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

by Spencer DeVeau

  Harold swung the sword up, and from Frank’s point of view, it looked like it was about to come down on his head. Frank rolled out of the way, careful not to accidentally break any arrows or his bow and took cover behind one of the ashen boulders.

  Harold’s blade came down on one of the skeletons with a crunch. It dropped into a pile of dust and bones. But that didn’t matter. There were so many. Frank had stumbled upon some kind of mass grave. He saw about forty more shadows through the veil of flames, all coming forward with more agility than anything dead had a right to do. The little Munchkin shot more flames from his palms, grunting as he did it, and slowly the wall of fire grew higher, like a tidal wave of death that threatened to spill down on them all.

  When the skeletons approached the flames, they slowed down. Fire seemed to be the only thing to keep them away. Then Frank smiled, an idea brewing in his head.

  “What’s going on?” Harold shouted.

  Frank looked to him with wild, crazy eyes. “How Hell am I supposed to know?” He reached down to the hem of his pants which had been ripped by one of the dead hands poking through the ground and tore off a chunk, then wrapped it around the arrowhead. The flames were close enough to make Frank have to squint, but he leaned forward and held the arrow in the fire until it caught. As quickly as possible, he loaded the arrow and let loose.

  In the blink of an eye, a small hole whooshed through the wall, the arrow careening at speeds almost unseeable. There was a dull thunk when the arrow stuck in the head of one of the skeletons. It kept walking forward, but when it realized the arrow that had struck it was ablaze, it slowed down. A shrill, piercing noise escaped its empty jaw, then it fell to its knees, hands brought up to its face, scratching at the flames that didn’t seem to be dancing on the bone but rather wiggling through it. A good old fashioned Frank King root canal minus the Novocain. Frank watched through the veil of red as it turned into a blob of milky goo.

  He looked to Harold. “Seems to do the trick. Anyway you can light that sword on fire?”

  Harold ignored him, his mouth set hard in a grimace.

  The little creep spouting off the flames stood to Frank’s right. He was hunched over, veins popped from all over his body — a body which looked to be half-horse. He possessed two human arms, four horse legs, a tail, and a small mane of wild hair running up his back. “I-I can’t hold it much longer. Gotta…gotta find Happy. Gotta kill Happy.”

  “What has my life come to?” Harold asked, looking up the wall of flames. “I’m still dreaming. That’s all it is.” And he started pinching himself with his left hand.

  “Is Happy the one who talks like an asshole?” Frank shouted over the roar of flames.

  The little creature nodded, then stumbled and collapsed on his front legs. The curtain of fire dropped a couple of feet, and beyond it, the skeletons lurched forward.

  None of them were talking and all of them looked pretty much exactly the same aside from the ones who’d been melted by the freak’s fire or had been pummeled with the handle of Frank’s crossbow.

  “Hey, Happy, your mom’s still at my house. Better come through the flames and get her!” Frank shouted.

  Nothing. The bastard didn’t take the bait.

  “No? Well, I guess we’ll be having a little more than breakfast in bed!”

  Still nothing, but then one of the shadows moved, turned sideways. And in its bony frame sticking out from the two eye sockets were two shafts.

  Bullseye, Frank thought. There’s that motherf —

  The wall dropped about fifty percent. Frank could see completely over it. He gulped. There wasn’t forty of the bastards; now there was maybe ten times that. Happy stood in the middle, protected by about ten or twenty of the things.

  “Yer gonna watch what you say about my mother, or yer worse than dead meat, buddy old pal,” Happy said. “The little one can’t hold it much longer!” Then he turned to his army, arms stretched out as if giving them all one large embrace and said: “When the fire drops, tear them limb from limb, boys!”

  Frank hoped he didn’t look as bad as he felt. So he caught Harold’s eye — the piss-yellow one — and they both nodded.

  It was the Realm Protector’s time. It was time for that pretty white sword to do some damage.

  “Drop it,” Frank shouted to the little one. His face was beat red and beads of sweat rolled jaggedly down his forehead.

  “No…too…many,” he said.

