Sacrifice (Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult) (2 page)

“Oh.” His eyes stayed trained on mine for a long minute. He
sucked his teeth in annoyance and released his grip on my arm. “Why is this
out?” He bent over and snatched my pistol from the floor. It had dropped in the
hullabaloo and slid nearly under the bed.

“I told you I was scared. Shit, terrified. It’s why I own
it, right?”

“Why did you fire it?” he came back with a sneer.

“It was dark and I didn’t see Cyrus was what…who busted down
the door. I just shot and ran in here. I’d emptied the clip before he made it
to the bedroom door.” Somewhat true.

“Well, Mr. Atossa, you’re lucky you made it out alive with
Quick Draw McGraw firing at you.” Sarcasm oozed through his lips and trickled down
his chin. “You’re loaded with shit and it’s beginning to flood over. Whatever
the fuck is going on here, I will figure it out and someone is going to jail.”
Cyrus scoffed and began to roll his body around, trying to get up from the
floor. “I’d watch it boy. When it comes to choosing who to put in cuffs, I’d
much prefer you. Well…usually anyway.” He smiled and winked. Leave it up to
Mike to sneak in a sexual innuendo in a time of peril.

“Thanks, Mike, I can handle it from here.” I folded my arms
across my chest.

“You’d better pack a bag,” Mike said nodding.

“For what?” I hissed.

“You’re coming to stay with me.” I started to protest, but
he quickly cut me off. “There is no way in hell I’m leaving you here with your
front door like that.”

“Well, I’m not going to stay with you!” There was no way the
situation would end well.

“Where the hell else do you have to go?”

He had a point. Tatum might as well have been on Mars. Cyrus
was out of the question, it really only left Mike or my mom. Neither of which sounded
appealing, but beggars really couldn’t be choosers now, could they?

“My mom. I’ll stay with my mom.” Just as overbearing and
annoying, but without the aggravating sexual tension.

“Good. Pack a few things. I’ll drive you. She’s been worried
sick about you since yesterday.”

“Worried sick? How many times did she repeat that phrase
until it was stuck in your head?” Mike stared at me like I had something stuck
to my face. “I’m not leaving right now. I have some shit to deal with, and when
I’m done, I’ll drive myself.” I let out a sigh and stepped closer to Mike whose
face was beginning to turn an unhealthy shade of red. “Look, I’ve had a really
shitty couple of days. I need some time to decompress. I’ll call you when I get
to my mom’s. Okay?” He’d likely be there when I showed up anyway, but giving
him the satisfaction of a future phone call would have to do for the moment.
Just to keep him off my damn back.

His eyes shot from my worn out face to Cyrus on the floor
and back. “Fine,” he said simply.

He wasn’t giving up, not by a long shot, but he knew how far
he could push me before someone ended up hurt. And it usually wasn’t me.

Mike had had enough of me and all my bullshit. Not giving up, just
giving
in
for the time being. Without
another word, well maybe an irritated grunt, he turned his back on me and
walked out.
 

I
 
didn’t
 
hear the
door, but that could have been because the huge fucking hole made it obsolete.
After a few minutes of silence, I turned and stomped toward the man with blood drying
on his face.

"Answers. Now," I spewed through clenched teeth as I towered
over the heap of
 
wimpy
 
man meat laying on my floor. 

"Do you mind if I stand?" he smiled an irritatingly charming
smile that reminded me so much of our first few encounters together.

Reluctantly, I shuffled back a few steps to allow space for him to crawl
to his feet. I
 
didn’t
 
know why I was so annoyed and a little disgusted by his lack
of masculinity. It really wasn't his fault. Mike did come in with a surprise attack
and followed it up with a beautiful ground and pound. Perhaps I just had no
patience for pussies. Or Mike just did it for me.
No.
No, it’s the patience thing.
It must be.

"Now,"
 
Cyrus
 
began, moving to stand in front of me. "Let’s fix the
door."
 He tugged at his shirt and
adjusted the collar.

"Let’s not," I said, crossing my arms across my chest.
"Let’s fix this little matter about dead things traipsing in
uninvited."
 

His eyes dropped to the floor refusing to meet mine. "Well, I suppose
that is a priority." He paused long enough to annoy me before reaching for
my arms. "You, my darling Dylan, are on the road to hell and
 
Azelie
 
d’Entremonte
 
is at the wheel."

Great. More cryptic ominous bullshit.
 

"And?" I urged.

"And...
you
are fucked, my love." His
hands squeezed my biceps. He lifted his eyes to meet mine finally, and stared
quite a long time.

There was no
other way to put it. I was fucked. The only questions left were how bad and how
long. I couldn’t live like this forever. My head couldn’t take it. Either I
would end up in a nut house, or I’d throw myself from a seriously tall
building. Neither of which seemed attractive in the least.

“What am I
supposed to do?” I asked flatly. No need to beat around the bush at this point.

He thought
about it. His brows furrowed and I was surprised he didn’t tap his chin or rest
his fist on it; his face was so textbook pensive.

“I need to talk to Malcolm.” He wiped at his face, smearing
the last of the wet blood across his cheek.

“That’s your answer? ‘I need to talk to Malcolm’. You have
no clue what’s happening, do you? Because of
you,
I was dragged into the mess in the first place!” I shoved my
finger into his chest. “
You
pushed
for my attendance.
You
left me to
fend for myself!”

His eyes squinted and it looked like it hurt with all the
damage. “You, my dear, used my invitation as an open door to spy on those you
wish to exploit.
You
traipsed into
Madame Azelie’s shop.
You
elicited
her wrath.
You
are the cause of your
own ruin.”

