Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2)

by Spencer DeVeau

  Harold couldn’t move. They transfixed him. Hypnotized him. They had no faces, no eyes, no slithery tongue, but they spoke to him. Only him.

  Come home, Harold Storm. You do not belong here. You belong amongst the powerful. You belong with…me.

  “Move, Storm!” Roberta shouted, but the sound faded.

  His eyes fell shut and the Gate, the trees, the broken wooden steps rising up high into the black sky flashed before him. Called to him.

  He took a sharp breath, icy air cut through his lungs. Then his eyes opened, and he saw Roberta stretching out towards him, but her hands were lost in the Shadows. The black snakes from Sahara’s right side coiled around her limbs like ropes made of slick, black oil. And for once, since he’d met the Grand Witch, an expression of utter doom and failure crossed her features. She didn’t look dead anymore, just defeated — mouth turned into a broken grimace, eyes wide.

  She opened her mouth: “Don’t let them take — ” but a snake struck her lips, wiggled its way between the pallid flesh. Choking noises leaked from her throat.

  Harold blinked again, shook his head. The image of a flaming forest burned brighter, tattooing itself onto his brain.

  “Harold,” Sahara said in her regular voice. But the way he heard it was garbled, drowned out with gallons and gallons of water.

  Then the Gate was back. Spikes sharper than any blade. Heads stuck on the ends. Piked like the enemies of a mad king. He floated up the steps. The wings of a black bird flapped, cawed. Then he continued climbing on four feet, a hunger rumbling deep inside the pits of his stomach. Not a hunger that could be satisfied with flesh or blood, but something much more complicated and grim.

  Souls.

  Fear.

  Weakness.

  That’s what he preyed upon, and he knew beyond the Gates, they’d be granted to him. His head looked up towards the towering, twisted iron that burned with an orange glow, and on it, sliding down the sharp tips were the heads of the ones he’d loved in a past life: Marcy, Mother, Sahara, Felix, and…Harold Storm.

  Him.

  Me.

  You.

  He screamed. The piercing noise, the burning in his throat let him know he was back. Was no longer on the steps in the body of a Wolf. The snakes hung in the air and they seemed to be sizing him up, ready for a fight.

  The Grand Witch, the corpse, was in a heap on the ground, her black dress blowing in the wind, a sharp steak knife pinned under a dying arm. Two black ropes hung from her mouth, connected to the open wounds of Sahara.

  Come home. Come home. Be great, Harold Storm.

  That slithery tone.

  “No!” he shouted, and bent down and scooped up the knife in one fell motion. He spun towards the snakes, but they were too quick. One jabbed at his face while the other went for the knife. He jerked out of the way, lost his balance for a second as blowing wind didn’t do much to help him. He toppled over, elbows came crashing down against the metal of the table.

  He yelled.

  And from the floor he saw the webbed, green feet of the mutants standing at the threshold of the restaurant, but the doors slammed shut before they could come in.

  “Frennnnnnnn!”

  “FREN!”

  They took to pounding their fists, or whatever abominations were attached to the ends of their limbs against the wooden door that Harold knew was not as strong as it looked, that is, if the drywall was any inclination. But no doubt the black magic in the air had something to do with its newfound strength.

  He felt the ropes tug at his ankles, drag him free of the shelter of the table.

  Sahara screamed. “Harold! Harold! Help me. Oh god, please help me. The pain. It burns. Holy fucking Hell it burns!”

  Harold’s left hand still held the knife. But he dropped it to grab ahold of the legs of the table like a child throwing a tantrum under his bed, who had refused to come out.

  He saw Roberta’s eyes staring back at him, seemingly dead.

  Sahara’s screaming continued, so did the pounding at the door.

  Now a mutant shrieked, “FREN!” at the window that was not made of glass any longer but rather some kind of transparent concrete.

  Harold lost his grip on the legs and the dirt and the concrete and old broken debris scraped across his belly as the snakes whipped him across the room into the same loose drywall he’d been pressed against earlier. His head struck it with the force of a thunderclap and it crumbled. Loose dusty clouds billowed around him, making him cough, ripping down his lungs. His eyes bugged out, felt like they might pop.

