Sacrifice (Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult) (18 page)

I swallowed hard and inspected the peaks atop each rung of
the fence. Their tips made my butt pucker in anticipation.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I kicked at the dirt underfoot.

Shuffling and phantom moaning had caught up with me while I
struggled to devise a plan. The girls stumbled around the shack with the blue
roof. There was no time to stress about anal penetration. The gate was locked,
but along either side a shorter wrought iron portion sat atop a brick wall a
few feet tall. My slim sneakers fit perfectly between the brick and the fence
allowing a boost over the top of the butt-pokers.

The girls shambled toward the gate and threatened to make
contact if I didn’t move my ass. I flung one leg over the top of the fence and
hefted my heavy body over. Something wet and cold soaked through the denim of
my jeans. A gag hit the back of my throat. Adrenaline took over and I was no
longer in control of my actions. I was over the fence of death and running down
the street before my brain could catch up with what my body had just done. I
made it to the corner before I realized nothing was following me.

My legs noodled and I fell to the asphalt in the middle of
the road. I stayed on all fours just long enough to catch my breath. I spit and
coughed, and decided it was time to quit smoking before I forced my tired body
up from the ground.

I’d left Mike and Cyrus in the cemetery. I hadn’t thought
twice about it. I just ran. I stood in the middle of the street and stared back
at it. Hands on my hips, I breathed hard and heavy, trying to regain my
composure.

I was alone in a town where everyone was my enemy. My only
two cohorts lay inside the gates I’d just worked so hard to bust free from. The
question was, did I go back or keep moving forward?

I’d come all this way to rescue Tatum only to lose two
people who actually gave a shit about me. Didn’t seem logical to me either. I
grabbed the metal at my neck and tossed a prayer up to the big guy. Hey,
couldn’t be too covered.

No weapon. No phone. No help. Just me. And my little piece
of magic. Can we say fucked?

My sneakers shuffled along the street back toward the
cemetery. I swallowed hard. “They’d go back for you,” I told myself.

Back at the gate I’d scrambled over, I scanned the area for
dead things. Like the many times before, they were gone. Only around to scare
the living shit out of me, their tricks were becoming more obvious each time
they appeared. This made them no less terrifying.

I climbed the wall, and over the fence I went. I hadn’t
hopped a fence since high school and it showed. Halfway over, my pocket caught
a spike. Attempts to free my butt cheek from its clutches were futile, and I
promptly fell from my perch. I hit the ground with a thud, back pocket dangling
from the point it’d been stuck to.

“Of course that would happen.” I sat on my butt and shook my
head at my ridiculous life. Living, breathing Murphy’s Law. If it could and
would happen, then it sure as shit would happen to me.

Knocking the dirt from my sore ass, I pulled my bag from my
shoulder and wrapped the strap around my hand. I didn’t have much in it, but it
was all I had and I planned on using it. My eyes darted about, looking for
danger or something more effective than my half-empty bag to pummel someone
with. I came up busted on both accounts. I guessed that would be coming up even
then.

My heart pounded harder than it had when I was running. The
last thing I wanted to do was go back in that cemetery. I’d fought so hard to
survive this far. But, it was my fault. I liked to blame Cyrus and Tatum, and
shit, even Mike, but it was all my fault.

From day one. I wanted so badly to make something of myself
that I dove right into a world head first without checking the depth first.
Everything I did after that brought me to this place, brought
him
to this place. For the prick he
could be, Michael did not deserve to be here. I did not deserve the love he had
for me. For that reason alone, I forced my hesitant legs to move forward.

I strained to listen, forcing my ears to pick up signs of life.
Ironic wasn’t it, searching for life in a place for the dead. There wasn’t
anything but the wind.

“Mike?” I whispered loudly. “Cyrus? Guys, where are you?”
I’d seen them starting to get up. I knew they had to be wandering around
somewhere. Mike had stood right there and looked right through my dead girl in
my mom’s living room; there’s no way they ran into those things. Those
things
were only for me.

Unless our skinny friend got to them first. Between the two
of them, I thought, they could take that guy out. If I rang his bell, they
could too.

“Shit!” Mike bellowed from somewhere beyond the rows of
crypts in front of me.

“Mike?” I shrieked and ran in the direction I thought his
voice was coming from.

He didn’t answer and there was no more yelling. It only took
a few minutes before I was lost in the forest of cement and brick.

“Fuck,” I whispered to myself, looking around for a familiar
landmark. It was useless. There was no way I’d recognize anything from the
whopping twenty minutes I’d been in the graveyard.

“You guys? Where are you?” I called out, trying
unsuccessfully to be inconspicuous.

