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

by Ramy Vance

  The final piece of the puzzle he needs so that he can finally cease being human.

  He will do anything to make that happen.

  And kill anyone who tries to stop him.

  AIRPORT SECURITY SUCKS BIGLY

  “Raspy Man, I presume?” I kept my voice steady; I didn’t want to betray any fear or surprise at seeing him here.

  That was harder than expected, because while I’d expected to meet my stalker eventually, the last place I ever expected it to happen was at airport security in Japan. Either this guy had serious clout or mojo, or both … and that made him way more dangerous than I had previously given him credit for.

  He lifted an eyebrow and slightly turned his head in the way one does when trying to process something. “Raspy Man?” Hearing his own voice, he nodded in understanding. “Ahh, I see. I have had many names, but such a nom de plume has never been among them. Given the factitious nature in which you’ve thus dubbed me, I do not care for it. Call me Tomás. Of all my human names, that one was my favorite. It was when I felt most productive.”

  He pronounced his name in that pretentious way Europeans did, and I heard a hint of Catalonia in his accent. But not present-day Catalonia … I’m talking hundreds-of-years-ago twang.

  A playful lip curled, and I saw a man who, although he had the voice of a lifetime smoker, was actually quite handsome. Solid jaw, deep-set eyes that betrayed great wisdom, smooth skin and a demeanor that screamed infinite confidence.

  Granted, he was older—probably mid-fifties—and bald, but he possessed a Bruce Willis-esque rugged handsomeness. He also had a huge scar around his neck, like someone had tried to simultaneously hang him while slashing his throat. And recently, too. I’ve been around enough scars to know that one was less than a decade old. Maybe only a few years, at that.

  Still, as far as scars went, this one was all kinds of sexy.

  I shook my head. “Now’s not the time to develop a crush on your stalker,” I thought, but then I looked up at eyes that promised me salvation. “Then again …” I mused.

  He chuckled at this. “I heard about your proclivities for audible thinking. I was told that this particular quirk was extremely …” He paused as he thought of the word. “Grating.”

  “Hey,” I said in mock-offense.

  He lifted a placating hand. “But given the nature of your thoughts, I must say that my sources are incorrect. Rare for them, really.” He gave me a sly smile that made my heart flutter.

  And even though I found myself attracted to this man, the whole situation was beyond ridiculous. I mean, I was literally in a Japanese airport, sitting before a man of European descent that somehow … what? Bribed airport security to get a private meeting with me?

  Which becomes supercalifragillistically ridiculous when you put into context that all this comes on the heels of having slain not one, not two, but three gods after averting an interspecies war.

  I started to laugh. Given the speed with which his smile disappeared, I knew my reaction was the last thing he expected. “Let me guess,” I said. “That slicker-than-slick smile? Something you spent years practicing. It’s what, Raspy Man’s version of Joey’s ‘How you doing?’ ” I put on a fake Italian accent as I mocked the Friends catchphrase.

  If Raspy Man was offended by laughter, it was short-lived, because he started to laugh, too. “Indeed,” he said. “Centuries of practice, and I must admit that you are the first human female”—he paused—“or male to react with laughter.”

  “Let me guess. They swooned and fell in your arms.”

  “More like they fell to their knees.”

  Yuck, that got R-rated way too quickly. “How eloquent,” I said, “I see all your centuries has made you just another man whose obsessed with his junk.”

  He sighed, seeing his faux pas. But from the way he carried himself, he wasn’t too concerned by it, either. “The truth rarely is,” he said. “I find eloquence is best delegated to situations that require finesse, manipulation and lies. And Ms. Darling, I respect you far too much to attempt any of those shenanigans with you. Now, after our business is concluded, perhaps we can explore such things …” He let the words hang, and I knew he was serious. After our business was concluded, he’d happily explore something a little less businessy with me.

  And why not? I was cute as a button and sexy to boot.

  But he’d come here for a reason—orchestrated our meeting for the sole purpose of finding out what had happened to his soul. It took every ounce of my will, honed by centuries of bluffing, not to touch the hugely magical, itsy-bitsy Soul Jar hanging around my neck.