  “Just do it. We’ll handle it,” Frank said.

  That odd gem around the creature’s neck dimmed then went out completely. With the drop of the flames came the cold like a spurned woman’s slap across the face, and the half-man/half-horse creature collapsed to the dirt.

  Frank didn’t bother loading another arrow and he flipped the crossbow around so the blunt end was ready to be swung like a club. Harold Storm just stood calmly with the sword in front of his ruined face. No fog escaped his mouth or nostrils.

  The skeletons poured toward them like ants let loose on an abandoned picnic.

  CHAPTER 7

  No. Harold Storm did not belong here as much as the venom coursing through his veins tried to tell him he did. If he was supposed to be here then he would’ve dropped to his knees, let his sword clatter on the uneven ground beside him and surrender.

  But Harold Storm would not surrender.

  The wave came full force. Their bones clickety-clacking toward him, their jaws hung open in a perpetual snarl of death.

  Harold was ready.

  He swung the sword of Orkane up in an arcing motion. The metal connected with one of the skeleton’s faces, knocking it ten feet in the opposite direction. Its headless torso fell to its knees. From Harold’s right, he could hear Frank grunting and yelling with each swing of his crossbow. It wasn’t the sword of Orkane but it seemed to do the trick.

  Two more advanced on him, and Harold jumped and spun, slicing them both in the middle of their spinal columns. Three more, same result. But they kept coming. Death rattles escaping from somewhere deep inside of them.

  He hacked away. More bones fell and clattered off of one another. Soon a path had been cleared to the one the small man had called Happy.

  Happy stood as still as a pond’s surface on a windless day. Two arrows jutted out from the dark holes of his eye sockets. Both hands were on his pelvic bone. Though they all looked about the same, there was something different about Happy, something…evil.

  In a way, it reminded him of Charlie, the Shadow Eater.

  Harold charged through the path. He heard a low bellow, a cry of war and impending victory, but he did not realize that the noise had come from him.

  He was about twenty feet from the thing, all the clattering and knocking bones and Frank’s grunts behind him, when a pair of skeletons sandwiched him. He shook them off easily, but it was enough to slow him down.

  A burning came from one of his shoulders. One of the skeletons had cut him with their sharpened finger bones. He tried to shake the pain off, but it was almost too much. And when he raised the sword up, the wound barked louder.

  He swung.

  Miss.

  This time, five more skeletons pounced on him. One wrapped their arm bones around his neck, draped off of him like a superhero’s cape. Another went for his legs, spearing him the way a linebacker would spear a running back.

  He searched his mind, listening for the Wolves. Anything — a howl, a snarl, a whimper. But he heard nothing.

  Someone said, “Rip him apart. Limb from limb!” The voice was muffled through the sea of bones. Harold felt the death looming over top of him like an anvil. He thought of Marcy and how he’d missed her twenty-fifth birthday, thought of how that’s where it all started to go downhill. Maybe her sick idea of revenge was to have his child aborted. Maybe, deep down, Marcy wanted the baby, but she cut her nose off to spite her face. Then another image flashed across his mind: Her face smashed into a cake that he didn’t bake or buy for her, the creak of her neck as she
looked up, black tar running from between her teeth when she smiled, icing plastered on her eyebrows and nose, and a voice not her own that said, “Welcome home.”

  This is not home, he thought.

  He grunted. Hands dug into the cold dirt as he pushed himself upward. The skeletons still clung to him, but there was rage in his eyes — black, venomous rage.

  He leaned forward and the one around his neck flipped over him, landing perfectly on the tip of his sword. Speared. Turned to dust. It let out a shriek. The others took notice, their grips loosening against him. Harold hardly felt the pain of his cut any longer.

  He took a step back. The others surrounded him, and they were bent at the knee, ready to pounce again. Without the eyes, Harold couldn’t tell if they were hesitant or royally pissed off.

  The first one lunged at his side. He saw it in slow motion, the jaw hanging open, hands and fingers outstretched. One quick sweep and the arms detached at the elbow. Another sweep and its head was gone.

