must truncate our celebrations.”

  “And this is at Douglas Hall, you said?” It was more a rhetorical question than actually fishing for more information. But alas, Deirdre’s conversational deficiencies were not limited to missing humor, tone and facial expressions.

  “More specifically, A, B and C wings in Douglas Hall. Seems that the dorm has not been able to fill itself since the university started letting in Others. Douglas Hall, as well as some of the other resident dorms, is resorting to other means of earning income.”

  “Like hosting fae celebrations?”

  “Yes, milady. That is exactly right.”

  “Fae celebrations that will take place over Christmas?” I knew my sarcasm would be lost on her, but didn’t care. It wasn’t lost on me, and I would relish its sting even if my intended target was oblivious.

  “The celebrated birthday of the Human Who Rose Again. It is no winter or summer solace, but still a worthy time to honor one such as Oighrig End.”

  “I see,” I said. Fae and their celebrations … who was I to argue? “And who is Oighrig End, exactly?”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief, like I’d just asked who Barack Obama was, or admitted to never having seen Star Wars. Usually I was the one staring at her in disbelief. It was strange being on the receiving end of the indignant eyeballing.

  “Why, Oighrig End is only the greatest revisionist historian of our time.”

  OK, I thought, not what I expected. A popstar or movie actor, sure. But a historian? And what is a “revisionist historian,” anyway?

  I must have spoken my thoughts out loud, because her indignant gaze upgraded to near fainting shock. It was the kind of look I’d give someone if they, in all seriousness, had just told me they thought the Earth was flat, the moon was made of cheese and every story ended with the hero and heroine living happily ever after.

  “There are so, so many myths written by humans who have no regard to the suffering of Others caused by their hands. For instance, does anyone care for poor Polyphemus, the cyclops blinded by the cruel and trespassing Odysseus? Or what about the horrible Beowulf and his needless slaughter of Grendel? And lest we forget the—”

  “I get it, I get it. Lots of good Others, bad humans, and this Oighrig End is setting the record straight, right?”

  “I know not when the record was bent or where it must be set. All I know is Oighrig End retells these myths from the perspectives of the wronged Others. He is a hero.” She placed a hand over her heart, the changeling warrior’s salute.

  “Right,” I said, “he’s a storyteller you admire. Kind of like me and my relationship with Legally Blonde.”

  No smile. No hint that she’d even gotten my joke (as lame as it was). Just a serious nod and an audible sigh of relief that I was finally getting what she was trying to tell me.

  “So,” I said, sitting on my bed, “the favor.”

  “Request, milady,” she said. “And one that will put me even further into your debt. Since I have already sworn my sword arm to you, I shall also bestow upon you my shield arm,”—she lifted her left hand—“my bosom,”—she grabbed her … well, her goodies—“and my womb,”—she touched her belly—“should you grant me this request.”

  The thing about fae: when they grant you parts of themselves, they mean it. She really did plan to give me full use of her breasts and womb should I request them. “You can keep your boobs and belly,” I said. “I’ll take the shield arm. Shoot.”

  I probably should have asked her what she wanted before being so willy-nilly with my request-granting ability.

  Deirdre jumped for joy, which for a changeling of her size and power meant she hit our ceiling and cracked one of the tiles. Not that she noticed. She was too busy celebrating to spot all the dust and fibers in her hair.

  “The event,” she finally said once she’d stopped hopping. “It costs many of the human coins. More than I receive from tending the grounds within the Colosseum—”

  “Football stadium.”

  “I know that you possess more wealth than most.”

  “I invested in the stock market early, sometime in the early ’30s. So yeah, I’m doing OK,” I said, and meant it. I had a lot of money, and not just money: antiques, jewels, gold and a couple castles. “How much?”

  “We must go to the FSA headquarters to purchase the ticket. And we must hurry before it sells out,” she said as she rummaged in her backpack. She pulled out a flyer and began reading, “Three thousand, eight hundred and ten dollars and ninety-two cents.”

  “Three thousand dollars for a talk?”

