Mortality Bites - The COMPLETE Boxed Set (Books 1 - 10): An Urban Fantasy Epic Adventure

by Ramy Vance

“Every night!” I knew he wanted to join us on our little jaunts, but every night …

  “When?”

  “Just before bed.”

  “You do it every night just before bed.”

  Another long pause before his voice cracked with, “Yeah. Is that bad?”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Usually in the bathroom or while hanging out in your room or mine …”

  “Every night,” I repeated.

  “Does it help that I’m always thinking of you?”

  I nearly pulled my hand away, but remembered that I’d suddenly become visible if I did. Given we were on Sherbrooke in the middle of the day, that was sure to scare the villagers.

  We walked on for a bit before he broke the silence. “Is that bad?”

  No judgement, I thought (in my head, thankfully). I shook my head before I remembered he couldn’t see me. “No. It’s just surprising, that’s all.”

  “How so?”

  “I didn’t think my nighttime extracurricular activities bothered you so much.”

  “Who said anything about bothering me?” Justin said in a tone that he often used when we were arguing and he’d just realized we were fighting about two different things.

  “Clearly it does. If you think about it every night—”

  “And sometimes during the day when I’m walking to class. I daydream about joining you guys and fighting the good fight.”

  We were passing a (visible) couple on the street, and I lowered my voice to a whisper. “This isn’t a cartoon. We get hurt. We hurt others, too. And sometimes people die.”

  Justin started whispering, too. “Yeah, I know. But you’re doing it to keep the peace, right? To stop all the tension between Others and humans from bubbling over. I mean, not in the world, but on campus at least.”

  “That’s the goal, but we’re really just reacting to shit that happens. Like the ghouls. Deirdre noticed a lot of freshly dug graves on one of her nature walks. We investigated, realized that they were eating the recently dead and we chose to engage them quietly before it escalated to pitchforks and tiki torches.”

  “So you’re doing good.”

  “Well, in that case Underdawg saved the day. But yes, we’re trying.”

  “So what’s so wrong with me wanting to help do good, too? And who knows—if my powers stick around, maybe I can help more often.”

  We had come to an empty stretch of the sidewalk, and I slowed us a little. “Justin, you know I’m going to do everything I can to get rid of these superheroes. It’s no good and will lead to more harm than anything. The way they went after each other—and me—proves that this will only lead to harm.”

  “I know, but even without superpowers, maybe I could help. I mean, why not?”

  I was about to say, “Because you’re only human,” but held my tongue. That argument wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I was only human now, too. But the difference was I had three hundred years of experience as a vampire and hunter. I understood how to react in life and death situations … but if I was honest with myself (and that was something I was really trying to be these days) it was more than that.

  I wasn’t afraid to hurt back. It takes a lot of willpower to hurt someone. I mean, really hurt them. And I’m not talking about the I-just-got-punched-and-in-blind-fury-attack-back kind of hurt. I’m talking the premeditated, on purpose, game over, intentional kind of hurt. It’s not easy.

  It takes practice. Three hundred years of it.

  Deirdre was a warrior changeling. She knew all about hurting others.

  And as for Egya, he was an ex-were-hyena. I wasn’t sure how old he was, but from the way he carried himself, I guessed he was at least a couple hundred years old.

  But Justin. He was a normal, nineteen-year-old boy who grew up in a nice neighborhood with loving parents and two dogs. He didn’t even like violent video games. He would have no idea how to hurt anyone. He’d only react to being hurt … and just reacting in a life-and-death fight rarely ended in life.

  I couldn’t risk him.

  Partly because I cared for him.

  Mostly because, after centuries of hurting and killing people, I didn’t ever want to be responsible for another innocent human being hurt again.

  I shook my head and did something I regretted with every newly made human part of me. I lied. “Yeah, maybe you can help. We’ll see.”

  But I wasn’t lying to him. I was lying to myself, because part of me wanted him to join us. To be a part of the team, and I thought he just might be able to do it. I knew I was lying to myself, and to him.