“Dylan…” The wind called my name, or so it seemed. A faint
voice, unrecognizable, and hardly audible, wafted through the air.

I spun in all directions searching for its origin. “Dylan…”
it came again.

I expected to see something scary at any moment. I resisted
the urge to ask if someone was there. Those were always a character’s final words
and I wasn’t going there. If something was going to get me, it’d have to find
me first.

“If I make it out of this bullshit, someone had better make
a movie about it, damn it,” I talked to myself as I tromped ahead through the
rows.

Just keep moving, I told myself. Eventually, you’ll find
them. Maybe they’d already found Malcolm and were out searching for me.

I stopped in my tracks to let a sudden thought sink in. “You
idiot!” I scolded myself under my breath.

Why it hadn’t dawned on me until that moment I could only
attribute to lack of sleep and the whole fighting for my life thing.

Whether Malcolm was in on it or not, I didn’t know, but
Marienne had led us right into a trap. Blood sucking bitch!

“Fuck!” I groaned as quietly as my rage would allow and
tromped along. “How could I be so stupid? How could Cyrus be so stupid?
Shouldn’t he have some kind of mind powers or something?” I muttered to myself.

A man stepped out from behind a tall mausoleum. I stopped,
what else was I supposed to do? He stood a few yards away, mostly shrouded in
shadows. The top of his head nearly meeting the height of the crypt he stood
beside. His wide frame apparent from the distance but the lighting hid his
features.

At that moment, everyone was a suspect, “Who are you?” I
asked and flinched at my own naivety. “I have a gun.” I followed up with a nice
lie. Vulnerability echoed from my lips.

He said something low and cadenced like he was reciting a
poem.
 
I tried to assess my escape routes
while he rambled on. There were not many options other than to barrel right
through him. He wasn’t Twiggy alien guy; he had meat. Similar to Mike. I’d
never make it past him.

“Dylan Hart.” His baritone voice rolled over my skin.

“Yes,” I answered without thinking. For all I knew, he was a
process server looking to hand me a stack of legal papers. Unlikely, but it
could happen.

“Come here,” he called.

Oh sure!
I thought. My legs moved unwittingly and my feet followed.
Before I knew it, I was standing within arm’s reach.

“Where are my friends?” I asked calmly, somehow knowing he
would know where to find them.

His soft blue eyes stayed fixed on mine. Skin, the color of
a caramel latte, was hardly visible through the masses of tattoos he bore. A
very pretty man he was indeed. “Here, with me.” His voice was so soothing to my
rattled soul.

“That’s good.” I nodded and smiled at him as though he were
a pint of pecan praline.

Long dreadlocks trailed over his bulky shoulders and framed
his masculine face. He reached a large hand out and rubbed it softly along my
cheek. “Mine,” he said slowly.

“Ok.” I agreed obediently.

It was that easy. All the running and fighting and cursing
I’d done, and one good-looking fella was my downfall.

I looked longingly as his face. So lovely. So familiar.

“Ms. Hart.” His soft words called to me. His hands came out
to take mine, but he didn’t. He waited for me to comply. He was taking me
somewhere. Maybe to see Mike and Cyrus, I promised myself.

I looked down at his thick strong forearm reaching out for
me. I smiled absently and reached out to take his offering. My eyes caught a
single tattoo at his wrist. His dark coloring and the poor lighting left a lot
to the imagination, but that I had in abundance. And if my memory and
imagination was honest with me, he bore the mark of Azelie d’Entremonte.

My hand, literally centimeters from his, jerked back. I
pulled my thoughts back into my head and forced my subconscious to follow suit.
The look on his face proved to me that I was correct. He meant me harm and it
was coming. Fast.

“Fickle fuck.” Were the only words that escaped my lips
before I swung my bag at
him.

I hit him hard and square in the face. He didn’t react. I
didn’t care. I used the second of distraction to move around him and book it
toward the end of the row. I could lose him in the rows; I lied to myself.

I hit the end and turned left. I didn’t know what was left.
I just turned. It was better than what was behind me.

“Mike!” I screamed. “Help!” I ran. My legs quivered and I
wanted to stop. I was so tired. There was only so much a body could take, and I
was nearing my limit. I was vulnerable. Open to attack. Mystical and otherwise.

It was so easy for that man to fancy me into submission. No defenses
against cute boys. Damn Devil’s trap – not intended to ward off hunks -
worthless piece of shit!

“Cyrus!” I called out desperately.