  “Three thousand, eight hundred and ten dollars and ninety-two cents,” Deirdre said, her smile still as bright as ever. From the way she looked at me, I knew there was no way I could get out of this. And when she said, “May we go now to purchase the tickets?” I knew I was sunk.

  Oh well, it’s only money, I thought, grabbing my purse. “On second thought, Deirdre, I will take your bosom and womb.”

  The Dark Side of Student Organizers

  and Even the Fae Are Bureaucratic

  Braving a heavy winter snowfall, we walked down to the Others’ Society of McGill University, or OSMU for the uninspired short. OSMU was in the basement of the SSMU (same concept, just substitute Students’ for Others’), and as we approached the building, I saw that the weirdness had already begun.

  McGill was a good university, which meant many of the students who got into the school did so because they stood out in some way. In other words, good universities were where the keeners could finally be kings. McGill was populated by chess club students, fencing club members, school dance organizers, Morris dancing champions … you know, the crème de la crème of geekdom.

  And the SSMU building was the nexus of it all—Sauron’s Tower of School Spirit, if you will.

  “Barad-dur, rah, rah, rah,” I muttered to myself as we walked inside.

  The inner bowels of the place were covered in flyers ranging from night walks to blood drives, from spoken word events to beer pong championships.

  And those were just the decorations. The halls were also filled with smiling students whose get-go attitude was more than a philosophy they prescribed to … it was who they were. I remembered passing by places like this when I was a vampire, and could sense who someone was by their smell. The humans inside always had an overwhelming scent of optimism, which for a vampire was akin to drowning in a bowl of potpourri.

  Luckily, being human again meant my extra-sensitive nose was no longer so sensitive. Thank the GoneGods for small miracles.

  But these halls weren’t just filled with overachieving humans—they also held numerous Others predisposed to “doing good.” Angels and archangels walked these halls, but that was to be expected. Elves, orthruses, fairies and pixies also did their part, though given that they were all benevolent types, I could have guessed they’d be here, too.

  There was the Night Walk group run by minotaurs and centaurs, whose sole purpose was escorting people home. All you had to do was call the number, tell them where you were, and some cloven-footed Other would come galloping to the rescue.

  There were public service announcements, like: ‘Be careful when at Beaver Lake. Several eyewitnesses claim to have seen the Loch Ness monster there, and we still don’t know if it’s friendly or not.’

  I sighed. As if Nessie would leave the loches of Scotland for the ice cold of Montreal.

  On another pillar was an advert for Pixie Cleaners, a group who devote
d several hours per week to cleaning student apartments and dorms. All funds earned went promptly to a tree-planting charity.

  The Tutoring Society was comprised of sphinx(es), gnomes, qilins and the three Fates—all Others with photographic memories, super-intelligence or (in the case of history studies) who had actually lived through the period of history being tutored.

  And let’s not forget the hecatoncheires, who used their multiple arms to transcribe and edit term papers for students who preferred dictation over actually putting fingers to keyboards. Again, all monies earned went to local charities.

  As my eyes wandered from door to door, I saw signs for student associations, clubs and services all run by Others who were, for lack of a better word, good.

  As in, the opposite of evil.

  There were no orcs or oni demons, no banshees or wendigoes here, even though I knew this university had many of those kinds of Others enrolled. All the Others who had a reputation for being the “bad guys” weren’t here.

  This was a pile of poo, if you asked me. So many of the so-called “bad guys” whom I’ve come across since the gods left were actually beings that were trying to do good, like me. And yet none of them were here, either because they weren’t invited or didn’t feel welcome.

  Either way, it was … well, I refer you back to my pile of poo comment.

  I don’t know if it was my bad attitude of late or a bit of my old, judgmental self shining through, but the lack of “bad guys” here really pissed me off.

  Not that I said anything to Deirdre. She was a changeling warrior for the UnSeelie Court. To put it in Star Wars terms, my roommate was the fae equivalent of a Sith who fought for the dark side.

  If Deirdre was red, she’d be Darth Talon … but I digress.

  Putting aside thoughts of good and evil, we walked into the FSA headquarters, where I prepared to dish out thousands so my little Sith buddy could attend a three-day lecture.