Sacrifice (Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult) by RM Gilmore Page A

logical. I could say yes. Shit, a year I ago, I’d
have said yes and known it down in my gut, but now, I wasn’t sure. My brain
could hardly handle my current minute-by-minute manic depressive, emotionally
jaded mental state let alone make judgments on the potential loyalty of a
friend who was currently being pretty fucking douchey .
    I finally decided to say, “ That Tatum would have. My Tatum. Before she was his Tatum.”
    “My dear, she was his Tatum much longer than you were aware.”
    “Then why is she so much different now? Why did we go from
zero to sixty in a matter of months?” I sounded whiny and pathetic, two things
I was never okay with.
    “I can only assume she was hiding it from you, for whatever
reason she had, and once the cat was out of the bag, she didn’t have to hide
anymore. She was free to be with Malcolm as often as she chooses.”
    The sound of his name brought a sneer to my face. I hated
Malcolm McTavish with the fiery passion of Satan’s asshole. I hated him for
taking Tatum away from me. For taking her away from herself.
    Talking of ginger vampires and fair-weather friends
delivered Tatum on a silver platter to the forefront of my mind. Wanting
nothing more than to just have something normal happen, I pulled my phone from
the depths of my messenger bag and checked for missed calls. Nothing. Not even
Mike, which surprised me.
    My inner Dylan screamed things in my head like ‘you’re a
fucking idiot’ and ‘see what you got yourself into now, you stupid cunt!’ Inner
Dylan is a bitch. Then again, so is outer Dylan.
    “I can’t believe we haven’t heard from Malcolm or Tatum. I
left Marienne’s house in the middle of New Orleans suburbs running for my life,
so I didn’t really get a chance to tell Tatum, who was across town, I was
leaving. You’d think she would have called me by now.” I talked over inner
Dylan hollering in my noggin.
    I’d have called her .
I scowled and pouted to myself lost in thought about things that really weren’t
worth worrying over. Bigger fish and all that.
    “Malcolm is Primus. He can take care of himself and his
concubine.” Cyrus reached across the center console and held the top of my
hand. “You worry about saving your own ass. Tatum is in no danger at the House
of Porte. Marienne and her cabal will keep Azelie at bay.” He let out a quick
scoff, “Besides, she only wants to kill you. I think the rest of us are safe.”
    I couldn’t help it. I laughed. I laughed so fucking hard a
little pee came out. It wasn’t funny. It was terrifying. I should have been
huddled in a ball in a dark corner sucking my thumb, but that’s not really my
style. Not yet anyway. The day was young. Shit, by my current standards, it was
practically a crying, shitting infant.
    “Maybe you shouldn’t be driving Ms. Pushing Daisies through the middle of cropsie-ville .
You might become a casualty of war,” I quipped after my laughter had wound
down. Cyrus didn’t respond before I said, “Well, I guess you’ve already been
there. Cyrus got himself zombiefied and left poor ol’
Dylan to fight her own battles,” I chuckled again, but he still said nothing.
“All right, what the fuck did I do now?”
    “Nothing. I’m just driving,” he replied, his voice monotone
and his expression stone.
    Well, if bullshit could walk and talk, it’d be named Cyrus
Atossa.
    “Yeah, and I’m just fucking peachy,” I pointed out, as
sarcastically as I could muster. “Do I need to point out that my inner turmoil
is very nearly boiling up past its limit? I can hardly believe I’m not locked
up on the third floor at Community Hospital after the shootout at the O.K.
Corral broke out in my living room, let alone why I’m just not flat out dead
right now. Oh, let’s not forget the fact that there is a serious part of me
that still cannot truly comprehend there is some kind of wacked-out voodoo
curse on my head.” I raised my arms and let them flap against my thighs. “I
mean,