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

by Ramy Vance

  The thing about fae: when they grant you parts of themselves, they mean it. She really did plan to give me full use of her breasts and womb should I request them. “You can keep your boobs and belly,” I said. “I’ll take the shield arm. Shoot.”

  I probably should have asked her what she wanted before being so willy-nilly with my request-granting ability.

  Deirdre jumped for joy, which for a changeling of her size and power meant she hit our ceiling and cracked one of the tiles. Not that she noticed. She was too busy celebrating to spot all the dust and fibers in her hair.

  “The event,” she finally said once she’d stopped hopping. “It costs many of the human coins. More than I receive from tending the grounds within the Colosseum—”

  “Football stadium.”

  “I know that you possess more wealth than most.”

  “I invested in the stock market early, sometime in the early ’30s. So yeah, I’m doing OK,” I said, and meant it. I had a lot of money, and not just money: antiques, jewels, gold and a couple castles. “How much?”

  “We must go to the FSA headquarters to purchase the ticket. And we must hurry before it sells out,” she said as she rummaged in her backpack. She pulled out a flyer and began reading, “Three thousand, eight hundred and ten dollars and ninety-two cents.”

  “Three thousand dollars for a talk?”

  “Three thousand, eight hundred and ten dollars and ninety-two cents,” Deirdre said, her smile still as bright as ever. From the way she looked at me, I knew there was no way I could get out of this. And when she said, “May we go now to purchase the tickets?” I knew I was sunk.

  Oh well, it’s only money, I thought, grabbing my purse. “On second thought, Deirdre, I will take your bosom and womb.”

  THE DARK SIDE OF STUDENT ORGANIZERS

  AND EVEN THE FAE ARE BUREAUCRATIC

  Braving a heavy winter snowfall, we walked down to the Others’ Society of McGill University, or OSMU for the uninspired short. OSMU was in the basement of the SSMU (same concept, just substitute Students’ for Others’), and as we approached the building, I saw that the weirdness had already begun.

  McGill was a good university, which meant many of the students who got into the school did so because they stood out in some way. In other words, good universities were where the keeners could finally be kings. McGill was populated by chess club students, fencing club members, school dance organizers, Morris dancing champions … you know, the crème de la crème of geekdom.

  And the SSMU building was the nexus of it all—Sauron’s Tower of School Spirit, if you will.

  “Barad-dur, rah, rah, rah,” I muttered to myself as we walked inside.

  The inner bowels of the place were covered in flyers ranging from night walks to blood drives, from spoken word events to beer pong championships.

  And those were just the decorations. The halls were also filled with smiling students whose get-go attitude was more than a philosophy they prescribed to … it was who they were. I remembered passing by places like this when I was a vampire, and could sense who someone was by their smell. The humans inside always had an overwhelming scent of optimism, which for a vampire was akin to drowning in a bowl of potpourri.

  Luckily, being human again meant my extra-sensitive nose was no longer so sensitive. Thank the GoneGods for small miracles.

  But these halls weren’t just filled with overachieving humans—they also held numerous Others predisposed to “doing good.” Angels and archangels walked these halls, but that was to be expected. Elves, orthruses, fairies and pixies also did their part, though given that they were all benevolent types, I could have guessed they’d be here, too.

  There was the Night Walk group run by minotaurs and centaurs, whose sole purpose was escorting people home. All you had to do was call the number, tell them where you were, and some cloven-footed Other would come galloping to the rescue.

  There were public service announcements, like: ‘Be careful when at Beaver Lake. Several eyewitnesses claim to have seen the Loch Ness monster there, and we still don’t know if it’s friendly or not.’

  I sighed. As if Nessie would leave the lochs of Scotland for the ice cold of Montreal.

  On another pillar was an advert for Pixie Cleaners, a group who devoted several hours per week to cleaning student apartments and dorms. All funds earned went promptly to a tree-planting charity.

