Mortality Bites Box Set [Books 1-6]

by Vance, Ramy

  “Underdog would take that pill and become super strong,” I said.

  “But this guy is jelly. His strength must have worn off. Or maybe Underdawg was never strong, and it was just an illusion.” I gave Cassy a shrug.

  She lifted one gorgeous eyebrow. “You’re the girl from the basement, aren’t you?”

  “Ahh, yeah?”

  “Heard about you. You talk to yourself—a lot.” We helped Boggie stumble down the hall toward his room.

  “Glad to see my reputation precedes me.”

  “Oh, it does,” she said with a playful wink that I’m pretty sure was what distracted the Titanic just before it hit that iceberg. “Here we are.”

  “Where?” I asked. Arrgh—me Titanic, my question the conversational iceberg!

  She giggled. “Boggie’s room.”

  “Ahh, yes. Of course. Do you have a key, or—”

  “I’m HOME!” screamed Boggie. “I’m home, home, home!” He tried to do a little celebratory dance but wound up on his ass.

  “Hey,” someone yelled. A head popped out of the room four doors down. “Can we keep it down?”

  “Sorry Harold,” Cassy said.

  “Sure you are,” Harold said, slamming his door and making just as much noise as Boggie.

  A couple more heads popped out, and one of them approached us. A large boy with black nail polish and long, blond hair. He also wore a dog’s collar, which made him look like he belonged in some S&M club instead of a dorm. “Hey Cassy,” he said, “need help?”

  I could feel Cassy’s body tighten as the goth kid approached. When he put a hand on her shoulder, she recoiled. She clearly did not like this kid.

  “Thanks,” I said, stepping between them, “but we’ve got it. We just need to fish through his, ahh, costume and find his keys.”

  The goth kid ran his painted fingernails through his hair while shaking his head. “Nah, I can get you in,” he said. He fished out a quarter from his pocket and started jimmying the screw just above the keyhole. A couple of twists and he opened the door.

  So much for dorm security.

  “Voila.” He made a little bow and smiled as he held the door open for us.

  ↔

  Once inside, Cassy offered a curt “Thank you,” and closed the door.

  “Boy oh boy, you really don’t like him,” I whispered, just in case he was listening at the door.

  “He’s going to …” Cassy started, but whatever she said after that was lost under the sound of Boggie diving gleefully onto his bed.

  Cassy looked at me as if waiting for me to react to—what? Boggie’s dive? I wasn’t sure, but when I clearly didn’t give her the reaction she was looking for, she sighed.

  More than sighed. She looked as if I had hurt her feelings or offended her in some way. Way too sensitive, if you asked me. I thought about the goth kid outside and figured she was probably largely at fault for whatever reason she had for not liking him.

  “So,” I said, breaking the silence as Underdawg fell asleep, light drunken snores issuing from behind his mask, “we should probably roll him on his side just in case he pukes in the night. Maybe get a garbage pail, too.”

  Covering her gray eye, Cassy looked at Boggie through her ocean blue eye for a couple seconds before shaking her head. “No need. I’ll be here.” She went over to Boggie’s desk and turned on his laptop. “I have some Netflix to catch up on, anyway.”

  Then she went very cold, giving me the unmistakable hint that it was time for me to leave.

  Even when she was ignoring me, it was hard to stop staring at Cassy. There’s something about her… I thought.

  I shook my head to clear it—this was how impossibly beautiful people rendered the rest of us dumb and speechless—and, before things got awkward, I walked out into the now empty hall and down to my room in the basement.

  A Quick Discussion and a Quicker Offer Denied

  Downstairs, Justin stood outside my room nervously biting his fingernails.

  “What’s going on?”

  Justin turned beet red. “Look, I’ve only got eyes for you, but that girl was gorgeous, and Deirdre is now naked in your room. There’s only so much my libido can take …”

  Arrgh—changeling roommate naked again.

  “Deirdre,” I said through the door, “what did we say about getting naked in front of people?”

