Mortality Bites Box Set [Books 1-6]

by Vance, Ramy

  The changeling nodded. “You would have made a formidable general in the fae army.”

  High compliment coming from a fae warrior indeed, and I curtsied in thanks.

  Without another word, Deirdre sheathed her broadsword and began running along the shoreline to her destination.

  I paused for a moment, taking in my surroundings. This was something I did before every battle. A moment to center myself before kicking some butt. The moon hung full in the sky, illuminating the beauty of the river. A pretty idyllic place to be, if it weren’t for my boyfriend bound to a chair (instead of a bed) and three homicidal Divine Cherubs wanting to kill me.

  “OK … time to fight fire with fire,” I muttered to myself.

  And I put on my father’s Cherub mask.

  Wanna Dance, My Little Angel?

  I was running up along the side of the hangar. (Do you call boat warehouses “hangars”? I’d look it up on my phone if I weren’t—you know—in the middle of a mission.) Once I was where I needed to be, I started counting to one hundred to make sure Deirdre was in position.

  1 …

  2 …

  3 …

  Trouble with counting is your mind tends to wander.

  53 …

  After I rescue them, how am I going to explain all this to Justin?

  59 …

  I’ll have to tell him everything and hope he doesn’t tell me to jump into a lake. Or go to hell. Or worse—stop kissing me.

  62 …

  Justin’s going to hate me, isn’t he?

  68 …

  Egya knows and understands and doesn’t care.

  77 …

  Why can’t Justin be more like Egya?

  81 …

  Because he was never bitten, duh. He’s just an ordinary boy.

  84 …

  An ordinary boy who deserves an ordinary girl.

  89 …

  Screw that!

  90 …

  Ordinary’s boring.

  91 …

  I’m anything but—once I tell him everything, he’ll understand.

  92 …

  Won’t he?

  95 …

  No, he won’t!

  99 …

  Why not? It’s not like I asked to be a vampire.

  102 …

  I was bitten. No fault of my own.

  106 …

  Besides, if I wasn’t bitten I would have died and never met him.

  109 …

  So in a way he should be grateful I’m a vampire!

  110 …

  And aren’t I risking my life to save him?

  111—

  Oh shoot, I missed my count. Time to make up for lost time …

  I charged at the A-frame holding up the front of a large fishing boat that looked like it could have been a prop in Forrest Gump. I put all my lighter-than-a-stack-of-newspapers weight behind the shove, hoping to dislodge the damn thing. Given how big it was, I figured I might have to do a couple runs to get it to move.

  I was wrong. The thing crumbled under my first hit and I barely had enough time to tumble out from under the boat and to the other side. It came crashing down like a—well, like a boat crashing off of its stand in a dirt lot.

  A loud BANG! accompanied the fall. Before the noise could settle, I shimmied up its side and got into position. It didn’t take long for the Cherubs to come outside, and once they were out in the open, I stood up and pointed my dirk at them.

  “You two have defied the code of the Divine Cherubs. Kidnapping civilians and using them as bait is not our way,” I said.

  I figured the sight of me in my father’s mask would give me enough distraction to cause them pause. I was right—and not surprising, if I’m being honest; I had a lot of practice throwing gravitas into my words back in my vampiring days.

  These two froze for a solid ten seconds as they looked up at me standing there in my mask. Then one of them spoke.

  “The mask. How did you get it?”

  “What do you mean? I’m a Divine Cherub.”

  “What’s a Divine Cherub?” asked the younger of the two.

  “What’s a Divine Cherub? You’ve got to be kidding me. What do you think that mask on your face represents? A baby-shower catering group?”

  “But Simione said that we were Angel Fighters,” one said.

  The other turned to him and replied, “I wanted to be called Fallen Angels or Hell’s Angels, but he said that both names were already taken.”

  I cut in. “Simione?” The name was familiar somehow, but before I could place it, I felt a hard kick to my back.

  “You are no Cherub, child,” said the largest man of the three, stepping up behind me. “You are a monster barely fit to be crushed beneath my boot.”

  I could see the same crisp green eyes burning with hatred as he pushed a very heavy boot down on my chest, and as he did so he muttered, “The god of peace will soon crush Satan under your shoe.”

  The pain was instant. I could feel him literally crushing the breath out of me, and still he pushed. I heard a rib crack. Hell, it could have been three. I tried to pivot, sway, move. But I couldn’t. He was strong and his boot so large that it stretched from navel to nipple. The fringes of my eyesight started to go dark. I was passing out, and if that happened, I would be done. This guy was not messing around.

  In the distance I heard the rumble of an engine and knew that Deirdre had done her part. I also knew now that there was no help coming. I had made Deirdre swear that she would get them to safety. Oaths, promises, swears—the fae took them extremely seriously. Once the words were uttered, they would be followed. She had gotten the boys to the boat and they were speeding off to safety as my breath, too, was leaving me.

  So, all in all, not a total loss, I thought as more of my sight burst into blackness.

  Then I heard a judgmental, menthol-wafting voice reply:

  “You’re always so dramatic, darling.”

