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

by Spencer DeVeau

  Maybe. Just maybe.

  Boris leaned closer to her, brushing hair as thick as heavy drapes away from a large ear to whisper something, and when he pulled away, the woman’s face lit up even more.

  “Is it true?” she said, staring at Harold as he walked closer.

  And the closer he walked, the more he was reminded of the Bat Freak that had almost tore him limb from limb back at the Vampire’s tree fortress a few days ago — or weeks; he wasn’t sure, because time had taken a funny dive off the high board once he’d walked through the portal.

  “I really wish I had my crossbow,” Frank whispered.

  “The Electus in my domain. Is it true? It cannot be true,” the woman said.

  “It’s true, it’s true. I swear it’s true,” Boris said. He was nodding vigorously like a bobblehead during an earthquake. Watching made Harold all the more queasy. “Tell her it’s true, Harold Storm.” He turned back to the large woman. “I did good, didn’t I? Yes, I did!”

  “Oh, it’s true,” Aqua said, smiling.

  She set the tray down. On it, steamed a large cooked bird of some sorts that smelled a lot like turkey, but was the slightest bit off-color, making Harold’s stomach flip in hunger and confusion. She reached behind her and pulled something from her waistband. It made Frank clench up in a defensive posture, but Harold remained calm. He knew she wouldn’t try to fight him, or try to surprise him with a sneak attack such as Frank expected; plus, Harold was too tired for it to come to that.

  Please, don’t let it come to that, he thought.

  Luckily, it didn’t.

  She pulled something out that looked like a battered magazine, but without glossy pages full of headlines and photorealistic covers. On the front of the book read one word in all capitals: SAVIOR.

  Harold felt his heart rate speed up even though it really didn’t want to. Savior? Why? Somehow he knew this had to do with him. More pressure. More weight to the load on his shoulders.

  Aqua set it on the table, then slid it across to where Harold and Frank now stood on the opposite side, the steaming gray-bird dividing them. He could feel all eyes on him, then he could feel the beads of sweat beneath his shirt, running down his back.

  “Open it,” Aqua said.

  Harold looked up, caught eyes first with Frank who just shrugged, still in that defensive position that must’ve been doing a number on his knees, then to the large woman.

  “Maybe after we eat,” Harold said. “I’m tired, I’m hungry. I don’t need anymore pressure on me than there already is.”

  That seemed to avert the stares.

  Aqua blinked solemnly, and the large woman who Harold now noticed didn’t have the right skin pigment to be called a woman — at least in the Mortal sense — said, “Very well, Electus. We understand you’ve had quite the journey. Please, please sit a spell and enjoy the feast.”

  Harold nodded and said, “Thank you very much for your hospitality.”

  They all sat down…everyone except for Frank. He stood, still tensed, with his hands on his hips, a sneer on his face. “That was a mighty fast preparation of said feast, if you don’t mind me saying. A little suspicious, like you knew we was coming.”

  The woman smiled, and when she did, Harold nearly dropped his fork. Most everything about her aside from the midnight-gray skin tone and largeness had seemed Mortal or at least humanoid, but when she smiled and her lips drew back she did not possess normal teeth. Two large something (Fangs?) dropped down over the serrated teeth where a normal person’s front teeth would’ve been. They threatened to drip with some kind of clear, greenish liquid that reminded Harold of formaldehyde — or maybe snot. All of a sudden, despite the scents of cooked meat and spices, Harold had lost his appetite.

  Frank made an audible noise of disgust and turned his head. Harold hadn’t the gumption to turn his, and he couldn’t even if he’d wanted to. When the woman noticed the two of their reactions, she quickly brought up a thick and hairy forearm to cover her mouth like a woman who’d just realized she had broccoli stuck between her two front teeth.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know it’s not nice of me to bare my fangs to such an honorable guest. I guess accidents happen.” She smiled, this time without any fangs.

  Harold put up a hand as if to signify it was okay.