  I could have backtracked right then and there, but he squeezed my hand as he suppressed what I could assume was a “Yippee.” I thought about saying something else to him, tempering his excitement, managing expectations—you know, all the stuff you do when letting someone down easy—but instead I took the coward’s way out and said nothing.

  Besides, we didn’t have time. We had arrived at our destination: the Museum of Fine Arts.

  THE CURSE OF ART

  A cross the street from the Museum of Fine Arts is a statue of an angel-like creature with a hole in its chest and several hands piling on top of one another for a face. It’s called The Eye, though I’ve never been sure why. The creature doesn’t have a single eye anywhere in sight. But eyes notwithstanding, I love this statue. And although I have yet to meet an angel with hands for a face, I believe one must exist.

  After all, this GoneGod World is filled with so much diversity and strangeness, how can one not? I have no idea what the artist intended when he designed The Eye. All I know is that this marvel of modern art was made before the gods left and the Others came. I like to think that whatever the artist’s intention, a part of him saw into the future, saw the coming of the once divine, now mortal creatures, and built this angel to welcome them to our world.

  Wishful thinking, I know, but isn’t that the point of art? To find meaning and comfort? Or, if not that, a little bit of solace.

  So in keeping with a ritual I’d developed whenever I passed by The Eye, I touched its toe for good luck before we crossed the street and invisibly walked into the museum.

  ↔

  INSIDE, we made our way to our destination: the exhibit of Cursed Items. It was an exhibit that simultaneously celebrated the diversity of the GoneGod World while scaring the bejesus out of onlookers.

  To sum up the exhibit in a few words would be like trying to describe orange to a blind person, or the sensation of flying to those without wings. Relic after relic sat on display, and although I didn’t recognize most of them, I knew enough about the exhibit to know that each relic was a cursed item. And each display was an artistic representation of that curse in play.

  A deck of cards that always dealt its owner a losing hand sat on a poker table. A mannequin representing its owner sat head in hands, sobbing.

  A hand mill that always spoiled the wheat in it sat in a display of molding bread.

  A cup that poisoned anyone who drank from it—no matter how well it was cleaned or what was put in it—sat on a table above several “dead bodies.”

  And finally, a cupboard with a terrified mannequin trying to run away.

  Bingo.

  ↔

  THE DYBBUK BOX was one evil artifact. It was the home of an evil spirit that poisoned the box’s owners with nightmares and disease. But unlike most cursed items, this thing was doubly cursed. Once for the box’s owners, and once for the demon that lived inside.

  Invisible, and with Justin’s hand in mine, I pulled him close and past the velvet rope that divided onlookers from one of the evilest beings in existence. I swear to the GoneGods, humans do not fear these kinds of things nearly enough.

  “Justin,” I said, “I need you to put your hand on my shoulder and keep us invisible.”

  I felt a heavy hand crawl up my arm until it found my shoulder. “Done.”

  “OK, and I can’t emphasize this enough: no matter what happens, don’t let g
o of my shoulder, and don’t do or say anything.”

  “OK.”

  That was it: OK. OK? If he understood where we were and who we were about to wake up, he’d say a lot more than OK. But he didn’t know and I wasn’t sure how much I should tell him.

  Clasping his hand in both of mine, I looked up at where I imagined his face was. “Justin, I cannot emphasize how important it is that you remain quiet. She can’t know you’re with me.”

  “OK, Kat. I get it. You don’t need to keep repeating yourself. I’m a big boy, and I can keep my mouth shut.”

  He’s right, I thought.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “No—that was meant to be a private thought. And if you had let me finish, I would have added, ‘He’s right, but being right doesn’t make him safe.’ And given who we’re about to see—”

  “Who?”

  “A demon made from nightmares.”

  “Ha-ha,” he chuckled. “That should go on a movie poster or a—”

  “No Justin, I’m not kidding, exaggerating or using an expression. This demon is literally made from nightmares. Literally,” I repeated, emphasizing each syllable.