  “Not to do it, milady,” a voice called from within my room.

  “And about getting naked in front of my boyfriend?”

  “Especially not to do it, milady,” Deirdre called out.

  “So why are you naked?”

  “I’m not,” she said as she opened our door and stepped into the hall. She wore creeper vines that cascaded down her neck. They covered her … ahh … pretty parts, but only from certain angles. A giggle or a quick turn would expose them in all their glory—which for a changeling was quite a bit of glory. “Is this not enough?”

  “Not by a long shot,” I said, grabbing her arm and taking her inside the room.

  ↔

  As punishment for the little vine outfit, I made her put on my cotton bathrobe, which given our size difference stretched tight on her and did little to de-beautify her. Still, it would have to do. I called for Justin to come in, which he did, crawling into my bed and sighing deeply and loudly.

  “I think we’d best try and get some sleep,” I said.

  “Good idea,” Justin said, his voice lacking confidence in both my idea and his ability to ever fall asleep again.

  “Yes, milady,” Deirdre said, but instead of getting into bed, she stared at me. “One thought, though.”

  “Deirdre, can it wait until morning?” I asked. The trouble with changelings and “one thoughts” … they usually involved going for an outdoor frolic.

  Deirdre didn’t move, but instead started blinking rapidly. I’d seen this behavior before—it was the fae’s way of begging, which meant she was beseeching me to hear her one thought. This could go on for a while.

  “OK,” I said, “but I’m not leaving this room.”

  She groaned. “Very well, milady. Then one question.”

  “Fine. One question, but only one. Promise?”

  Deirdre nodded. “The silver-haired goddess …”

  “Cassy?”

  “Yes. Is she human?”

  I narrowed my eyes. She looked human to me. An unreasonably beautiful human, but human nonetheless. But looks can be deceiving, and many Others’ appearances only bore minor differences from humans. Deirdre was case in point: cover her pointy ears and you’d think she was a large, athletic, very pretty human.

  Still, there were other things that made humans human and Others Other. For one thing, mannerisms. Deirdre’s rapid blinking would be a good example. No human does that.

  Cassy was a bit off-putting, but in a very human way. Nothing about what she said or did spoke differently.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

  Justin shrugged. “Yeah, I agree. She definitely gave me a human vibe. Same vibe I’d get from Keira Knightley, or—”

  “Hey, what happened to ‘eyes only for me?’ ”

  “Katrina Darling,” he said. “Same vibe I get from Katrina Darling.”

  “Better.”

  Deirdre, who was clearly unimpressed by our cute banter, shook her head. “I am fae. We are a people accustomed to beauty. And yet I would have given my left nipple to be with her.”

  Ahh, I knew she didn’t say thumb.

  “Thumb?” Justin said.

  Deirdre laughed. “Oh milady, you are very funny indeed.” Then she turned to Justin. “In Elvish, nipple and thumb sound alike—”

  “Deirdre, focus,” I said.

  “Of course, milady,” she said, immediately cutting off her own thought. “It is just that we as a people do not succumb to beauty unless we are compelled to.”

  “And Cassy compelled you?”

  The changeling shrugged. “It is possible.”

 
“So what kind of Other could she be?”

  “There is no Other who looks like her, no legend of silver hair that I know of, no myth involving undeniable beauty—save one.”

  “Sirens,” I said, thinking back to what I knew about the creatures.

  Deirdre nodded. “But the sirens drowned when the gods left, unable to leave their stone for safety.”

  I thought of the myth. Originally, sirens had been both male and female (although male historians tended to leave out the guys) who had wings or fish-like bodies. They would sit on rocks and draw in hapless sailors with their song, marooning them and ultimately killing them. But there were only eight known sirens, and when the gods left, none of the eight ever surfaced.

  It was said that a fortnight after the gods left, the eight sirens got together and sang their songs to the heavens in an effort to lure the gods back. But the sirens were fated to die should their song not be heeded, so when the gods did not return, they flung themselves into the sea and drowned.