  No Wolves. No howls. No help.

  Harold did it himself.

  The next ones didn’t lunge. They started to back away as if they read the hate and evil swimming in his retinas. He didn’t let them leave. He stalked forward, chills rolling up his spine. For a moment, he was reminded of the coliseum. All those eyes looking at him, twisted Demon faces cheering for his death. Charlie above him, ready to slice off his head to appease the crowd. Beth’s wicked cackling. Sahara pinned to a chair, her blood leaking onto the sand below.

  And the rage pulsed through him harder.

  He hacked. They fell.

  Sweat rolled off his brow. Time was lost. The sword cut through each skeleton as easily as it would’ve cut through velvet. When the last one fell, he felt Frank’s eyes on him, then he turned to stare back. Blood dripped from a wound on the old man’s forehead and was he slightly hunched over. He dropped the crossbow with a clatter, then his mouth followed.

  “Wow,” Frank said. He looked to the sword, Harold did too. It was glowing. Shimmering with white and red. Without the sun overhead, Harold didn’t know how that was possible. It was just gloom above. A black cloud that stretched from horizon to horizon, yet the blade looked to be catching a beautiful morning sunrise.

  “I don’t — ” Harold began but was cut off.

  “My lads. My laddies! You killed em all, ya basterd!”

  Harold had done exactly that. All of them except one. Happy stood on a pile of ash and bones, the shafts still coming from his eye sockets. His shoulders were slumped, jaw set open.

  Harold squared up with the skeleton leader. “I did. Now I’m going to kill you,” he said in voice like venom.

  “What? No. Please,” Happy said. “I ain’t mean ya no harm. I was just foolin. Let me go back to my dirt nap. I’ll leave yas alone. I promise. I swear on me mother, I do!” The skeleton turned, walking away.

  “I got him,” Frank said, the unmistakable sound of an arrow being loaded reached Harold.

  The cut on Harold’s arm pulsed. “No, he’s mine,” he said.

  And he didn’t know why he did it. It could’ve been pure, underlying exhaustion, could’ve been laziness, or it could’ve just been anger, but he threw the sword in much the same way someone would throw a frisbee. The blade whistled through the air.

  Happy must’ve heard it because he turned around. But it was too late. The sword of Orkane ripped off his head in one clean swipe. Happy’s skull fell to the dirt, landing with a dull muffle and sending a cloud of dust into the frozen air. He died — if you could call it that — with his mouth hanging open.

  Then the sword whipped back, landing perfectly into Harold’s palm, fitting like an old glove. He looked to Frank and smirked. “More effective than an arrow, I think,” he said.

  Frank’s eyes were the size of saucers. “Y-Yeah, I think so.” Then he swept the battlefield with those large eyes. “You took out a hundred of those assholes by yourself, kid,” he said.

  Harold wiped the dirt from the shimmering blade on his tattered pants. “Come on, must’ve been more than that.”

  “What are you?” Frank said.

  Harold found himself smirking again. Was it the confidence or the evil raging inside of him? He didn’t know. And just as he opened his mouth to answer Frank’s question, a small voice spoke. “Electus,” it said. “You are the Chosen One. My god, I never thought I’d see the day.”

  It was the little creature who had been able to conjure fire from out of nowhere, and he looked to be on the cusp of death.

  CHAPTER 8

  “You’re a celebrity to the Renegades,” the creature said. Then he coughed, a couple of drops of black came from his throat. Frank shielded his face reflexively.

  The little guy was kind of cute in a so-ugly-it’s-cute sort of way.

  “Help me get him over to the rocks,” Harold said.

  Frank took a step back, his hands up in front of his face. “I ain’t touching that thing. You can’t gimme enough money in the world to touch that thing.”

  Harold’s burnt face twisted into a grimace. “This thing just saved our lives.”

  “My life didn’t need saving,” Frank said. “I would’ve handled it perfectly fine. And then you woulda came in for the slam dunk with that kick-ass sword you got. Speaking of, wanna trade? I’ve always wanted a sword, just never wanted to get close enough to the freaks to be able to use it.”