I ran passed row after row of headstones, searching for a
way out. I hit the last row, and a brick wall mostly overtaken by vines of
leafy green plant life. I turned left again, out of options. I turned to check
over my shoulder, nothing followed me.

My body hit solid and hard into an object in front of me.
The object had arms that held me tightly. I wriggled, fought, kicked and
screamed, but the arms stayed firm.

One hand gripped my hair and pulled me away. The man with
the dreadlocks stared at me with crystal blue eyes. Azelie’s eyes. If it
weren’t for the opposing skin tones, I’d say they were related. His face was
still and reserved. My arms swung haphazardly around his face, not making
contact once. He grabbed both my wrists with one huge hand and held them in
place.

His eyes stayed trained on mine. Trying to think mystically,
I closed my eyes. If I couldn’t see his eyes, he couldn’t use them against me.
Oh, how smart I am.

With my eyes closed, I felt his warm lips touch mine. In a
second, I was done. My legs went, no longer able to support my own weight. His
hand held my hair and arms tight. I practically dangled by my hair in his hand
for a solid few seconds, before he let go and I tumbled to the dirt below.

My arms were weak and did nothing to stop myself from
hitting the ground and hitting it hard. This big body falls hard and doesn’t
apologize for it. I heard the thud a breath before I felt it. My hip hit first
and my head followed not too far behind.

A crack echoed through the night and warmth trickled around
my face, pressed hard in the dirt. My head bled and I lay there as if I was
getting a massage.

Hands wrapped snuggly around my ankles and my heavy body
began moving, slowly at first, backward. The bits of sand and debris under me
caught my skin and stung. I smiled. It was stupid and completely not warranted,
but I had no control of my emotions any longer. The hunk with the dreads had
some kind of slaphappy mojo working over on me. As we picked up the pace the
stinging became burning and the blood from my head began to cling to my face,
crusting over with sand. Blood mud.

I took one last breath before things went black.

Oh, the places
you’ll go. If Seuss only knew the places I’d go, maybe he did, I don’t really
know.

Chapter Thirteen

My head throbbed. A barely audible grunt came from my throat
and let me know I was still alive. I tried to open my eyes; eyelids flickered
but refused to open. Instead, I used my weak fingers to feel along the space
surrounding my body. Dirt, sandy earth, cool just under the surface. I was
lying half on my stomach, legs positioned unnaturally as if I’d fallen or been
tossed into my current position. One of my arms was stuck under my body, numb
from the pressure, the other trailed along the ground in search of something,
anything to tell me where I was. I felt nothing.

Another groan left my lips and echoed back at me oddly. My
breathing, shallow as it was, stopped completely. Someone else was in the dark
with me. I listened, waited for a sign something was near. I only heard my own
heart thudding in my chest.

A wavering exhale shimmied its way through my lips as
quietly as my rapidly beating heart could allow. I swallowed, nothing coating
my dry mouth. It was obvious I’d been unconscious, but for how long? At some
point, I was tossed in the dirt and left to wait it out, in whatever prison
hell I was lying in. I let go of another quiet breath and forced my eyes to
roll around in their sockets. My lids fluttered with the motion and moistened
my sticky eyeballs. A part of me didn’t want to know where I was. Images of
rusty tools and sharp implements filled my head. I didn’t want to look, didn’t
want to know what was with me in the dark. But my last spark of
self-preservation willed my eyes to open.
Can’t
fight what you can’t see.

It made no difference. Eyes open or closed, it didn’t
matter. The space I was in was too dark to make out anything clearly. Minute
slivers of golden light flickered through cracks in the walls of my enclosure.
I could only assume I was looking at light sliding through wood-plank walls.
Nothing else came to mind that would produce light patterns like that. Taking
into account the dirt floor I was lying on, I figured I was likely in a shed or
shack of some kind. Or hell, some kind of above ground torture chamber. As
seconds passed, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and revealed tiny differences in
light and space. Dark lumps to either side of me shifted slightly – so
miniscule my eyes hardly caught the movement.

A small gasp pulled dirt from the ground into my already dry
mouth. A sputtering cough followed. I could have kicked myself in the face at
that moment. The one moment I needed to shut the fuck up, and I went and gulped
in a puff of sand.

“Dylan?” A whisper filled the darkness and ceased my
coughing instantly.

“…Mike?” I asked hesitantly.

“Dylan, I can’t see you. Can you reach out toward me?” His
voice was calm and reassuring, like he was talking a jumper off the edge.

I could hardly move the arm that was free, and the one
trapped under me was dead asleep. I lifted a dreary leg and pointed my toe out
and around the area nearest my feet. I didn’t make contact with anything but
air. Stagnant, musty air. A few extra whiffs confirmed my tool shed theory.
Rusty copper and gasoline added to the ambience and solidified the terror
bubbling in my guts. Nothing good ever happened in a tool shed.