  The Tutoring Society was comprised of sphinx(es), gnomes, qilins and the three Fates—all Others with photographic memories, super-intelligence or (in the case of history studies) who had actually lived through the period of history being tutored.

  And let’s not forget the hecatoncheires, who used their multiple arms to transcribe and edit term papers for students who preferred dictation over actually putting fingers to keyboards. Again, all monies earned went to local charities.

  As my eyes wandered from door to door, I saw signs for student associations, clubs and services all run by Others who were, for lack of a better word, good.

  As in, the opposite of evil.

  There were no orcs or oni demons, no banshees or wendigoes here, even though I knew this university had many of those kinds of Others enrolled. All the Others who had a reputation for being the “bad guys” weren’t here.

  This was a pile of poo, if you asked me. So many of the so-called “bad guys” whom I’ve come across since the gods left were actually beings that were trying to do good, like me. And yet none of them were here, either because they weren’t invited or didn’t feel welcome.

  Either way, it was … well, I refer you back to my pile of poo comment.

  I don’t know if it was my bad attitude of late or a bit of my old, judgmental self shining through, but the lack of “bad guys” here really pissed me off.

  Not that I said anything to Deirdre. She was a changeling warrior for the UnSeelie Court. To put it in Star Wars terms, my roommate was the fae equivalent of a Sith who fought for the dark side.

  If Deirdre was red, she’d be Darth Talon … but I digress.

  Putting aside thoughts of good and evil, we walked into the FSA headquarters, where I prepared to dish out thousands so my little Sith buddy could attend a three-day lecture.

  ↔

  NOT THAT THE FSA office was much of an HQ. It was more a single desk, one couch and a few pamphlets advertising outdoor festivities. An elf sat behind the only desk. At least, I think it was an elf.

  Not to typecast, but elves are incredibly handsome. Granted, they’re short, around five feet tall with pointed ears, but they also have perfect skin, straight, blinding white teeth, eyes you can drown in and hair so naturally lush that full-bodied shampoos actually do more harm than good.

  In other words, they tend to be Tom Cruise with pointy ears (which makes me wonder if Tom Cruise is an elf who filed his ears).

  This guy, however, was none of those things. His skin was blotchy, his teeth off-white, and as for his hair—this elf wore a wig. And not a good one. A bright orange, off-center, terribly obvious wig.

  In fact, his only elvish qualities were Vulcan ears and his less-than-five-foot demeanor.

  I guess not every elf can be blessed with beauty, I thought as we approached the desk.

  The orange-wigged elf looked up and gave us a sincere, albeit uneven smile. “How may I help you this day?” I noted he gave Deirdre a curt glance before looking in my direction.

  Seelie Court snob, I thought—thankfully in my head. “We’re here to buy a ticket for the … ” I couldn’t remember his name, and looked at Deirdre for help.

  She was just standing there, gripping the flyer in excitement. “Deirdre,” I said, “what’s the guy’s name?”

  “Oh, oh,” she said. “Oighrig End.” She sang his name. To the tune of Gummi Bears.

  “Ahh, I see,” the orange-wigged elf said. “You do know the event is over three thousand dollars?” he said in that tone upscale shopkeepers use to deter those without means from the shop.

  “Th
ree thousand, eight hundred and ten dollars and ninety-two cents. Who does that? Ninety-two cents? Ninety-nine—even ninety-seven—I get. But Ninety-two? Why?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Well, never mind then,” I said, plopping my purse on his desk and making sure to flash its Givenchy logo. I pulled out my checkbook and Montblanc StarWalker pen. “Who should I make the check out to?”

  “Well, no one, I’m afraid. We’re sold out.”

  Deirdre let out an audible groan.

  “Sold out? When was this event first advertised?”

  “This morning.”

  I sincerely doubted it had sold out in less than six hours, and guessed this Seelie Court asshole was just trying to block my friend from attending because she happened to be from the wrong side of the mythical tracks. “Let me get this straight: you’re already sold out for an event that is three thousand dollars plus per ticket?”

  “Indeed. Oighrig End is a much-respected speaker.”

