Endless Night (Dylan Hart Odyssey of The Occult Series)

by Gilmore, R. M.

  Tatum was cinched into her corseted dress too. She just had less to squeeze into it. All black, floor length, and high collared, Tatum’s gown was more authentic than mine and so not her style at all. I really liked the pin striping on the fabric, but the lack of cleavage threw me.

  “What gives? Why am I dressed up like I’m headed off to Moulin Rouge and you look like your auditioning for Gothic Mary Poppins?” I asked during a gap in sharp objects.

  “I’m attached,” she said with a shrug and went back to work. “You, my darling, haven’t had a good dicking in a long while. You need titties. I don’t.” Tatum moved her lips, but never adjusted her hands as they swiped makeup across my face.

  “So, what you’re saying is, Malcolm picked it out?” I regretted being snotty right after I said it. Word of advice: never talk shit to the guy holding sharp objects to your eye. Just saying.

  She didn’t stop her work, “Yes. It matches his. Being his, I need to dress similarly. It’s kind of a tradition thing.”

  His? What has become of my friend? The girl who nailed Cyrus square in the nose just to shut him up.

  Breathing a sigh of relief she didn’t jab me good in the eye, I said, “Isn’t that a little high school?”

  “Ha, wait until you see what Cyrus is wearing,” she laughed and continued her swoops over my face.

  “Why? Why would I care?” I asked, as if I truly didn’t. Secretly, I hoped he’d be wearing…nothing. Never mind.

  “You care, don’t act like you don’t. And really, you should, you’re his escort. He has to match you,” her brows raised and she laughed through her nose.

  “Pink lace? Why in the fuck would you pick pink lace if you knew we’d have to match?” Ok, I did care. I didn’t mind pink on a guy, but I hated to be the reason the poor thing was stuck in pink for the night.

  “Me? Why…” Tatum asked through furrowed brows.

  “What a lovely sight,” Malcolm said from the doorway, breaking Tatum’s concentration.

  Cyrus stood behind the red-haired walking dildo, peering over his shoulder. Tatum turned from me and blushed at her suitor. I threw up in my mouth a bit and rolled my eyes. I hoped she’d finished her job because I figured she’d ditch me for her man in no time. I was right.

  “Are we ready?” she asked with a giddy smile. She was a totally different person around him. Like he had some kind of power over her. Vampire pixie dust or some shit. I guessed this weekend was all about power. Who had it, who didn’t. Who wanted it, who didn’t give a fuck. That’d be me. I was a firm believer in never relinquishing control to anyone. Others could only have power over you if you allowed it to happen. So I just…didn’t. I wished others could do the same.

  “You look amazing, Ms. Hart.” Cyrus moved past the two idiots in black on black pin stripes and into the room toward me.

  Looking at his perfect face, I cringed in preparation of seeing the thin red line of a recent injury. An injury I’d caused. But there was nothing to be found. He’d been bleeding profusely only an hour ago and there was nothing to show of my handy work?

  Maybe it isn’tt as bad as all that? Ha! Maybe he’s a goddamned vampire you fucking idiot! Shut up inner-Dylan. You’re out of your element.

  He was wearing pink to match mine, but he made that shit look good. Really, all he wore was a pink shirt the rest was black and very Victorian. Down to the ascot and spats on his shoes. If it was anyone else, I’d have laughed it was so over the top, but Cyrus could have walked in wearing clown shoes and it would’ve looked pretty damn good. The only thing he was missing was a silk top hat.

  “How do I look?” he flipped a black silk hat in his left hand and put it on his head.

  There it is. Now I might laugh.

  Why isn’t your lip fucked? “Don’t you feel ridiculous?” I asked, avoiding the subject that ran rampant through my thoughts, although feeling a bit absurd myself. At some point, I would get to the bottom of all this vampire bullshit. Really, I would.

  “It’s Halloween, Dylan. Don’t you like a good costume party?” he flashed a set of shiny white teeth and his eyes shimmered away. If they could bottle that charm and market it, Cyrus would be swimming in cash.

  “Oh, I guess you’re right. It is Halloween. All of this vampire shit made me forget there was an actual reason for all this insanity,” I laughed at my own idiocy and shook my head. “So, do you think my new best friend will be in attendance?”

