by Cory Barclay
MYTH
BOUND
Cory Barclay
BOOKS I – 3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2018 by Cory Barclay
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
www.CoryBarclay.com
First edition: September 2018
Cover Art by MiblArt
Please consider signing up to my newsletter for new releaseinformation and specials at www.CoryBarclay.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Mythbound
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Also by Cory Barclay
Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy
Devil in the Countryside
In the Company of Wolves
The Beast Within
Of Witches and Werewolves Box Set Trilogy
THE
MYTH
SEEKER
Cory Barclay
MYTHBOUND
BOOK I
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2018 by Cory Barclay
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
www.CoryBarclay.com
First edition: September 2018
Cover Art by MiblArt
PLEASE CONSIDER SIGNING up to my newsletter for new release information and specials at www.CoryBarclay.com
This book is dedicated to my brother—the best person to talk to when I need to stimulate my brain, especially when our talks go into the wee hours.
CHAPTER ONE
As Steve Remington gazed across the cemetery, his eyes landed on a most peculiar sight: a pale girl in a white dress sat cross-legged next to a headstone, playing her guitar for the dead.
Steve had his own funeral he should’ve been attending, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the girl. He should’ve been listening to his brother’s eulogy—he was speaking about their father, after all. But his brother’s voice came out muffled and static-y, like an old-timey TV program from the ‘50s. Besides the girl and her guitar, everything around Steve drowned away.
Until someone smacked him upside the head.
“Jesus, Steve, stop staring off into space and listen to your brother. He’s a fucking writer for Christ’s sake.” It was Steve’s cousin, Lenny, who reprimanded him. Lenny quickly crossed himself, as if he hoped God had misheard his blasphemous, profane utterances.
“Eulogies aren’t really my genre,” Steve whispered back, immediately feeling like a dick.
Lenny just shook his head. “Then do it for your father, jackass.”
Steve wanted to say, “He wasn’t really my dad,” just to see Lenny’s face erupt like a smoothie machine without the lid on. But he didn’t want to sound too melodramatic—the day was already somber enough—on the off chance that God actually was listening and watching. He already had one embittered relative shaking his head at him, he didn’t need the Holy Father to join in.
The truth was, Steve had been estranged from his brother for years, so it was hard to listen to him.
But his sibling pressed on, delving into his reserves of eloquent and elegant prose, calling forth all the wit and nuance learned from his years of Creative Writing classes, harnessing his verbose power into a single, perfectly lame speech. Steve thought he heard the word “juxtapose” uttered at one point in time, which he was pretty sure was illegal outside of Congress or a calculus seminar.
Then again, Steve didn’t really have a leg to stand on. He knew his disdain for his brother’s speech came from within, a mantra commonly proclaimed in his regular Alcoholics Anonymous meetings: realize that someone who has a resentment toward you is actually just angry at himself.
Steve was a proud-and-poor musician-turned-studio owner without a single one-hit wonder to his name. The thing called the Internet had really put a damper on his producing career in recent years, since every Dick and Jane with an iPhone had the tools and technology at their disposal to call themselves sound engineers, music producers, or whatever other half-truth, half-assed title they could come up with.
But what Steve did have an ear for was good music, and even from this side of the graveyard, he could tell the girl in the white dress had it.
With the opportunist inside him pushing its way to the forefront, Steve couldn’t wait for the eulogy to derail or come to a smashing conclusion.
“His commitment to his family was second to none. He had a passion and zest for life unrivaled by anyone I know,” his brother proclaimed.
Steve just shook his head. He wasn’t any of those things, Steve thought.
Except, maybe, passionate. Yes . . . he was a zesty asshole.
When the eulogy finally ended, Steve was already halfway across the green before his father’s casket had even begun lowering into the earth.
He came to the girl at the headstone and stood there for a moment, listening to her melancholic playing. She had big sad eyes and skin so pale that Steve assumed she was allergic to the sun. Her lanky black hair came down to her shoulders and her bangs nearly covered her eyes. She was small and petite and looked about eighteen.
