Deathbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 3)

by Spencer DeVeau

  Sahara exhaled slowly, the waves of black venom all but purged from her being yet still causing her fits of phantom pain. The idea of seeing those things again — the Demons — brought up a clenching feeling in the pit of her stomach, almost like she was about to vomit. Felix stopped and turned around, looking Sahara in the eye.

  She mustered up a small smile, weak and fragile, but enough to make the Wizard turn his head and continue his trek to the highway and to the Abandoned Tombs of Redwick miles beyond where Sahara and Felix would punch their tickets to Hell.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Watch where yer sticking those cold fingers, ye pube,” the skeleton said.

  Frank jumped back, almost falling down again. He’d be the first to argue that his body wasn’t an old man’s body, but he’d also be the first to admit that these most recent scares were starting to take their toll on his poor knees.

  He stood on the frozen dirt, blinking heavily. For a moment, there was no sound at all. Same old quiet Hell. Still, he eyed the shallow grave with a Hunter’s gaze. He may be getting old, but he wasn’t about to slip up now. Not like his dad.

  When no more sounds — voices, he thought bitterly — filled the air, he inched closer, heading for the dry bush.

  In the hole was the same chalky skull, the bottom half of its jaw stuck open with compacted dirt, eyeless sockets full of blackness.

  Frank bent down, an arrow in his hand, and gripped the base of the bush. He began sawing at the roots.

  “Don’t touch that bush. That there bush is mine!”

  Frank’s blood froze twice over.

  He turned slowly to the hole.

  The skeleton hadn’t moved. If it had, Frank would’ve known. Some of the dirt would’ve shifted and fallen, would’ve buried the bones more. But it hadn’t.

  “Yeah, I’m talkin to ya, ya old bastard,” the voice said again.

  Now Frank whirled around, sure that the voice was real and not just in his head. But as he spun, he saw mostly nothing. Drab, gray colored land. The dead city of blackness, full of its sharp, unoccupied spires. More dead bushes and empty roads. And the small rock formation where Harold Storm slept away, clutching the bone-white sword hilt with equally white knuckles.

  Hell just has its ways of playing tricks on you, Frank thought.

  “Ya just gonna stand there playing with yer willy, or ya gonna help an old chum out of this dreadful ground. Ain’t no warmth here.”

  He hadn’t realized it, it had been more of a natural reflex than anything, but he now held the crossbow close to his chest, one eye closed and aiming down the sights.

  “Ya can’t kill the dead, boy,” the voice said again. “Yeah, down here! Help me outta here and I’ll help yer sorry behind.”

  Frank peered down into the shallow grave. The skeleton still hadn’t moved.

  “You’re crazy,” Frank said aloud. And the sound of his own voice sent shivers up his spine.

  “I ain’t crazy, ya asshole!”

  This time it was the skeleton. Its head turned and looked straight into Frank’s paling face with those deep, empty eye sockets. The jaw creaked open, frozen worms and hard, dusty dirt streamed out.

  “Help me!” the skeleton screeched.

  Frank shuffled backward, not heeding the thing’s advice. His finger started to shed its numbness, started to get itchy the way it did when ever some kind of supernatural freak threatened him. But he held it back, taking it off of the trigger and resting it on the trigger guard. What use would it be to waste an arrow on a skeleton?

  “Guess you don’t want my help then, maggot!” the skeleton bellowed. “Good, I don’t need it!” A finger clawed at the edge of the hole, then another, then a full hand. The thing sat up. A cascade of gray dirt rolled off of it. It cocked its head toward Frank with a face that somehow must always look like its smiling, and flipped him the bird.

  “That’s what I think about ya!” it said. The jaw snapped shut and its shoulders raised as if it were taking a very deep breath. “Ah, Hell, how I’ve missed ya!”

  Frank was frozen. He couldn’t have loosed his bow even if he wanted to. He’d never seen a talking skeleton. It just wasn’t…wasn’t right. There was no organic matter, no living tissue for it to seem plausible. It was just dry, old bones. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  “Where are my friends?” the skeleton demanded. He pointed a knife-life finger in Frank’s direction. “Did ya dig em up, too?”