  And a black streak of lightning sliced through the cloud, went for his mouth. The coldness burnt his lips, felt so unnatural. So wrong.

  He lashed a hand out against it, slapped it away, and it’s touch sizzled against him.

  The whine from the chains stopped and instead a popping, snapping noise cut through the air. Like that of a creaking bridge. And Sahara rose from the table, looking like a Demonic spider. Or a puppet whose strings had become the main show. She seemingly floated in the air as the snakes made their way across the abandoned restaurant.

  Screaming.

  Harold caught a flash of brown eyes.

  The Grand Witch tried to raise herself up, at least it looked like it, but the whipping black limbs and dust and chaos made it difficult for Harold to see. They came for his mouth the next time he was able to focus his eyes. He shook his head, but each time was met with a different snake, one holding him, another slithering its way between his lips.

  Come home. Let us inside, Harold Storm. Let us control.

  A chuckle echoed in his head — Charlie’s, backed by Beth’s shrill laughs.

  He reached out, caught a snake, felt it writhe in his palms. Flesh burned, screamed like it had been placed on a hot skillet.

  Across the room the blade glinted like a shooting star, but it was too far and the snakes wrapped around his neck now. Sahara’s screams faded as she floated like a ghost above him, inches away from the ceiling.

  They squeezed tight enough for his teeth to part and for the hot blackness to brush against the roof of his mouth, make his teeth feel like melting.

  There was a grunt.

  A slice.

  His windpipe loosened. A burst of air flooded his lungs. He heaved and gasped like a man who’d just been under water for years without oxygen. Vision began to flood back like flaming Polaroids overlaying his retinas.

  A picture of an old corpse with a knife in one hand, rusty salad tongs in the other.

  Roberta.

  Another of her raising the blade, a snake caught between the tongs. Her face twisted into that of a malicious murderer.

  A slice.

  A shriek.

  Then Sahara’s vibrant red hair tumbled down on top of him.

  CHAPTER 22

  There were no dreams. No nightmares, and when Harold came back to the now, Roberta had four black ropes wrapped around her hand, like used Christmas lights taken down on New Year’s Day, ready for storage.

  Harold was on the table which no longer stood on any legs, but rode a wave of broken wall and crumbled ceiling tile. Sahara stood over him with a great big, white smile on her face. Her skin looked to have some color. Rosy cheeks.

  And her hair, that beautiful red hair burned like a bonfire.

  “I missed you,” she said. And she touched his flesh, his crisped flesh, never healing — never would — and her touch was cool and normal. No Hellfire, no Demon venom burning bright under her skin.

  “I-I missed you, too,” he replied. “I’m just glad you’re alright now.”

  That smile grew wider.

  Harold found it hard to hold his head up, and each time his throat contracted to make a noise it felt a lot like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.

  “I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for you. My brave Protector. Oh me, oh my. Be still, my beating heart.”

  Harold rolled his eyes.

  Eyes not the same. Eyes tinged with black. Yea
h, you got the venom too, buddy. You ain’t outta the woods yet. In fact, looks like you’ll be entering them pretty soon with the way things are going.

  That picture of the dark woods flooded his brain, the fear with it.

  “Lovebirds,” Roberta said, snapping him out of it.

  She held out the black ropes, which Harold now recognized as the snakes that had burrowed themselves into each of Sahara’s limbs. He grimaced, unsure of whether to be more grossed out by the fact that she held them in her hands or by the fact that she hadn’t looked anymore alive than the snakes had.

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  He tried to sit up, and he did after a moment of hesitation. He’d felt worse in his short stint of being a Protector. And he was in front of Sahara, couldn’t risk showing how much of a wuss he actually was; the Grand Witch either, corpse or not.

  She nodded, a hint of a knowing smile on her face as she withdrew the black coils. “Very well, more for my babies.”

  “Fren!” one of the mutants barked near the door, as Roberta turned towards them and walked away.