  Part III

  Intermission

  EARLIER—

  George and Ringo had been in position to nab the vampire bitch as soon as she left the hotel, just like they planned. There’s an alleyway about fifty yards away from the hotel’s front door—perfect place to grab her. But then some college idiot pulled up in his old Mustang and—well, so much for their plan.

  What is that expression? We make plans and God laughs. Well, God and the gods are gone—so Simione wonders if anyone is laughing now. He certainly isn’t.

  “Abort,” Simione says in the walkie-talkie. “We’ll get her later.”

  “Copy that,” George says, and although Ringo’s a good five feet away from the walkie-talkie, Simione still hears the kid groan.

  “Don’t worry, kid—we’ll get her. We’ll get them both. Come on back to the van and we’ll figure out next steps.”

  Ringo gave a thumbs-up.

  The two brothers started trotting toward him. Ringo’s real name is Ryan, but given he’s George’s little brother and ugly as sin, the nickname Ringo’s too fitting not to use. The kid’s carrying the large duffle bag filled with all the goodies. Simione scans the street to make sure no cops are around. Two guys dressed in all black, with large conspicuous bags, screams up-to-no-good.

  But that isn’t the case. They’re up to good. They’re up to a hell of a lot of good.

  They’re hunting vampires.

  ↔

  After the gods left and all the Others showed up, there were a lot of personal vendettas settled. Mostly between Others—but humans got into the game, too. Humans who were hurt by creatures of the night—werewolves, zombies … vampires.

  Now that they weren’t souped-up creatures anymore, they were vulnerable and a hell of lot easier to take down.

  During the early days, you could kill an ex-vampire right in the middle of Times Square and as long you could prove that the guy bleeding on the street was, once-upon-a-time, a demon, the cops were more likely to give you a high five than read your Miranda rights.


  Those were the golden days. Golden days that lasted about six months. Then the politicians and police got their shit together and they came up with some kind of amnesty program. A clean slate. A do-over. After all, the rules had changed and vampires weren’t vampires no more—they were human.

  “Well, fuck that!” Simione mutters as George and Ryan jump in the van.

  “Fuck what?” George asks.

  “I was just thinking how that bitch keeps getting lucky. We need to make her unlucky.”

  The two brothers nod, grinning. “What’s the plan?” This from George—obviously.

  “Stake out the hotel. Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll come back in the dead of night, drunk and ripe for the—” He draws a finger across his own throat.

  George chuckles, but Ringo isn’t laughing. He’s got that deadly stare going for him. Like he can’t wait to kill her. The boy’s hungry. Good.

  Putting a heavy hand on the silent kid’s shoulder, Simione nods and says, “But let’s grab some grub, first. Can’t serve justice on an empty stomach. There’s a diner not too far from here.”

  ↔

  They drive by the diner and lo-and-behold, the kid’s Mustang is parked out front. Grub would have to be grabbed later.

  Driving slowly past the place, they look in the window … and Simione cannot believe what he sees. Not only is that middle-aged vampire bitch sitting there, but so is her daughter.

  “Katrina,” he mutters to himself.

  “What’d you say?” George asks.

  Simione ignores George, staring at little miss Katrina Darling with her lush auburn hair and million-dollar smile. She looks so good, so innocent. So harmless. But Simione knows better. He knows who she really is …

  So we got us two targets, he thinks. Time to plan, figure out a trap and determine the best course of action to take them down.

  But—like the old expression goes—humans plan and God laughs.

  Except it isn’t God laughing, Simione knows. It’s Katrina and her bitch mom. They’re laughing.

  Laughing like they don’t have a care in the world.

  Simione’s idea for plans and traps and courses of action goes out the window.

  “Suit up, boys,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Time to take these bitches down.”

  Boots, Pups and Butterflies

  “You’re always so dramatic, darling.”

  Those familiar words were followed by the loud thud of a two-by-four striking the back of the Divine Cherub’s head.

  He dropped, his foot no longer pressing down on my chest. Thank the GoneGods for small miracles.

  My mother reached out a hand and helped me to my feet. The pain was agonizing. Standing, I realized that I had three broken ribs. At least. Jumping down from the boat, let alone escaping the Rust Yard, would be impossible.

  As for fighting—shit. We were in trouble. Given how strong these Cherubs were—or Angel Fighters or whatever they called themselves—I doubted I could take them at full health, let alone injured. At least one of them was down already, I confirmed, looking over at the limp body on the dirt.

  “Thank you, Mother,” I said begrudgingly.

  “Think nothing of it, darling. I’m just a mother trying to do the right thing.”

  I looked over the edge of the boat we were perched on and saw that the other two Cherubs were on the move. They might have been temporarily confused by my mask, but once they saw their leader attack me, well, they understood which angel to follow.

  They were climbing up the edge of the boat and would be onboard in seconds. We were screwed.

  If only we had more time, I thought, just a few more seconds to figure something out.

  And as if the GoneGods were listening, my prayers were answered in the form of the three Reynolds rats: Captain Excellent, Hannibal King and Van Wilder. And they weren’t adolescents anymore. They were tomcat-sized mega-rats, with armadillo-like armor for skin and raptor-style claws. (I wish I was joking, but I’m not.)

