Run, Kat, Run and Encantado Dreams (Mortality Bites: Publisher's Pack Book 4)

by Ramy Vance

  “Don’t you want to know why an old Brazilian woman attacked me at the coffee shop?” I said from behind the veil of my shirt as I pulled it over my head.

  “She’s the same woman who came into our English class.” Aimee ripped the wrapping off a sanitizing wipe and pressed it to the cut on my arm.

  I hissed through my teeth, keeping my eyes on her face instead of what she was doing to my cut; I was a geneticist who hated the sight of blood or the body’s insides. Go me. “How’d you know?”

  Aimee kept dabbing, intent on the cut. “How many old South American women are wandering around McGill’s campus in the middle of winter?”

  “Point taken.” I watched her with heart-swelling fondness. “I’m glad you’re OK after, you know …”

  Her blue eyes met mine. “After a giant wolf crashed through the dining hall window?”

  I made a face, nodded. “Yeah, that.”

  She pulled out some sticky white sutures from the kit, pressed them one at a time over my cut. “I don’t know what’s going on, Isa, but I assume it’s an encantado thing. And to be honest, it terrifies me.”

  My eyebrows went up. She seemed so together at this moment, but now that she’d said it, I saw the slight tremor in her hands. I knew she dealt with strong anxiety all the time; Aimee was just trying to hold it together.

  I set my hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s best if you sleep elsewhere for the next few nights.”

  She finished treating my wound, leaned back. “You’re kicking me out of our dorm?”

  “With the best of intentions.”

  “That creature was here for you,” she said. “I saw it chase you out of the dining hall.”

  I swallowed. “I think you’re right.”

  “And it’ll come back.”

  “I think it will.”

  She scrutinized me, her eyes traveling over my face and body. “And why the hell do you look like Katrina Darling?”

  “It’s a long story.” I stood to grab a sweater from my closet—and to put some distance between me and Aimee.

  Aimee stood. “You’re pretending to be her because she’s been gone for the last three weeks.” It wasn’t a question.

  I stood in front of my open closet, staring at the selection of subpar clothing. Nothing in here was anything like what I’d seen Katrina wearing, which was what always seemed to happen when I admired people. I could recreate every detail—the appearance, the wardrobe, the same perfume—but it all felt off-brand on me, like knockoffs. All the magic would go, and it would just be a purse, a sweater, a pair of boots.

  “I just wanted to see what it would be like. Just for one night,” I said into the void of my closet.

  “What did you say?” Aimee said.

  I grabbed a sweater, turned back toward her. “I just wanted to see.”

  She nodded slowly, non-judgmentally. But I could tell that wasn’t true, just because I knew Aimee—she didn’t approve of what I’d done. “You need to shift back.”

  “I can’t right now.” A million reasons flitted through my mind as to why: I had just burned more of my life in that stupid coffee shop to resume my illusion and I wasn’t about to give it up this fast; I needed to talk to Justin about what had happened and I had promised to meet him after class. On and on they went, but what they really boiled down to was one thing.

  I just didn’t want to.

  “Why not?” Aimee asked.

  I yanked the sweater on, my head popping through the neckhole like a creature being birthed. “Aimee, a woman slashed me with a claw the size of a stalagmite. There’s a massive wolf roaming around campus, probably looking for me. Can we focus on those things right now?”

  “Do you think they’re related?”

  I stopped, the sweater half-adorned. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think the old Brazilian woman with the claw has something to do with the wolf?”

  I slow-blinked. Then, “Four claws.”

  “Four claws?” she repeated.

  “I think the wolf was missing a claw on its left forepaw.”

  “Between the growling and the big teeth, I don’t recall.”

  I waved my hands through the air. “Hold on! Let me think.” I screwed my eyes shut, recreating the scene in my mind. The creature bursting through the glass, stalking through the dining hall. Chasing us into the street, running above us on the buildings.

