Mortality Bites Box Set [Books 1-6]

by Vance, Ramy

  He refused me.

  Us.

  And when I realized that transforming my mother would not force my father’s hand, I abandoned my mother to figure out how to be a vampire on her own.

  Our paths often crossed … and more often than meeting her, I came to learn that my mother embraced her vampiric nature fully. Her legend preceded her.

  Mine … I rarely met a vampire, or any other kind of creature for that matter, who’d heard of Katrina Darling.

  Such is life. And death.

  Such is the mother’s way.

  Codeine, Killers Now Sung and Blessed Sleep

  “Yoohoo!” my mother shouted from the mall entrance. She had a couple of those orange pill bottles in her hand, and even though she was across the parking lot, I could hear the pills rattle.

  Getting in the driver’s side, she tossed me the two bottles and said, “Take two of each.”

  “What are they?”

  “Codeine and a mild sleeping pill, darling. You need something to help you manage the pain.”

  “I’m managing just fine.” Although, truth be told, there was only so much breathing could do for me. Especially in a bouncing car.

  “Stubborn as a mule. Just like your father. Take the pills. Trust me.”

  “I would, except I’m pretty sure you need a prescription—for the codeine, at least. How did you get these? Not the old-fashioned way …” I was referring to her feminine wiles, of course. But given we were both ex-vampires, the old-fashioned way could mean killing the pharmacist.

  She rolled her eyes and then gave me a wry smile. “Yes, the old-fashioned way,” she said.

  “What? You … you know—” I made a very suggestive gesture.

  “Darling, mind your manners, and no—nothing so vulgar. I just batted my eyelashes, told him I forgot my prescription, promised to call in with all the information if he would only save me a trip back to this hellhole. I also promised that the call would be accompanied with a location where he could buy me a beer.”

  “So, let me get this straight … you got the medication by insinuating he could take you on a date?”

  My mother nodded. “See the doors that ‘above average’ opens?”

  I chuckled and then winced.

  “Come on, darling,” she said. “Two of each.” I hesitated—more because I was in pain than for any other reason—and my mother interpreted my pause as further resistance. “OK,” she sighed, “I’ll make you a deal. Pop two of each and I’ll tell you who I think the Divine Cherub with the sexy accent is.”

  Her last words hung in the air like a worm on a hook. I’m sure there were plenty of fish that knew what they were getting into when they took the bait but didn’t care. Sometimes a wiggle is just too much to resist.

  I took two of each.

  My mother gave me a distrusting look, so I opened my mouth wide, lifted my tongue and let out a muffled, “Satisfied?”

  She beamed. “Ravished.”

  ↔

  By the GoneGods, those pills were strong. Within minutes my ribs stopped hurting and my head started swimming in La La Land. I was still present enough to know that my ribs were still very much broken, but I didn’t care. Hell, I wouldn’t have cared if every nerve in my body had been connected directly into a NutriBullet. I’d just smoothie them up and slurp it down.

  “Darling,” my mother said. “Are you listening?”

  I nodded.

  She took a deep breath and said, “Remember that farm hand father employed all those years ago? The one with the scar on his eye? I think he’s back.”

  “How?” I muttered. If I wasn’t so out of it, I would have known the answer immediately.

  “I turned him,” she said.

  “And he’s back to … what?”

  “You remember how loyal he was to your father? He probably wants to get me back for what happened to him. Not,” she quickly added, lifting a finger in my direction, “that I had anything to do with your father’s demise. I left him well alone after I was turned. I just wanted you to know that.”

  A serious look of concern washed over my mother’s face. She really didn’t have anything to do with my father’s death and wanted to make damn sure that I knew it, too. I could almost hear Mergen smacking his lips on the Truth. So I believed her, which seemed to bring her relief. I guess she figured that if I thought she was responsible for him turning to dust, that no amount of change in this or any other world would stop me from going after her.

  But I knew that she was innocent without her saying a word.

  I knew because I killed him.

  Wait—did I think that or say it out loud or just thought I thought it? Or said it. Or … whatever.

  Damn—these drugs were intense.

  “OK,” I finally managed to say, “so that’s what the big secret is? You turned the farm hand—”

  “Simione.”

  “Simione—and didn’t want to tell me?”

  “Well … it was just that your father was still alive when I did it, so it kind of felt like I was cheating on him.”

  “By not biting Father?”

  “By not turning him. I often pondered what life would be like if I had turned him. The three of us might be together again, in this era, and finally become the family we were meant to be.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. But then again—three hundred years together might cause … friction.”

  “You mean like it is for us.”

  I nodded.

  Now it was my mother’s turn to shrug. “Perhaps, but your father was always the one who kept the peace between us. I suspect that if he was still around, he’d resume his role of peacekeeper.”

  “More like barrier,” I said, giggling, though it wasn’t that funny. Egya would be disappointed in me.

  “Barrier, peacekeeper—point is, maybe if he was here we wouldn’t be fighting.”

  “Maybe,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. “Maybe.”

