Forsaken
Authors: R.M. Gilmore
A Dylan Hart novel
by
R.M. Gilmore
Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult series
Forsaken by R.M. Gilmore
© 2014 R.M. Gilmore All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.
Editor: Becky Johnson
Hot Tree Editing
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0692341582
Mac Gille Mhur Publishing
For Carson.
Prologue
Losing a father, a mother, a child, is a widely accepted experience. You are expected to mourn, to grieve, and to lose yourself in your sorrow. What do you do when you lose your best friend? When the person you’ve chosen, the soul, which will forever be attached to yours, is gone. Where do you go? She’s not a lover, a husband, a father to your children; she is your chosen sister. Your heart chose her above all others with whom to share your secrets, your hopes, your failures, and your life. Through boyfriends and break-ups, disappointments and hang-ups, blowouts and make-ups, she was supposed to be there. Always.
And I killed her.
Chapter 1
Whoever said you can’t go home again obviously had zero experience with dead things.
“I’ve got to head out, Mom. I’ll be back later tonight.” I’d hardly lifted my ass from the chair when the demands began.
“You better keep that keister in that chair,” Mom demanded.
“Mom, I’m twenty-seven years old; can you please stop using words like ‘keister’?” One full day back at home and I was ready for matricide.
“
At least she didn’t say ‘fanny’.
”
“Ha! No shit,” I said to my dead friend who only I could hear.
“What?” Mom asked. It wasn’t every day her daughter talked to invisible dead people.
“Nothing.” There was no way in Hell I could tell her who I was talking to. The moment she knew Tatum was standing in her living room in all her spectral glory--in theory, anyhow--the floodgate of questions would burst open and not one of us was ready for that.
If she knew even an ounce of what I knew, she would be in danger almost instantly, according to Cyrus, anyway. I had to keep her safe, and the only way I knew how was to keep her in the dark. It really was true: ignorance is bliss. If only I’d known that back in May, I wouldn’t have been sitting in my mom’s living room watching
Jeopardy
, talking to the ghost of my best friend who I killed, and devising a plan to get away to see a vampire king and a homicide detective. One could reasonably assume my life as I knew it was royally fucked.
“Mom, I just have to go see Mike. I thought you wanted me to see him again?” Use her own guilt trip against her. It was an awful way to go about it, but lying little beggars can’t be too choosey.
“Can’t you just wait one more day? You’ve been through so much, I just—”
“Mom, I’ve been here, in your living room, for twenty-four hours and counting. I need to see a tree.” It was a lie. I could have given a shit about greenery. Unless it came atop a greasy burger or packed in a bowl, I wasn’t interested.
“Can’t he come here?” she pressed on, as if her urging would change the situation.
“Mom, really?”
She’d taken me to get some things from my apartment, refusing to let me out of her sight. Snatching up my gun from my place had been a feat in and of itself. I hadn’t had a moment alone in far too long. I stood and she knew the argument was over. I was never a bad kid necessarily, but the phrase ‘strong-willed’ would’ve been accurate.
“You be back here, in bed, tonight.”
“Where else do I have to go?” I shrugged and kissed her forehead. She smelled like coffee and shampoo. “I’ll be back. I promise.”
“
Like hell you will.
”
I ignored the pestering voice, which had been intermittently nagging me as long as I’d been at my mom’s. I didn’t know what she meant by that. Honestly, I didn’t know what she meant by most of the five-word sentences she’d been spitting out of her ghostly mouth. Apparently, enigmatic bullshit comes with the paranormal territory. I grabbed my keys and headed out the door; I could safely talk to my personal haunting from the confines of my Geo.
“Will you stop that?” I whispered as I shut the front door behind me.
She didn’t answer me. I had grown accustomed to it. She hadn’t directly answered me once since she started talking to me. I was halfway to the freeway and beginning to think I’d left her behind with my mom when she piped up from the passenger’s seat.
“
I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I jumped and swerved but righted myself before it became a thing. “Why can’t I see you?” I asked the space from which I knew the voice was emanating. “Why don’t you answer me?” There was only silence. “This is bullshit!” I slammed my palm against the steering wheel.
“You’re not over it yet?”
My phone rang from my back pocket. My shoulder, though well and good back in its socket, was still sore and in no mood to fuck around. I held the wheel with the hurt side and fished out the ringing phone with the other while I merged onto the freeway headed for Embrace, Cyrus’s new home office. I rolled my eyes when I saw the caller.
Safety first, kids.
“I’m on my way.”
