It was forty-five minutes before Cyrus and I found Tatum and Malcolm waiting in the lobby just outside security check. Those two weren’t hard to find. Just look for the freakishly tall, most extreme blonde and a fire engine red head of hair poking up above the crowd. Honestly, I was surprised they’d waited. I’d half assumed I wouldn’t see them until we boarded the plane.
"Where the fuck were you?" I asked Tatum, obviously perturbed.
"Sorry. I was...tied up," she said sneaking a look at Malcolm that made me nauseous.
"Gross," I said as I rolled my eyes. Instead of picking me up, she’d spent the morning tangled up with Ginger Spice. I flared my nostrils and hoped this was not a precursor for my vacation with my supposed best friend.
“Oh, Dylan, don’t act as though sex is off your radar.” She stole a look at Cyrus then back to me. I knew what she meant and she was absolutely right. And unfortunately for me, Cyrus knew what she meant too. And I had a feeling he also knew she was right.
Sex was floating around my head like scum on a pond. It was there. It was natural, and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it. Well, there was one thing.
“Can we get this show on the road or what?” I’d grown tired of their antics. I was itching to get on that torpedo of death they were calling an airplane. I hated flying. Honestly, I wasn’t sure which I was anticipating more, the flight or all the vampires at the end of it. No matter how badly my gut ached with the need to be a fly on that dungeon wall, I had just escaped death via vampire just four months before boarding a plane to visit them on their home turf. That should make anyone a bit jumpy. Even badass Dylan Hart. Did that mean I’d turn around and go home? Not on your fucking life.
Once boarded, seated, buckled, and terrified, I pulled my phone out of the big ass bag I’d brought with me. I was shutting it off. I swear. I noticed I’d missed a call and a text from Mike. Who else? He hadn’t left a message, just a quick text reminding me to be safe and have a fun trip. It was nice knowing someone besides the tall blonde I was on the plane with gave a shit about my well-being. Well, and besides my mom, but she doesn’t really count. At the very same time, it was so fucking aggravating that he still couldn’t let me go. Couldn’t relinquish that control he always needed so badly to have over me. I let out a thick sigh and let my head fall back to the headrest.
“You’re more likely to die in a car, they say,” Cyrus said suddenly, breaking my miniature moment of solitude.
Without opening my eyes, I scoffed, “Humph, in a car I don’t plummet to my death at forty-thousand feet.”
“Plummeting would only occur should you drive yourself off a cliff I suppose…” he let his thought trail off.
That was not at all what I wanted to hear. “Don’t give me any ideas.”
Giving up on relaxation of any kind, I let my eyelids slide open and took in my surroundings. Other would-be crash victims lugged their overstuffed bags and satchels through the aisle and passed my protruding elbow. Unlike the only other honest to goodness flight I’d been on, the bags didn’t tear the shit out of my exposed skin. Thanks to the annoying red head, the four of us were flying first-class. Roomy seats, wider aisle-ways, and stiffer drinks. First-class was a far reach from the cesspool of sweaty asses crammed elbow to elbow in economy.
“Would you like to rest your head here…” he created an undue awkward pause before continuing, “on my shoulder?” He was staring down at me when I dared to look in his direction.
I forced my eyes to look away as soon as I was able. It was only a matter of seconds, but I was left with the feeling I needed to look again. He had that kind of draw to him. If you didn’t know he existed, you were fine. The second your eyes met his and he became real again, there was no going back. No one should ever be allowed to own a set of eyes so fucking pretty. It was downright dangerous.
Regardless of the roomy two-to-a-row seating in the snooty part of the plane, I was still too close for comfort to the sexiest man I’d ever been close enough to touch. It was going to be a damn long flight.
The fasten seatbelt sign binged on and the few folks still standing promptly took their seats and buckled in tight. The captain came over the intercom with a pleasantly gruff voice greeting all his passengers, reminding everyone where the plane was headed, and thanking us for flying. I felt the jolt as the plane rolled forward down the runway. We hadn’t even left the tarmac yet, but my body knew where it was headed and it began protesting diligently. Out of sheer terror, I gripped the armrest and clenched my eyes tight. The sensation of leaving the safety of earth made my head spin and my breath nearly came to a full stop. I tried to breathe through the fear—in through the nose out through the mouth. Fuck that, it never worked. I was nearing a full-blown freak out. I felt the plane level itself and I tried to stay as quiet and nonchalant as I could, but my heart still felt like it was trying to escape my body. An unexpected firm touch on my clenched hand brought me back to earth, so to speak.