  Frank swallowed, throat so dry and catching that he reckoned another swallow might start a fire. Then he shook his head.

  “Well ya better start, ya pube!”

  Frank shook his head again.

  “Who the fuck are ya to disobey me? Don’t you know who I am?” the skeleton asked. Without all its skin or eyes, Frank had a hard time deciphering what emotions were playing on its face. Was the thing just messing around? Was Frank officially crazy?

  To prove that he wasn’t crazy, he moved his finger off the trigger guard and onto the trigger. The bow twanged with a force that echoed deep into the ground, and practically shook the foundation of the world.

  There was a sickening crunch, a burst of dust — white dust, bone dust — and the arrowhead stuck out the back of the skull, its entry point the dark hollow of its empty eye socket.

  “What the f — ” it said.

  Frank felt his blood warming up. Adrenaline pulsed through him. The kill was hot in his body and he loved it. The next arrow was loaded, ready to land in the other socket when something grabbed his ankle.

  He looked down to see another white, skeletal hand poking through the dirt. His leg jerked, but he couldn’t shake it. Fabric ripped with a loud screech. The cold bit at his bare leg. The hand clutched the hem. He aimed down and the bow twanged again, an arrow speared the hand pinning it. Frank wasted no more time. He spun and ran for the rock formation, Harold Storm’s name already loading in his throat, ready to burst out in a scream.

  But when he turned around, it was too late.

  The ground shifted like it was undergoing a massive earthquake. Skeletons rose, shedding the dirt that had blanketed them for god knew how long. All their empty eye sockets blazed in his direction.

  Frank looked down, counted the arrows and quickly realized he didn’t have near enough to take on half of them. Besides, the skeleton who talked like a drunken pirate and now had two of those arrows where his eyes should’ve been still kept coming.

  “There ya are! There ya are! Boys, I missed ya. Good to see yer maggoty arses. Now get the son-of-a-bitch! Let’s teach ‘im some manners.”

  One of the skulls lunged at him. Sharp bones raked across his back, ripping the fabric in much the same manner the hem of his pants had ripped except this time he felt warm blood spill down his flesh. He fell to one knee, screaming.

  The skulls pounced on him. With all the strength in his body, he swung the handle of the crossbow up, aiming at no one in particular. A sound like a bowling ball smashing through pins filled his ears, and a dusty attic smell filled his nostrils. For a moment he could breathe. There was no stabbing pains raking at his back.

  But that didn’t last long.

  More popped from the dirt.

  “Get im, get im! Get the basterd!”

  The gray skies soon grew darker, and now dirt filled Frank’s mouth. He saw the ribs and funny bones and metatarsals pile up before his very eyes.

  Hits and knobs pummeled into him, forcing his breath out in whooshes. He grew cold, so cold. And for a moment, Frank King was ready to give up.

  Until the ground shook once more — this time, with fire.

  CHAPTER 5

  Welcome home, that voice had said inside of his head when Harold Storm crossed through the threshold.

  It wasn’t the usual voice in his head, as he sat slumped against the rocks in the bowels of Hell. No. This was Marcy’s voice, and he’d just come home after a long night of cabbing. Four rides in eight hours. For a grand total of $23 in tips. Hardly enough to pay the bills. All h
e wanted to do was sleep, but there had been something nagging at the back of his head. Something he couldn’t get rid of no matter how many catchy pop tunes he’d hummed. It was six in the morning. Marcy stood in the doorway of their crummy one bedroom, downtown apartment. She was dressed only in her chef’s apron.

  “Welcome home,” she said with a sly grin on her face.

  Harold gave her a nod, barely noticing the way her hips and half her ass stuck out from beneath the apron. He was tired. His vision swam. His head pounded. He’d go to sleep for a few hours than he’d have to meet Scotty and Jim to rehearse for their auditions. Saturn King — a small number reportedly directed by an up and coming talent. If he got the part, he’d scream out, “Hollywood, here I come! So long, bastard cab service!”

  Focus was what he needed — that, and a drink. Not nagging girlfriends.