“You’re late.” Michael
Punctual
Petersen stated the obvious from the other line.
“Yes, I know, but I’m on my way.”
“I’ve been waiting
here
.”
He resented me for many things, but resentment
du jour
was the fact that I’d allowed him to spend alone time with Cyrus and the lot of them at Embrace while they waited for me. He and Cyrus had attempted to mend fences with an old cardboard box and wads of gum. They seemed to play nice for my tender mental state after all that had happened in New Orleans, but it became obvious as the hours became days that comradery was quickly morphing into resentment, on all sides, mine included.
“I know. I’m coming.” I hung up. No time for his bullshit and no patience for his whining.
There was much to discuss. Cyrus had promised me another day. He had repeatedly promised that I’d know all on another day. That day had come. It was time to lay it all on the proverbial table. I was already ass-deep in the occult and wouldn’t be digging myself out any time soon. No soul to save here; I’d already sold that shit for a Mickey Mantle rookie card and a stick of gum.
All the information I’d gathered from Cyrus—what little that was—and my own experiences told me the fight wasn’t over. The simple fact of being haunted by the ghost of Tatum since the first night back home made that clear. The best I could do for my life wasn’t to save it, but to save those I shared it with. Cyrus could tell me what I needed to know; Mike could keep the flesh-and-blood bad things from kicking my ass, but there was only one way I could see to keep everyone safe and only one person who could help me do it. I needed to be a paranormal bad ass, and I needed a paranormal bad ass to help me.
Luckily for me, I knew a wrinkled old bitch willing to put her ass on the line to save mine. The price would be steep, but I was willing to pay it. I was willing to do anything to save the people I loved. To keep my people, I’d go to Hell and back.
In a pink fucking hand basket
.
Chapter 2
Embrace wasn’t lit up and crawling with bloodsuckers like it usually was, like it would be in ten or twelve hours. The November breeze blew dust and small bits of garbage in my general direction. A cellophane wrapper from a cigarette pack stuck to my jeans. I tried to kick it off, but the static cling kept it there. It crinkled and flapped while I grumbled up the non-red-carpeted walkway.
I raised my fist to knock, but in good horror fashion, one of the double doors creaked open. I wasn’t amused, and there was a small part of me, which was ready to dig the gun out of the small of my back and shoot whatever was dicking around with the door. I pushed at it instead and walked through.
“Not funny?” Dominika’s thick accent didn’t sound right with her happy-go-fucky tone.
“Not today,” I said and hardly glanced her way. I hadn’t been in much of a mood for people, living or otherwise, since my best friend bit the big one. Rightfully so, I say. “Where’s Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Asshole?”
“I’m curious which is which,” Dominika said as she closed the door. I opened my mouth to give an explanation. “It’s passed.” She flipped her hand in my direction and left me standing in the entryway alone with half a thought on the edge of my tongue.
“Yo!” I called out to whoever else was listening. No one answered. “Boys?” I called again, and again there was no response. Dominika had snaked off to a back room behind the stage. “Marco?” I said under my breath.
“
Polo
,” a familiar voice said to my left.
I sighed and dropped my head. “Why here?” I asked.
“
Where else?”
the cryptic voice answered.
“I don’t know, anywhere! Just not here.” I instantly felt bad for screaming at the ghost of the girl I’d killed. I wanted to talk to her, but it just never happened. I could talk all I wanted, but she never really talked back. Not really. She’d say stuff, but usually it meant nothing or was otherwise irrelevant in the conversation.
“What’s not here?” Mike asked.
“Me,” I answered as absolutely honest as I could without sounding like a fucking nutcase.
Mike shook his head and looked down at his Dockers. “Why won’t you just stay with me?” he asked out of left field.
He’d asked every time he called and all four times he’d stopped by my mom’s. Every time, he really sounded like he thought the answer had changed. It’d been three days since everything had gone down. I hadn’t left my bed for anything more than eating, shitting, and “The Price is Right” in that time. I wasn’t exactly ready for crashing at my ex-boyfriend’s pad.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“What a fucking liar,” he accused. “You need me. You need
help
, Dylan. If you were just some random girl, involved in a random case, I’d give you the card of a therapist. Shit, I’d drag you to the loony bin myself.”
“I’m not crazy, Mike. Fuck, you were there! You saw it all. I had no choice. This is my life. It’s not going to change, and unless I do something to stop it, it’s just going to keep getting worse.”