  Seems that Deirdre, still taking my oath very seriously, found a loophole. She might not be able to help me, but her rat-pups could. And given how protective she was of her little darlings, she had burned some more time to get them battle ready.

  I simultaneously felt guilt and admiration for my socially awkward changeling friend and vowed never to get frustrated with her constant questions and confusion. (Sadly, that was a vow I never kept.)

  Van Wilder knocked the smaller of the two off the boat as Hannibal King took down the larger Cherub. Captain Excellent, meanwhile, stood vigil over their unconscious leader, roaring a challenge out to the world. I felt like I’d fallen right into some weird ’80s crossover flick of The Thing and Gremlins.

  We might have gotten out of the frying pan, but we weren’t out of the fire—and the frying pan was full of corn oil that was popping meteor-sized boiling hot grease at us.

  We had to get out of here and fast. Armadillo armor or not, the Cherubs would find a way to kill the rats, and Deirdre would never forgive me if that happened. The best thing to do was get away with the hope that Van Wilder, Hannibal King and Captain Excellent would be relieved from their duty and take the first opportunity of escape themselves.

  “Come on, Mother, we’ve got to move.”

  “Darling,” she said, looking at Captain Excellent. “What’s that?”

  “Captain Excellent,” I said lamely. “Let’s go!”

  We moved to the front of the ship and hopped off. Well, my mother hopped off. I kind of fell with an agony that shot through me with every jolt of my body. We made it to the front of the yard where a Prius Hybrid stood, door open.

  “Rental,” my mother confirmed.

  As I got into the passenger side, I could hear the screams of the Cherubs subsiding, which either meant the rats had stopped their attack, or they’d gotten the best of Deirdre’s Ryan Reynolds trio. I hoped it was the former.

  “Let’s go,” I said again.

  My mother slammed on the accelerator and the car lurched forward at perfectly reasonable speed.

  “You couldn’t have gotten something with a little bit more kick?” I asked.

  “No, darling, of course not. This car is the best they had, environment-wise. You can’t compromise your principles just because someone is trying to kill you. Besides, the mileage is amazing.”

  Phone Calls, Broken Chests and a New Respect

  My mother pulled the Prius onto the highway and started making her way south—away from the Rust Yard, yes, but also away from downtown and, ultimately, McGill campus. From what I could tell, she was heading to the bridge that led off the island.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. My ribs burned as I spoke; each little breath of air taken or expelled that forced my rib cage to expand or contract—however slightly—was seven layers of GoneGod hell.

  How could a normal person bear this? Lucky for me, I had spent years (centuries) practicing the many forms of yoga, meditation, breathing techniques or even a little astral projection (although I never really got the knack of the whole out-of-body experience). Some of it I learned from the original masters, and the one thing they all talked about was managing pain, be it emotional or physical, through breath.

  Closing my eyes, I started focusing on my breath as I waited for my mother to respond.

  Nothing.

  I opened my left eye and peeked at my mother. She was holding onto the steering wheel, obviously lost in thought as she maintained her cautious speed on the highway.

  “Mother,” I repeated, pleased that my centuries of practice had paid off. Now the pain was slightly oppressive, as opposed to excruciatingly unbearable.

  “Yes, darling?” she said in the absent tone she used when she wasn’t really listening to you and didn’t care if you knew it or not.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Lizile, darling. Where else?”

  “Home? Well, my home. Or maybe, I don’t know, hospital? I don’t know if you’ve n
oticed, but I’m pretty banged up.”

  She peered over at me, and whatever she was thinking about went to the back of her mind as soon as she saw just how banged up I was.

  “Darling,” she said, worry painting every syllable of my nickname, “we have to fix you up!”

  “Home, Mother. Home.”

  She shook her head. “Home is the last place you should be. They will go looking for you there. That will draw in more attacks. Not exactly the best medicine, if you ask me, though I’m no medical professional. Best we move on.”

  “ ‘Move on,’ ” I said, sitting up way too fast for my fractured ribs. “What do you mean, ‘move on’?”

  “Relax, darling. I don’t mean forever. Just for a few days while we draw the heat off of us. Maybe my … ahhh … people can help us with our little Cherub problem. Once that is done, you can go back and study … what are you studying, darling? I never asked.”

  “Others. Well, Other Public Policy, to be specific … and, just for the record, I don’t hate your plan,” I said, shocked at my own words. Must be the pain.

  “Pain or not, darling, I appreciate the sentiment.” She gave my leg a light squeeze.

  “OK—lay low for a few days. I suppose a spa is on the cards?”

  My mother chuckled at this. “A spa—why not? But after, darling. First we got to—”

  “Get the amulet. I know. Mother, you’re like a dog with a bone.”

  “Thank you, darling,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Not saying what you’re really thinking.”

  I raised a confused eyebrow.

  “A bitch with a bone.” She smiled. “That is what I would have said, at least.”

  ↔

  We drove for twenty minutes, my mother checking her rearview mirror every ten seconds or so, making sure we weren’t being followed. From the constant sighs of relief, I gathered we weren’t. But then again, I wasn’t completely sure … I was too busy breathing.