  There. It was in that moment when I’d glanced up, seen the lobisomem above Justin and me, that I caught a proper view of the left forepaw. It was missing the second claw—the equivalent of its pointer finger being shorn off at the first knuckle.

  I opened my eyes, and Aimee and I stared at each other. “Holy shit,” I said.

  “You’re cursing in English. That’s never good.”

  I pulled the sweater fully on. “Well, it isn’t good.”

  This old woman, whoever she was, had received incredible power from her curse. She had somehow ripped the claw from that wolf and attacked me with it.

  I was her target. Consequently, I was this creature’s target. This creature, whose claws—and probably teeth—could interfere with my illusions. My magic.

  I grabbed my coat and bag. “Aimee, promise me you’ll find somewhere else to sleep for the next few nights. I don’t want it coming here for me and finding you.”

  She stood from the bed, enfolded me in a hug. “Where are you going?”

  I sighed into her arms. “Elsewhere. It’s best for you right now if I just stay away.”

  She leaned back, stared at me. “What do you mean, ‘elsewhere?’ ”

  Frankly, I didn’t know. I only knew I needed to talk to Justin, to warn him. And a small part of my brain returned: “Do you really need to warn him? Can’t you just stay away from him?”

  But, like any creature of obsession, the chemically-influenced part of my mind insisted on it. I needed to see him before night came.

  I refocused on Aimee. “I’m going to take care of all this.”

  “Isa, you’re not Katrina Darling.” Her hands slid to enfold my own. “You’re different, and that’s OK. You don’t have to try to be tough like her.”

  I squeezed her hands. “Don’t worry,” I said, which seemed to reassure her. “Just start packing a bag and be out before tonight, OK?”

  She nodded. “I’ll go to Elisa’s.”

  Our pixie friend Elisa, a sophomore who lived in another dorm. Perfect.

  As I stepped out of the dorm, I knew Aimee was right: I wasn’t Katrina Darling, and I wouldn’t try to be. I would find Justin, deliver my cryptic warning, and get the hell away from the people I cared about.

  But first, I had to confirm my suspicions.

  Chapter 6

  By the time I arrived at the biology building and found Professor Allman's class, it was in full swing. Through the small window, I saw him lifting the furry replica of a hawk.

  After a year in his classes, if I knew one thing about that man, it was that he really loved birds—real and imagined.

  I stood outside the door, glanced at the wall clock. When had it gotten to be after three? That gave me about two, maybe three hours until dusk. I needed to be well away from Montreal before dusk. At this rate, I wouldn’t even make it to the outskirts of the city.

  After twenty minutes someone pushed the door open, and out bustled thirty students. I waited until they'd all filed past, and then I stepped into the almost empty biology classroom.

  Inside, I found Professor Allman staring back at me, paused in the middle of erasing a whiteboard. He was an older man, two tufts of white hair floating around his head, but his green eyes were sharp, and he had the voice of a much younger man.

  “Hello,” he said. He should have recognized me, but with a start, I realized I wasn’t the Isabella Ramirez he knew. He didn’t know me at all. “How can I help you?”

  The anxiety of being a stranger to him gripped me in its vise. “I ... was thinking of signing up for your Other studies bi
ology class, and I had a few questions.”

  “By all means.” He waved me over. "What's your name?"

  I came forward, paused before answering. "Katrina Darling."

  "Well, Katrina Darling, ask away."

  I stepped closer—so close he seemed a little uncomfortable—and leaned toward him across his podium. "Do you know about creatures of South American lore?"

  I knew he did; I had been an undergraduate genetics researcher under Professor Allman for the past year and a half, and that continent was the man’s obsession. The quickest way to derail one of his train of thought was to start asking about the curupira, a small, redheaded creature of the forests of Brazil with backward feet. It liked to confuse hunters by making tracks in the wrong direction. It also had a hell of a whistle.

  Even though he knew I was an Other, Professor Allman didn't believe the curupira existed. Someday, I thought as his eyes lit up, I should tell him that I'd known a whole family of them.