  As far as I knew, the Soul Jar possessed his soul. But what was farther from what I knew—as in, another planet away farther—was how trustworthy this guy was. After all, I’d literally died getting this thing, and I wasn’t about to hand it over to someone I wasn’t 100% sure wasn’t evil.

  And this guy definitely had James Bond villain written all over him. All he needed to do was creepily stroke a cat and the image would be complete.

  “I’m not much of an explorer,” I said. “Besides, I have a boyfriend.”

  “Ahh, yes. The AlwaysMortal Justin Truly. As a boy toy, yes. But is there really much of a future for you two? After all, he is off gallivanting with another.”

  He paused to scan my expression. Even though the thought that Justin would be cheating on me stung, I also didn’t believe this asshole. He was trying to rattle me, catch me off guard and—

  Raspy Man picked up his briefcase and opened it on the table. Inside was all kinds of packaging, with tons of what looked like contact lens cases in it. There was also a … what the hell was that? A crystal ball?

  As in the cliché, I’m-in-an-episode-of-Charmed crystal ball. “Or at least, he will be two weeks from now. Look for yourself.” Picking up the crystal ball, he tapped it and, sure enough, images of Justin popped up. In it, I saw Justin hugging a redheaded, pale-skinned girl who looked way, way too pretty for my liking.

  Having this guy try to throw me off guard with a statement was one thing, but seeing photographic evidence was another thing altogether. I pursed my lips. Come on, Kat, this could very well be a life-and-death situation. No point in getting all jealous now. Save that for when you’re not sitting across … across from whatever he is, I thought (in my head).

  Because no matter what Justin was or was not doing, those photos proved one thing: Raspy Man was having him followed. If I showed that I cared about him, that could lead to another kidnapping, or worse. And as pissed off as I was at him, he didn’t deserve to die because of me.

  I considered going the “How can I trust you, or this thing?” route. After all, it could be an illusion, and this thing could be the celestial equivalent of Photoshop. Something witty like that.

  But that would betray that I cared for Justin. I needed to make sure he’d be safe, so I went with the best course of action when a psychopath is threatening your boyfriend.

  “Fine.” I pushed the ball away from me. “He’s cheating. Or he will be cheating. So what?” If you’re going to lie convincingly, you’ve got to believe it yourself. So I did my best to believe what I was saying. Which was easier than I thought.

  Raspy Man was a bit surprised by my reaction, but that surprise was quickly supplanted by a smile as he gave me enthusiastic applause. “Truth is elusive. And after centuries of living, you and I both know there are many truths to everything. I see you’ve found one that you believe is best. And your delivery … nearly perfect. You would have fooled any human, and most immortals”—he paused at the word immortals, before adding—“OnceImmortals, I mean. Very good.”

  He returned the crystal ball to the case before leaning in, bridging the divide of the desk between us. “How about we say this: Justin is off limits. I’ll even go as far as to promise that no AlwaysMortal you care about will be touched: Justin, Aimee, Bogdan … even the very aged Cassandra. Although technically not an AlwaysMortal, I will happily extend this amnesty
to her as well. What do you say?”

  I nodded. “Great, but your statement also implies that others—or rather, the Others I care about—are fair game. And that statement further implies that you’re not a nice guy.”

  “We are not!” he said, the words booming out of him in a momentary lack of self-control. He cleared his throat before repeating in a gentler tone, “We are not … nice. Kind. Pleasant. We are beyond such concepts. Certainly centuries of feeding on them has proven that to you.”

  “So what, you’re an ex-vamp, too?” I pretended to be bored. “I figured, but wasn’t sure. After all, you could have been an ex-werewolf or ex-were—”

  “No, my dear. I was never a vampire. I was something much, much worse.”

  ↔

  “BUT YOU HAVE fangy creature of the night written all over you,” I said, somewhat surprised he wasn’t an ex-vamp.

  At this, he chuckled. “I enjoy the sun far too much to allow myself such a debilitating defect.”