  “Apparently he is,” I said, “but you do know that under student by-law, the majority of spaces must be reserved for students.”

  “Ahh, we do,” he said in a tone that showed he clearly didn’t.

  “So if you sold out in a matter of hours, I’m concerned that most of your attendees might not be McGill students. I’d like to see your attendee list, or at the very least, proof that the majority of attendees are students.” I placed my hands on my hips in an I’m not going anywhere until I speak to the manager way.

  I guess being in a grumpy funk wasn’t all bad.

  He shuffled his arms around, clearly flustered as he tried to think of an excuse to get rid of us. I was waiting, determined not to make it easy for the little bastard, when fate, or destiny or Lady Luck came knocking.

  A blind, human-looking girl clutching her purse was guided in by a large black dog that wasn’t of any breed I knew or associated with Seeing Eye dogs. The girl was pretty, as you’d expect of a female elf, albeit a bit tall for one. She wore a Mango blouse from last year’s collection, trim, stylish black trousers and Cartier sunglasses—I liked her style—and carried a bottle of eighteen-year-old Oban whisky. I liked her taste in liqueur, too.

  She was unique for an elf. Then I noticed her blemishes—well, not blemishes, but freckles on her cheeks and nose. As cute as they made her, elves don’t have freckles, and I realized she must be a halfling.

  “Orange,” she said, out of breath, “about tonight’s plans … I fear that Gergeion, Termle and Aileh are—”

  “Sarah,” Orange said in a harsh tone, “we’re not alone. There are a human girl and a changeling in the room with us.”

  “Oh,” she said, putting a hand to her mouth.

  “No,” I said, still annoyed at the elf whose name was apparently Orange, “please don’t mind us. You were saying something about Gergeion, Termle and Aileh, and tonight’s event.”

  “It’s nothing really. I can be such a drama queen,” she said, running a trembling hand through her hair, evidently trying to calm herself. “It’s just that we have this event—”

  “Oighrig End,” I offered.

  “—and three of our attendees are cancelling last minute.”

  “Given that you just announced the event this morning, I’d hardly call that ‘last minute,’ ” I said as I made out a check for eleven thousand, four hundred and thirty-two dollars and seventy-six cents. Thank the GoneGods that was Canadian dollars, otherwise I might have had to sell a couple Ming vases to pay for the damn event. “Luckily, my friend and I wish to attend.”

  “You are attending,” Deirdre said, her voice wobbling with gratitude.

  “I am,” I said, pulling the check free from the booklet. I handed it to Orange. “Consider the last ticket price a donation from my friend here.”

  And with that, I took Deirdre’s arm and escorted my friend—and one of the best people I have ever met in my three hundred years—out of the FSA’s headquarters.

  SHRINKING FROM SHRINKS

  “T hank you, milady,” Deirdre said as soon as we were outside, “but you didn’t have to do that.”

  “Do what?” I asked, knowing full well what she meant. Deirdre might be a seasoned changeling warrior, but she was pretty naïve and almost always oblivious to what was happening around her. I had hoped she hadn’t noticed those Seelie snobs shunning her, but from the way her head hung low in the falling snow, she had. So instead of treating her like a kid that needed sheltering, I said, “They were assholes and deserved it.”

  But it was more than that for me. After centuries of doing terrible things, I just went nuts when Others—people—anyone—was treated unfairly. I’m sure a shrink would say I had an overdeveloped sense of justice. I think I was just tired of doing wrong, and was overcompensating with right.

  Deirdre shook her head. “With all due admiration, milady, I do not agree. Up until the gods left, the Seelie and UnSeelie courts had been at war since the dawn of time. They were right to be suspicious of me, even though I am innocent of any ill intentions.”

  Good ol’ Deirdre … kind, empathetic and always putting others ahead of herself. That’s why I love her, I thought.

  “And I love thee,” she said, stepping forward and giving me a changeling hug, which basically translated into a spine-cracking embrace worthy of a Swedish masseuse.