  “Hi,” he grumbled.

  “Well, where is it?” Marcy said.

  Harold stopped, one shoe already hanging halfway off of his foot, and looked up at her. She leaned forward, her breasts hanging down in the most sloppy yet elegant way he’d ever seen and at that moment he had a hard time concentrating on anything else.

  “W-Where’s what?”

  “My present, you big silly,” she said, lips curled up into a smile.

  Then it hit Harold like a bomb, and sitting there far away in dreamland, his clenched hand jerked in much the same way a dreaming dog’s paws would.

  Of course, it was Marcy’s birthday, and Marcy got nothing but special treatment on her birthday. Harold blamed her asshole of a father for that, spoiling her all those years so he could justify cheating on his wife, gambling, and all of the heavy drinking. Marcy’s words, not Harold’s.

  “Shit,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “Well,” she said, hands on her hips, “I’ve been waiting up all night.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, baby. You know I’m working third shift, and you know I always come back looking forward to crawl into bed with you.”

  “But it’s my birthday. It’s only once a year.”

  “I know, sweetheart, I know. I got you something really nice, but you can’t have it just yet. I gotta go pick it up from a special little place over on Merryweather — ” and just as the street name rolled off the tip of his tongue, he saw Marcy’s face light up.

  Merryweather in Gloomsville was like Fifth Avenue in New York City. She’d pointed out a big rock a couple of months ago on one of their date nights. He wanted to buy it for her then but couldn’t. And still couldn’t if he was being perfectly honest with himself. He’d need to get at least approximately a million more pickups on his late night cab excursions just to match the price of the diamond ring, and that’s if the patrons were generous with their tips. News flash: They usually weren’t.

  “Merryweather? Harold, you didn’t. Did you? Oh, my god…you did!” She brought a hand up to her open mouth, then after a second pounced on him before he got his second shoe off.

  “Maybe I did,” Harold said as he tried to match the same level of enthusiasm as Marcy. “Maybe I didn’t.”

  She hit him playfully on the arm, then planted a big wet kiss on his cheek and skipped off into the kitchen. “Want anything special to eat?”

  “No, I’m just gonna head to bed for a couple hours then go rehearse with Scotty. After that we can get this birthday party started.”

  She smiled, tears practically gleaming in her eyes. “You’re too good to me, Harry.” And with that, she spun around, offering a nice glimpse of her bare backside. It was the last image Harold remembered before sleep took him no less than five minutes later.

  When he awoke, Marcy was gone. She left a note on the refrigerator: “Gone shopping with Mom. There’s cooked sausage in the fridge and pancakes in the microwave. Should still be warm when you wake up. If not, heat them for a few seconds. THAT’S ALL, a FEW seconds. Love, Marcy.”

  Harold had every intention of stopping into the little jewelry store on Merryweather after his rehearsal, but him and Scotty got to talking about baseball, whether the Indians had a shot at making the playoffs, or whether the Sox were going to clinch their division. And next thing he knew, he was in Chet’s bar having the same argument with the old bartender and Scotty for thirteenth time. The liquor and beer flowed. Baseball lit up the TV screens. People came in and out. Next thing Harold knew it was pushing two o’clock in the morning and he’d left his crappy cell phone in his coat pocket which was god know’s where.

  He didn’t get home until past three. And when he pushed in through the front door, softly so as not to disturb his sleeping girlfriend, no lights were on. A burning smell wafted in the air. The apartment stood in near complete darkness, the only light was the moon filtering in through parted curtains. He saw her silhouette first, sitting at the table. A hunched over figure with strands of hair shrouding their face. An untouched birthday cake sat in front of her. Harold flipped on the kitchen light. The electricity crackled and buzzed, jittered then finally came on.

  “Honey?” Harold said, slurring, but trying hard to mask the slur despite the rank smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol following him around.

  She didn’t move.

  His eyes drifted down to the cake. He expected, written in pink icing, for the words Happy Birthday, Marcy to be on the cake. But they weren’t. And when he read the words that were actually on there, Harold found himself falling down, searching for something to grab onto, something that would prevent him from hitting the cold kitchen tile. He grasped nothing, and his head cracked the black and white squares, but even the knock couldn’t shake the words from his mind written in pink and blue icing.