Steve reckoned she belonged in a Hot Topic more than a cemetery, until he realized those two places sort of catered to the same crowd. She looked completely out of her element here on the grass, in the sun, strumming her golden acoustic guitar. But as Steve glanced down the rows of perfectly aligned headstones and gravesites, he realized he was out of his element, too.
The girl came to a quiet close, her thin fingers resting on the strings as the last melodic note pushed its way from her instrument. She didn’t look at Steve, which was quite unnerving, so he scratched his cheek and turned around to inspect the gravestone.
Mary Killigrew
May 5, 1930 – August 17, 2018
She Saw It Coming
“Did you know her?” Steve asked, pointing to the headstone. He was trying to act nonchalant approaching her—nonthreatening and non-creepy, but he wasn’t sure how well he was doing in that regard. Approaching anyone at a cemetery was by default a bit creepy.
The girl shook her head. “I just play to ease their passing.”
It was August 27, so Psychic Mary must have been buried recently. In a strange way, the girl’s words made sense to Steve.
Taking the bait, he said, “How do you know she can hear you?”
“Because I can hear her.”
Steve frowned. She’s either a medium or a hippie. I don’t know which is worse, but at least she’s playing her psycho-hand from the get-go, which is more than I can say for Julie. Julie, of course, was Steve’s ex.
“What is she saying?” Steve asked.
“She was applauding . . . but now she’s saying to get the hell off her.”
Steve looked down and only then noticed he was standing on the mound right on top of where the casket would be buried. Blushing slightly, he took a big step to the left and got off the mound. “Oops. Tell her I’m sorry.”
“She doesn’t respond well to apologies.”
“Of course she doesn’t,” Steve muttered. He stayed quiet for a moment then cleared his throat. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. “Look,” he began, “I just wanted to come over and say I really enjoyed your playing. You have an attitude about you and . . . well, anyway, I run a music studio in Pacific Beach. If you ever feel inclined, feel free to stop by. Maybe we could make something.”
Steve’s hand brushed over hers as she took the business card, and he felt a slight tingling sensation as they touched. “I’m Steve,” he said. “Steve Remington.”
“Annabel Lee,” the girl said. “But my friends call me Anna, or Bel.”
“What should I call you?”
“Annabel.”
Steve chuckled. “Fair enough.” He ran his hand through his hair. “So, you’re named after an Edgar Allan Poe poem?”
Annabel shrugged. “My parents have a strange sense of humor.”
Steve looked over both his shoulders. “Speaking of . . . where are your parents? You look a little young to be out here by yourself . . .”
Annabel frowned, her mouth becoming a thin line. “My parents are vampires. They don’t like the sun.”
Steve smiled. At least the girl was funny, despite her somber appearance. “Ah, damn bloodsuckers,” he said. “I know the feeling.” He thrust his thumb over his shoulder. “Mine just died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Annabel said. She readied her fingers to start playing another song, also the cue for Steve to fuck off.
Steve shrugged. “Maybe you could . . . ‘play to ease his passing’ sometime. God knows he could use it. He was a mean old guy.”
“Perhaps I will,” Annabel said. She cupped her hand over her eyes and stared up at the sky. “Though it’s getting a bit late. I should be heading home soon.”
“Do you need a ride?”
Annabel shook her head. “I’ll walk.”
Steve knew where this cemetery was located . . . there were no houses for miles. “Are you sure?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“I like to walk.”
A voice called from across the green. Steve spun around and noticed Lenny was waving at him, beckoning him to come back to the funeral. Now it appeared to be over, Steve acquiesced.
“I’ve got to split,” he said, then stuck out his hand. Annabel stared at it for a moment like it was a foreign enemy, then she slowly gave it the ol’ limp fish.
“I hope to see you at my studio,” Steve said as he started walking away.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Annabel called out. “I doubt my parents will allow it . . . they’re quite evil.”
Steve chuckled as he walked up the small hill to his father’s procession. Ah, angsty teenagers and their parents, he thought.
The small crowd that had been there for his father was scattering when he came back. Lenny was the only one still standing around the lowered casket, waiting for the undertakers to come by and start shoveling the dirt.
“Who the hell was that?” Lenny asked, squinting toward Annabel. “And where the hell did she come from?”
