Mythbound Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  Surprisingly, the dead bodies didn’t seem too interested in Annabel and Steve at all. They weren’t hostile or groping or vicious . . . they just cruised around like, well, mindless zombies.

  Another three minutes passed—

  Clunk!

  Steve struck solid wood. He smoothed the dirt away from the lid of the coffin, took the shovel crossways and pried it open.

  Dale gasped and coughed, dirt pouring onto him.

  Steve’s heart jumped. He put his hand out and Dale took it, but it also took Annabel on the other side to help the big man from his back.

  “Jesus Christ!” Dale cried out as he climbed from the hole, sputtering dirt from his eyes and mouth and nose. “It was so fucking dark in there!”

  Then his bloodshot eyes opened, and he saw everything else; the roaming bodies of death and decay all around him.

  “JESUS CHRIST!”

  But Steve was so happy. He couldn’t find words to say.

  Then he got lightheaded and dropped the shovel. A second later he crumbled to his knees and Dale swooped down and helped him, so he didn’t fall face-first into the open coffin.

  “Steve!” Annabel cried. Tears were streaming down her dirty pale face.

  Steve smiled, his eyes slowly closing, half-lidded . . .

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Mister Steve, but you have to send me back now,” Annabel said through her sobbing. She crouched to the ground and caressed his hair.

  Steve laid his head back. He knew it would come to this, but why now? Why now things seemed to be going so well . . .

  “The only way these bodies will return to their peaceful state is if I leave Terrus,” Annabel said, answering his question. “If I return, so too do the souls of the dead.”

  Steve groaned. He couldn’t feel his torso anymore, and he was starting to lose feeling of his extremities, too . . .

  Shit, he thought. I’m gonna die right here. Then he glanced over at the open coffin in the ground beside him. At least they won’t have to go very far to put me away . . .

  Annabel had the Remington Studios business card in her hand. She leaned down and kissed Steve on his cold lips.

  Even with all the blood he’d lost, her lips were still colder than his.

  “I’m sorry, my sweet, that it has to end this way . . .” Annabel whispered in his ear. She held the card toward Steve, and with a shaky hand he took the end of it not occupied by her hand.

  Annabel smiled and reached her other—empty—hand out.

  Steve smiled, but still couldn’t find the words.

  He took Annabel’s hand.

  A tingly shock went through his body.

  Annabel was still there, sitting over him, but her hand passed through his like a hologram.

  “Woah!” Dale shouted, jumping back and searching around. “She poofed!”

  The sound of crumbling bones and tumbling flesh split the night.

  All around them, the dead bodies had fallen where they stood, back to their rightful, peaceful states—but not back to their gravesites.

  Their connection with Annabel had been severed.

  “She’s gone!” Dale said, hurriedly. “That was gnarly!” Then he swooped down and put his arms under Steve.

  Being lifted into the air like a baby, Steve smiled one last time at Annabel’s glowing, angelic face.

  He whispered, “No, she’s not gone,” even as he was separated from her. “You just can’t see her.”

  Then his eyes closed, and everything went black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Steve opened his eyes. The edges of blackness faded away—he could see, but everything seemed blurry. It was impossibly bright and impossibly white.

  His eyes were crusty. He tried to move his hand to wipe the crust away, but realized his arm was immobile.

  He heard a rattling sound and turned his head to his right.

  His wrist was handcuffed to the metal post of the bed he lay on.

  “What the hell . . .” he croaked. His throat hurt just from talking.

  Is this heaven? Or some sort of kinky dream?

  He blinked a few times to clear the blurriness from his eyes. Then he noticed his left hand wasn’t handcuffed like the right was, so he brought his hand up and poked at his eyes, ran his hand through his hair. Dirt spilled onto his face and he sputtered, coughing.

  When he pulled his hand away from his face, a round, black silhouette was standing over him.

  He jumped—or tried but couldn’t move very far. The whole bedpost shook.

  “Dale?” Steve asked, squinting harder. The lights on the ceiling were silhouetting this person’s face.