  I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant.

  Marcy’s face fell forward. She smacked the cake with the force of a falling rock, splattering icing and soft bits of cake in every direction. Harold didn’t see it as much as he heard it. That sick, squelching noise of boots slapping through mud. Then he pulled himself up, trying to escape the blackness that scrabbled at his lungs, that tried to pull him back down. But it was so hot and he was sweating. Flames licked at his underside, singed the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. He hated fire, but he didn’t know why.

  “Marcy,” he tried to say, but his voice was drowned out with — fire? — black venom.

  He held on to the table, muscles flexing as he pulled himself up. Marcy was gone.

  Harold screamed. What was once his girlfriend who would’ve been celebrating her twenty-fifth birthday was now something not entirely human. The skin slagged off of the bone, drooping nearly down to the table. The hair was brittle and what was once beautiful was now grotesquely hideous. Something like a corpse. Or…a Demon.

  The thing tilted its head up at Harold and smiled wide, black ink dripped from the corners of its mouth. Through the clenched stalactite teeth a voice emerged, rough and evil.

  “Welcome home, Harry.”

  He woke up screaming, unaware of where he was. It took a few moments for him to register the underlying feeling of coldness, the rocks, and the hilt clutched in his hands.

  Hell. He was in Hell. He’d fallen asleep in Hell. How careless. But it wasn’t the Hell he remembered; it was somehow different.

  A sheen of sweat prickled from the unburnt bits of flesh on his arm. Then it hit him. He was no longer cold, though their would always be ice below the surface, he supposed. And something bright nearly blinded him.

  It was fire, and through the flames, he spotted an army of dark figures advancing on him, lead by what seemed like a midget and an old man.

  Harold brought the sword up, his eyes adjusting more to the brightness. He spotted Frank, his legs pumping with as much force as his age would let him. The midget, though, Harold didn’t recognize the midget. He was maybe a little taller than a midget, maybe about waist high, shirtless and human. Until he zigzagged. Then Harold saw that his bottom half was animalistic. Either that, or he was wearing some sort of costume, and Harold didn’t
think Hell would be the place to throw a Halloween party. The fur of this thing’s legs shook in the wind. A tail swished back and forth.

  Just when Harold didn’t think it could get any weirder, the thing turned around, raised both his hands at the dark figures chasing them and let loose a stream of fire from its palms. But something brighter than the flames blazed on the creature’s neck, and Harold’s eyes were drawn to it. It was a rock of some sort, dangling around a length of rope. As the flames shot out from the hands of this monster, the rock pulsed bright orange and fiery red.

  Harold wanted to run. He wasn’t tired any longer, but the flames seemed to form pictures in front of him. Large, gangly hands reaching out for his throat, for his skin, ready to burn the rest of him to a crisp, ready to open those gummy wounds back up.

  But he stood his ground, raised the sword of Orkane up high and took a deep breath.

  CHAPTER 6

  Frank could feel the flames licking at the back of his heels, but worse than that, he could hear the groans from the skeletons, the popping from their bones as the flames lit the dead grass and took the beasts down with them.

  Harold Storm stood tall up ahead, wielding that sword that made Frank feel both uneasy and safe.

  “Move, old man,” the little creature said from behind Frank. Its voice sounded like a man who’d only breathed helium his entire life yet it still had a gruff edge to it. Frank couldn’t help but think of the Munchkins from The Wizard of Oz only if they got into hard drugs and rock and roll after Dorothy went back home to Kansas.

  Frank moved, hardly noticing the pain in his joints. All of that was overshadowed by the fear pumping through his body.

  A sound like a water hose went off, and out of the corner of Frank’s eye he saw a burst of flame escape the little man’s hands. A clatter of bones went down behind him, and he was almost to the rocks when one of those dead hands snagged the back of his shirt. Frank didn’t stop. He kept on trucking. Get to the rocks and hide behind the Realm Protector was the only thought he had.