Steve smiled and put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “She’s a prospective client, dear cousin. And I think she might have come from Heaven. Either that or a psych ward.”
CHAPTER TWO
Driving back from the cemetery in Orange County, Steve couldn’t help but reminisce over what Lenny had said to him about that strange girl. He was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the sun just low enough to explode beneath his sun visor and right into his eyes. So he had plenty of time to think while inching forward a few yards every few minutes. He lit a cigarette, cracked the window, and turned up the radio, which was currently playing Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven”—arguably the most overplayed/greatest rock song in history. He did his best thinking while adrift in the swirl of music.
Where the hell did she come from? Lenny had said. It’s like she popped up out of nowhere!
Steve didn’t have a good answer for his cousin.
Was she behind that tree?
No, Steve had just turned and there she was. She’d definitely stuck out, with her white dress and gothic look—perfect for a cemetery. She’d talked strangely, with a weird accent Steve couldn’t quite place, like something out of the Victorian era. Or at least what Steve thought someone from the Victorian era might have sounded like . . .
HOOOONK!
Steve jumped in his seat, cigarette ash plummeting to his lap. There was a car-length gap ahead of him, so he eased off the brakes and inched forward. He looked in his rearview mirror and gave the universal shrug that said, What do you want from me?! We’re both stuck here, so quit fucking honking!
“Stairway” was hitting its climax, so Steve turned it up a couple notches after Jimmy Page finished his epic guitar solo.
Robert Plant belted out the lyrics like a certified Norse god, and Steve mumbled along, acutely aware he probably wasn’t singing the correct lyrics: “As we wind up on the road!”—frantic air-drumming on the steering wheel—“I should’ve stolen but I sold!”
Looking to his right, Steve noticed a little girl in the car next to him gazing at him with wide eyes, like he was a diseased circus clown. Discouraged, he stopped singing as Robert Plant continued.
He tried to get the girl from the cemetery out of his head. He actually started feeling a bit guilty for coming on so strong with his sales pitch . . .
But he needed clients. The bills weren’t gonna pay themselves, and his studio was in dire need of talent. Steve was a capable guitarist, and he conside
red himself an even better songwriter, but he couldn’t charge himself per hour, so he needed outsiders, and Annabel had seemed like a perfect prospect.
“Smoke on the Water” by Deep Purple started playing, the most famous opening riff of any song ever, which confused the hell out of him because Robert Plant was still wailing on “Stairway to Heaven” on his radio. That’s when he realized it was his cell phone going off. He looked over both shoulders to make sure no cops were around—he really needed a hands-free device for his car—then looked at the screen and picked it up.
“Fats, talk to me,” he said.
His friend, Dale, said, “Dude! Where are you? I’ve been at the studio for over an hour waiting on your ass.”
“My ass was at my dad’s funeral.”
“Oh, that was today?” Dale’s semi-angry tone instantly mellowed. He rarely got mad at anything. “My bad, dude.”
“I’m stuck in traffic, but I’ll be there soon. Hey, I met this girl at the funeral—”
“Was she hot?”
Steve scoffed. “She looked about sixteen, man.”
A pause.
“Don’t change the subject. Was she hot?”
Steve frowned, but quickly realized Dale could not see his frown through the phone, so he said, “No, man . . . I mean yes, but no, you don’t get it. She was a musician, and a good one.”
“How the hell did you meet a hot musician chick at your dad’s funeral?” Dale asked, stupefied. “Was she a friend of your dad’s?”
Steve shook his head, but realized, again, that Dale could not see him.
HOOOOONK!
“Shit!” Steve yelled. Jumping in his seat, his cigarette fell from his hand to his lap region and he had no idea where it landed. He dropped the phone and launched his butt off the seat and started swiping his hand underneath him. Soon he could smell the nasty stench of burning car leather. Dale was still yapping on the phone, but it was coming out literally sounding like a Peanuts character: “Blah blah blah.” Steve looked to his right and saw the little girl in the car next to him pointing and laughing at him.
Angrily, Steve flipped the little girl off then turned to his left. He knew he must look like a crazed baboon thrashing and writhing in his seat looking for his fallen cigarette.