  Allow? Defect? Who the hell is this guy?

  He gave me a hard stare, locking his gray eyes with my baby blues, and whereas initially I was all like, Eww, old guy ogling, I found that I was very quickly falling into his gaze. I don’t mean it in the we-locked-eyes-and-something-inside-me-went-all-gooey-and-soft way. I mean that I was actually drawn into them. It was like being pulled in by an invisible force like gravity, or … or …

  “Magic,” I whispered.

  Hearing my own voice was enough to jar me out of whatever spell he was casting, and I closed my eyes before shaking my head.

  He was playing with me.

  Hell-l-l-l-l no!

  After centuries of being the one who played with my prey, the last thing I would ever tolerate was assuming the role of the toy. I considered it a matter of professional pride.

  “A charm spell, to be specific,” I said, scanning his face for any signs of aging. I had near perfect memory and the ability to take snapshots of things—not a vampire thing, just one of my God-given gifts (well, GoneGod-given, at least).

  I had taken a snapshot of him when we entered, and comparing that image with how he looked now, I saw that he hadn’t aged at all.

  “So, no aging.” I looked around the sparse room. “And given you just tried some version of a charm spell, you’re using a magical item. Something imbued with magic before the gods left. But what could it be … What could it be?”

  Nothing stood out as obvious, so either he was hiding the item, or … “Holy guacamole,” I muttered, leaning in close to get a better look at his eyes. They were blue with shifting nimbuses of gray, like a lone storm cloud in an otherwise clear sky. “The magic is coming from your eyes. Like Cassandra. Those aren’t the eyes you were born with, are they?”

  The strange man laughed. I mean, genuinely laughed. And given how destroyed his throat was, it came out like an old Volkswagen backfiring. He clapped his hands as he did, and even though I could tell this was his version of keeling over and chortling … he still managed to do it in a somewhat reserved manner. “Ever since the gods left, I have been looking for someone like you.”

  “What, someone button-cute to stalk?”

  “No, Katrina—a mate. A mate to share this horrible GoneGod World with …”

  MOST AWKWARD MARRIAGE PROPOSAL EVER

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Come now, you must admit that this new world is lonely. So many lost, damned souls. So many lesser beings to share space with,” he said. “The thought of finding someone worthy”—he laid his hand on the briefcase holding the crystal ball he had used to show me Justin—“someone who understands who we are … You, too, must be looking for an appropriate partner.”

  “Partner?” I narrowed my eyes. “You must really think highly of yourself if you think that … that … whatever that was would make me all weak at the knees.”

  “No, of course not. Our relationship is just beginning. You have yet to see my worth. Still …” He touched the inside of his left eye like someone removing a contact lens. And as he moved his finger, I saw that was exactly what he was doing.

  A thin film rested on his finger and, with his other hand, he picked up his briefcase and opened it. Inside were several of those mini-pods. Picking up a lone case, he put the film inside and slid it over to me.

  “A gift. Part of my dowry, let’s say.”

  “There are a bunch of problems with this, but because I really want to catch my flight, I’m only going to highlight the top three,” I said. “A, dowries are so last century. We modern girls prefer less possessive gestures. B, I’m not marrying you. And let me make my reasoning perfectly clear: it’s not me … it’s you. And C—and believe me when I say that this is the clincher—giving a girl a discarded contact lens is a poor substitute for a bouquet of flowers. It’s all kinds of gross. You really need to work on your game.”

  Another smile. “In the centuries to come, I will enjoy your wit.”

  “Centuries? I’m not sure if you got the memo, but we’re all mortal now.”

  He ignored me, casually pointing at the case like he was pointing at some worthless trinket. “That discarded lens, as you call it, is the pared cornea of the Goddess Turan. That filament does not simply charm, as you put it. It stirs one’s inner desires—enflames them, if you will. And that is my gift to you.”

  “Goddess? How the hell did this guy get a goddess’s eye?”

  “It was a gift,” he said, pulling out another lens, “in exchange for certain … services rendered.”