  “No. That’s not what happened and you know it.”

  The creature coughed again.

  “I’ll be okay, Electus. I can die now that I’ve witnessed your greatness,” he said.

  “No, you won’t die,” Harold said. “You’ll be all right.” He bent down and wrapped an arm around the thing’s neck. Frank saw how the veins in his charred arm bursted outward, but had no idea how the thing weighed so much. He had no choice but help, really. As much as he hated to admit it, the little fellow did technically save his life. Not once but twice.

  Him and Harold managed to pick up the beast and set him up against one of the rocks. It looked up with a pale, ashy face.

  “What’s your name?” Harold asked.

  “Boris…Boris Chekov,” he said.

  “I’m Harold Storm,” he cocked a thumb to Frank, “this here is Frank King. We’re tracking someone. Completely out of our element. Think you can help?”

  Boris smiled. He had a jagged rack of small, sharp teeth. Quite frankly, it was a little unsettling. But Frank thought it was meant to not be unsettling so he tried to mask all the disgust brewing inside of him.

  “Anything for you, Harold Storm. Who are you track — ” A fit of coughs choked away his words. He bent his head low, brought a hairy forearm up to his mouth and wiped away a shiny patch of blackness.

  Frank couldn’t do it. He turned away. Seeing the blackness up close brought up too many bad memories. He thought of his old truck, crashed and ruined by a crazy man, then he thought of the crazy man spewing the black venom all over the Motel 8’s parking lot. So much of it. A waterfall of evil. It was the same venom that had pulsed through Frank’s veins.

  He found himself grinding his teeth. Any harder and they would go the route of the army of skeletons. He fished an arrow from the ammo rack on the top of his crossbow, held it with a steel grip. No. No more evil, he told himself.

  Something stopped him; it was Harold’s gaze.

  “No, we will not kill him. He helped us,” the Realm Protector said.

  “But he’s got the black blood. He’s one of them Demons. He’ll kill us if we don’t kill him.”

  Harold frowned. “Don’t you think he would’ve killed us a long time ago, or Hell, even left us to die at the hands of those skeletons? He had his chances and he didn’t take them.”

  Frank said nothing, but his mouth set in a hard line.

  “I mean you no harm. I am not — ” another fit of coughing, more sprays of black blood, “not one of the bad ones. I’m part of a resistance. We oppose the evil here.”

  “
You are the evil here,” Frank said. “People don’t end up in Hell for no reason.”

  Boris stuttered.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Harold said. “He’s just a stubborn old man.”

  Boris smiled. “Why, Electus, you are much older than he is. You may not look it, but your legacy has been around for thousands of years.”

  Harold shook his head. No, I’m only in my twenties. I’m pretty new to this Chosen One stuff. It’s only been…like what, five days? I don’t know. It’s all starting to blend together.”

  “And look how strong you are already. But I-I assure you, Harold Storm, you have been around since before the Dark Times.”

  “Dark Times in Hell?” Frank said. “You don’t say.” Then he turned to Harold and in a low whisper said, “Really, we should kill this guy before he gets us.”

  Harold waved him off. “No.” He looked to Boris. “His name’s Charlie. I’m not sure of the last name, but he’s a Shadow Eater. Kind of an asshole.”

  Boris raised a hand which was nothing like a normal hand. It only had four fingers and they were about as long as toothpicks and as fat as sausage links. The backside of the hand was covered in thick, black fur.

  “No, Storm, you do not seek Charlie. You seek the other one. That is why you were brought into the Realms in the first place. This Existence does not act without reason. You are here to bring an end to the Dark Times.”

  “Show me. How do I do it?”

  “Wait a minute,” Frank said. “I’m not here for the other one, I’m here to kill Charlie. The bastard killed my son. I want revenge. So this little horse-midget better tell me where he’s hiding or I’m gonna stomp him into the ground.”

  Harold snorted.

  “Really think you have a chance against him?” he asked.

  “He’s two feet tall. I’d have more than a chance, it would be a route.”