Orphaned Follies: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (Mortality Bites Book 4) Read online

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  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.

  “Three 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 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

  “Thank 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 lightl
y 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.

  “OK,” I said, “so if most people my age go through this, what’s the cure?”

  “Ahh, therein lies the rub,” he said. “There is no cookie-cutter solution. Everyone has to figure it out for themselves.”

  I’ve never wanted to hit someone who was trying to help me so much in my life. That’s a wee bit of lie—I’ve often wanted to hit Egya, but he’s a special case.

  But still, this guy was annoying me with his swearing helps me relate to the kids and his misquotes. So I did what I always do when I’m annoyed: I annoyed back. “There’s the rub,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” He tilted his head in confusion.

  “ ‘There’s the rub’ is the expression. ‘Therein lies the rub’ is a misquote. And also, given you’re a shrink dealing with quarter-life crises, you may not want to use an expression from a speech about suicide.”

  Now he narrowed his eyes, not following me at all.

  “Your misquote is from Hamlet, and the speech is—let me accurately quote it for you: ‘To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come.’ See? Suicide.”

  “Ahh,” he said, putting down his pen and notebook, “but Hamlet didn’t kill himself, did he?”

  “No, but he did get himself killed.” I was annoyed that he wasn’t annoyed.

  “Hmm, maybe. Then again, maybe he died finally doing what he thought was right.” He took off his glasses and bit on one of his glasses’ arms in a thoughtful way before saying, “And given he was probably suffering from anxiety himself, when he finally decided what to do—or rather, what he must do—I believe his anxiety would have finally left him. In other words, he found what he needed, and in finding it, he freed himself from what ailed him.”

  I sighed in frustration. “I don’t get it. I’m here for help and you’re talking about Hamlet.”

  He tsked me. I mean, actually tsked me. “We’re talking about Hamlet because you tried to use my misquote to throw me off.”

  “I didn’t—” I started.

  “Ms. Darling … please, if this is going to work, we need to be honest with each other.”

  You want honesty? How about the honesty of my knuckles cracking your teeth? I thought—thankfully in my head. Out loud, I managed a resigned, “Fine. I was trying to annoy you, but it didn’t work, did it? Clearly your annoyance-fu is stronger than mine.”

  He chuckled and gave a playful bow. “I’ll have to remember that one, too. And no, that’s not exactly true. Your annoyance-fu is strong within you, but I have an unfair advantage that allows me to win pretty much every sparring match.”

  “Oh?” I said, lifting an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

  “I’m not the one seeking help.”

  Ahh, of course, I thought. By admitting I need help, I’m placing myself in a vulnerable position. To use fighting words: I’m the one who’s prone.

  “Exactly.” He snapped his fingers.

  Damn it, my thinking out loud glitch. Getting help is hard enough without inner me complicating things.

  Walks, Friends and Party Prep

  Emerging from the Student Health Services building, I wondered how much I was getting out of these talks.

  I wasn’t ready to be honest with Dr. Tellier about my past as a vampire, nor did I want to tell him about the raspy man and how he thought I was feeling this way because my soul was trapped in some jar held in a secret location only the GoneGods knew where. Not that I believed raspy man.

  The trouble was, I didn’t disbelieve him, either.

  What’s wrong with me? I thought, and I heard a familiar voice say, “You’re too short, you think you know it all and you’re right even when you know you’re wrong. But other than that? Nothing, girl.”

  Without turning, I said, “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”

  “Good thing I’m not a bull.”

  I pursed my lips and nodded, turning toward him. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

  “I’m afraid you did. And before you ask: Yes, girl, I have been following you, too. So you can give me all the rage you want now, or we can talk.” The tall Ghanaian smiled at me, his teeth whiter than snow. If he wasn’t one of my best friends, I’d dye those teeth red with his blood.

  “OK, let’s do the rage part now. ‘Too’? How do you know about that?”

  “I saw Justin—well, the miserable bei
ng that was once Justin. He told me about your fight and his oh so stealthy behavior. Thing is, girl, I’ve been following you, too. Mostly because I was worried about you. Partly because I’m a bit of a creep.”

  “Ugh. Look, if you—”

  Before I could start in on some tirade I’d probably regret later, Egya stepped in front of me and gave me a deadly serious look. “I followed you, and you didn’t know because I didn’t want you to know. But I am a hunter with centuries of practice at such things. Justin, as sweet and handsome as he is, could not follow a toddler in a jungle gym without being noticed. And you didn’t know. That causes me great concern, Katrina.”

  “Oh.” I realized he was right. I didn’t know I’d been followed, and I should have. The only way someone like Justin could have tracked me without my knowing was with a drone or magic, and in both cases, my spidey senses would tingle. And yet when Justin said he was following me, I was totally caught off guard.

  “ ‘Oh’ is right, girl,” he said. “Now, for all the battles we have fought side by side, for all the laughter we have shared and all the tears both cried and held back, please, tell me what’s going on.”

  It was just like Egya to invoke our entire history together. He was a friend. He and Deirdre were the only real friends I had in this world. Them and Justin, when he wasn’t annoying me. And here I was, not telling them a thing, just like I wasn’t telling Dr. Tellier anything.

  Way to lean into your vulnerability, Kat, I thought—in my head.

  “OK,” I said, “do you want to know what’s happening?”

  “Yes, girl. I do.”

  “I’m sad.”

  “About what?”

  “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know, but I’m sad all the time and nothing I can do shakes this feeling of loneliness. Ever since I was turned human I’ve been sad.”

  “Turned human when the gods left, or when that curse was lifted a few weeks back?”