  There was silence, but from the way his hand moved, I could tell he was trying to see something or—

  “Says here the demon is trapped in the box.”

  —or read something. “Yes, the demon is trapped in the box, but that doesn’t make her powerless. In a very real way, she is more powerful in the box than outside it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And you don’t need to. Let’s get in and out, and remember—”

  “ ‘Be quiet.’ ”

  “No, I need more than that. I need you to swear that you will stay absolutely quiet. Not a peep. No gasps, no words, nothing. Swear it.”

  “Kat, I don’t know what the big deal is. It’s just a box—”

  “Swear to me,” I growled. Then softening my voice, added, “Please.”

  “OK,” he said, surprised. “I swear.”

  “Good. Remember when you said you wanted to help? Here’s one of the crazy, batshit things we have to deal with.”

  I poured some powder out of a vial that I had gotten from the Other Studies Library, caking the outer rim of the box’s opening so an unbroken line covered all four sides. The powder appeared as soon as it had left the invisible vial and touched the box’s rim.

  I looked around to see if anyone noticed what I was doing. No one seemed to take notice, so I moved onto the next, stupidly scary step.

  Evil is real, and so is good. But when I use such lofty terms as “good” and “evil,” I don’t mean intent or even actions. I am referring to the concepts of good and evil being imbued into something. It can be a spirit or an item, or anything capable of containing an intangible concept. That is where the expressions “a good heart” and “an evil heart” come from. If you think about it, why the heart? Why not the chest or head or brain?

  Well, the answer is only partly because the heart is symbolic of human emotions. The rest of the answer lies in the heart’s function: to gather, hold and distribute blood. The heart is a container that constantly replenishes itself until it no longer can.

  Items like vases, cauldrons and boxes can also hold good or evil … and few hold more evil than dybbuk boxes. I was about to wake up what was inside this one.

  This was something that rabbis rarely talked about, but their version of an exorcism was more a trapping than an expulsion. They’d learned a way to remove a possessing demon from a human and capture it inside a container—usually a dybbuk box.

  Often Jewish exorcisms would go wrong. Instead of trapping the demon in the intended box, the demon would manage to escape, only to be captured in some other container. The most famous example of this was when an unnamed rabbi trapped one in a wine cabinet that was later sold on eBay. I kid you not.

  I pulled out a wig made from the ahh … hair of a tanuki judge. This wig represented Truth and Good—capital T and G—and it was one of the purest items the Other Studies Library held.

  Plucking a single strand of hair from its weave, I dropped it into the box. The effect was immediate. I felt a wave of electricity as a voice that could only belong to a demon hag crackled, “Who dares wake me?”

  Several people in the room jumped in fear at the sudden noise. Then they moved on, assuming it was part of the exhibit.

  The crackling voice spoke again. “I am Dybbuk, the hag of the—hold on a minute. Katrina Darling, is that you?”

  HAGS, BOXES AND BLASTS FROM THE PAST

  “A hh, yeah. Hi there, Ester. How’s it going?”

  “Oh you know, just living in a box. You could say I’m ‘contained,’ that I’ve got four walls and a roof over my incorporeal head. Say, you haven’t found a way for me to get out, have you?” She stopped speaking, and I could feel her spirit trying to get out of the box. But with minimal effort, she gave up. My extra precaution—the powder, a common household salt—was unnecessary. The edges didn’t even rattle. “I’m still stuck.”

  “Afraid so,” I said.

  “And you’re invisible. How?”

  “A potion.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual.”

  “The po-po on your back?”

  “Yep. And where did you learn a word like ‘po-po?’ ”

  “Kevin Hart. My last owner was a big fan.”

  “I see.”

  “Good owner. Lots of entertainment. I was almost sad to make him … you know.”

  “Go insane.”

