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

by Spencer DeVeau

  “Clint,” the soldier said.

  “Clint, go down to the basement level and drag out a couple of souls for our Master. He’s hungry again.”

  Clint’s dark eyes shimmered. He opened his mouth to speak, but Charlie cut him off. “Ah, don’t want to hear any buts about it.”

  “It’s not that, sir. I’d gladly go down there and feed him myself. It’s just that…” The soldier trailed off, looked elsewhere.

  “Just what, Clint?”

  “We are out. We used the last of the backup reserve yesterday morning.”

  Charlie grimaced. He remembered the man he’d feasted on. How the soul had tasted a bit old, like the stale bread he’d eaten in a place called Denny’s back on Earth. It made sense. The reserve was pushing a thousand years old now.

  “So now what?” the soldier asked.

  Charlie brought a hand up to his chin, a plan forming in his mind. No food meant bad things for all of them. They’d have to go up the surface to hunt again. How he hated that place. Earth with all its loud noises and different climates. Sure, he loved the taste of a Mortal’s soul, but the way he looked at it, he’d never have a side of river water with his trout.

  Charlie smiled his sharp-toothed grin, the same one he’d used to win over so many people on the surface. “How much do you love our Master?”

  The guard arched an eyebrow and tilted his head, the helmet he wore almost falling off of his long, black hair. “Is this a trick question?”

  “No, it’s a legitimate question. So answer it. How much is he worth to you?”

  Clint’s voice lowered and he leaned forward as he spoke. “He means everything to me.”

  “That’s a good answer.” Charlie smiled. Slowly, his fingers drifted to the small, black canister clipped to his belt.

  The guard’s eyes followed the hand, straining and shaking without moving his head. Charlie could smell the fear radiating off the man’s skin. And he loved every minute of it.

  “W-Why do you ask?” Clint asked.

  Charlie clucked his tongue. The canister was detached now, and he held it in his hands in much the same way a man would hold a grenade. He could feel the power buzzing within. A weapon passed down through the ages. During the fall and the centuries long war between Realm Protector and the deepest depths of Hell, they had all been lost…except two. And since his Master could no longer wield such a weapon, they were bestowed upon Charlie and Beth. The grunts, like Clint, were given spears. Yes, they could draw blood, but they couldn’t vanquish someone to the extent of a Hellblade.

  And Clint knew this.

  He was shaking now. The butt of the spear clanked against the floor.

  “I ask because it would be a great disservice to the Kingdom of Hell if we were to let our King starve because our enemy has blocked us from receiving the damned souls of the Mortals.”

  Clint bowed his head. He tried to talk, but his lips quivered too violently for any words to form.

  Charlie released the blade. It burst out from the canister like a bolt of lightning. Pure black, laced with malice and evil. The torches on the walls shimmered and shrunk to barely a spark.

  “What an honor bestowed upon you,” Charlie said, smiling. “Clint, please step forward away from the wall.”

  Clint did. “Puh-puh…please don’t kill me.”

  “Oh, but I’m not going to kill you, Clint. I’m going to immortalize you.”

  “I’m…I’m scared.”

  Charlie narrowed his eyes, brought the black blade high above his head. “A Shadow Eater does not get scared.” And he found himself smiling again because Clint may have been given the title Shadow Eater, but he was not one. Not like the days of old, not like the Shadow Eater Beth and Charlie had grown up with, the ones long gone. They were the last of a dying breed.

  “I don’t know what’s beyond,” Clint said, this time in a calm and steady voice.

  “You will find out,” Charlie said.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I feel as if you do not have a say in that decision.”

  Clint stood a little taller. He still visibly shook, but the fear had peeled away from his dark eyes. Now they looked as cold and distant as Charlie’s had. Now they looked like a Shadow Eater’s eyes.

  “And why do you?”

  “Do not oppose me,” Charlie answered.

  A couple of footsteps had entered the hallway, echoing off of the walls. Clint slightly turned his head, one eye searching for the noise while the other stayed on Charlie and his raised Hellblade.

  A faint smile passed across the guard’s face.