  "Sounds like you've heard about my first love, " he said. "What do you want to know?"

  "Have you heard of the lobisomem?"

  He nodded at once. "A werewolf of Brazilian legend. Apparently a very unpleasant looking monkey in its human form."

  “A were-monkey?”

  “No, a werewolf. But yes, its other form is a monkey, and since we generally assume that werewolves are human-to-wolf and vice versa, I see the confusion.” Then he murmured to himself, “I really should try to coin a phrase—something like Monkwolf. It could become a thing. It may even … what do you kids call it?” He snapped his fingers. “Go viral.”

  I had no idea what we kids called anything. If this older human was out of touch, what did it make my five-hundred-year-old self? Out of everything. This, despite my roommate’s frantic efforts to sit me in front of as many popular movies as she could. “Your education in humanity,” Aimee called it. Though I felt doubtful about Jurassic Park helping me to understand humans better.

  "Werewolf," I repeated. "So the lobisomem only changes by the light of the full moon?"

  "Some do," he said. "It depends on the creature, and most especially on whether it's cursed."

  "What about one that can appear during the day? And has claws that can nullify magic?"

  His green eyes went wide with delight. "You're referring to El Lobizon."

  I swallowed. "El Lobizon," I repeated. Any creature of lore with an article preceding its name—in this case, el—meant unique power.

  "A terrible, cursed creature," he went on. "You see, El Lobizon is always under the control of the master who summoned it. In that way, it can assume its deadliest form at any time of the night—or the day. And that's not the worst part."

  I waited, but he only gathered up his bag and started toward the door.

  "Where are you going?" I asked. "What's the worst part?"

  "Come with me, Katrina," he said. "I have a book in my office that you’ll love."

  Love, I thought, is one way of putting it.

  ↔

  We took two flights of stairs, my hands shaking as we walked, and not because of the cold—well, not just because of the cold; I am Brazilian, after all.

  It was because I had just burned two months of my life and, in the process, had provided a scent trail for a creature who I suspected could completely dismantle my illusions. My way of life.

  Professor Allman led us into a small, single-window cranny of an office on the fourth floor. Little did he know, I'd been here many times; this was where we had weekly meetings to discuss my ongoing research on Other DNA. Here, of all places, was where I felt safest. Where I could spend hours being myself without fear of judgment or the gig being up.

  That was kind of an Other thing in this GoneGod World: we were often afraid of the gig being up, the other shoe dropping, the humans around us turning murderous. It had happened quite a lot around the world since the GrandExodus—and with more frequency in recent years.

  So it was saying a lot that Aimee was my best friend.

  When I stepped inside, billowing warmth and the familiar scent of books washed over me. It was also profoundly quiet, which, as an introvert, I’d always found centering, comforting.

  Maybe that was why I still opted for real books. Or maybe it was because I still preferred the 19th century (well, except for the whole modern medicine thing). Whichever it was, I calmed a little as Professor Allman turned on the light and gestured for me to sit in the overstuffed armchair.

  "Let me see.” He ran his finger over the spines of a dozen different books on one of the shelves as I dropped into the seat, rubbing at my amulet.

  After a minute, he let an "Ah," plucked a small book from the shelf and set it in my lap. "Turn to page fifty-eight."

  I glanced at the cover: Creatures of Amazonian Lore. I flipped the pages, the pictures sailing by until I stabbed a finger between two leaves. I lifted my finger as the book settled on its spine, and a wolf with red eyes stared back. Cold recognition ran through me, and my eyes flicked to the name.

  El Lobizon, the hunter.

  "Is that what you were thinking of?" he asked cheerfully.

  "Yes," I whispered, reading as fast as my eyes could process.

  El Lobizon had to be summoned, and remained fully under the power and direction of his master. His greatest power—one even the angels feared—was his ability to nullify magic. His presence alone had that effect, though it wasn’t clear how large his radius was.

