Sacrifice (Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult) (3 page)

Where’s Agent Mulder
when you need him?

Chapter Three

Cyrus swerved into traffic from the onramp to Highway 101
South. Other vehicles honked viciously, as only Los Angelinos can, screaming
from their windows and wagging their middle finger at us. Cyrus never faltered;
he just kept driving, wildly I might add and fairly unsafely.

“I’m not one to criticize the driving of others, but can you
at least drive straight.” I tried to keep my voice even, no need to upset the
crazy.

He’d been driving this way from the moment I was buckled
into his passenger’s seat. He hadn’t spoken a word since we left my apartment
and I was only assuming he was taking me somewhere safe. Assumptions never
ended well.
You know the whole ass-you-me
thing.

“Where is it we’re going exactly?” I asked, hands white
knuckling anything bolted down. “I appreciate the help, but can we please be on
the same fucking page!” The last of my words came out rushed and squeaky. I’d
been through too many adrenaline spikes in the last twenty-four hours to handle
any more death-defying stunts.

“We are going to someone who can help you,” he answered
finally.

“Oh, that’s great, all the information I needed. Ugh,” I
grunted in frustration.

“You will shut up and listen,” he said through his teeth.
“Nothing you have experienced is what you think it is. From the moment you strolled
into Macabre Saturnine, you put yourself in a world you cannot escape.” His
driving continued to decline as he spoke. “I am taking you to someone who can
help you, but the price will be substantial.”

“I don’t have any money.” Nothing else he said stuck until
he mentioned having to pay for something.

“It’s not money they’ll want,” Cyrus answered plainly. “What
is happening to you right now…money can’t fix this.”

“What
is
happening
to me right now? Dead bitches crawled through a hole in my door. I was chased
by some invisible monster. And now, I’m stuck on Mr. Toad’s wild ride on my way
to see Mr. Fixit. I’d say this is a pretty fucked-up situation. What would you
call it?” I tried to keep my voice steady. I fought so hard to keep the
undeniable fear from creeping up the back of my throat. It was not that I was
so terrified of Cyrus’s horrid driving skills; it was mostly the idea of
another human being having so much control over me. Or, not so human in
Azelie’s case. I guess in Cyrus’s case too – judging by the room filled with
coffins.

“Revenge,” he said in a tone that chilled me to the bone.

Traffic thickened in the jumble of freeway just before Boyle
Heights. Cyrus weaved in and out of lines of cars and headed toward the 60 and
into East L.A. Why I was being taken to that side of crap I couldn’t tell you,
but wherever he was headed, he was headed there in a fucking hurry.

“Revenge. So Azelie wants my head? What else is new?” I’d
left New Orleans running like hell from her, and all of her hoodoo voodoo
priestess
crapola
. I thought leaving her meant
leaving it all behind me. “How the fuck did this escalate so quickly? In a
matter of days, I go from strolling into a voodoo shop on a street in New
Orleans to hurdling through Los Angeles traffic on my way to see a guy about
some headless dead girls.”

“And yet…” he began, never taking his eyes off the highway,
“here you are. Still alive. Without a scratch.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I took my eyes off
the road to glare at the side of his head.

“Nothing.”

“Are you insinuating I’m making it up?” I squealed out as he
jerked the wheel, careening us down a steep off-ramp.

“No. Just stating the obvious.” He watched the road and I
watched him.

“Since when did you become such a dick?” He swerved to the
left around a corner and down a narrow street, crowded with flat-front
single-story buildings. Each a boring shade of grey, dotted with nondescript
windows and glass doors. Signs jutted from above each door depicting the name
of the business within. Cheap Cigarettes, Family Clothes, Dollar City, each
sign its own version of the first. Basic colors and font styles, generic
graphics, this was life on the ‘cheap side’ apparently.

“Since you decided to put a
bounty
out on your head.” He said bounty like it was an attractive
idea.

Umm, what? Where is
he really taking me? To collect the bounty?

He’d been alone with that bitch, Azelie, for Lord knows how
long before he came to me. He’d been under some kind of trance the last time
I’d seen him, before I slapped the shit out of him and left him at the foot of
the stairs where he stood white-eyed and
zombified
.
God knows how he escaped that. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was released to seek
vengeance.

“So what, you’re taking me off to sacrifice me to the gods?
Hand me over to that bitch? For what? A few bucks? Eternal life? A bigger dick?
What the fuck could mean so much to you that you’d feed me to the lion?”

“You.”

“Me, what?”

“
You
mean that
much to me.” The vehicle came to an abrupt stop against the curb in front of a
portion of grey building. The sign above marked it as a
Botanica
.
These types of stores riddled the back streets of Los Angeles. Why this one was
so special was beyond me.

My breaths were evening out one by one. “I think I missed
something. I’d really appreciate it if you could explain what in the fuck is
happening before I nut up and go all kung
fu
on your
ass!” My promises of violence were empty to say the least. Even with a busted
face, the likelihood of Cyrus kicking my can all over the place was higher than
a hooker’s skirt.

He let out a long, heavy sigh. “A: you have a metaphysical
warrant out for your soul. It’s still in your body, as far as I can tell. B:
despite what you’re thinking, I do not want to drag you to an untold hell
dimension. C: you. You mean
that
much
to me, to feed
myself
to the lion.”

I scoffed, “Bullshit.”

“Believe what you want. It doesn’t matter to me. But can you
please try to believe in the magic that is after you, because it is real, and
it is here, no questions asked.”

“I thought you told me to not believe?” I asked, remembering
the conversation we had in a poorly lit back hallway just before I’d tripped
over a nonexistent corpse. “You said believing fuels the magic. Or some shit
like that.”

“It’s too late for that. You’ve already let it in.
Disbelieving now will only damper any attempts to save you. Do you understand?”