“My body hurts like I’ve been run over,” I whispered. Not
sure why. Whispering just seemed like the safest mode of communication. “I’ve
got to try and roll over or something; my arm is dead.”

I felt like a turtle for the second time in one evening.
Slowly, I shifted my legs around in the dirt, trying to turn onto my back. My
one good arm pushed against the dirt, imbedding sand into my palm. After a few
panicked moments, I was on my back. The diagnosis was much more grim than
originally perceived. My arm, the one I could hardly feel for the pins and
needles, wasn’t asleep; it appeared to be out of socket. The numbness from
lying on it for God knew how long saved me from the pain that was now trickling
up my fingertips and into my elbow.

“Umm, well, shit,” I murmured under my breath.

“What?” Mike asked, less reassuring and more rattled.

“I think I hurt my arm.”
Think
was an understatement. I knew my arm was hurt. I just didn’t know how badly.

“How?” He’d calmed himself it seemed. His voice had returned
to its cop-like state.

“I don’t know, Mike. I was fucking unconscious.” My reply
was rude and uncalled for, but my patience for stupid questions was verging on
homicidal.

“No, I meant how
is it
hurt? Like a
cut or something?”

“Umm…no. I think it’s been knocked out of its socket.” The
pain that began in my fingertips made its way to my shoulder and panged through
my chest.

“Fuck,” he whispered, but the stillness that surrounded us
allowed me to hear it clearly. “Can you move your fingers?”

My finger wiggled without protest but the tendons high up in
my bicep weren’t happy.

“Flying cock balls.” I gritted my teeth; my face contorted
with pain. “Yes, but it hurts just a tiny bit.” Sarcasm to the bitter end. “It
was numb from me lying on it, but the feeling is coming back, and it’s not a
happy warm Christmas morning sort of feeling.”

I still couldn’t see where he was with respect to me, but I
knew he had to be close. I could smell his sweat.

“Can you help me sit up?” I damn near pleaded; the pain was
becoming intense.

“Well-
“ He
cleared his throat. He
did that when he needed time to get his head in the game. “Dylan, I need you to
try to sit up on your own. Are you able to move your arms and legs?” The
hostage negotiator was back.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked. I could tell he was
keeping something from me. Something that would likely toss us into a whole new
bucket of fucked.

“I’m not able to get to you right now. I need you to sit up.
Can you sit up?” he asked, his reassuring tone was there, but there was a sense
of shifty-eyed bullshit wafting through it.

“You mean
can
I
or
will
I?” It
was rhetorical. I knew what he wanted and every cell in my body laughed and
promptly flipped him off. I kicked my legs and used every last ounce of core
strength I had to pull my hefty top half up from the dirt to sit on my butt.
“Okay,” I huffed. “I’m up.” My lower back sent pings of pain down my legs. I
forced my upper torso to lean forward and relieve the pressure. “Now what?”
Exhaustion, hunger, fear, and now pain. Whatever chose to fuck with me next,
had a world of pain coming to them, or most likely it.

“Can you get to me?” A half-whine half-grunt came from my
end. “I know you’re hurting, babe, but I need you to be badass right now,
okay?”

Fine.

I swiped my good arm around in the dark toward where I
thought Mike was sitting. It didn’t take long to find his thick form.

“Good,” his deep voice whispered close to my ear. “Good. Can
you feel for my arms?”

“Why? Mike, this hurts pretty damn bad here. Can you give me
something to go on?”

 
“I need your help. I
know it hurts, but you’re all I have.” His throat clearing rattled my eardrum.
“My hands are cuffed.”

“Are you fucking with me?” Bound by his own handcuffs –
that’s got to be some kind of flick to the dick for a guy like Mike.

He didn’t answer and it was probably for the best. I didn’t
have it in me to banter playfully, or not so playfully. His arms were easy
enough to find. They were still connected to his body so that made it easy. And
lucky.

“Feel in my pocket for my wallet.”

Normally, I’d have assumed he was just trying to get me to
cop a feel, but one would assume he wouldn’t in a situation like this one. I
felt, no more vigorously than necessary, though our previous sex-
capade
left me a little frazzled and if the situation
warranted, I would have totally taken advantage of a handcuffed Mike. But,
there were more pressing matters at hand. Like figuring out where the fuck we’d
been left to rot. After a thorough and completely appropriate search, there was
no wallet to be found, front or back.

