Run, Kat, Run and Encantado Dreams (Mortality Bites: Publisher's Pack Book 4)

by Ramy Vance

  “A gift. Part of my dowry, let’s say.”

  “There are a bunch of problems with this, but because I really want to catch my flight, I’m only going to highlight the top three,” I said. “A, dowries are so last century. We modern girls prefer less possessive gestures. B, I’m not marrying you. And let me make my reasoning perfectly clear: it’s not me … it’s you. And C—and believe me when I say that this is the clincher—giving a girl a discarded contact lens is a poor substitute for a bouquet of flowers. It’s all kinds of gross. You really need to work on your game.”

  Another smile. “In the centuries to come, I will enjoy your wit.”

  “Centuries? I’m not sure if you got the memo, but we’re all mortal now.”

  He ignored me, casually pointing at the case like he was pointing at some worthless trinket. “That discarded lens, as you call it, is the pared cornea of the Goddess Turan. That filament does not simply charm, as you put it. It stirs one’s inner desires—enflames them, if you will. And that is my gift to you.”

  “Goddess? How the hell did this guy get a goddess’s eye?”

  “It was a gift,” he said, pulling out another lens, “in exchange for certain … services rendered.”

  Damn it! I must have been speaking out loud again. Note to self: out loud thinking bad thing to do when in life-and-death situation. Still, the way he answered the question was quite specific. The word rendered can mean ‘service provided or given,’ but it can also mean ‘to become.’ And given how deliberate he was about the word, I figured he hadn’t chosen it lightly. I wanted to know more. Hell, if I was going to beat him, I needed to know more.

  “Rendered?” I drew out the word. “What exactly does ‘render’ mean?”

  He gave me a disappointed look that said I should know exactly what he meant. “Katrina”—he wagged a condescending finger in my direction—“I understand that you’ve spent most of your time on this Earth as a common vampire. But still, I see a curious mind within. Surely your travels must shed some light on how the gods used me.”

  “Patronizing much?”

  “Only when necessary.”

  He tapped his finger against the table three times as he debated telling me. I figured I’d tip the scales in my favor with a wee bit of what centuries of life had taught me again and again: men are easily distracted. Playing with my blouse’s top button in a nervous manner, I bit my lower lip before saying, “I want to understand” in the same voice I once convinced my would-be executioner to let me out during a brief stint in a Victorian dungeon.

  His eyes were drawn to my fingers, then my lips, and as soon as my words hit his ears, he nodded. “Good. You’re at least trying to gain the upper hand. That deserves a reward, don’t you think?”

  So much for that. Still ... I was getting somewhere.

  I gestured for him to go on.

  “Very well.” He lifted his briefcase again and opened it. Inside, dozens of contact lens cases still sat in their spongy-foam protective casing. Singles and doubles, with seven of the foam holes empty. And given that he was a bespoke kind of guy, I figured one was in his right eye, one was on the table and the other five were … where? Lost? In some henchman’s eye? I’d have to err on the side of caution and go with eye-modified super henchman.

  He picked up two lenses. “From Ra.” Then two more. “And these were a gift from the Incan goddess Inti. These are from Brovo and this one”—he picked up a single casing and held it between his fingers in a not-unlike-Gollum-and-the-Ring-fashion—“this one is the prize of my collection. Odin’s eye—the missing eye—collected just after he sacrificed it in the Well of Urd. Great wisdom is revealed when I gaze upon this world through its lens and—”

  I stretched out my arms and gave Raspy Man an exaggerated yawn.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely surprised. “Are you bored?”

  “You know,” I said, wagging a condescending finger of my own, “you might have ignored my little finger-on-the-button technique and my Excuse me mister, but can you help me? lip bite, but at the end of the day, you’re just like every other guy who likes to drone on about his hobby. On and on and on … If I was interested in sleeping with you, I’d be all like, ‘That’s interesting.’ ” I put a hand on my not-insubstantial chest. “ ‘Please tell me more. You are so fascinating.’ But I’m not interested. As in, at all. So let’s skip all this preamble and get straight to the ‘rendering.’ And please focus this time.”