  Across the table, Aqua snickered. “Her name is Spider, in case you were wondering.”

  “Could’ve guessed that one,” Frank said.

  Harold shot him a harsh look then pushed the chair out next to him. Without hesitation, Frank sat down.

  “Oh, goodness,” Spider said, “I haven’t properly introduced myself, have I?” She stood up, knees bumping the table and lifting the entire thing as if it was made of plastic instead of hard and heavy wood. She wore a dress of rough wool almost resembling a monk’s robe. There were holes down the sides where something bulged beneath the material.

  Holes for her other four arms, Harold thought, but he saw no extra limbs.

  She extended a large, meaty hand, and Harold took it in his own with a smile on his face.

  “It’s so great to finally meet you. You are special, Harold Storm, more special than you may realize.” She shook the hand up and down exactly four times, and on two of those shakes Harold thought his arm would be yanked from its socket, then she let go.

  “I’m not special,” he said.

  Frank huffed on his left, caught in the looming shadow of Spider’s girth.

  “More special than you realize,” she said, and she smiled that smile again, this time with just a faint hint of fangs.

  “More like, wrong place, wrong time is all,” Harold said.

  Spider blinked a few times then sat down.

  The book on the table was now in Aqua’s hands. “More like, destiny,” she said, opening the book. Harold noticed that it actually opened itself. The pages were so worn, the spine so bent that wherever Aqua had flipped to was almost like a natural reflex. Her eyes studied the page for a moment. She sighed like a lover reminiscing over old times and pushed the book across the table toward Harold.

  He looked down and gasped.

  The picture was not photorealistic; it was drawn. The date at the bottom of the page read 901, over a thousand years ago, long before the concept of the camera was thought of — Hell, even a book, he thought with a smile on his lips…maybe. No, this picture was hand-drawn in something that resembled lead, but the resemblance was striking. This picture was of him, of Harold Storm, failed actor out of Gloomsville, functioning alcoholic and disappointment— of Harold Storm, the Electus.

  “That’s fucked up,” Frank said through a mouthful of gray bird.

  CHAPTER 17

  The body had sat in front of the box for no less than five minutes before it went from Clint to gnawed on bones.

  Charlie didn’t stay to watch him feast. You couldn’t really see it so much as hear it and smell it.

  He could’ve had Clint for himself and no one would’ve known. The Dark One wouldn’t starve. Not yet. And if all went according to plan in the city of Ghul, they would be feasting like the kings they were in no time.

  Just hold out. Your time will come…your time will come, Charlie told himself.

  He stood on the balcony of the tower, hundreds of feet above the cell his Master was kept in. The air was clear and crisp. If not for the jagged mountains and black blemishes in the land beyond, Charlie could see for hundreds of miles, perhaps he could even see to Ghul itself. Perhaps, he could look on his love — No, not love. Love no one, he thought — as she orchestrated the attack on the Renegade’s stronghold with his own two black and soulless eyes. Part of him said he might not get to look at her in the flesh. He knew how strong the Realm Protector named Harold Storm was and was still becoming, and though he’d never admit it aloud, it frightened him more than the entity housed in the black box below him did.

  Charlie crossed the room to the shelves. There sat the glass ball given to the Dark One many,
many years ago as a gift. The Witch’s name was Stella, and though Charlie had not initially liked her — or trusted her for that matter — he couldn’t deny the great power of the glass ball.

  It was an Eye, at least that’s how Charlie thought of it. A window to the world. All seeing, all knowing.

  His hands wrapped around the coldness. The only other coldness he could associate it with was the way a corpse felt, the way Clint’s bones would feel once the desolation of Hell got to them.

  The ball was heavy in his palms, pure and solid. He held it close to his body, dimly aware that if he dropped it, the device was more liable to crash through the floor than to shatter into a million, tiny pieces.

