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

by Spencer DeVeau

  “I bet Breck said please before you burned him and sent him to the Pits, did he not?” the woman named Aqua said, her voice was a low whisper.

  Boris’ hand rose to the rock around his neck. “Aqua…” he said, “please. You don’t understand.”

  “Let us in lady!” Frank shouted. “It’s fuckin cold out here! I’m an old man, this weather gets to my bones.”

  “Seek shelter elsewhere, old man,” Aqua said.

  “I have Electus with me, Aqua,” Boris said. His voice raised, sending the fur on the back of his neck up into sharp hackles. Harold cracked a smile. It was quite comical. In an odd way, it reminded him of Slink, the Demon dog Sahara had had with her upon their first meeting at the beach. The poor thing was probably dead now, left in the care of Chet, left to die. He hoped not, but the way things were on the surface before he left, he figured the odds were not in Slink’s favor.

  A slight spark rose in the eyes of Aqua, but it was short lived. Soon she narrowed them. “Electus, huh? The Chosen One? Who was it last week? God, I can’t remember. Your shenanigans are getting too tiresome, Boris. Now go before I fetch the Knight to dispose of you and your friends. He will gladly do it, too. He loved Breck even more than I. And you know he’s dying. He has nothing to lose any longer…unlike you, Boris.”

  The wooden slat closed with a snap. Boris hopped a few inches off the ground, his hoofs landing and sending a cloud of dust up.

  “Shit, now what?” Frank said, rubbing at his arms where his skin was raised in gooseflesh. “I would’ve rather it been a trap then to be turned out like a couple of sick dogs. At least if there was a fight, I get moving and the blood would pump instead of just freezing.”

  Boris sighed. “Now we wait,” he said, “until I can come up with a better idea.” He slinked off out of Harold’s view.

  “Wait?” Frank said, incredulous. “Maybe you’ll wait, but I sure as heck ain’t waiting. I’m gonna get some shelter. There’s gotta be an inn or something. Maybe a bar. Please, God, let there be a bar. How’s that sound, Harry? A nice pint of beer, some of that hard shit to wash it down?”

  “No, thanks. I’m trying to quit.”

  “Ah, of course. A Realm Protector has to be pure.” Frank spun around, snapped his head. “Where that little bastard go?”

  As if on cue, Boris came back holding a bundle of garbage: discarded bandages, plastic bottles, newspapers with writing Harold could not begin to decipher. “No inn,” Boris said. “Not much of anything here.” He set the trash near Frank who stared at him with blank eyes. Then the little creature snapped his fingers, producing a small flame. He touched the edge of the newspaper. It caught in a blaze. “Won’t burn long, but hopefully we won’t be out here too much longer.”

  The way the burning parchment smelled made Harold turn his head away. But, he had to admit, the feeling of warmth was nice.

  Boris sat down as if the small, trash fire was a big bonfire, and maybe to someone of his small stature, it was. Harold followed suit, the orange and yellow flames catching in his equally yellow eye. He laid the sword across his lap. It glittered in the flame.

  Frank grumbled happily as he sat down with them, setting his weapon across his lap in much the same way. “Ain’t bad. Smells like trash, but that’s what it is, I guess,” he said, shrugging.

  Harold smiled slightly.

  “There’s a bunch of trash we can use for fuel,” Boris said. “We’ll get used to the smell.” He had his head in his hands. The folds of skin on his face bunched up like piles of hairy dough.

  Harold shifted a little closer to the dying flames, nearly knocking the sword into the fire.

  Then Boris’ eyes lit up. He smiled a sharp, toothy smile. “That’s it!” he bounced up like an eager child ready for recess.

  “What is?” Harold said, puzzled.

  “The sword. It’s the sword of Orkane, is it not? I recognize the hilt and the power when you destroyed the skeletons.”

  Harold nodded.

  “Who the Hell is this Orkane?” Frank asked. “Aw, I don’t care, just get me indoors, you little weirdo!”