  Truth was, I was fascinated. But being fascinated by this guy wasn’t going to help with my bigger life goals … which at this moment was one of survival.

  Raspy Man gave me a curious look before letting out another bellow of laughter. “You, my dear, shall be a fountain of amusement in the centuries to come.”

  Again with that word, centuries. Like he was in total denial that we were all going to die—and if he kept being a patronizing asshole, from me stabbing him rather than old age.

  “Very well.” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of his left eye. “I shall provide you with the promised explanation.”

  He took a deep breath, and as he let it out, all mirth and humor left him. “The gods have always needed help speaking to humans because”—he gestured in the general direction of outside, clearly denoting both he and I were not human—“whenever the gods did speak to them, humans tended to go insane.”

  “Are you getting H.P. Lovecraftian on me?”

  “Prime example,” he said. “Although he held his mind together better than most. And he was smart enough to not use the gods’ real names, instead making them up—C'thalpa, Cthulhu and my personal favorite, the Cloud Thing, which was really just a drunk Cupid messing with the poor man. But, before I receive another yawn, allow me to get back on point.”

  “Please do.”

  “Only certain beings could speak to the gods, and only under certain circumstances. I was one of those beings … a creation who moved through the ages, speaking on behalf of the gods.”

  “So what are you saying?” I leaned forward. “You were a professional prophet, spreading the good word in various guises?”

  “Oh please. Do not think so little of me.”

  “What, you’re offended that I called you a prophet?”

  “Prophets are human. I am nothing so debased.”

  “But you’re human now.”

  “Indeed.” He laced the word with genuine frustration.

  “So …” I gestured for him to finish the thought.

  “So what?”

  “So if you’re human now, that means you were born a human. That’s what happened when the gods left. Vampires, werewolves, zombies—they all reverted back to their human selves. Given that you are human now, that means you were born a human. And judging by how forlorn you are, I’m guessing that was a long, long, long time ago.”

  He nodded. “Indeed.”

  “So why all the hatred toward humans? I mean, I spent three hundred years as a vampire and now that I’m human again, I’m really trying to make a go of it. You, on the other hand, are all ‘Bah, humbug’ about it.”

  He paused, considering my question. When he did answer, it was no knee-jerk reaction, and what he said next stilled my blood with fear.

  “Because, unlike you, I didn’t spend my time here on Earth amongst the other humans. At least, not all of it. Most of my time was spent … elsewhere.”

  “OK, I’ll bite. Where did you spend it?”

  “Why, in Heaven, my dear. By God’s side.”

  The Most Powerful Human Ever

  “Holy shit,” I whispered in unabashed awe. And then it hit me exactly who this guy was. I mean, how could I not know? I spend my formative years as a young, faithful Christian girl in Inverness. Pretty much the only reading available was the Bible, and Sunday church was 90% of my socialization.

  “You …” I stammered. “You’re Enoch, aren’t you?”

  Raspy Man gave me an appreciative smile. “Now that is the Katri
na Darling I have been longing to meet. Smart, deductive and reverent. I do not approve of your use of language.” He stood up and ran his hands over his head before adding, “Then let us drop the façade. I am Enoch.”

  “So if you’re Enoch, why use the name Tomás, then?”

  “Enoch is a … complicated name known and feared by many. Not your average human, mind you. But to you average Other … that is another story. So I borrowed the name Tomás from a man I used long ago when I was trying to set things right. Tomás de Torquemada was one of the greatest Inquisitors and a true man of faith. He was one of the few humans I could converse with without all the drooling insanity that usually followed.” He chuckled at his little joke.

  Not that I heard any of it. I was sitting in front of Enoch. Enoch the prophet … the one whom God had plucked from Earth and transformed into the Archangel Metatron (not to be confused with Megatron from Transformers … Although, given this guy was transformed, the similarities were undeniable).