  Two more of the Eaters had been drawn by the noise. Charlie saw them, dressed in their dark robes. Not guards, but part of the cabinet. Johnny and Otis. Two smart Generals who helped plan offensives in the War. They’d not been as smart as the Dark One thought them to be and wound up getting a lot of soldiers killed, but still somehow managed to save themselves. Really, it was luck. And Charlie kept them around for blame — a missed maneuver here, or a dead battalion there, then the finger would point in their directions.

  They stood beneath two almost extinguished torches. Johnny with a fat binder of old parchment under one arm, and Otis with a half-eaten, rotten apple in hand — sickening, Charlie thought.

  There was no show here. This was not meant to be a public execution. He started to swing down hard to make a point. One slash across the guard’s face.

  Mutilation.

  Clint raised his own hands in protection, his spear falling over and clattering aloud in the quiet hallway. “Wait!” he yelled. “Duel. A duel! Let me prove my worth.”

  This stopped Charlie mid-swing. A fire lit in the pit of his stomach.

  A duel?

  “Please, I’m useful. I hoped to one day be as powerful as you.”

  Charlie lowered his blade. He ran his tongue over his teeth.

  “You know the rules,” Otis said through a mouth of Mortal food. “A challenge must be answered.”

  Johnny chuckled, then walked forward. “You must admire the young one’s gumption, hmm? I say you grant him his duel.”

  Charlie turned to the old General. “I say you shut your mouth, Johnathon…oh, with all due respect.”

  The old man’s face shifted into a mess of wrinkles. Charlie thought he might drop the parchment.

  “I say I do not appreciate your disrespect — ”

  “I say,” Charlie said in his best mocking tone, “I do not give a shit what you appreciate or not.” Then he smiled. The lack of lighting made the dark shadows on Charlie’s face dance as he shifted.

  Otis laughed, chunks of apple spraying out of his mouth and getting caught in the wispy, gray hair that hung from his chin. “What is it, Charlie? You scared? Think the young one might get a couple of hits on you?”

  The fire in his belly blazed hotter. Breath exploded out of his nostrils in bursts. He turned to the guard, who looked like he was about to piss his pants. “Pick up your weapon,” he said, his own hanging lazily in a loose grip by his side.

  Clint listened. He bent down and picked up the spear all while never taking an eye off of Charlie. The wood handle shook in his hand, giving the spear a rubbery illusion.

  “You accepting the duel?” Otis asked. “Wow. Good on you. Very honorable, Charlie.”

  “I’m gonna teach you a lesson. I’m going to teach you all a lesson,” Charlie said.

  “So you’re accepting?” Clint asked.

  “Yes,” Charlie said. “We will participate in front of an audience. At the Coliseum.”

  Clint breathed a sigh of relief. He would be dead, but at least he bought himself a bit of time.

  “You can’t go in without any skills, can you?” Charlie asked.

  Clint eyed him suspiciously while Otis and Johnny looked on with half-smiles on their faces.

  “I-I know how to fight,” Clint said, almost defensively.

  “But you’ve never seen battle. And you’ve certainly never dueled with s
omeone with the likes of my skill, have you, Clint?”

  Clint shook his head.

  “Okay, kid, take this free lesson as a parting gift.” He smiled, showcasing his joking manner, but Clint didn’t return the expression. “Get in your battle stance.”

  Clint did nothing.

  “Battle stance!” Charlie shouted loud enough to make the now full torches waver, and the parchment in Johnny’s hands to crinkle.

  Clint dropped into something that reminded Charlie of a time he spent on a Mortal farm, watching the creatures known as chickens peck at food scattered in the dirt. The lowest of the low he’d seen up there and he’d seen some pretty low things.

  “Good,” Charlie said.

  “Don’t give away all your secrets, Char!” Otis said, then burst into a fit of laughter.

  Charlie promptly ignored him.

  “Now jab at me. Show me how you’d act if a legion of white robed Realm Protectors descended on the tower.”

  Clint hesitated, fumbling the spear in his shaking hands. Then he leaned forward and poked slightly away from Charlie’s body with as much force as a child pointing a finger.