Son of a bitch! Fuck
him for being so damned right! And fuck him for tossing it right into my face.
Morality money shot.

“Well, what the hell did
you
do to stop it?”
I
ain’t
nothing if I
ain’t
irrationally defensive.

“I cannot believe you, Dylan. I have experienced your
ridiculousness a number of times in the recent past, but this incident is more
than I can bear. You are behaving horribly. You
know
you are in the wrong. You
know
you have brought this on yourself, no matter how unwarranted, and now
you
are unable to cope with it all. I
will step into my own grave before I run off on an excursion to save your
ever-loving soul if you are going to continue to act as a child.” He didn’t
yell at me. He didn’t talk down to me. He scolded me. He might as well have expressed
how much I disappointed him. The ultimate parental punishment – ensure the kid
feels as horrible and guilty as possible.

Game. Set. Match.

I looked away from his gaze unable to meet his eyes after my
reprimand. A flash of spankings fluttered through my brain, but was quickly
washed away by preservation instinct. He was right. My big-ass mouth had dug me
into a huge mystical hole of death and gory things, and the only person I could
count on to get me out of it was the one person I was trying to inappropriately
blame it on. When faced with the choice to straighten up and fly right or
shrivel into oblivion huddled in a corner hiding from dead things – I’d fly
that shit like a fucking Wright brother.

“Fine.” I flopped my arms against my hips. “What the fuck am
I supposed to do?”

“I’ve told you. We need to speak with Malcolm.”

“And how to you propose we do that? He’s across the country.
What do you guys have, some kind of Secondus-Primus E.S.P.?”

“No,” he scoffed and grabbed his own ass. “We have cell
service,” he replied condescendingly, raising his puffy eyebrows, and pulling
his phone from his back pocket.

I’d called Tatum a few times and had no response from her.
In all the clamor, I’d forgotten to be concerned with her wellbeing. Having no
concern for Malcolm was intentional.

“Good luck,” I snarled and folded my arms over my chest,
again. They might as well make a t-shirt with straps on it to hold my arms in
that perpetual position.

The sun peeked its shining face through the blinds in my
room, creating bars of light along the white walls. My first glimpse of
sunshine in damn near thirty-six hours. A lovely prison cell of sunshine just
for me. Cyrus held his matte black phone to his ear for what seemed to be a
million years. I waited for him to begin leaving a message, but it never came.
He just waited.

“They’re in the air,” he said, ending the call.

“I was right about the E.S.P. thing!” I exclaimed with a
finger pointed to the ceiling. Flashes of Malcolm flying through the shining sky,
toting Tatum along by her hand, like a blood drunk Peter Pan flittered through
my brain.

“No, it’s a logic thing. They must have caught a flight back
the moment Malcolm discovered the mess you’d created.” He slid his phone back
into his pocket and grabbed me by the arm. “We need to leave. Now.”

“But my door.” I stumbled along with him as he pulled me
through the apartment.

“I don’t think it will be an issue,” he assured.

He stomped through my upstairs apartment, his footfalls
echoing throughout the building. Luckily, I lived above a garage, so the only
thing to piss off was Mr.
Garabedian’s
’64
Bel
Air. We made it to the holey front door before I began
to protest. “Wait!” I said, jerking my arm from his grasp. “I’m not leaving my
home unattended with a huge hole in the door. I need to take care of this whole
dead girl thing, but I also need my personal items when I get back from my trip
to hell. If I get back,” I added, not wanting to jinx myself any more than
necessary.

Without a word, Cyrus opened the front door to reveal Mike
standing a few steps down from the landing of the stairs that led to the
entrance of my place. He was on his phone yelling about needing a
rook’
to haul his ass down to my street
for assistance.

“What are you doing?” I asked as if I genuinely had no clue
what he was up to.

He jutted a finger in the air telling me to hold off the
bitch-fest until he was off the phone. I rolled my eyes and sighed immaturely.
He grumbled more orders into the phone, before hanging up and giving me his
full attention. “I’m not leaving you here like this.” His large hand pointed
toward the now open door. “An officer will be posted on your stoop until the
Super’ gets here with the new door.”

“Jesus.” I dropped my head into my hand. “I didn’t think
about having to tell Mr.
Garabedian
. He’s going to be
so pissed.”

“It’s taken care of,” Mike said with little emotion. “You
will have a new door by sundown. But I still want you to stay with your mom or
me for a few days.”

What? A few days? I
want this shit handled in a few hours. I have
shows
on tonight.

“Mike, I’m fine. I can stay in my own apartment.” As long as
it has a door and the blessing of a priest. Or two.

“I’m talking about you needing to spend some time with
people who love you.” His eyes shot to Cyrus then back to me.

“As opposed to?” I asked as I crossed my arms firmly over my
chest.

He hesitated a few seconds, “Everyone else.” His arms
mimicked mine over his broad chest.

“Humph,” I scoffed. “Thanks for taking care of the door,” I
tossed my head toward the gigantic hole of splintered wood. He nodded quickly
just before I shoved past him and down the stairs.

Cyrus followed directly behind me, leaving Mike standing
alone on the top step.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mike called from above
us.

“Saving my soul,” I yelled over my shoulder.

Cyrus opened the passenger door of his white SUV. He’d left
it at LAX when we departed for our weekend from hell. Mike didn’t speak again,
just stared from his perch as we drove away. I had no idea where we were headed,
but wherever it was, it held my salvation. Or I was headed off to die in a hole
somewhere surrounded by dead things. Either way, nothing about my life would
ever be the same again. Magic and death were seeping its way into my existence,
and there was nothing I could do about it, but accept the facts, and try to
change my future. I could believe in magic. Believe or die. Or was it believe
AND die?