  But that was the legend. There were no bodies found, no witnesses who’d seen the sirens actually die. For all we knew, they simply disbanded and were somewhere in the GoneGod World, trying to make their way as mortals.

  And now my changeling roommate thought one of them was living in Gardner Hall, attending McGill University.

  May the wonders never cease, I thought (in my head).

  “OK,” I said, “I’ll do some research and see if any of the sirens’ names were Cassy or if any of them were known for their silver hair. OK?”

  Deirdre nodded, still standing. “One more thought.”

  “I said only one.”

  “Indeed, milady, but my original thought had an outdoor component to it. My revised thought is the same one in essence, but I have simply removed the need to go outside.”

  I sighed. “OK, what is it?”

  “I disturbed your ‘sock on the door.’ ”

  “You did,” I said. I didn’t like where this was going.

  “This Cassy has stirred old memories of when the fae would celebrate in the UnSeelie Court.”

  “And … ?” I really, really didn’t like where this was going. Justin sat up.

  “Such celebrations were not only the duty of a changeling warrior, but also their pleasure. Perhaps I can make amends for disturbing you by helping to facilitate your love-making. I am proficient in ninety-three—”

  “No,” I said.

  “No,” Justin groaned.

  “Very well, milady. But should you change your mind, you need only but ask.” She removed my robe, revealing what Justin and I would be missing, before getting into her own bed.

  A League of Heroes, Research and More Awkwardness

  The next day Justin woke me up with a kiss as he got ready for his early morning run. Damn morning people, I thought, and looking over at Deirdre’s bed, I saw that she was already gone, too. Probably got up in the middle of the night to go sleep outside under the pines out back. She did that a lot.

  I, on the other hand, didn’t have class until 1pm and considered sleeping until then. Duty calls, I groaned to myself as I hauled my butt out of bed. I needed to figure out who Underdawg was and investigate if Deirdre’s concerns about Cassy held any merit. Which meant—oh yay—studying. As if I didn’t have enough research with my normal class load.

  I got dressed in a nice little number I picked out—a cute Madeleine top with a high collar and a pair of cropped leather trousers—and completely ruined the outfit by covering it up with my snow pants and a ridiculously baggy (but warm) North Face jacket. I swear to the GoneGods, I don’t know why I even try in winter.

  Dressed, I made my way upstairs. On the windows were several posters, all the usual stuff: ads for tutors, flyers for an exhibit of cursed items at the Museum of Fine Arts, promos for various student-friendly bars and restaurants and … what the hell? Taped to the window were several posters of the kid—Harold, was it?—who’d leaned out his door to yell at me when I was taking care of Underdawg. Someone had written (in an uninspired Calibri font):

  Vote Cheer for Gardner Hall President

  With a picture of Harold front and center.

  Election time.

  Being a freshman, I had no experience with the process. But from what I’d gathered from 1980’s movies and the stories Justin told, elections ran for a couple weeks, during which the candidates made campaign promises that centered around beer, gave speeches about more beer and made boastful, bold claims about how much beer they were capable of drinking.

  All pretty harmless stuff—except Harold Cheer’s poster didn’t have the word “beer” anywhere on it. The words that did litter the page included “Others,” “Restrictions” and “Separation.”

  I couldn’t believe it. The kid was running on a platform that Others should be segregated into their own dormitory.

  Oh, hell no! I thought as I ripped down one of the posters. I’m not going to let some little shit with a chip on his shoulder undo the good of this university. McGill was one of the very few places that welcomed Others, and this shithead was trying to undo it.

  No, no, no! I stomped up and down the stairwell, my rage bursting forth in flames like Dante’s eighth circle of Hell.

  I started ripping down Harold’s posters. This place is a sanctuary. A safe haven. Not some pathetic platform for bigots and racists.