  ↔

  As nice as our little chat was, eventually the drugs got to be too much and I began to drift off into dreamless sleep. When I woke, I saw from the clock on the dashboard that it was early afternoon. I had been sleeping for almost ten hours. I lifted my head—a lot more effort given that my chest still blazed like the flames of Tartarus—and saw that we were parked on some country road.

  “Where are we?” I asked my mother, who was using the rearview mirror to apply makeup.

  “Where do you think?”

  “At Lizile’s?”

  “Bingo! Score one for the detective.”

  “Snarky much? Wake up on the wrong side of the car?”

  My mother sighed. “Sorry, darling. It’s just that I’m so close to finding the amulet and completing my mission … I guess I’m just nervous.”

  “So go. She was only six hours away. You must have gotten here hours ago.”

  “Go in without you, darling? I could never.”

  “Mother—that amulet is your mission. Not mine.”

  “True—but today is ‘take your daughter to work’ day. Swallow these.” She had two codeines in her hand. “And let’s go say hello.”

  Twins, Amulets, Alchemy and “What Did You Say …?”

  We walked up to an old cabin in the middle of a heavily wooded area. To call this place “secluded” would be to say that tourists occasionally visit Times Square. This cabin was practically on another planet.

  But an ex-vampire living in the middle of nowhere wasn’t a surprise. Many of our kind chose to live as far away from people as they could get. Some did it because they felt intense guilt over all the death and carnage they caused way back when. Some hid themselves because a very significant part of them missed being a vampire—and they couldn’t stand that the desire for blood and death and carnage was still a part of them. And still others chose seclusion because after centuries of eating people, you kind of stopped liking them. Out here you didn’t need to deal with a single human soul … which sounded appealing. Even
to me.

  Perhaps the main reason for seclusion, for both vampires and really any other Other, was that we don’t belong. I’m not saying it’s like we get all mopey and can’t relate to anyone … I’m talking about, in this new GoneGod world, the hatred and prejudice and vitriol many Others have to face every single day. There comes a point where that just becomes too much to handle, and it’s either burn all your time and kill yourself, or build a kickass cabin in the woods.

  I supposed there were many other reasons they hid—each to their own—but what all ex-vampires had in common was that they also blocked out the light as best they could.

  This cabin practically didn’t have walls. Sure, the trees created a natural canopy, but that wasn’t enough to block sunlight from getting through the massive sliding doors on the eastern entrance, or the massive bay windows that were situated on the west … and seeing this beautiful cabin, I wondered two things: one—did an ex-vampire really live here? and two (and what I really wanted to know)—how the hell did she manage to build this, here?

  I suspected I would get an answer to at least one of those questions. Probably not the one I wanted, but by hook or crook, we’d know if a vampire lived here soon enough.

  ↔

  The windows told us immediately that no one was home. Or if they were, they were hiding in one of the pieces of furniture, be it the two-seater couch or single mattress that sat on the floor. Talk about a stoic vamp … not your typical ex-creature of the night. We tended to like our creature comforts.

  “Are you sure we got the right place?”

  My mother held up her phone, looking for a signal. “I think so. I’d tell you for sure, but …”

  “Should we go in?” I asked, tugging at the sliding door. It held shut. In fact, it held too shut. Usually a sliding door would jiggle or rattle under any kind of pressure. This one was solid, as if it were a solid wall.

  I tugged harder. Same effect—as in no effect.

  I put a hand up to the glass, cutting out as much glare as I could, and looked inside. One couch, one mattress, a couple frying pans and hearth off to one side. For such a beautiful and painstakingly created exterior, this ex-vampire did very little for the interior. Something wasn’t right.

  “Mother,” I said quietly, “what line of alchemy did the twins practice?”

  “Containment, mostly. Some potion work and—”

  She cut herself off as a thought occurred to her. Then, bending down, she dug around for a rock that she promptly—and without warning—threw at the window I was standing next to.

  I expected the glass to shatter. But instead of a crash, I heard a thud as the stone bounced off the window and hit my head.

  “Illusions,” my mother said.

  “Ow,” I said.

  ↔

  So the window was an illusion, which meant that what we saw inside was also an illusion. To power such a grand glamor must take a lot of magic, which in turn meant burning a lot of time.

  But vampires—well, ex-vampires—were human now, which meant no more magic, the time-burning variety or no. Not that we had much magic when we were in full-fang mode. We just had abilities that were granted to us by magic. Sadly, those abilities didn’t include flying, fireballs or any other kinds of cantrips or spells.

  Which meant that this couldn’t be Lizile’s place. This belonged to some Other who was willing to burn a heck of a lot of time to stay hidden. The Other’s magic wouldn’t have to be ongoing, either. They would set it up to turn on only when they needed to be hidden and for as short a period of time as possible.

  Every second we stood here, the creature inside literally aged by—what?—hours, days, maybe more? We needed to leave before that poor being turned itself to dust.

  “Mother, this can’t be Lizile’s place.”

  From the slow nod my mother gave me, she agreed. Evidently she’d come to the same conclusions as me. But unlike me, she hadn’t decided it was time to leave.