  The flames went out with a gust of musty wind. A smell was amplified with it. A smell of decay. Of dark, wet basements. Of the dead subway tunnels that ran beneath Gloomsville like empty veins. Harold didn’t like that smell, even went so far as to put the remainder of his nose in the crook of his elbow.

  Boris went back to the door, knocked three times, much like before.

  “Be gone, Boris,” the deep, thrumming voice said.

  “I have proof it is he!” Boris said. Harold had never heard the little guy so excited. It actually instilled something like hope in the Realm Protector.

  “I am fetching the Knight,” the deep voice said. “And if you wake Spider, there will be more than the Knight to deal with.”

  “No!” Boris shouted. “He has the sword of Orkane. Only the Chosen One can wield that sword. Aqua! You know this. You know! You know!”

  A whine and a creak caused Boris to stumble backward, dust flying around him again, picked up and swirled by the wind.

  “Draw,” Boris said. He shuffled backward until he stomped out the smoking remains of the trash fire, and bumped his head into Harold’s thigh.

  The wooden door raised upward, spilling a wash of bright light and heat from the opening.

  Frank raised his bow.

  Harold raised his sword.

  A large thing, dressed in the armor of a medieval knight stepped from the light. In his hands were a great sword and a battered, wooden shield with a symbol of intertwining snakes — one black, one yellow — emblazoned on its surface.

  Behind him, the black woman walked out. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and she wore something like a tattered, fur coat. “I told you, Boris,” she said.

  The Knight took a few steps, each one thunderous, making the dead dust billow around him.

  “Prepare to face the consequences of your actions,” Aqua said.

  The Knight raised his great sword which was about the length of a small car, and swung down on Boris.

  Harold didn’t hesitate at all, and the sound of kissing blades shook the foundation of the empty city loud enough to wake the dead.

  CHAPTER 13

  Maybe you should sit this one out, Franky, he tried to tell himself. You don’t even like that little freak. You didn’t trust him, and now look where he got us. We’re about to be stomped to jelly by an armored man about as big as a tank. What a great day. Sure, he might’ve saved your ass once and was nice enough to start a little fire to warm your bones, but nobody is worth having your brains stuck to the soles of someone’s boot.

  Harold’s blade struck the Knight’s blade with a spark that was somehow more than a spark, inches away from the top of Boris’ head.

  Frank raised his bow, biting his tongue, thinking to himself, Damnit! Damn it all to Hell!

  He aimed down the sights. There were two small slits in the visor for whoever was in there to see out of. At first glance the slits were thinner than the circumference of one of Frank’s arrows. But he loaded it anyway, yanking the string back with a high twang!

  Harold swiped up. The Knight’s blade swept the air in a wide circle, almost taking the better part of Harold’s face off.

  Frank bent at the knees, closing one eye. He’d made harder shots before — Frank had shot a witch in Ann Arbor with a bomb strapped to her chest directly in the heart, problem was her heart was covered by explosives, and he was pulling bits of her flesh out of his hair for the next two weeks.

  He might not be able to blind the Knight, but he’d sure as Hell get his attention. The trigger gave as he got his chance. But something knocked into him, making his back and neck crack. The shot went awry, sailing far into the deserted streets of the dead city. His first thought was: There’s another arrow I won’t be getting back. And his second thought was: What the Hell hit me?

  He looked up to see the black woman standing over him. She had a smal
l blade in hand, and she was raising it up, ready to come down on his face and make him look like the Realm Protector to his right.

  The blade whistled through the air. Frank swung his crossbow up in a last ditch effort to save his nose. He was almost too late. Blade and handle clunked off of one another. But the girl was strong, stronger than any girl had a right to be. He was reminded of the beach and of the other Realm Protector, and he thought to himself maybe he should get a gym membership if he was going to keep ending up in situations like this.

  The girl screamed, then winced as she pulled her hand back, the blade skittered over the dark stone, and she shook the hand like it was covered in flames.

  Frank kicked himself up.

  Somewhere, Boris yelled: “Stop it! He is the Chosen One. You will not beat him!” But it was distant and hollow despite being no more than twenty feet from him.