“Nope. Try again.” I shook my head unconsciously and a shock
of pain shot through my neck and shoulder.

“Fuck. Check my socks.”

 
“I’m assuming I’m
hunting for a key of some sort. If we live to see tomorrow, I want to know why it
might be in your sock.” His feet were as easy to find in the dark as his hands
were. “And why you have no shoes on.”

My left arm dangled at my side, useless and aching. I felt
between his toes, around the band, in the arch, there was no key to be found.

“You’ve been cleaned out. What’s plan B? Tell me you have a
plan B.” It’d be awesome if someone did.

He was quiet. Not even a sigh. His body was moving, looking
around with his entire head and body. Checking for escape routes or something. Hopefully.
My tolerance for anything other than sweatpants and ice cream was dwindling
down to a tiny raw nub of ‘I don’t give a shit’. The pain in my arm pulsed
between a throb and a pang.

A gurgling cough sputtered from my right. I jumped and
puffed dirt from the floor through the air. What seemed to once be
pitch-blackness, now revealed more tiny cracks in the walls, letting in tiny
slivers of light that reflected off the millions of specs of dust in the
air.
Another cough. Mike was deadly still next to me.

“
Blech
…Dylan?” Cyrus whispered
from his corner.

“Hairball?” Mike said with his award winning wit.

Cyrus muttered something inaudible and we all moved on.
There was honestly no time for witty repartee. Shit had officially hit the fan
when we were bamboozled by alien henchman and his illustrious French
headcheese. So many players in such a damn confusing game. If only I’d just
watched this unfold on the news like the rest of America instead of trying to
get the scoop.
What a tool I am.

“What’s your situation?” said the cop in the room.

“Not good,” Cyrus replied, much less reassuring than Mike
had been, and even less informative.

Thanks for the
intel
, Mr. Atossa I’ll take that
right to the president.

“I’ve been cuffed.” He left out the fact that they were his
own handcuffs. I didn’t blame him. I’d be embarrassed too. “Dylan is injured.
Are you free to move?”

Light rustling and a bit more dust later, and Cyrus
answered, “No.”

“Fuck, Cyrus, can you please cooperate! Words, man. Use your
words!” I screamed at him without regard to any possible listening ears.

“I’m bound.” He breathed and it sounded like he was talking
into the ground. “And naked,” he said softly.

My eyes and mouth twitched. So many thoughts ran through my
head. The situation had just moved from ridiculous and perilous to possibly
hilarious and downright devious. I swallowed back sarcastic remarks and sexual
innuendos. No time for that shit either. Damn.

 
“That’s great,” a
grunting disgusted Mike muttered under his breath.

“I’ve been tied in a way I cannot help myself. I need Dylan
to untie me.” Of course he did.

“I don’t have use of my left arm.” There was no need for me
to be flighty or reassuring; there was no sugar to coat this turd. I was hurt;
they were tied up in one way or another, and we were all together in the dark
on the dirt somewhere in some space of time. At least I wasn’t running. Fuck
running.

Mike cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “This is going
to hurt,” he breathed. “You can’t scream and you can’t puss out. I need you to
get up on your knees.”

Of course he does.

“I can’t.” I knew what he wanted me to do and I didn’t want
to do it. I wanted to remain with the living and I sure as hell didn’t want to
live out in the shed, but the idea of trying to shove my arm back into place by
myself, made my empty stomach churn.

“You have to. You have to do what I say or we all die.” He
didn’t know that for a fact. However, years of police work gave him the notion
we’d all die if we stayed put, and that was undisputable. I followed his
direction and waited on my knees within arm’s reach of course. “Put your arms
in front of you like you’re going to get into a fight.” I did and it fucking
hurt. “You’re going to open your arms out away from your body. Once you start
you can’t stop.” He breathed in and out. “Now, lift your arms over your head.
Breathe. Use your muscles to stretch and move until it slides back into place.”
He breathed again. “It will hurt, but you won’t care. You won’t care because
you are going to help me and Cyrus get free, and we are all getting the fuck
out of here.”

I was crying a little, quietly and stealthily, under my
breath. It hurt so badly. Mike knew what to say to get me to go through with
it. To man the fuck up. I lifted my arms up. I couldn’t help it, a cry jumped
from my lips.

“Don’t stop,” he urged. “Breathe.”

I didn’t. I closed my eyes and let the pain do its thing. My
bottom lip quivered, tears streamed down my cheeks, but not once did I scream.
My arms stuck up in the air, blood rushing away from them and to my head, I
thought I’d pass out. Through it all, I scooted my knees closer to Mike. If I
fell, at least I’d have something to fall on.