“How? That evil bitch is dead. You killed her. You chopped her mother-fucking head off. I watched you do it. How are you still in any danger? You beat the bad guy.” He held his hands out as if to say,
“What the hell is wrong with you, psycho?"
I closed my eyes and shook my head. His naivety was going to get him on the bad side of dead. “I’m still in danger because–"
“Because she knows now what lies beyond.”
Who the fuck does he think he is?
“What in the shit are you wearing?” Mike jutted his hands out in front of him toward Cyrus who was absolutely deserving of a visit from the fashion police.
He looked like Barnabus Collins. His long, brocade coat dragged along the floor behind him. I half-expected him to steeple his fingers and mesmerize me with his glare. It appeared Cyrus was taking his new vampire Primus gig seriously.
Cyrus chuckled and looked less attractive than usual. “Don’t like it?” He held his arms out wide. I waited for a spin, but he left me hanging.
Mike dropped his shaking head to a hand. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he murmured.
“Michael…shut up.” I was in no mood for their bullshit.
“Dylan, he put that…” Mike flipped his hand up and down with a sneer on his lip aimed at the floor-length coat. “
Thing
on just now. He did it for you.
Hello
.” Mike smacked himself in the forehead, indicating he wasn’t thrilled with my mental uptake.
“That is a ridiculous coat, Cyrus.” I nodded and didn’t bother with silly things like tone and inflections.
“
Quite the regal king. Where’s his queen?”
I closed my eyes and mentally cussed out my dead best friend. She and I would have our day, I hoped, but not yet. Coat or no coat, Cyrus was going to tell me everything I needed to know about everything I
never
wanted to know.
Cyrus unbuttoned his coat and slid it off, laying it over a nearby couch. The room hadn’t changed much since I’d seen it last. Velveteen couches sat sporadically throughout the space. Sconces jutted randomly from red and black walls. Candles, however, were nowhere to be seen; not even telltale dried wax was left behind. The daytime, industrial overhead lighting brought with it a sense of coldness. It seemed candles were a staple of the occult, so to be in a vampire-run, sort of, establishment without a single flickering flame felt unusual. The bar was where I’d recalled it being, as with the stage and the wall of tricky mirrors. The last time I’d paid any attention to those mirrors, they were missing a few key elements. Like reflections. Not mine, but others.
“Would you like a drink?” Cyrus asked and pointed at the darkened bar area.
“As much as the answer to that question is yes, no. I don’t think I’ll ever accept another alcoholic beverage from this bar ever again.
Ever
.” Recalling memories of that night brought Tatum into the forefront. I felt my nose blossom red with the urge to burst into tears in the middle of that florescent lighting and in the presence of Barnabus
fucking
Collins.
“Didn’t have fun during your last visit?” Dominika slinked across the dance floor from a private door hidden behind the stage. As she passed the wall of mirrors, I noticed her distinct, albeit sensual, reflection.
“Technically, my last visit consisted of barfing on a decapitated Regina out front. So, no. And what’s with the reflection?” I pointed a lazy hand in the general direction of the culprit to my confusion.
“Something, isn’t it?” Dominika stopped and admired herself in the set of mirrors. “Thank the gods for good genetics,” she said while she bent over, adjusting her boobs and blotting her lipstick.
“I fucking hate this place.” I shook my head. “No, I meant I thought you vampire types didn’t have one.”
Dominika threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, Donnie.” She shook her head and walked to the bar.
Blind fury tickled in my stomach. “You know damn good and well my name is Dylan,” I said through gritted teeth. My mental state was nowhere near capable of prioritizing assholes. The world was at risk. “I swear to fucking Christ, if you call me Donnie one more Goddamned time, I will have your pretty little head on a spike.” It wasn’t a threat; that was a one-hundred percent promise. She’d surely rip my heart out if I even tried it, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me.
Dominika held her hands up in surrender, but offered nothing else as she poured booze into glasses. Cyrus held his face in a tight, stoic expression, which didn’t fit his usual blithe and cryptic self. A flash of Malcolm came over me and I was suddenly disgusted with Cyrus. In the end, he was never a good idea. No, he had been Tatum’s idea. She died, and with her any ideas of me and happiness. Fuck, even my relationship with sanity was out the window.
“There is a lot to go over. Have a seat.” He pointed his hand toward one of the many velvet couches as if I was new. “I’ll wait for you to get your notepad out. I’m sure this is something you’re going to want to write down.”
I stopped fiddling with the hem of my jeans and stared at him. After all we’d been through together, I couldn’t fathom attempting to put any of it down on paper. Not until I got my head on straight, at least. “You think I’m going to put this in a book?” I was honestly offended.