  “That’s the one. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Ester was trapped already, cursed to live in the box, and I wasn’t sure what the rules for curses were anymore. I had used the salt as a precaution, an extra layer of defense, but given how quickly she’d given up trying to get out, I didn’t think it was necessary.

  “Your curse. I want to—”

  “I don’t suppose you know how to break my curse, do you?” she interrupted, her voice so excited that the box actually rattled.

  “Sorry—I have no idea.”

  At this, she audibly groaned. “Only so much fun I can have trapped in here. Remember when you freed me the last time? Boy, did we have fun. I gave those kids a waking nightmare that had them begging you to eat them …” Her voice trailed off as she reminisced about the good old times.

  Just when I thought she was done walking down memory lane, she chirped in a tone way, way, way too jovial given the topic, “Oh! Oh, oh, do you remember when we haunted the Skirrid Mountain Inn in Wales? How many teenagers ‘entering on a dare’ did we get in there? First I’d drive them mad, and then you’d suck them dry. What did you used to say after every meal? The insane tasted like Cajun chicken?”

  “Something like that,” I said, unable to hide my shame. Justin’s hand tightened on my shoulder as the dybbuk casually talked about our shared past. As much as I wanted Justin to know everything about me, my human-eating days were one thing he didn’t need to know about.

  “Yeah, something like that …” Ester repeated, her own voice taking on a curious tone, like she sensed my regret. Which, given my vampiric past, was unusual.

  “Ahh, Ester … as much as I’d like to walk down evil memories lane with you, I’m on the clock here.”

  “Ho-hum,” she replied. “So what brings you to my studio apartment?”

  “A question.”

  Her voice became very solemn. “An exchange.”

  I shook my head. “No, just a question.” The dybbuk’s box stood silent for a minute, so I added, “Or I can leave.”

  “But Ka-at,” Ester whined. Given her hag-like voice, it came out more like a ghost’s haunting groan than a plea.

  Two people walked into the exhibit room, and not wanting to be heard, I leaned in. “Ester, if I were you I would whisper lest the humans discover your presence and perform an exorcism.”

  I heard a
low gulp before she whispered, “Kat, we’re friends. Introduce me to one soul. Just like the old times. Just one soul so I may play.” And therein lay the dybbuk box loophole. The box was not meant to be owned by anyone, but rather put somewhere and forgotten. If, however, the box was claimed, then the owner risked possession, and anyone the owner introduced the box to was subject to Ester’s powers of possession.

  I owned the box for a few years back when. Ester, evil bitch that she was, tried to possess me several times, but one of the advantages of being a vampire is that your mind is so selfish that no one, be it by magic, guile or love, can possess you.

  After a few mental battles which left Ester the worse for wear, she gave up trying to enter my mind.

  I guess my inner workings are too messed up even for a demon. I would be Freud’s nightmare.

  “No,” I said, “I’ve come seeking an answer to one question. A question I wish you to answer honestly … for old time’s sake,” I added.

  “Oh come on, you don’t have someone I can haunt? A person to terrorize, just a little bit? We are connected, after all. You only need to introduce me and my magic—”

  “Your magic,” I said. “Tell me, do you know of the limitations of magic in this new world?”

  “Limitations?” she asked. “Ahh, I see what you mean. Time for magic, magic for time. I’ve heard that is the new world order.”

  “Precisely. But your curse must affect how your magic works. Have you used your magic since the gods left?”

  There was a long silence before she answered. “Yes, but why do you wish to know? Katrina Darling,”—the hag paused, and I heard an audible sniff—“you smell different. No blood. You haven’t fed in a long, long time.”

  Ignoring her, I spoke in the insistent, demanding tone I often used as a precursor to a threat. “Tell me, dybbuk demon, have you aged since the gods left?”

  “Aged?”

  The trouble with spirits: they don’t always understand straightforward questions. And the concept of age to an immortal being was something most had yet to grasp. I tried a more archaic tact. “Does the march of time carry you in its wake and bring you closer to death with every ticking second?”