  Damn it! I must have been speaking out loud again. Note to self: out loud thinking bad thing to do when in life-and-death situation. Still, the way he answered the question was quite specific. The word rendered can mean ‘service provided or given,’ but it can also mean ‘to become.’ And given how deliberate he was about the word, I figured he hadn’t chosen it lightly. I wanted to know more. Hell, if I was going to beat him, I needed to know more.

  “Rendered?” I drew out the word. “What exactly does ‘render’ mean?”

  He gave me a disappointed look that said I should know exactly what he meant. “Katrina”—he wagged a condescending finger in my direction—“I understand that you’ve spent most of your time on this Earth as a common vampire. But still, I see a curious mind within. Surely your travels must shed some light on how the gods used me.”

  “Patronizing much?”

  “Only when necessary.”

  He tapped his finger against the table three times as he debated telling me. I figured I’d tip the scales in my favor with a wee bit of what centuries of life had taught me again and again: men are easily distracted. Playing with my blouse’s top button in a nervous manner, I bit my lower lip before saying, “I want to understand” in the same voice I once convinced my would-be executioner to let me out during a brief stint in a Victorian dungeon.

  His eyes were drawn to my fingers, then my lips, and as soon as my words hit his ears, he nodded. “Good. You’re at least trying to gain the upper hand. That deserves a reward, don’t you think?”

  So much for that. Still ... I was getting somewhere.

  I gestured for him to go on.

  “Very well.” He lifted his briefcase again and opened it. Inside, dozens of contact lens cases still sat in their spongy-foam protective casing. Singles and doubles, with seven of the foam holes empty. And given that he was a bespoke kind of guy, I figured one was in his right eye, one was on the table and the other five were … where? Lost? In some henchman’s eye? I’d have to err on the side of caution and go with eye-modified super henchman.

  He picked up two lenses. “From Ra.” Then two more. “And these were a gift from the Incan goddess Inti. These are from Brovo and this one”—he picked up a single casing and held it between his fingers in a not-unlike-Gollum-and-the-Ring-fashion—“this one is the prize of my collection. Odin’s eye—the missing eye—collected just after he sacrificed it in the Well of Urd. Great wisdom is revealed when I gaze upon this world
through its lens and—”

  I stretched out my arms and gave Raspy Man an exaggerated yawn.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely surprised. “Are you bored?”

  “You know,” I said, wagging a condescending finger of my own, “you might have ignored my little finger-on-the-button technique and my Excuse me mister, but can you help me? lip bite, but at the end of the day, you’re just like every other guy who likes to drone on about his hobby. On and on and on … If I was interested in sleeping with you, I’d be all like, ‘That’s interesting.’ ” I put a hand on my not-insubstantial chest. “ ‘Please tell me more. You are so fascinating.’ But I’m not interested. As in, at all. So let’s skip all this preamble and get straight to the ‘rendering.’ And please focus this time.”

  Truth was, I was fascinated. But being fascinated by this guy wasn’t going to help with my bigger life goals … which at this moment was one of survival.

  Raspy Man gave me a curious look before letting out another bellow of laughter. “You, my dear, shall be a fountain of amusement in the centuries to come.”

  Again with that word, centuries. Like he was in total denial that we were all going to die—and if he kept being a patronizing asshole, from me stabbing him rather than old age.

  “Very well.” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of his left eye. “I shall provide you with the promised explanation.”

  He took a deep breath, and as he let it out, all mirth and humor left him. “The gods have always needed help speaking to humans because”—he gestured in the general direction of outside, clearly denoting both he and I were not human—“whenever the gods did speak to them, humans tended to go insane.”

  “Are you getting H.P. Lovecraftian on me?”

  “Prime example,” he said. “Although he held his mind together better than most. And he was smart enough to not use the gods’ real names, instead making them up—C'thalpa, Cthulhu and my personal favorite, the Cloud Thing, which was really just a drunk Cupid messing with the poor man. But, before I receive another yawn, allow me to get back on point.”