  “I don’t think so. She performs at the Masque every year, but she isn’t welcome at the ball. Tonight is for VIP guests only, for the most part. As long as you stay with me, you will be safe until we can get you back home,” He smiled a natural and caring smile. I doubted he showed that bad boy off to just anybody.

  “We’ll meet you downstairs,” Tatum called from the doorway on her way out.

  “Well, that visit was short-lived,” my brows rose with sarcastic annoyance.

  “Hmm, well, it won’t matter what those two choose to do with their evening. Tonight, my darling Dylan, I believe you belong to me,” he wriggled his eyebrows up and down. “I do hope that won’t be a problem.”

  Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Shit, better than anything else that could feasibly be happening.

  “I think we can make that work.” It was my turn to sparkle with charm. Or at least drool charm.

  “Well then, I’ll leave you to finish up.” Cyrus pulled my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. It wasn’t the first time a vampy boy had kissed my hand, but it was the first time a vampy boy donning a silk top hat and tailed coat had.

  What wonderfully ethereal happenings have occurred since I stumbled into this scene.

  The door closed gently and I was alone in my room again, hopefully for the last time until I was in my own room in my own house, in my own damn town. Tatum had laced me, prepped me, spackled me, and now I was as sexy as I could be. Honest.

  I grabbed my small purse and tossed my necessities in it. Forcing one last look in the mirror, I moved my heeled boots toward the mirror that should be a window. The heavy gold frame that surrounded the obviously aged glass was adorned with intricate carvings of nude females wrapped haphazardly in thin cloth. I hadn’t really noticed the design before, but I supposed I hadn’t intentionally avoided my own reflection during my previous visits to the mirror. I took a step closer to the frame and took a good look at the naked ladies it bore. Each seemed to have their own intentions and seemingly their own personality. One woman carried a clay jar, another balanced a basket of fruit on her head, and yet another held a large circular symbol of some kind. The women were scattered in a sea of roses and grapes on either side trailing up to the top of the frame. There, at the apex of it all, sat another woman. Seemingly singular in her mission and the obvious center of the scene, the woman sat atop a throne of roses and flowing cloth. Her chest was bare proving it was in fact a woman, but the head bore a set of horns and a snout as a bull would have. A disturbing and odd ornament for a mirror frame, but oddly enough, not the strangest thing I’d seen in a day. I made the mental note to ask Cyrus the next time he was alone in my room with me.

  Momentarily satisfied with my inspection of the mirror that should be a window, I finally looked at my own reflection. There before me stood a quite pretty, much thinner, gothic version of me. Tatum had done an excellent job of transforming my usual frumpy self into something that could pass for the escort of the Secondus of the House of Idiot Ginger Vamps.

  “Hmm, not bad,” I said to my reflection as I turned in each direction to get an idea of the full picture.

  My chest bulged upward damn near into my chin, creating a deep cavernous cleavage I could’ve held a beer with. Tatum had left a beaded choker on my dresser to wear if I wanted to, but I thought it looked much nicer with an exposed neck. I blinked my eyes and looked at myself again. In the mirror, it looked like there was a red line around my neck. I rubbed away at it, but it didn’t wipe from the glass. Having no clue how I�
�d have gotten red stuff on my neck I licked my finger and rubbed it along the stain on my skin. To my surprise it smeared into thin smudges along my throat. The more I wiped, the more the red line grew. Thicker and thicker until finally, drips of red poured from it at various points.

  My breathing became heavy nearing the point of erratic. Somehow, with absolutely zero antecedents, my throat had been slit open and was spilling blood into the beautiful plunge of my breasts. My pale skin looked like bloody snow against the stark red of the supposed blood. Frantically, I tore at my neck trying desperately to stop the red liquid from dripping from my body. After a few seconds, the blood began pumping out like milk from an overturned jug. A glugging noise gurgled from my throat as I stood watching myself bleed to death from a phantom wound. My small hands clamped desperately to my ever bleeding neck. I stumbled backward toward my pink and gold bed. My weak legs almost toppled unto the bed and gave up, but my will to survive shoved them into gear. I spun away from the view of the mirror and stumbled toward the door in hopes of finding help before it was too late.