“We’re flying, you can open your eyes, it won’t kill you.” Cyrus’s suddenly soothing voice lulled my racing heart to a more controllable pace. I heard the seatbelt sign bing-off and instantly people started rustling around.
At the suggestion of the idiot I should never take suggestions from, I opened my eyes. Tatum poked her head over the top of the seat in front of me. “You freakin’ out yet, pussy?” she laughed, annoyingly smacking her gum. “Here, chew some gum, it helps.” She handed me a little rectangle wrapped in shiny foil and returned to her seated position next to Malcolm.
I got the distinct feeling she’d be a little preoccupied during the flight. It also sank in that I was basically stuck next to the beautiful yet generally annoying Cyrus Atossa. I didn’t know if it was my normal untrusting nature, or the fact that there was no way in hell the outward projection Cyrus put on was wholly honest, but I could not allow myself to fall ass over face for those sultry green eyes of his. Not to say I would kick him out of bed, but there was no way that’d be a lasting relationship.
I carried on a needless conversation with that beautiful man to keep my mind off the situation I found myself in. Okay, he asked me a million and a half useless questions and I didn’t want to be a total dick to the person I was stuck with for four hours, so I answered them. Besides, if the plane went down, he might be the last person I’d ever cling to for dear life. The last moments of your life should be pleasurable at the very least. Fortunately, it never came to that. Unfortunately, now that I’d made small talk with him for hours, we had nothing left to talk about, nothing but non-superficial, serious conversation. Of which I had no interest.
We landed at Louis Armstrong International just over four hours after the most terrifying experience of my life began. Not only was I forced to sit within touching distance of Cyrus, but the ride was less than pleasing. We hit a pocket of turbulence over some nondescript space of land about mid-way no more than ten minutes before the guy sitting two rows ahead of me upchucked all over his new bride. I nearly lost my cookies right along with him. If it weren’t for the uncontrollable need to not utterly embarrass myself in front of the hunk sitting next to me, I probably would have.
Cyrus grabbed our bags out of the little cubby overhead and, at his insistence, kindly carried mine for me. I wasn’t huge on chivalry, but I was even less attracted to carrying my own shit. The four of us waited patiently for our luggage to come around the carousel. I’d half assumed someone like Malcolm McTavish would have a car waiting, a little servant boy waiting to carry our things and cart us around at his beck and call. Someone other than Cyrus that was.
Nope, instead I was standing there like a jackass while my biggest piece of luggage made its voyage right past me. Without thinking it through, I made the rash decision to chase it down rather than wait for it make its way around again. Dumb, completely fucking dumb. Without looking, I sidestepped to catch up with the ever-moving suitcase. My short fingers missed the floppy leather handle by a millimeter. My feet shuffled softly to the right, trying to
keep up. Still just out of reach, my feet clumsily stepped over each other in an attempt to gracefully keep up with the moving belt carrying my livelihood farther and farther away. In one last desperate attempt, I lunged my upper half forward and reached my fingers as far as they would stretch. My left foot screeched its rubber sole across the linoleum flooring as my toe caught the floor and my chest landed uncomfortably against the metal edging of the carousel. I’d caught myself before I fell flat on my face, but in the process, my frizzy brunette locks flipped over my face and got tangled in the oversized luggage tag of my fifty pound suitcase. The suitcase continued its journey dragging me head first along with it. Half-leaning over, my short little legs struggled to keep up. The soft white rubber of the soles on my Converse squeaked as they skidded across the linoleum floor. I could hear bystanders shuffling away from the idiot girl stuck to the roundabout. No one bothered to help. A little piece of me knew someone, somewhere, was filming the absurdities. In a last ditch effort, I used all my might to hoist the case from the moving belt and to the floor. The added weight caused my balance to shift. My valiant efforts were thwarted when the hefty case caused this weeble to wobble and fall on her fat ass. Luckily, my hair freed itself in the commotion. I stood as swiftly as I could manage and glanced around with cherry red cheeks. Hundreds of people hustled about doing their business as if nothing had happened. Well, mostly. A handful of gawkers stared, awestruck at my folly. Three of those gawkers were the three people I was depending on to watch my ass for the next few days.