  “No, no, really give it to me,” Charlie said.

  Clint’s eyes seemed to melt in their sockets.

  “That’s how you’ll protect yourself?” Charlie said. He turned his back on the guard, clasped one hand over his wrist, the canister still in hand. “If that’s the case then you won’t last long in the arena. How dare we fill the seats with the little army we still have only for the duel to be over in three seconds because you are unprepared. They will not take kindly to that. They may even tear up your corpse out of spite.”

  He heard the guard squirming.

  “Really give it to me! Attack!” Charlie yelled. He spun around to see a fire in the boy’s eyes. His knuckles were white as they wrapped around the shaft in a textbook grip.

  Clint lunged forward, his teeth clenched and showing, black venom leaking from his gums and lining the fangs, eyes are dark as the blackest part of the Black Pits.

  Charlie took a half step out of the way. His own blade came out in a flash. The torchlight wavered, threatened utter darkness as the sword sucked away its lights, then resumed burning at a low capacity.

  One quick swipe across the guard’s chest.

  The smell of singeing hair, melting skin, lit robes.

  Clint screamed out. He dropped to his knees, the spear falling with him.

  Another swipe, this one downward. The point of his Hellblade rammed the soft spot where the shoulder merged with the neck. A spray of black escaped the wound. Clint screamed again, this time the scream was cut short as the blade sliced his vocal chords, making the shriek sound a lot like the plucking of a dead string on a guitar.

  Charlie ripped the blade free.

  “I reject your duel,” he said.

  Chills were running up and down his spine. The power. Oh, how he loved the power, how he loved the taking of a life. Was this how a god felt? It was a question he asked himself whenever he killed. The feeling was almost orgasmic in nature, better than the warm nights he’d spent with Beth. A thousand times better.

  When he turned to meet the eyes of Johnny and Otis, they stood gawking at him, their mouths hung open.

  “I say that was wrong,” Johnny said.

  “I say I don’t care what you say,” Charlie said.

  Otis just shook his head.

  “Fetch someone to take him downstairs. Our Master is hungry,” Charlie said, as he retracted his blade.

  It wasn’t a Realm Protector, but the limp body of Clint would have to do.

  CHAPTER 12

  The streets and the dead city were too quiet. Harold stopped at something that resembled a crosswalk where two streets intersected. He chuckled to himself lightly. Hell and crosswalks? Yeah, right. He doubted there would be much order in a place like this, but he’d been wrong before.

  The images that flashed in his mind as he chased the Shadow Eater up the rickety steps, seeming to lead to the Heavens were of lakes of fire, black-winged, reptilian beasts soaring overhead. He imagined the heat to be sweltering, and the pain to be unbearable.

  So far it hadn’t.

  When you factor in the cold and the weird, hairy half-horse looking creatures, Hell wasn’t unlike Gloomsville, just maybe a little more empty.

  He chuckled again.

  “What’s so funny?” Frank said from ahead of him. “I hear you snickering over there like some schoolgirl whispering about her crush. How ‘bout you let me and Boris here in on your little secret.”

  “It’s nothing,” Harold said.

  “Oh darn,” Boris said, “we could use a little bit of humor here.” He squinted his eyes, then placed a four-fingered hand over his brow and looked up to the towering spires above. “They should be here.”

  “Should be,” Frank grumbled.

  Harold could hear his grip on the crossbow tightening, then his jaw creaking as he opened his mouth. Harold already knew the words that would follow.

  “It’s a damn setup,” Frank said. “A trap. T-R-A-P. Trap.”

  “Leave him be,” Harold said for the thousandth time. “He says his people will be here, then his people will be here. Right, Boris?”

  The little creature nodded, the loose skin around his chin wiggling, eyes wide and bright. “They’ll be here. They probably just got held up. Maybe there was a snag in the plan.” He gasped, bringing a hand up to his bare chest. “Oh, no, maybe Charlie sent an army.”