  My feet tripped over themselves, as they tended to do, and I fell hard to the floor. Out of sheer muscle memory, my hands left the guzzling wound at my neck and reached out to catch my fall. In that moment, I caught the sight of my pale white hands. They were clean, slender fingers and painted nails free of the gore they should’ve been bathed in. My senses returned to me and I took that instant to analyze the situation. My hands showed no signs of having been covered in blood. I looked down to my bulging chest and saw no red streaks trailing down into my corset top. Confused and bewildered, I crawled back toward the mirror. My brain refused to accept what it saw. There, in the mirror that should be a window, was me. Quite pretty, much thinner, gothic, blood-free version of me. No slice along the flesh of my neck. No blood trails down my cleavage.

  “What in the fuck?” I exclaimed through ragged breaths.

  I sat on the floor in my amazing ball gown and wondered why in the fuck I wasn’t covered in blood. Or shit, why I wasn’t dead. But most importantly, when I’d finally dropped off the deep end into sheer psychosis.

  Through the fog of unbridled confusion, I heard my phone ding letting me know I had a message. Brought back to reality, even momentarily, I reached toward my dropped purse and pulled out my phone. My shaking hands fumbled with the buttons before I learned that Mike had sent me a photo. Out of a need for human interaction, I checked the message. I was horrified to see what came through. He’d been tasteful about it, but it still wasn’t what I needed to see in that moment.

  The photo depicted the chest of a woman with a large bit of wood protruding from the center of it. I couldn’t see the head region, thanks to Mike’s excellent camera angle, but I knew there was likely nothing to be seen. Other than the bloody stump left behind, that was. The focal point of the photo was of a tattoo just to the left of the wooden stake. I was still horribly shaken by my momentary loss of reality, but I was certain I’d seen that tattoo before. Not in that placement, but I’d seen the symbol. The text with the photo read, “Any ideas?” He was looking for my help. I hated to even put myself into that headless mess, but I actually knew where I’d seen that symbol before, and the fact that it now belonged to someone missing their head, scared the living shit out of me. Against everything I’d stood for twenty-four hours before, I called Mike.

  The other line rang and I took a deep, shaky breath and let it out as slow as I could.

  “That was fast,” Mikes voice came over the line and I nearly broke down in tears. Not that hearing his voice made me sad. His voice, him in general, held a deep seeded role of protection in my brain. I knew I could never tell him what had just happened. Fuck, he’d have the white coats here in a heartbeat to haul me off to the nut house. Nope, he would never know what had happened. At that point, I didn’t think anyone would ever know. That was all I needed, the girl who offed two vampire boys nuts up in the House of Porte, vampire haven, in New Orleans covered in imaginary blood pouring from a fantastical wound. Nope. I’d keep my crazy to myself for now. Thank you very much.

  “Mike,” I said finally, my voice sounded terrible and I knew he’d pick up on it. Without letting him question me, I continued, “I know that symbol. I can’t talk, but I wanted to let you know it’s not a vampire thing.” I took another deep breath in and let it out without alerting the cop on the other line I was trying to maintain my composure. “It’s a voodoo thing.”

  Even saying it out loud, I felt like an idiot. Even knowing with damn near one hundred percent certainty the tattoo on the staked, and presumably headless, girl in the photo was the same I’d seen on the sign at the voodoo shop of horrors.

  “How do you know that?” he asked too inquisitively. He trusted my insider information most of the time so I was sure he was trying to get out personal information more than evidentiary material.

  “I just do. And yes, I’m certain. You might be looking in the wrong end of the occult spectrum. I gotta go. But you should know, whatever you have to do to find these people, don’t forget they really truly believe in everything they’re doing and will do anything they can to achieve their fictional power. Good luck.”

  I heard him start to talk, to question me and everything I’d ever said or done in my entire life, but I didn't have the time or the emotional wherewithal to deal with it, so I hung up without another word.

  I sat on the floor clutching my phone in my hand, when my door opened and a lovely man stepped through it.