  Holding it, he could almost hear her shrill laughter pounding his ears. But, oh, he hadn’t thought of that in —

  He jumped, almost dropped the glass as a new image swam up to its surface. He could see them now. So high up in the sky…as if they were flying. Beth’s hair whipped in the wind, a sheer look of determination on her face. Eyes narrowed, sword out. Around her waist a rope was tied, the other end looped to one of the jutting spikes which belonged to the building. There were three men with her, ropes also tied around their waists.

  He smiled at the image. She looked so pretty and perfect dressed in her black jumpsuit. The way she held the Hellblade in her hand, how it was almost the same length as her petite body. So perfect.

  No!

  He mustn’t. Must not get attached.

  It had been a month since they last laid with each other, since her smooth, milky flesh was pressed against his own.

  No! No! No! Stop it!

  How warm and sweet and fragrant she was.

  Charlie did not possess a heart, but if he had, the thought of that night in New York’s Central Park under the wheeling stars would have made it beat at a life-threatening pace. The Mortal Realm was not his first choice to perform such acts, but here in Hell, the Dark One saw all that went on in his kingdom, even if he did not realize it.

  He set the glass down on the table, closed his own eyes and thought of Aqua. It was the only way he could get the throbbing in his head to subside.

  Think and you shall see, the Witch had said to the Dark One, and Charlie remembered him rolling his eyes as he sat on the throne of bones.

  He thought of Aqua, her warrior’s body, her eyes which never gave away the truth. And there she was, her face with a fish eye’s view, swimming in a sea of darkness darker than her flesh. She flashed a bright, white smile, and leaned forward. She held something in her hand. Paper — a book, perhaps.

  Something crossed into his field of view.

  A hand.

  Charlie’s grin widened. The flesh was burned, charred and slowly healing. The gummy wounds had scabbed over. It was his hand, no doubt.

  All was going according to plan. Soon, her decisions would drive her mad, Electus’ friend would interfere, and the world would light up with the colors of a dying rebel.

  CHAPTER 18

  They shared their meal in almost complete silence. Spider, Aqua, and Boris didn’t so much eat as they just stared, though Boris picked at the gray bird with small fingers, not sitting in a chair but standing at the table. It was almost the perfect height for his horse body. They looked like they were waiting for something. A reaction, maybe. One that didn’t come. Sure, Harold was surprised, but not much could surprise a person after they’ve traveled to Hell and had a blade shoot out from their wrists.

  The bird wasn’t as disgusting as it looked, but not as delicious as it smelled either. Frank ate until he had to lean back in his chair and unbuckle his pants. Harold had enough to get by. The lack of food over the last few days made him think that too much in too short a time would just come back up. Still, the meal served its purpose, and when his plate was mostly picked apart, leaving a few scraps, and his cup was drained of the sickening-sweet red liquid which reminded him of wine, Harold pushed his chair back and stood up.

  They all looked at him — except for Frank, he was too busy not caring about such trivial shit as Chosen Ones.

  “Spider,” Harold said, “thank you very much for your hospitality. The meal was good, better than anything I’ve had in awhile, but I’m tired.” He stifled a yawn that had initially started out as fake.

  Spider blinked at him slowly, then she smiled. “Aren’t you curious, Realm Protector?”

  “About what?”

  “Kid’s right,” Frank said. “We’re tired. We can talk about this destiny mumbo-jumbo after we get a few hours of sleep.”

  Spider nodded, never taking her eyes off of Harold. “Of course, but I fear there may not be time enough. I fear the war has started.”

  Frank chuckled. “You’re telling me.”

  Harold’s hand came down on the old man’s shoulder, and Frank’s jubilant face vanished, replaced by one that was stone-cold serious.

  “I’ve seen it all — large Demons, Vampires, Witches, swords sprung from flesh, the gates of Hell. And a picture is nothing compared to those things,” Harold said.

  Aqua clutched the small book to her chest.