  Instead she called out, “Yoohoo! We know you’re in there and we mean you no harm. We’re here to say hello. Stop wasting your time for no reason.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Come on, Mother. Whoever is inside doesn’t want to talk to us,” I said, touching her elbow in a gesture that we should go.

  She jerked it away a bit too harshly for my gentle plea, causing needles of pain to go through my chest. Either she didn’t realize she had hurt me or didn’t care—either way, she called out, “Let’s avoid the ‘big bad wolf’ scenario, shall we? I fear my huffing and puffing days are over. I’m more into burning now.” She pulled out a menthol and lit it to illustrate her point. “Don’t make me siphon some gas from my car and set this place on fire. It’s a hybrid. Gas is precious for that damn thing.”

  I turned to face my mother and saw the old crazed gleam in her eyes when she was getting ready to do something particularly vicious.

  “Mother, what’s gotten into you?” I hissed.

  “Darling,” she said, not taking her eyes off of the cabin, “my intel is good. Very good. She is in there and no glamor on this plane or any other will stop me from completing my mission.”

  “But your mission is complete,” I said. “We have half the amulet. No one can use it for ill or good.” This was a thought I had had before, but didn’t say it to her mostly because I wanted to know more about the amulet and what her mission really was. Curiosity—thy name is Kat.

  My mother glanced at me dismissively. “My mission was to get the whole thing. After all, the good guys might need it one day.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing—I am here for a reason,” she said, loud enough that anyone listening—say, behind a glamor—would hear, “and I will not be dissuaded. Lizile, my name is Charlotte Darling … perhaps you have heard of me? Of course you have. Well, then, you know enough that I will not leave, not until—”

  The sliding door opened—but not in the way sliding doors should. Rather, a hinged door swung out and a tall, sylph-like woman walked to the threshold. She had “vampire” written all over her—a long, purple satin skirt, a white long-sleeve blouse under a black and red corset and deepset sage green eyes. But perhaps the most telling sign was that she did not step into the sunlight, careful to stay out of the rays’ path.

  Lizile gestured for us to enter.

  We did, and as I approached the door I saw that the glamor remained. On the outside, it looked like a pane of glass that showed a spacey, sparsely furnished interior. But the inside of the door was heavy oak with steel bars that were intended to keep unwanted guests locked out.

  And anyone who entered, imprisoned inside.

  Who’s Your Decorator?

  Once inside, I found myself in an interior that was much more aligned with what I knew of vampires: heavy Persian rugs covering the floor, sometimes stacked three deep; tapestries from China and Japan covered the walls; and antiques of unimaginable value sat on every mahogany table, side-table and coffee-table. In other words, for the hosts of the Antiques Roadshow this place was the stuff of wet dreams.

  And pretty typical for us. My castle (small one, nothing too fancy) back in Scotland was similarly decorated, although I was more of an oak gal.

  What wasn’t typical were the shelves that lined the back wall. Spanning about twenty feet wide and easily fifteen feet high, they were filled with jar after jar of liquids and powders, herbs and other stuff you might expect to find in a witch’s lair.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “Nice glamor,” my mother added. “Must have cost you a lot of time. Or a lot of some Other’s time …?”

  Lizile didn’t take the bait. She tilted her head from side to side before saying in a voice that sounded more like a clock than words, “Not time. Resources. This house was made like this before the magic left us. I use my science to sustain.” She gestured at her shelves.

  “Science,” I said. “Don’t you mean alchemy?”

  The old vampire gave me a wry smile,
and I almost expected to see fangs poking out; this ex-vamp was still very much oozing the vampire’s aura. “Magic is only science unexplained. And alchemy is science not understood. I mean what I mean, girl.”

  My mother tapped me on the shoulder in an admonishing manner. “Don’t be rude. Girl.”

  Her words didn’t hurt. But even the light, almost playful tap hurt my ribs.

  Lizile saw me wince. “You are hurt.”

  “Cracked ribs and—”

  “It’s nothing,” my mother interjected. “Let us get down to business. We need something you have.”

  Lizile ignored my mother, continuing to gaze at me with unblinking eyes. Then, without a word, she glided—well, walked, but her legs hardly moved under that long, satin skirt, causing a graceful yet unsettling gliding effect—over to her shelf and pulled down a vial of … something.

  “Here—drink. It will not heal you, nor will it take away the pain. It will, however, shorten the time needed for the former, and lessen the intensity of the latter.”

  She corked it open and a purplish mist that screamed “magic potion cliché” tumbled out.

  “Ahhh,” I said looking at my mother.

  She nodded. “Go ahead. Lizile knows that hurting my daughter will cost her.”

  At this, Lizile nodded in agreement, still never taking her unblinking eyes off of me.

  I sipped it, expecting to taste something between black bananas and algae. But what touched my tongue tasted more like … like …

  “Is that … cinnamon?”

  “And nutmeg.”

  “Humph, who knew a witch’s brew was so tasty?” I downed the rest in two quick gulps.

  “I prefer ‘alchemist potion.’ ”

  I smacked my lips. Even though I had literally just ingested it, I did feel much better already. Don’t get me wrong—my ribs still hurt quite a bit. But the pressure felt less intense and it was easier to breathe.