  Harold’s oddly jovial mood was wiped away by the creature’s worry. He had tried to remain confident for the duration of their long hike, but it was getting harder and harder with Frank’s constant jabbering and now Boris’ fear.

  God, he’d do anything for the comfort of his Wolves, for the Deathblade in his arm again.

  But his head and arm was as empty as the city. He chuckled again, thinking, On your own again, Harry. Gonna have to fend for yourself. Chosen one or not, it’s life or death here.

  “Relax, Boris, they’ll be here.”

  “I hope so. I really hope so.”

  Frank crossed the road, looked around.

  “What?” Harold asked.

  “Heard something.” Frank aimed down the sights of the crossbow. “I don’t like this, Storm.” Then his eyes flicked to Boris. “Let me get this straight…somehow, you knew we’d be coming down that mountain toward the city and you were supposed to wait for us or something? Seems a little fishy to me.”

  Boris shook his head. “No, we…I didn’t know. Blind luck. Chance. Maybe destiny?”

  Frank lowered his head to look over the creature. “Hm, blind luck. Seems to me that we ain’t ever lucky. I for one ain’t never lucky, that’s for damn sure.”

  Harold shook his head.

  “No…it might not be blind luck,” Boris said. His voice was smaller than he was.

  “What then?” Frank demanded.

  Harold found himself stepping forward. “Yes, what?” Harold said.

  “Well, I may have been kicked out of the Renegades,” Boris said. “I may have gotten into a fight, and possibly, just maybe might have killed one of them.”

  Frank’s eyes went wide, unblinking. “Killed one of your own?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But a Renegade,” Harold said. “He means one of your own like that.”

  “Yes, I guess. But he is nothing like me. He was scum.”

  “It’s Hell,” Frank said. “We’re all scum.”

  “It was self-defense,” Boris said, his eyes gleaming. “I didn’t mean it. When I get angry, things don’t tend to end well.”

  “Right,” Frank said. “Where was it when those damn skeletons were ripping our heads off? Could’ve used it back then.”

  Boris shook his head, shoulders slumped. “I gave you my all.”

  Harold found himself feeling pity for the beast. Harold could relate to a tortured past.

  “Self-defense or not, doesn’t
matter,” Harold said. “It’s the past. Leave it there. All we have to worry about is what’s going to happen next.”

  Boris nodded and walked on

  They approached one of the spires, Boris in the lead. It loomed high above them, taking away Harold’s breath. He’d never been to Paris, but he imagined this is what he’d feel like if he stood below the Eiffel Tower.

  Frank lowered his crossbow.

  “What is this?” Harold said.

  “Our last hideout,” Boris replied.

  “Ain’t it supposed to be a secret?” Frank asked. “You don’t want whoever you’re rebelling against to know where you all group up together. Too easy to take you all out at once that way.”

  A smile played at Boris’ lips. “No,” the little beast said. “No, they won’t set foot in here. We have guards. Scary guards.”

  Frank snorted. “Doubt there’s anything in Hell that the likes of the Shadow Eater would be afraid of.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Harold found himself saying, then winced at his own ego. Truth was, they wanted him here as much as he wanted to kill them.

  “Don’t get too cocky,” Frank said.

  Boris nodded then went to the wall. He knocked three times, each one louder than the previous. There was a silence, then Frank turned to look at Harold, and Harold shrugged.

  “Trap,” Frank whispered, bringing the crossbow up.

  Harold gripped the hilt of his sword tighter.

  “Who goes there?” a gruff voice said.

  It filled the air, seemingly coming from nowhere. A voice that boomed in Harold’s chest, rattled his head, and made him feel so small.

  “It’s Boris.”

  “Go away.”

  “But I’ve brought someone.”

  A piece of wood in the towering door lifted up at about normal eye level. Harold saw a flash of ebony skin, then the whites of someone’s eyes.

  “You’ve brought a couple of scallops,” the voice said. Harold recognized it as a woman’s voice, now no longer distorted by whatever dark magic was held within the spire’s door.

  Boris turned to look over his shoulder and offered a weak chuckle then a nervous smile. In a low voice, he said, “Aqua, please.”