  The girl came back with a kick, caught Frank square in the mouth, jarring a few teeth loose, sending blood into his graying beard. He yelled as he toppled over.

  She pounced again, knees on his chest, as pointy as the Devil’s horns. She must’ve weighed a thousand pounds but only looked like she weighed a hundred or so. He tried to buck her off of him. No luck.

  Fingernails clawed at the ground as she searched for the knife and as he searched for an arrow.

  Something flew over them both, hit the ground with a loud oof. It was Harold, and he tumbled over the concrete, finally coming to rest against one of the dark pillars, sword still in hand.

  His eyes flitted open then closed.

  It was enough of a distraction for Frank to get some footing. Despite the protests of his back, he arched himself up at the hips, spine popping and tearing, teeth clamped down in a grin of death, and he rolled the woman off of him.

  Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. The knife glittered at the feet of the Knight. Boris stood a few feet from it, the Knight a few feet from him. Each step of the great, armored thing was thunderous, and each step sent Boris back a few feet until he had nowhere else to go.

  The little guy bent down on one knee like a football player and lifted his hands up in front of his face. A high-pitched scream escaped the confines of his mouth. The gem around his neck pulsed with fire, then the flames blasted from his hands, enveloping the Knight in a blanket of warmth. It didn’t slow the thing down at all, and as Frank stared at it, he thought there might’ve been a smile on its metal face. A deep laugh came echoing out from the chest piece, drowning out Boris’ screams.

  The Knight raised its blade again then swung fast.

  Luckily, Frank was faster.

  CHAPTER 14

  His head thrummed, and his first thought when he realized the cold air was biting his skin was that he spent all night drinking again and Marcy was going to be really pissed — like all-out, separation pissed.

  He still couldn’t see straight. Man, he must’ve drank the heavy stuff. The stuff that Chet kept locked away beneath the bar, the stuff only for special occasions. Then his vision flared bright orange and the cold air no longer snapped its sharp fangs at him. Now a fresh sheen of sweat caked his forehead. He swiped away at it, feeling the ridges and blisters, the rough terrain, like a three-dimensional map.

  And he remembered.

  As much as he wished he was waking up in a back alley caked in his own vomit, that wasn’t the case. That life was long gone.

  Frank jumped ahead of him like a blur. He had no idea the old man had it in him. Boris was about to get sliced straight down the middle, and Frank speared him, flying into a pile of trash off to the left of the Knight. The blade smacked the concrete, shaking the pillar behind Harold and cleaving the stone in two.

  The woman was up now and she jogged to where Boris and Frank landed, hopping over the crack in the ground. She disappeared for a minute, while the Knight stood idle. It was like an unplugged robot, and when she came back carrying Boris under one arm and Frank under the other, the Knight laughed deep, earth-rattling laughs.

  Harold stood up. Dust fell off of him, cascading down his shoulders like a rainstorm.

  He wasted no time, though his joints and head told him he needed to slow down. The sword was in his hand, then it was out in front of him, then it sliced at the chest plate of the Knight.

  The deep laughs were cut off and drowned out by the sound of screeching metal, of screams from something otherworldly.

  Inside, was just a man. He stared wide-eyed and naked, shriveled and old. Harold thought he might be a corpse, but then his mouth opened and his eyes jittered, going from the black woman to Harold and back.

  Boris landed with an oomph. The woman named Aqua had dropped both, but Frank made no noise.

  Harold’s breath was fast and hard. He wheeled around to meet the woman, who was weaponless, fear in her eyes, mouth a thin, impassive line.

  She dropped, too, landing on her knees and bending over into something like a bow. Her arms fanned Harold’s boots.

  “It’s you. I cannot believe it. It’s you! I’m not worthy. No — we are not worthy.”

  Harold didn’t lower his weapon. He’d been tricked by far too many Hellions in too short a span of time. But his logic spoke louder than his fear. If it were a trick, it was a pretty poor one. He could’ve ended all their lives right then if he felt so inclined to.

  “Stand up,” Harold said. “Face me.”