  “You’re in the hospital,” the man said.

  It wasn’t Dale’s voice. That much Steve knew.

  Steve widened his eyes, helping him focus on the man.

  “You lost a lot of blood.”

  It was Pancho.

  Steve’s heart sank. Fuck! he screamed internally. He pulled his right wrist again, as hard as he could, but the handcuffs only continued to rattle, shaking the bedpost.

  Things were coming back to him now. He remembered most of what happened at the cemetery . . . and before that . . .

  Scarlet Amos had told him Tumbleweed and Pancho were Myth Hunters. They were the assassins Steve and Annabel had to look out for.

  And now Pancho was right beside him. And he was handcuffed to a goddamn gurney.

  But speaking of Annabel . . .

  Steve’s bottom lip trembled.

  “She’s gone . . .” he murmured to himself.

  Pancho tilted his head. “Who’s gone?”

  “Annabel.”

  Pancho said nothing.

  Steve wondered if he should scream, try to call the guards, the hospital staff, the nurses . . . someone!

  Would it do any good? This man could snap my neck before the words even left my mouth. Have you seen his hands?! No . . . I’d better try to play it cool.

  But trying to play it cool was like trying to keep his eyes open while he sneezed. It was impossible. His eyes might blow out the front of his face.

  His body was trembling—How long have I been out?

  He decided to ask his malefactor. “How long have I been out?”

  “Three, maybe four days,” Pancho replied.

  Steve frowned. He turned to his left and noticed a needle sticking out of his arm. He was attached to an IV and a heart-rate machine. Reading the machine’s red numbers, his layman’s opinion told him everything looked solid: his heart rate, blood pressure, all the vitals.

  So, he wouldn’t die.

  That’s a relief.

  At least not from his—

  He breathed deeply, and that’s when he felt it.

  A searing pain coursed through his side, up his body and into his brain.

  That’s right, he thought. I was shot. The fucking leprechaun.

  Then he backtracked and realized, The gunshot won’t kill me. But this big fucker will.

  He squirmed a bit in his bed, still unable to move.

  “What gives?” he asked, raising his handcuffed right hand a couple inches.

  “You’ll have to bring that up with the cops.”

  “You mean before you kill me?”

  Pancho’s face twisted. “Huh?” he said blankly.

  “Is it worth trying to scream?” Steve added.

  Pancho was clearly part of a secret Steve was not privy to. Or else the other way around. Pancho looked baffled.

  “What in God’s name are you on about?”

  “Just do it quickly, okay? I don’t want it to be painful.” Steve closed his eyes. “Maybe while I drift off to sleep . . . can you wait ‘til then?”

  Pancho chuckled.

  It brought Steve out of his reverie. He opened one eye hesitantly.

  “I’m not here to kill you, Steve Remington.”

  Now it was Steve’s turn to look confused. “You’re not?”

  Pancho shook his head.

  Loud
voices broke out from behind Pancho, from outside the closed door in a hallway.

  Two cops burst in through the door, followed by an animated and worried nurse.

  “Sirs!” the nurse cried out.

  “See, I told you, girl, he’s awake now,” the first cop said. Steve didn’t recognize him, but he wore the uniform and had the stereotypical mustache and a streak of donut glazing on his upper lip, and Steve knew him all too well because of those things alone.

  He didn’t recognize the other cop, either.

  Damn . . . It’s a shame neither of them is Detective Richmond, Steve thought uneasily. Though I don’t know what—if anything—that guy would do for me in this situation.

  And speaking of situation, what situation am I in, anyway?

  Before he could ask the first cop, his question was answered. “We don’t know how you did it, Remington, but we must applaud your efforts. If it were Halloween, maybe you’d win some sort of ‘Best Assholic Prank’ award.”

  “Pardon?” was all Steve could manage.

  “The bodies,” the cop said. “At the cemetery. We found them after your friend accidentally spilled the beans.”