Couldn’t even hold a bitch’s hair, what the fuck are you gonna do in a crisis?
Finally back on my feet, utterly embarrassed, and fully willing to slaughter the first person to crack some stupid joke, I had my shit and was ready to get the fuck out of that place. Malcolm hadn’t hired a driver, but he rented a pretty swanky car. I was not a car person, but it was shiny and boasted a very well-known emblem. I was happy.
Our foursome piled into the leather seats. No one even made an attempt to look at me, let alone speak a word. I was fine with that. I rarely took myself too seriously, but dammit, being dragged around by your hair from a luggage carousel crossed the line of funny into the realm of never-speak-of-this-again. Oh sure, after a few drinks it’d be funny and I could laugh it off, but until then, leave me the fuck alone.
We drove in uncomfortable silence in an entirely unfamiliar city. I was happy to just stare out the window. I could hear Cyrus breathing next to me and remembered the coolness of his breath I’d felt so close to my skin once before. The thought brought a chill and goose bumps down my arms. It’d been way too long since I had any kind of sex and it was taking its toll on my essence. I made a mental note to see what I could do to remedy that situation and moved on. No need to dwell on that thought while stuck in a car with three other people on the way to see about some vampires.
While the idea of heading off to the Big Easy for a much needed vacation full of alcohol and blood drinkers sounded amazing, the thought of actually getting back into that scene scared me. The last time I’d gotten in with the blood crowd, I was chasing a killer with a major lust for the red stuff. I’d also nearly gotten myself killed and was forced to gruesomely slaughter the bad guys to boot. I was not exactly interested in getting myself into any more conundrums with the ‘supposedly’ undead.
Sitting in the back seat of a fancy car, next to a seriously hot guy with the vampire Primus at the wheel, is not considered a conundrum. Really.
I’m fucked.
Chapter Three
Malcolm drove us through the city into a quaint little neighborhood full of architecturally fantastic houses so big I could fit twenty of my one-bedroom apartments into one of them. The trees came together from either side of the street forming an arch to drive under. Malcolm slowed the car and pulled over to park against the curb.
“Here we are,” his Irish brogue filled the silence with a boom that only a man who thinks too highly of himself could achieve.
In the middle of an average upper class neighborhood stood our lodging for the weekend. The house was a near replica of Malcolm’s office I’d visited in the hills of Hollywood. I was sure that wasn’t a coincidence.
Malcolm shifted the gear to park and unbuckled his belt. Even those mundane tasks made my lip curl into a sneer. Giving Tatum a kiss on the knuckles, the two exited the car leaving me alone with Cyrus. Malcolm and Tatum sauntered hand in hand up the short walk to the heavy wrought iron gate that guarded the mansion-esque home. The more time I spent with Malcolm McTavish, the more I grew to loathe the man. Over the few months I’d been aware of his existence, I hadn’t spent much time with Tatum and when I did, it was generally sans the douche with the red hair. The two times we attempted contact didn’t end well. Tatum told me I needed to lighten up and learn to have fun and stop being so damned cynical. I guessed her way of helping me with that was to drag me across the country and leave me behind to heft her shit.
“I take it that’s our cue to heft their shit up to the house? Fucking hired help,” I shook my head in disgust and made my way to the oversized luxury trunk.
Cyrus made no qualms about fetching Malcolm’s luggage and I wondered how often Cyrus was brought along merely to act as errand boy.
I grunted and huffed as I pulled all their stupid shit from the trunk of our fancy car.
The two assholes in question nonchalantly meandered about the extremely green and horribly oversized front lawn. Neither made any effort to assist the two lackeys nor did either turn back to check on the two of us.
“Jesus, does this happen often? How can you put up with that pompous ass? I’d have ditched his stupid ass a long time ago,” I said hefting a few overly packed bags, which I immediately knew belonged to my quote unquote friend.
“I could say the same about you and your…comrade,” Cyrus responded, with an appropriately irritated undertone. My comrade was being a giant cunt. I didn’t have much room to talk shit
“This new bullshit attitude she’s adopted came along with the fiery ginger you call a boss. Or should I say master?” I snarled my lip in disgust and slammed the trunk shut.