  Harold heard the snakes hit the ground with a wet plop, and then wetter sounds as the Squeebs fought over them like lions over a bloody steak.

  “Sick,” Harold mumbled, and Sahara waved him off, that grin still on her face.

  “Now let’s get down to business,” she said. “We got a Portal to close. And I don’t doubt you could do it yourself, Storm, but I think you’ve had enough of your little solo adventures for awhile, at least.”

  Propped up on his elbows, Harold laughed and said: “Oh, believe me you don’t know the half of it.”

  “Another time. I know the bare bones of what happened — the attack on the Vampire’s Haven, and the fact that the city is basically devouring itself, crawling with all kinds of Hell’s wonderful citizens.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed, and the silent words crossed her lips. The Deathblade shot out in a roar. A new kind of sound that reminded Harold of freshness, of waking up after a long-needed nap.

  “That’s good to see, Sahara,” Harold said, then looked down to his own left hand where the ghost of a Deathblade lingered. He shook his head and said: “Just when I was starting to get the hang of it, too.”

  “If all goes according to plan, then you’ll get that key back, Storm. You were meant to have it, it’s yours as much as it was Felix’s.”

  Roberta’s shoes shuffled across the floor, scattering even more debris thanks to the Demon snake incident.

  “Oh yeah, because things always seem to go according to plan,” he said.

  Roberta loomed in front of him. Sahara glanced over to her and the two exchanged an understanding look, one Harold had no idea about.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “Well, things could go a lot better if what we think is true.”

  “What’s that?” Harold asked Sahara.

  “Felix didn’t find you by chance. I knew it. He was a careful and meticulous Protector — ”

  “Careful and meticulous Wizard before then,” Roberta interrupted.

  “Right,” Sahara said, nodding. “But what I’m saying, Storm, is that you’re special. More special than anyone else in the Realms. I mean, you must be for Felix to pick you as his heir.”

  Harold nodded, eyes looking at the two women, but not seeing them. He thought three things: first, about the dream he had where his real father, Felix, told him the difficulties ahead; second, how he hated when Sahara called him Storm (They were at least on a first name basis, weren’t they?); and thirdly, how he needed a much longer nap than the one he’d just taken, one not induced by being choked out yet again by something Demonic or supernatural.

  When he hadn’t spoken for awhile, Sahara leaned in closer, eyes wide, fingers ready to snap. But before she said anything, Harold’s voice cut in: “What’s your last name?” he asked. “I feel like you and I are pretty close acquaintances — dare I say, friends — and I still don’t even know your last name.”

  She waved him off. Then Roberta took a step back and turned her head to the door, hiding the dead smile on her face, that all-knowing expression that Harold hated. He’d imagined both his and Roberta’s cheeks would’ve grown rosy had they had the ability to.

  “Don’t stray from the matter at hand, Harold Storm. We have work to do,” Roberta said, the smile still on her lips.

  Sahara looked to the dusty, mud-splattered window. Outside, the sky was orange bleeding into red, and heavy blackness threatened underneath. A fire ripped through the clouds.

  “Too much work to do,” Sahara said.

  “Now, child, everything will sort itself out. One step at a time gets you up a mountain,” Roberta said. She placed a hand on Sahara’s shoulder, where a rip in her shirt exposed creamy flesh.

  “Yeah, so does a helicopter,” Harold said. He started to lift himself up off of his forearms, and attempted to stand.

  Sahara’s hand gripped the lapels of his trench coat — a rude gesture that somehow came across as gentle and as loving as a lover’s caress. But deep in the back of Harold’s mind, passed the Shadows, the trees, the Gate, he knew getting with someone as wonderful as Sahara was a long-shot. Besides, the world needed saving.

  “Alright?” she asked.

  And he nodded, pushing his thoughts away from such things.

  “Good, good,” Roberta said. She rubbed her hands together like a scheming cartoonish villain. “We must go back a few thousands years. And we will need you up and at ‘em if you are to confirm your destiny.”