  Steve looked past the cop, to Pancho, who was standing in the corner of the room with his arms crossed over his burly chest. When the cops and nurse had entered, they literally had walked right through him.

  “Your friend”? No, he’s not my friend . . .

  They must mean . . . dammit.

  “What did Dale tell you?” Steve asked.

  “A bit of everything. He was real hyped up—a lot of gibberish. Your friend watches too much Walking Dead, I think.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But is he okay?”

  The cop nodded. “He’s been released. Didn’t seem too beat-up. A bit of asphyxiation, possibly some Adult Onset Asthma, but we gave him an inhaler and sent him on his way.”

  “And he left me?”

  The cop chuckled. “He actually tried to take you with him, but we caught him. He’s a loyal guy.”

  “I know.”

  “He brought you here, you know.”

  “I put that together.”

  The cop said, “Anyway, we’re still figuring out how we’re going to charge you—the media doesn’t know about your little stunt yet.”

  “What stunt?” Steve asked.

  “Exhuming all those bodies, you crazy nut!”

  Steve was taken aback. Then he started laughing. It started as a chuckle but grew into something maniacal and uncontrollable. It hurt Steve’s stomach to laugh so much—and especially his side—but it also felt good. The cops were looking at him like they were wondering whether to cart him off to jail or straight to the nuthouse—cut out the middleman.

  The nurse said, “Gentlemen, please. Can’t this wait? You can see my patient needs his rest—he’s not himself.” She was a sweet, caring Filipino girl in her early twenties.

  The cops glanced at each other, unsure how to react.

  “At least while you figure out the charges to bring up against him.” She motioned to the handcuffs. “It’s not like he’s going anywhere, gentlemen.”

  The cops shrugged. The one that’d been speaking put his hand on Steve’s arm and it stopped Steve’s laughing fit. Thank God, because Steve wouldn’t have been able to breathe for much longer.

  “When we come back from lunch, you’ve got to tell us how you managed to dig up two-hundred-and-thirty-six bodies without anyone knowing. How long did that take?”

  The cop snorted and turned around with his companion. Steve heard the other cop say, “Fuckin’ whacko,” before they both went through the door and left the room.

  The nurse said, “I’m sorry about that, Mister Remington. Is there anything I can do for you, to make you more comfortable?” She seemed genuinely concerned.

  Steve gave her a crooked smile and said, “Maybe some water?”

  The nurse, whose nametag said Jenna—though she looked nothing like a Jenna, in Steve’s opinion—smiled and left the room.

  Pancho crept back up to Steve’s bedside.

  “You’re playing the crazy card well,” Pancho said.

  Steve shrugged. “What else can I do?” He lifted himself from his elbows and propped himself up on a pillow.

  “Good point. Could be your best defense against these charges,” Pancho added.

  “Why are you here, if not to kill me, Pancho?” Steve asked.

  Pancho grinned. “Please, call me Geddon. Only Conwick—I mean Tumbleweed—called me Pancho.”

  Steve scratched his head with his free hand. “Okay, Geddy Lee, are you going to answer my question?”

  “I’m here to give you an ultimatum to your current predicament.”

  “Which is?” Steve asked.

  “Jail, it would seem.”

  Steve sighed. “I mean what’s your ultimatum, Geddy?”

  “Come to my world. You’ll be safer there.”

  Steve furrowed his brow. “Your . . . world?” Then his eyes lit up. “You mean Mythicus?”

  Geddon nodded.

  Steve’s mouth fell open. This is not what he was expecting, and he needed a moment to wrap his head around it. “You . . . can do that?”

  Geddon nodded again. “You’re not safe here . . . not with Aiden O’Shaunessy still out there somewhere, licking his wounds, and his Seeker master wanting you dead.”

  Steve was nodding along. But he’d been fooled too many times and entirely too often recently, so he snapped out of la-la land and said, “Hold up. I thought you and Tumbleweed were trying to kill me and Annabel. That’s what Scarlet said.”