  Once I had removed all the posters I could see, I began ripping them to shreds as I binned them with unbridled fury.

  Sorry—not racists, I thought. Otherists! And the worst thing, the absolute crime of it all, is just because Harold Cheer—stupid name, by the way—is human, he somehow thinks he’s entitled to spew this crap.

  Of course, my little rant/tantrum had been out loud. And not just spoken out loud, but—as was my habit when I was truly angry—screamed out loud.

  That became painfully clear when a roar of cheers and clapping erupted as I trashed the last poster.

  I had an audience. Front and center stood Harold Cheer, holding a stack of posters in his hand and giving me a look that could have frozen a roaring fire pit.

  ↔

  “You can’t do that,” Harold said in a surprisingly calm tone, given what I had done to his posters.

  “Do what?”

  “Rip down my posters.”

  “You call those posters? More like a modern form of Judeo-Bolshevism, only aimed at Others this time,” I said. Scanning the crowd, I saw that my little 1935 Nazi propaganda reference flew over most of their heads. I guessed you had to have been in pre-World War II Germany to appreciate the magnitude of my insult. I was there, and my insult was a doozy … I promise.

  “Anti-Other propaganda,” I added, and several heads nodded in understanding.

  “First of all,” Harold said, still cool and in control, “it is not propaganda. It is a proposal. More than a proposal, it is an invitation for debate, discussion and deliberation. Secondly—”

  “I hate people who alliterate in speech. So smug, slimy and sad.” I hissed every “s.”

  “Secondly,” he said, ignoring my insult, “you must acknowledge that Other culture often clashes with ours. Take your changeling roommate—always prancing around naked, stapling AstroTurf to the walls … and not to mention those baby rats she bottle-fed.”

  “You know about that?” I asked. The rest of the stuff was undeniable. Deirdre had many fine qualities, but being discreet wasn’t one of them. That said, I thought we’d gotten away with the whole rat pups debacle.

  Harold nodded. “That, and much more. But it’s not just her. There’s Sal in McConnell Hall and his apu ways, or Kaito and his massive … ahem … you know.”

  “Balls,” I offered. Kaito was a tanuki from pre-Buddhist tradition. At one point, he and his fellow tanuki were the lord judges of the divine. In other words, if you had a problem, you went to a tanuki to preside over the case. They were so well-respected that their ruling was final. Tanuki looked like raccoons, with one vital exception: they
had testicles the size of a MINI Cooper.

  I guess you have to have big balls when passing laws that affect the universe.

  Of course, that was a long time ago, and Kaito was now just a rodent with unseemly boy bits studying human law.

  “Yes … ‘balls,’ as you so crudely put it. Why should we suffer the sight of them just because—”

  “He was born that way. I don’t know, Harold, I suffer the sight of you and the poor skin condition your bad genes gave you.”

  It was a low blow, and probably not helping my case—but hey, I was angry. Besides, when a kid with bright, almost bug-like eyes cried out, “Hear, hear,” I felt somehow vindicated.

  Harold touched the fresh, volcanic zit on his chin before shaking his head. “Whatever. You can insult me as much as you like, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m allowed to run for Gardner Hall’s president on any platform I choose. You owe me posters.”

  I pulled out my purse and slammed twenty bucks into his hand. “And it doesn’t change the fact that I can run against you on a platform of inclusivity and hope.” At this, the crowd erupted in cheers, clapping and hoots.

  When the cheering died down, Harold gave me a smile as cool as slime on the surface of a swamp and looked at his watch. “You can’t. Deadline to put your name in the running expires in … three, two, one. Time’s up.” He showed me his watch, which read 10am.

  “Actually,” a voice called from behind, “she’s fine. I put her name in ten minutes ago.”

  Scanning the crowd to see who was speaking, I spotted Andrew Garner holding up a paper, his black fingernail polish a sharp contrast to the form declaring my candidacy.

  I guess I really am running for hall president, I thought with a sigh.

  Walking, Talking and Rocking