  Thinking back, I had felt his effects from the other side of the dining hall. That had been at least twenty feet. Maybe Justin hadn’t noticed anything because of the lack of light under the table, or because a killer wolf was stalking through the building, but my illusion had definitely been affected.

  I lifted my pocket mirror out of my purse, opened it to observe myself. Still Katrina Darling, right down to the freckle below her left eye. So even though I'd taken a direct wound, the magical nullification hadn’t persisted.

  But as I read on, a point of greater concern leapt from the page: El Lobizon’s canines. With one bite, his venom would strip the prey of all magical abilities. Not just for hours or days, but forever.

  That was what the angels feared. That was what I had narrowly escaped.

  While he could hunt during the day, El Lobizon became most powerful after sundown, his night vision so potent he became a fearsome hunter. Night was when he came into his own.

  And the worst thing of all: he could discern one magical scent from another—all bore a stamp as unique as a human fingerprint—and once he caught wind of his prey’s scent, he didn’t stop. Not until El Lobizon caught his quarry or his summoner freed him from his bondage.

  My first thought was of Justin. We had spent the night together, our bodies enfolded about as closely as two people could be. My scent was all over him.

  And Aimee. She had touched me when she was treating my wound and hugged me after.

  My eyes flicked to the square window on my left, where outside the day had slipped into late afternoon. Pale light issued through the panes, and it would soon grow paler.

  Someone—likely that elderly woman—had summoned El Lobizon here in Montreal, and it knew my scent with unmistakable acuteness. After all, I had just burned two months of my life to become Katrina Darling. That was the equivalent of placing a 24-hour cookie shop at the center of a college campus.

  I swallowed. I had all the trappings of Katrina, but none of her monster-fighting prowess. So I did the thing I was best at. (Well, one of them.)

  I leapt from the chair. "Professor, can I hold on to this book for a little while?"

  "Why, sure. If you'll just bring it back to my—"

  "To your office. Got it," I said, weaving past him. If I survived all this, I would eventually have to explain to Allman and all my other professors what was going on. Why Isabella Ramirez had disappeared from their classes for a few days, and why Katrina Darling was borrowing a book that Isabella would eventually return.

  If
I survived all this.

  I hurried back to my dorm and took the most unpleasantly scalding shower of my life. Fortunately, Aimee had vacated as I'd told her to—I couldn’t handle her questioning me right now, not to mention the danger it would put her in—and I made liberal use of her loofah to scrub myself from scalp to toes. By the time I got out, I looked pinker than some of my encantado sisters in their natural forms.

  In the shower, I had used Aimee's shampoo, and afterward, covered myself in her body lotion. If El Lobizon was after me—and Aimee, by extension—then I would be both her and me.

  I would be Aimee’s scent squared.

  That was why, before I headed to the O3 house, I opened her dresser drawer, grabbed a pair of her jeans, a sweater and the extra coat she’d hung on the door. It was why I grabbed up her perfume bottle and sprayed myself in its mist until I smelled like a fake floral arrangement.

  Like I said, this was what I did best: pretend to be someone else.

  Chapter 7

  The massive lion’s head door knocker clomped against the wood once, twice, three times. I cringed every time, glancing over one shoulder and then the other; the thing sounded like a struck gong.

  Ten seconds later, a built blond guy opened the door and looked down at me. His nose wrinkled as the perfume-o-rama swirling around me hit his nostrils, but to his credit, he only said, “Hey. Kat, right?”

  “Right. Is Justin here?”

  He gestured me into a frat house out of the movies. The two-storied foyer included a wide, winding mahogany staircase. The walls had been adorned with O3 banners, each of them signifying a different class. Someone had set a pair of crossed paddles on the wall, and if I were a betting gal (which I was), I’d say they had been used for smacking.

  Which was a bizarrely erotic college convention. Not that these frat guys would ever admit as much.

  “Hey, Justin!” The blond called up the stairs. “Your girl’s here.”