  “Yes, Electus. Whatever you demand.”

  Harold thought for a moment. It didn’t take him too long to realize what he wanted. The cold and the hunger and the lethargy answered for him: “I demand we go inside.”

  Aqua nodded, white teeth flashing wide. “Anything you wish.”

  They all went in through the large wooden door, Boris cradled in Harold’s arms like a baby, and Frank and the shriveled body of the Knight in Aqua’s.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sahara didn’t give the raggedy-looking man any time to pull the trigger. She zigzagged through the dirt, her blade flashing in a gleam of gunmetal gray, and wheeled upon him with a harsh swipe.

  The gun split in two, and fell to the dirt with a muffled clatter.

  Felix laughed from behind, clapping his hands. “You still got it, my dear,” he said.

  Sahara flashed him a harsh look. “I never lost it,” she replied. Then she looked back toward the man and said, “On your knees.”

  He obeyed, but his composure broke in a spray of spit as he mumbled, “Please, d-don’t kill me. I d-don’t wanna die.”

  “Shut up,” she said.

  The other three came out of the shadows. They all had guns and didn’t hesitate to fire.

  A bullet wouldn’t kill her, she knew, but they hurt like Hell. And there was always the possibility the bullets were tinged with the Demon venom. She didn’t want to go through that again, those dark dreams, that helpless feeling of slowly dying, of slowly withering away into nothing.

  So she ducked behind the man on his knees. Three bullets smacked into the man’s back. A spray of blood escaped his mouth like a water-jet, showering Sahara’s already red hair. People behind her screamed, muted by the ringing in her ears.

  But one of the crew had a machine gun and wildly sprayed into the crowd. She saw people get cut down, saw them fall in a heap of dead meat as they broke their huddle.

  When the ground shook, she thought one of the crazy assholes brought a rocket launcher or a grenade to the party. But that wasn’t the case.

  Felix chanted a language Sahara had not heard in quite some time. It was the ancient language of the Realm Protectors. The sky opened up, and a bolt of hot, yellow lightning struck the ground, sending the shooters flying in all directions. Sahara smiled, wiped away a coating of blood from her forehead, and stood up.

  The shooters were either dead or knocked out. Their guns had exploded in their hands. Fingers littered the ground like trash. She turned to look at the crowd. Some were dead or would be dead soon. Others clutched at the wounds, blood seeping through their fingers.

&nbs
p; Those would be okay.

  A woman with a first aid kit offered to wrap up a man’s arm, while another man who got shot seemed to be fine.

  But they were scared, Sahara could see it in their eyes.

  She went over to the kids and their father, told them it would all be okay. None of them were hurt, thankfully.

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you had never showed up,” the father said.

  Sahara ignored him, thinking: No it wouldn’t have. It would’ve been way worse. You’d all be dead. But she knew the words were useless. People believe what they want to believe. No way of getting around that.

  She patted the young boy on the head and offered him a welcoming smile which must’ve looked gruesome considering the amount of blood on her face, then she walked over to Felix who looked stolidly over the crowd.

  “Still got it,” she said.

  “Never lost it,” he replied.

  Sahara stepped reluctantly forward. “Listen up,” she said. “This way is not safe.”

  They looked at her the way they would look at an alien — all eyes wide and mouth agape. She didn’t like it very much.

  “But it’s salvation,” a weak voice said from the crowd.

  “It’s a trap,” she answered.

  The man with the chopped hunting rifle stepped forward. He was visibly shaking, but his face was a mess of dirt and blood — not his blood, Sahara thought. She could feel the tingly sensation in her arm, the one that told her the man was dangerous. Somewhere, a black panther roared inside of her mind. She quelled the noise, put it back in its cage.

  “You two are the trap,” the man said, waving his arms to the sky. “This whole world is a trap.”

  Sahara shook her head. “Look what they did.” She pointed to the man with the bloody gauze wrapped around his forearm and the middle-aged woman helping him, then to a dead woman, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, bloody splotches in her midsection. “They didn’t care who they hit. You’re lucky you’re not dead.”