  Few people know this, but the three most important people in the Bible, in descending order, are Jesus, Isaiah and Enoch. Why? Because all three did not die when they were taken to Heaven. Granted, Jesus was a bit of a special case, but still …

  What’s more, this guy had two whole Biblical texts named after him. Of course, neither text was canonized or official doctrine, but I had lived long enough to know that so much that really happened was never officially recognized as true.

  And seeing this man before me, I figured the stories about him must be true. Here was the human hand-picked by God to become an archangel so that he could witness … well … everything.

  According to both canonized texts and the ones never officially recognized, Enoch was in the prime of his life when he was enlisted by God to help judge the angels who were doing all sorts of nasty stuff on Earth. Fornicating, teaching humans stuff they shouldn’t know … fornicating some more.

  “When the gods left,” Enoch continued, “they did not take me like the other prophets. They cast me down here, in this form.” He balled his hands into fists as if experimenting with his “new” body. “They made me less, and why?”

  “Because you never died.”

  “Indeed. I never died. An angel with a soul, and since they couldn’t separate my soul from my body, I was left behind.”

  “Is that how you got that?” I gestured to the slit across his neck.

  Enoch nodded. “I knew the gods were leaving. I was, after all, witness to their plans. I also knew that they meant to leave me behind. So the moment the gods departed—the moment I was transformed into my human form—I sought to end my life so that my soul could join them.”

  “But instead of your soul getting a one-way ticket out of here, it got trapped in the Soul Jar?”

  He shook his head. “That came later. No, I’m afraid that my attempts to end my own life were foiled by …” He paused, shaking his head again. “Let us just leave it at foiled … for now.”

  “How 1970s action-movie-villain-y of you.”

  Enoch shrugged. “Like I said, we have centuries to speak. I will tell you all in due time.”

  “You keep saying that—centuries—but we’re going to die. You know that, right? We’ve got a few good decades in us and that’s it. Then it’s bye bye birdie for us.”

  “Perhaps. But with the Soul Jar, we may circumvent the limitations of our mortality.”

  “How? By becoming vampires again? My mom already tried that and—”

  “I’m afraid that was the lie I told your mother to get her find the … what do you call it? The Soul Jar?” He pulled another lens out of the case. “But the endgame was never to become a vampire, or any other kind of immortal creature.”

  “Then what’s the plan?”

  He popped in the fresh lens and stared at me with his new eye from GoneGod knows which Other or god he took it from. “Why, to follow the gods to their new plane of existence, of course.”

  He closed his eyes like he was preparing himself for what would come next. I’d seen that kind of prep work before. Hell, it was something I did every time I was about to enter an intense training session. Whatever that particular eye did, it was going to hurt him. A lot.

  “Wait,” I said. “Before you do whatever you’re about to do, answer me this. Why do you keep saying ‘we?’ Like I don’t have a choice but to follow you.”

  “There is always a choice.”

  “But you assume I’ll go with you. Why?”

  “Because I will offer you safe passage.”

  “Safe passage?”

  “To follow the gods. But to do so … Well, there is only one way to follow the them to their new home, and doing so requires not only great magic but also great resolve and sacrifice.”

  “I take it that when you say ‘sacrifice,’ you don’t mean sacrificing pizza for boiled chicken.”

  He chuckled, his eyes still closed. “Again, indeed. Now let us get to the business at hand.” He slowly opened his eyes. “My soul, and its whereabouts.”

  ↔

  As he stared at me, I realized that I was sunk. Unlike the last eye that gave his retina a gray halo, this one turned it into an unnatural purple. Which was particularly jarring, given that his other eye was more of a subtle gray-blue. So this one did something different. But what?

  I had no idea what that eye did, because if he had an eye that could stir one’s inner desires, who knows what that one could do? A human (and Other) lie detector? Or perhaps it would compel me to tell the truth? Another charm spell?