  “Sort of. Conwick and I came to your studio, and his plan was to be Seared onto this world by you then take you to Aiden’s Seeker. Then Conwick would return home—by your hand, of course, being Bound to you—though much wealthier.”

  “And where’d your plan go wrong?”

  Geddon frowned. “Somewhere around the time he got splattered by a car and died. Also, I was a double agent the whole time. I wasn’t working for Aiden.”

  Steve made an O with his mouth.

  Geddon said, “Sneaky, right? I’m here to protect you, Steve Remington. Myth Seekers are a rarity—”

  “A rare commodity, you mean.”

  Geddon shrugged. “If you want to look at it that way. But with January Amos dead—your former protector—I took the reins.”

  They both fell silent. Steve studied Geddon/Pancho as hard as he could. The big man spoke sternly, but he seemed to be telling the truth . . .

  Though Steve couldn’t give himself credit for being the best judge of character at this point in time.

  “What about my studio?” Steve asked, looking accusingly at Geddon.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why the hell did you burn down my studio?”

  Geddon sighed. “Consider me a confidential informant, Steve. I was ‘working’ for Aiden, and that was his wish—to burn down your studio with the Conveyor in it that would send Annabel back home.”

  My father’s guitar . . . the false Conveyor. Aiden was in the tarot shop, trying to sell his four-leaf clovers—listening to us—when we thought the guitar was the Conveyor . . .

  “But then I realized,” Geddon continued, “that if you were to leave this planet, you would cease to exist here, anyway. Burning your studio down made it easier to erase your existence on Terrus.”

  Another bout of silence while Steve thought.

  “What if I don’t want to go?” he asked.

  “I won’t force you to go against your will. Though I could if I wanted, you know.” Geddon put his hands on his hips. “But, let’s be real here . . . why would you stay? What is here for you?”

  “My life, asshole,” Steve said without thinking.

  Geddon tilted his head. “Really?”

  Steve drew inward and thought about that question. Really thought about it.

  And he realized Pancho Geddon was right. His studio, home, and livelihood were gone, people were
trying to kill him, Annabel was gone, he was looking at jail time for exhuming bodies—did that carry a murder charge? And his friends . . .

  “What about Dale? Will I be able to see him again?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Steve frowned.

  Geddon elaborated. “You’ll only be able to see other Mythics on Mythicus, and other humans that have been Seared there. It’s not your home. I can relay messages to him, though.”

  “But I’m a Myth Seeker,” Steve said weakly.

  Geddon nodded. “And here on Terrus, you can see and interact with everyone—Mythics and humans alike. Just like on Mythicus—where I am now—I can see both Mythics and humans alike. But if we were to trade places . . . if I was Seared to Terrus and you were Seared to Mythicus, we’d lose our powers. I would only be able to see humans, you’d only be able to see Mythics. We have the inverse powers, you and I, you see?”

  Not really, Steve thought, trying to mull that over in his mind. Then a conversation he’d had with January dawned on him. “You mean you’re a . . . Myth Maker?”

  “You’ve heard of my kind?”

  “January told me. Said you were even rarer than Myth Seekers.”

  “Well, now you know the facts, what do you say?”

  Steve was hesitant, but leaning toward—

  Footsteps from outside were clacking on the tiled floor of the hospital, growing louder and closer again.

  “Better make a decision, Mister Remington,” Geddon said teasingly, like the game-clock was about to run out and Steve either had to make a three at the buzzer or lose the championship and let down his teammates.

  Geddon reached into his pocket and took out a dollar bill.

  Steve’s mind raced. He glanced at the door then back at Geddon, who was waving the dollar bill in the air.

  “O-Okay!” Steve shouted.

  The door started to open. “Mister Remington—”

  Geddon quickly reached over Steve’s body to get to his handcuffed right hand. He put half the dollar in Steve’s right hand and with his own right hand grabbed Steve’s left.

  “—I have your . . . water?” the nurse was saying as she entered the room.

  But the room was empty.