I mulled over his words for a bit. I was there. I’d seen the
girls. Each and every pale set of bound hands and stumpy neck-hole, I’d seen
with my own eyes. Blood oozing from my own phantom wounds, twice. I was there
for it all. It took a while for my head to wrap around it at first. Right up
until some unseen demon chased me down the street and up my stairs, I was a
skeptic. Now, it wasn’t so easy not to believe. But my overly rational
sensibilities, told me otherwise. The struggle between good and evil was
nothing compared to the inner struggle one faced when the occult is introduced.

“No, I don’t,” I replied, my eyes fixed on my own hands in
my lap. “But does it matter? It won’t stop. Regardless of what I believe,
whatever Azelie wants to happen, will happen. If she wants me dead…well…” I
shrugged.

“That is precisely what I am trying to avoid.” His fingers
slid between my hip and the seatbelt. The buckle clicked and came free from the
clasp. Apparently, he wanted me to get out of the car.

“Where are we?” My eyes were still trained on my hands.

“Hopefully, a place to find help.”

“It’s a
Botanica
…what are we
buying? Sex Powder and Love Juice?”

“Maybe next time,” he said, his voice not full of the usual
stamina.

Oh, don’t I wish.

“These shops are a dime a dozen. What’s so special about
this one?” I fiddled with my fingers as I felt my seatbelt slide over my chest
and back into its position.

“It’s not the shop; it’s the owner.”

We sat in silence for just a breath before I asked, “Cyrus,
how did you get out of the House of Porte and make it back home so quickly?”

Cyrus took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel so
tightly, I could hear the leather creak under his grasp. “Which do you want to
deal with first? Your soul or my stealthy escape?”

“It depends. How’s
your
soul these days?” I looked him dead in the eye.

“Gone, along with my humility. Get your ass ready to fight
the war to save your life.”

“Why do you care?” I asked, shrugging, still not truly
believing a sexpot like Cyrus would ever be interested in a fat ass like me.
Shit, I could believe in magic and curses, but suggest a hot guy wants my fat
ass, and it was all questions and distrust. What an awful rotten way to think.
I blamed society. Have to blame something, right?

“Not that it matters, but because that soul of yours is
trapped inside a body I’d really like to have alive in the future. A body I’ve
yet to explore completely. I would hate to lose out on the opportunity because
you picked a fight with the wrong bitch.” Without looking in my direction, he
killed the engine and left the car.

Some subconscious, primal portion of my brain cheered with
glee at the thought of Cyrus and his
exploring
.
Sadly, I wasn’t one for inappropriately timed sex. Besides, he had a little
making up to do for his display of bitchiness earlier. Perhaps an honest to
goodness white-knight thing would help. I would gladly allow him to save the
day if I could ensure I wouldn’t have to pick up his bloody bits afterward. My
other option would be calling Mike. Though a much more masculine decision, far
less alluring, plus it would certainly lead to more annoying and less
productive conversations than Cyrus and an impromptu tumble in the sack.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I said to an empty car.

My door opened, letting in the cool November air. Halloween
had past, but the streets were still lined with crepe paper and skulls hanging
from floral garlands. I assumed it being early Sunday morning, folks around
these parts just didn’t have time to take down their decorations. The sun shone
down on those macabre little skulls and added to the creep factor. The lore of
Halloween seemed odd in the shining light of day.

Without a word, Cyrus yanked me by the arm out of the car.

“Jesus, Cyrus, pull my fucking arm out of the socket why
don’t you,” I complained, still tight in his grasp.

Jerking me toward him, he whispered into my face, “If you
don’t stop complaining, I’ll take you to Azelie myself.”

“Okay.” The word came out in one low breath. There was no
doubt in my mind the chance of that particular incident coming to fruition was
one hundred percent plausible. It’d be just my luck.

The front of the shop looked like any other low-income
bodega I’d ever seen. One simple window and a single glass door. The objects
displayed in the window were the only oddity to be found. A statue of the
Virgin Mary, only a few feet tall, adorned in jewels and pretty things, sat
directly next to its Grim Reaper counterpart. Candles of every color and every
shape could be seen through the window on a shelf against the wall. A sign on
the door told patrons they were closed until ten a.m. on Sundays.

“Hey, they’re closed. What now?” I prodded, pointing
halfheartedly at the sign.

Cyrus knocked softly three times on the glass of the
entrance. We waited for what seemed like an hour before we saw a slight shadow
moving within. The shadow lifted its hand and ruffled through its hair. A set
of dark sleepy eyes met us at the glass door. Apparently, we had woken the
shadow. If it were any other day of any other week, I’d likely be asleep
myself. Before eight on a Sunday? Yeah, fuck that.

“Closed,” said the now not-so-shadow.

“I see. Tell her I’m here to collect on my debt,” Cyrus said
cryptically.

“She won’t be happy you woke her,” the muffled voice came
through the glass.

“
You
won’t be
happy if you
don’t
.” Cyrus stared
through the glass at the man on the other side.

After a moment or two of not blinking, the man on the inside
turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the darkened shop.

“You’re here to collect on a debt? What the fuck are you, a
bookie?”

“Something like that.” Cyrus never looked at me; he just stared
into the shop. Waiting, I assumed.

Eventually, the man came back, turned on one overhead light
and made his way toward the door. A huge set of keys jingled in his hand. More
jingling and fidgeting with the lock, and he was swinging the door inward.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with a fucked-up door.

“She’ll see you in back.” The man stopped me before I could
enter. “Just you,” he said to Cyrus.

“No, she is my retribution. She comes,” Cyrus insisted.

Don’t I wish?

 
“You’re pushing my
limits, Mr. Atossa,” said the once shadow guy in a very obvious Mexican accent.