  I focused on myself to see if my will or desires were being pulled one way or another. I felt nothing. No inner stirring, no So unlike you, Kat desires or needs. I was just me. Of that I was sure. After all, I had centuries of being me.

  So, no mojo going on here? Right?

  “Shit,” I thought—out loud. “What’s the game?”

  But he didn’t say anything. He just continued to stare at me with that creepy eye.

  In my three hundred years, I’ve been in this kind of situation more times then I care to count. OK, that’s a wee bit of a lie … I’ve never been in this type of situation—Raspy Man was all kinds of weird—but I have been in front of diabolical masterminds hell-bent on something evil that usually included Kill Kat on their to-do list.

  So I did what I always do when put in this situation.

  I ran.

  Very hero-like, might I add.

  Run, Kat, Run

  I put both hands on the table and hoisted with all my might. I don’t know what it was about this guy. Maybe it was all the talk about immortality and stuff, but I think I forgot I was human, because I expected to be able to throw the metal table against the wall, flattening him with it as a bonus.

  Instead, my human strength barely managed to tip it before its legs came crashing back to the ground.

  Great … so much for my dramatic exit. I only managed to move the table a couple inches, inconveniencing him not at all.

  “Come now, Kat. Do you really think such dramatics are necessary?” He was still scanning me. His eyes rested on my reasonably substantial chest and they widened.

  A bit of a dramatic response, given I was wearing a blouse that showed practically no cleavage. Which meant that he wasn’t looking at my boobs … He was staring at the pendant hanging under my shirt. The Soul Jar. Shit, I should have given the damn thing to Deirdre.

  “So you do have it,” he said, his voice a whisper.

  Shit, shit, shit … “Shit!” I said, considering my next move. The table might have been too heavy to lift, but not everything in this room was made of sturdy metal.

  I grabbed the chair I sat on, and with one graceful pivot that would have made a golfer green with envy, clocked him on the head with it.

  He went down, which was the only reassuring thing about our whole exchange. That, and the fact that the chair’s leg caused him to bleed red. As in, human-blood red.

  Whatever this guy was, he was human. Right now,
at least.

  I didn’t wait for him to get up and do whatever evil geniuses did when knocked over by a five-foot-nothing, hundred-and-one-pounds-of-kick-ass-dynamite did.

  Heading for the door, I ran.

  ↔

  The Okinawan airport was surprisingly big, given it was built for such a tiny island. But it was a resort area—the Hawaii of Japan—and thousands of tourists visited the archipelago every year. And I was in its bowels, the back rooms purposely placed out of the way so that any escaping prisoners, like little ol’ moi, wouldn’t terrify the tourists.

  Plus, I was a terribly cute, auburn gaijin girl running out of one of those out-of-the-way rooms. I stuck out like a sore yara-mah-ya-who (a bright-red, thumb-like creature, for the uninitiated). I tried to act cool as I hurried through the corridors, but I didn’t get five steps before someone from Japanese airport security put a hand on my shoulder. “Chotomatte-kudasai.” One minute, please.

  Even in a chase scene, Japanese were polite.

  I lifted a wagging finger, and forcing out fake tears I’d used more than once as a vampire when luring in unsuspecting prey, cried, “Sca’bei.” Pervert.

  I pointed at the door that I had just exited. My hope was that the guard would assume I had been assaulted by Tomás, and his righteous indignation would distract him enough for me to keep running.

  Great plan … And to accentuate my claim, out came the bleeding Tomás. Thank the GoneGods for perfect timing. Things were going my way.

  Except the guard only looked at Tomás, his eyes widening in shock as he cried out, “Torukumada-sama.”

  Sama. A term of respect in Japanese culture. So much for the man of the law protecting innocent little me.

  The guard’s hand tightened on my shoulder, and seeing that he meant to subdue me, I sent a roundhouse kick into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him with a satisfying oof.