  The way she said destiny chilled Harold to his keyless bones. Then the odd group of people — a burnt man, a corpse-y Witch, and a beautiful Realm Protector — joined hands in a small circle. Roberta whispered words so dark and sinister, Harold would’ve ripped his ears off had they not already been ruined.

  And then time bent.

  CHAPTER 23

  “Where ya going, fella? Salvation is that way,” the cop said, pointing to the opposite direction a menacing man dressed in bloody jeans and a ripped, dirt-stained white t-shirt walked.

  The cop hung out of the passenger’s side window of a police cruiser. His sunglasses reflected the fire in the sky, and the slick wax job of the cruiser shimmered with the fire from the buildings of Gloomsville, POPULATION UNKNOWN, now.

  “Hey, buddy, I’m talkin’ to you.”

  The cruiser rolled backwards at about two miles per hour on a stretch of unblemished road. Whoever drove was hidden by the bulk of the police officer and the slice of gray shotgun sitting in the middle, pointed to the roof. But the car neared the overpass where most visitors would get off near Washington Dr, and there the cars were stacked in ruined hunks of metal.

  That’s as far as Frank had to walk — about another mile and a half. Then he’d be in the city. Where the Shadows called to him.

  Frank hardly heard the man speak, hardly heard the tires rolling inches away from him, crunching the gravel and sputtering thick black exhaust.

  “You really don’t wanna go there. Whole place has gone to Hell.”

  “He means literally,” the other man said. Frank wasn’t sure if he was a cop or not, but he talked with the gruff voice of a man who’d smoked one too many Virginia Slims in his miserable existence.

  “Buddy, I’m orderin’ you to stop. You take another step and you’re under arrest.”

  The driver snorted, shook his head. But Frank stopped anyway, because these men were the equivalence of man-sized flies at a picnic. Just plain annoying.

  The car stopped with them. An audible squeak of old brakes despite the shiny look on the body of the Crown Vic. A 2007, maybe a little older. And a Ford, like his dead pickup truck.

  But you made them pay, Franky. No worries. You won’t need a truck when you come home. You are coming home, aren’t you?

  His father, but the voice was tinged with evil, and it made him question whether he should even acknowledge the voice at all.

  But then the cop spoke. “Good
, buddy, now hop in the back and we’ll take you as far as Brownstone.”

  His voice.

  So many voices.

  He grunted, holding down a scream. His brain felt like it had begun to split in half. One half a white moon; the other half a burning, dripping, black supernova.

  A flashlight clicked on, shined right into Frank’s eyes. His hand shot up to protect his retinas from fizzling out. God, that light. He might’ve shrieked had he not had some control of himself.

  “Jesus, man, you’ve covered in blood.”

  “He don’t look good, Bill. Let’s get the fuck outta here. Told you this whole place is going to Hell.”

  “No, hold on. Take the keys out of the ignition.”

  The driver sucked in a sharp breath Frank heard over the screaming in his head.

  The light. Kill the light. Kill them.

  They’re cops. No. Compose yourself. You’re stronger than that.

  Stop your bickering. One goal. Kill Harold Storm, anyone who gets in your way shall bleed too.

  The car stopped idling, but the headlights stayed on painting the road in a white light — beams of hope. A click came from the car door as it unlocked and the cop stepped out. He was a big man — beer gut, retired bodybuilder strength, stood about six and half feet, a few inches over Frank, who’d now begun to feel himself shrinking despite the power that undoubtedly coursed through his veins. That black venom. How it tingled inside of him and hurt him at the same time. Toxic sweetness.

  He held the shotgun down by his side, yet the muzzle didn’t come close to scraping the tarmac. Frank stood his ground as the cop sized him up. The flashlight passed over his face before shining into Frank’s eyes. He felt the blackness drain from his pupils, run back towards his brain where it would pool like a leaking oil drum. But it wasn’t fast enough, and the cop’s face began to lose all color.

  A man who’d probably seen it all on his beats in Gloomsville — gruesome homicides, babies microwaved by crazy crackheads, human trafficking — and he’d shuddered at the image of Frank’s eyes changing color. Was he really that bad? he wondered, couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at himself. Long before he’d set out on his little journey.