I didn’t know why I got so defensive about Tatum. She was a bitch, she knew it, I knew it, and she was fucking good at it, but God forbid anyone else call her out on it. I guessed I would have grown fond of the Amazonian hell bitch I called a friend. After twenty some-odd-years together, you just kind of stopped noticing the bullshit and focused more on whose turn it was to be a dick. That was how we made it work anyway.
Cyrus had, quite sweetly, taken the larger bags to lug up the over-the-top southern walk to the enormous grey building. Great pillars supported a full wraparound balcony complete with wrought iron banisters and a couple of gargoyles perched to stand guard over the house of the undead. Nearly camouflaged with the cloudy sky, each layer of the house wore a different shade of grey to the point the entire exterior resembled a stormy sky more than an actual abode. Large, drape-covered windows on the ground floor gave no evidence of the inhabitants and the smaller windows above were darkened to the point of near nonexistence. The houses on either side stood cheery in shades of yellow and blue, a stark contrast to that of this dreary erection.
Heehee, erection.
Lugging suitcases and carry-ons, Cyrus and I made our way to the steps of the front porch. Tatum and her creep of a boyfriend waited, ever so patiently, for their help to arrive. Having about enough of this shit, I shoved the handle of Tatum’s rolling case into her hand, “Here,” I said without a glance in her direction. Luckily for Malcolm, I hadn’t carried any of his things; my shoving just might have gotten out of hand if I’d something to shove and somewhere to shove it.
Malcolm gave a few raps on one side of the heavy double doors. A moment later, a rumble of thunder rolled through the air. I looked to the sky and caught a glimpse of a high attic window. No light shone through, but it intrigued me nonetheless. A high, darkened window, begging for the entrance of a singing butler welc
oming us with ominous lyrics, what more could this little horror girl ask for in her lodgings for the weekend? One of the double doors opened and an overly ambiguous being came into view. Tall and mostly lean muscle, the person teetered atop a pair of black patent leather platform boots. Miniature matching leather shorts and a strapless leather wraparound top were buckled from top to bottom with heavy silver buckles. It was one of the most ridiculous outfits I’d seen since I began this journey into the good, the bad and the bloody, but something told me it wouldn’t be the last.
Malcolm and Tatum entered together, but remained in the doorway blocking the entrance for the rest of us lowly mules. I could hardly see, but I heard Malcolm making nice, introducing Tatum, and involving himself in some kind of mysterious greeting that involved lots of hand kissing and bowing. I let out an audible sigh at the ridiculousness of it all. Cyrus chuckled softly behind me. At least I wasn’t alone out there on that gothic porch listening to the thunder roll in. After a few moments of hellos and howdy ‘dos, the jackasses standing in the doorway moved enough to make way for us to move inside. Dragging luggage behind me, I loudly made my way past them all into the great entryway just inside the doors.
I stuck my hand toward the being atop the humungous boots, “Pleasure to meet you Doctor Frank-n-Furter,” I said with a wide grin. No response. Not even a twinge in its eye.
Damn. Fuck it.
Shrugging my shoulders, I turned from the freak show and meandered toward a great archway to our right. Tatum caught me by the arm and said through her teeth, “What’s your fucking problem?” I scrunched my face at her and wiggled my arm from her grasp.
Fuck that bitch.
I deposited the rolling cases at the foot of a wide, rounding staircase and took advantage of my time alone. Letting my feet slowly slide across the marble floor, I inspected my surroundings. Oversized, gold framed paintings hung sporadically around the high-ceilinged entryway depicting everything from a soft innocent young girl to the slaughter of a lamb on a sacrificial alter. The sight of all the red spilling over the edge of the painted slab made my shoulders tense. I remembered the gallons of blood that coated every inch of me after I’d crashed into buckets full of the red stuff. My mind flooded back to the images of the broken pool cue entering the soft flesh of a would-be vampire boy as I shoved it deep into his gut. I thought then of the sight of poor Reggie and her missing head and the bloody stump just above her shoulders the killer had left behind when he, or she, snatched that head.
Endless Night (Dylan Hart Odyssey of The Occult Series) Page 2