“Isn’t that the overall end?” His expression held a sense of indifference I’d never seen in him. “You began this with the notion of book writing; why would that change?” He adjusted his brocade vest, which fit tightly around his muscular form. “Are you not a writer anymore?” He shrugged off his words as if they meant nothing.
“I’m nothing.” I shook my head. It was a stupid thing to say with Mike within earshot. It sounded as crazy as I felt, and I knew he’d surely catch on and push the issue. “Right now,” I added. “Today, I’m nothing but me. I’m Dylan Hart; I killed some people and I’d like to know why.” It was the truth. It was all I could give.
“That, I can’t give you. Your dealings with the d’Entremontes mingle in a realm I am unfamiliar with. I
can
tell you there are things out there, which are very real and very deadly. Things which quite easily make Azelie and her brother, Zorin, seem like amateurs.”
Mike grabbed my hand without asking and laced his fingers between mine. I let him, and I even gave him a squeeze, before I cut it short. I didn’t have time for him and his…whatever it was he was doing. Had we gone in and saved the day, killed the bad guys and brought our girl home safe, who knew where he and I could’ve gone. But after everything, I hardly had enough brain power to keep myself alive and free from a straightjacket, let alone a needy ex-boyfriend. Sex was irrelevant. Food was irrelevant. Sleep, well, that brought with it images I’d have rather burned my eyes out than be forced to see again. All I needed was information, and the power to keep it all the fuck away from me so I could try and move along, or at least not die. I’d killed people; dying could prove to be worse than living. If vampires and witches were real, why wasn’t God? If God was real, well, what did that say for the Devil?
He’s in the details, apparently.
Cyrus let out a heavy breath. “Dominika has a reflection because she is a solid form.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded.
“If something has form, that form will cast a reflection. It’s physics.” He looked at me like I was wearing a big-ass dunce cap.
“But it’s vampire lore; can’t that defy logic and things like science?”
There’s got to be some truth in this. Ain’t nobody making that shit up.
“Logic is relative and science is in its infancy, regardless of what scientists may assume. Lore is just that: lore. Vampires, goblins, ghosts and the rest are all part and parcel of the human emotion of fear. That’s not to say they are not all in existence, only their story is probably different than what you’ve heard.”
“So, everything is real. All of it. But they’re all just misunderstood?” I was skeptical.
“Not exactly. Misunderstood could indicate they are not what they are feared to be. They are, for all intents and purposes, quite terrifying.” A smile tickled the edge of Cyrus’s mouth. I didn’t know what he found so fucking funny, but the way he looked at me made me think he was a tad terrifying himself.
Dominika sauntered into our group carrying a tray with booze-filled glasses teetering on it. She handed them out and shoved one in my face. I hadn’t asked for a drink. In fact, I’d refused with good cause. Dominika shoved it into my hand anyway and a bit sloshed over the side.
Clutching my tiny glass, I asked the only question which had carried on with me through my trials and tribulations. “Vampires, fact or fake?” He made a face and tilted his head back and forth, indicating my assumption wasn’t exactly correct. “Jesus.” I closed my eyes and shook my head.
Slamming my drink back, I was a tad grateful the Hungarian bitch had forced it on me. The liquid was through the lips, over the gums, and careening its way to my gut before Cyrus had a chance to expand on his ho-humming.
“
Vampires
are a thing of fiction.”
Could have fooled me.
“Vampires were made up by writers and directors to sell books and make movies.” Dominika tossed the tray on the couch behind her and plopped down unattractively beside Cyrus, obviously uninterested in our conversation.
“Garlic? Mirrors? Sunlight? What of all that?”
“Mainstream vampire lore.” He shook his head.
Too cool for garlic and sunlight? I was a vampire before it was the thing. Fucking vampire hipsters. Ha! Vampsters!
“What exactly should I expect here?” I asked, annoyed with him and his non-linear storytelling.
Mike nodded in agreement but hadn’t said a word otherwise. Dominika filed away at her pointed nails, making it clear she couldn’t care less what we were discussing. She seemed the type to not be affected by life or the horrid things it carried with it. She just scraped the sandpaper-on-cardboard over pointed, red nails.
It’s the Vamp-ster, the Vampmeister, sharpenin’ her pen-cil. Inner Dylan, you watch far too much television.
“I’m not understanding,” Cyrus responded and pulled my attention from the grinding sound and repetitive motion of the file.