  “And how, in the world, did you end up on the floor in that amazing gown?” he stood in the doorway with his hands on either hip like a mother would do.

  Not another word escaped his lips before he came and swooped me up from the floor and onto my feet. I was standing before I knew it and on stable legs to boot. I didn’t know how he did it, but just his presence seemed to make me forget about how horrid life could be.

  “Are you alright?” Cyrus asked with caring eyes.

  I let myself get lost in the shimmering green that lay between his thick, black lashes for a moment before I answered him.

  “Better now.” The only halfway sane response I could muster after all that insanity I’d just encountered.

  “Are you certain? I have a feeling there is something you’re holding inside,” his brows drew together and he peered into my face in search of my hidden thoughts.

  “Just an interesting few days. Lots of stuff to put down on paper.” He wasn’t buying it. “You know, for the book.” His eyes narrowed and I felt his unwavering concern burrow into my conscience. “Detective Petersen is having some problems with a case. He needed my help with it and it shook me up a little is all. I’m fine.” I smiled the best I could and tried to step around him.

  His strong hands held my arms not allowing me to pass. “That’s not like you. Must be a terrible case.” His voice held so much distrust, I could feel it tickle along my skin leaving behind an eerie sense of guilt.

  “Yes, terrible. Not something I’m interested in helping him with further either, so I hope he’s able to close it on his own.”

  “Likewise. I’d hate to know what could’ve gotten the likes of big tough Dylan Hart frazzled.”

  “Just more graphic than I was prepared for. I’m sure he has it all under control.”

  “Were you able to assist him in his…needs?” He asked this as if he thought perhaps I had something going on the side with Mike.

  “I answered his question. I hope it helps the case,” I responded bluntly. I didn’t do well with intrusive boys. Even sexy would-be vampire boys with a death grip on my tender arms.

  “Yes,” his grip loosened and his eyes softened their gaze. “Well, shall we? Our car is waiting.”

  I didn’t say anything more. Cyrus offered me his arm and I took it cordially. After all that had happened, I really wasn’t in the partying mood, but it’d seem out of sorts if I were to opt out of the big to-do and stay behind all alone in that big creepy house. Although,
staying behind would give me the opportunity to check under the stairs. If there even was an under-the-stairs. I hadn’t noticed a door there before so Lord knew if it was even real. The thought crossed my mind, but I ditched the idea quickly when I thought of being alone in that house with my phantom blood loss. Whatever it was, it scared me, and I wasn’t about to stick around and find out if it would happen again. Shit, for all I knew, it was that creepy fucking mirror that was the culprit all along. Not me. Not crazy ol’ Dylan. Nope, the haunted mirror did it.

  We were feet from the front doors when I decided to drop my bag. The purse fell and coincidently slid toward the foot of the stairs. I let out a fake sigh and moved away to grab it from its convenient position near the area there would be a door visible in the side of the staircase. As nonchalantly as I could, I leaned over, stopping all breathing on my part by way of synched corset, and slid my eyes upward toward the side of the stairs. If I could have breathed, it would have been a gasp. There, just as in my dream, a small door sat closed tight under the stairs. Well, at least I knew there was even a door there in the first place. So, in theory, there was a chance there were also rows and rows of shiny wood coffins hidden down there too.

  Fuck ghost hunting. I’m huntin’ vampire.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Trying my hardest to put the bloody event of my psychotic break behind me, I rode quietly in the back of a shiny black Rolls Royce. A nineteen-thirty’s model if I were to guess. Hey, I didn’t know much, but what I did know was always random and likely learned from television. Or stalking. Some stuff I learned from stalking.

  Something in my subconscious kept making my hand linger to my phantom wound. Checking for thick, warm blood. Nothing. The drive lasted just over twenty minutes and of the dozen times I checked, there was never a sign I was bleeding. I knew I probably looked really stupid with my little dance, but it was like a tick, I just couldn’t stop. I laughed a bit to myself when I figured, if I were bleeding from a hole in my throat, the two Sanguinarians I was in the car with would likely alert me by kindly cleaning it up with their mouths. The laugh faded to a sinful grin when the image in my head became Cyrus cleaning my bloody mess up with his mouth.