  In other words, the best kind of hug you can get.

  I leaned into it, admitting to myself how badly I needed it. When Deirdre finally let go, I pulled out my phone and was considering calling Justin when I saw a calendar notification.

  “Shit,” I said, running down the hill, “I totally forgot I have a meeting.” Half-turning, I waved to Deirdre. “I’ll see you later, OK?”

  “Yes, milady,” she said, waving back. “I shall look forward to it.”

  ↔

  I RAN to Student Health Services and, not caring if anyone saw me, into the building. The receptionist saw me coming and just pointed to an open door. “He’s waiting.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” I said, stopping to catch my breath. “There were these elves, and—”

  “Don’t tell me,” she said. “Tell him.”

  Looking up, I saw Dr. Tellier lightly tapping his watch.

  ↔

  “I’D ASK you what today’s excuse is, but I already know: You got into a scuffle with some Otherist and lost track of time.”

  “Almost,” I said, unwrapping my scarf from around my neck. “This time it was with an Other who was being an Otherist to another Other.”

  “Interesting,” he said looking at me over his thin, gold rimmed reading glasses. Dr. Tellier was a mid-aged man, maybe in his mid-forties, with a full head of black hair that was salted with grey. Despite being old, he was rocking a dad-bod, if not a dad-bod plus. He was holding up well in his old age.

  Look at me, I thought, if he’s old, then I’m positively ancient. I shook my head, returning my focus to the conversation at hand. “It’s a whole Seelie-UnSeelie Court thing.”

  “Ahh, yes. One of the biggest challenges to integrating Others into this new GoneGod World. Humans don’t trust Others. Others don’t trust humans. And to just complicate an already over-complicated problem, Others don’t trust Others.”

  “I know,” I said, peeling off my jacket, “and you’d think that—”

  “Katrina, as much as you love exploring this world’s inner workings, we’re here to explore yours,” he said. “Any thoughts about what we discussed last time?”

  I paused, giving myself a second to shift gears from the crap in the world to the crap in myself. “You mean the whole part about how what I’m feeling is normal and I’m not a freak?”

  “Bingo,” he said. “This is the age to be having these kinds of feelings. Late teens, early twenties. This is the age when people such as yourself feel depressed or anxious. It’s not uncommon at all. In fact, not having some of these feelings is less likely than having them. We even have a name for it: the Quarter-Life Crisis,�
� he said, giggling at what I assumed was a joke.

  Then again, maybe not. Maybe he giggled to bring levity to the fact that I was sitting in a shrink’s office, trying to sort out the emptiness I felt.

  “Quarter-Life Crisis,” I echoed. Given that I was a three-hundred-year-old vampire who had recently been made mortal, I wondered where I was on the lifespan scale. I guessed that, if all went well, I had about seventy years left. So seventy divided by three hundred (subtract the one) put me at … what? Seventy-six percent, give or take.

  I wondered what he’d say if he knew I was more likely suffering from the Three-Quarter-Life Crisis, not that I said anything. Whatever diagnosis he was going to give me would have to be done with him not knowing that, once upon a time, I had been a vampire.

  “Indeed,” he said, “this is the age when you’re no longer sheltered by your parents, when your fuck-ups—pardon my French—are yours to own with no one to bail you out. No one cares if you succeed or fail. There are no second chances. And amidst all those adjustments, you are asked to know—know!—what you want to do with your life. Hardly fair, if you ask me.”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” I said.

  “But just because I say everyone goes through some version of this feeling, don’t think I’m trivializing it. Not at all—this is very real, and very shitty. Again, pardon my French.”

  “J’ai entendu pire en francais,” I said.

  He raised a curious eyebrow.

  “I’ve heard worse in French—in French,” I clarified.

  At this he gave me a loud, robust laugh. “Clever. Very clever,” he said. “I’ll have to write that one down for later.” Then he actually wrote something in his notebook. Whether it was the words I used or something more along the lines of This girl is cray cray, I’ll never know.