  “There’s much I don’t understand, but it doesn’t matter. Maybe I’ve been around for a long time — much longer than I remembered or ever thought. Maybe I’ll die in order to save this Existence. Maybe. But I believe I understand the most important thing of all: Everything rests on my shoulders, whether we live or die, suffer or prosper. And I also understand I’m no match for the likes of Him and his lapdog without sleep.”

  Frank banged his fist on the table, clattering the dishes and causing them to jump in surprise. “Hot damn! Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  Spider nodded. “We will talk once you’ve risen.”

  “Thank you,” Harold replied, smiling. He gathered his sword, anticipating the Wolves when his burnt hand wrapped around the smooth, white hilt. He got nothing.

  Aqua stood up then, her own hands still clutching the book. “I’ll go prepare a room,” she said, and left them behind, her footsteps disappearing into the shadows.

  “We shall have the best featherbed for you, Electus,” Spider said. She stood up, towering over all of them. Harold got a better look at her muscles, and he thought to himself, Thank God she’s on our side.

  “Any bed will do,” Harold said, sticking out his hand to shake hers. “Give Frank the best bed you got. He deserves it more than I do.”

  Frank’s eyes widened, then he smiled.

  Spider took his hand and squeezed with bone-cracking strength. “It was a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said. “We shall talk on the morrow. Boris, please lead our guests to their bedchambers.”

  Boris hopped away from the table as eager as a puppy. “Gladly.” He came around to Harold. “May I take your sword, Electus?” he said, sticking out a hand.

  “Boris,” Spider seethed. “Do you want to die?” Her voice was deep and rumbling. It seemed to suck all the air out of the great dining hall.

  Boris’ eyes went wide, and he slowly dropped his arm to his side. “W-What?” he said.

  “You can’t handle that blade, have I taught you nothing? Have you not read the books? Only the Electus can handle the Sword of Orkane.”

  Harold withdrew it closer to his body, wishing he’d had a scabbard to sheath it in. The images of his trip with Roberta came flooding back into his mind. The Protectors all gathered around in their vulture masks. The man who was now Charlie trying to assert his dominance by claiming the sword for himself, the way he burst into a cloud of colorful dust and was seemingly snuffed from Existence. But it was all a vision, had it been real? Would something like that really happen? After all, it was just a sword, wasn’t it?

  “I’m sorry, Master,” Boris said. “In my excitement, I forgot.” His eyes gleamed, and he cast his head down.

  “It is all right, Boris,” Spider replied.

  “Guess I’ll hang on to this,” Harold said. And Boris smiled, though it was not fully genuine.

  The
little half-man led them into the shadows, and Harold yawned, barely able to walk straight. Sleep would be greatly welcomed.

  CHAPTER 19

  The bedrooms were once dungeons, but you couldn’t tell by looking at them now. When the Renegades claimed this building as their headquarters some years ago, these rooms were painted with black blood. The floors were littered with skeletons. There were no beds or pillows, only small stacks of hay sticky with old venom. The entire building had been used as a torture chamber in the days before the Dark One was imprisoned, back when the streets and fields were bustling with the chatter and movement of the damned.

  The good old days. The days Aqua missed.

  She had seen the inside of one of these torture chambers long before she was a Renegade. Down here in Hell, it was a free for all. Gangs of murderers and rapists would roam the city, looking for the weaker ones. Women mainly, and there were a lot of women in Hell back then. Down here, there were no rules. You fended for yourself. The damned lived how they always wanted to. In a sick way, it was their own personal Heaven. You were free to play until the Dark One set his pus-filled eye upon your soul, then, as the rumors said, you were fucked. An eternity of pain and suffering. No more Heaven anymore. So sorry, Charlie.

  Aqua never got picked up by the Dark One, but she was picked up many times by the Roamin’ Dogs — that’s what they liked to call themselves. She was beaten, raped, demeaned, belittled…you name it. Her last memories of the old world were of a dungeon just like the one she stood in now. His name was Gunner. He lead the Dogs. And she had never wanted to kill herself more than she did then. The things they did to her. God, the pain, the suffering. Of course, she couldn’t die, couldn’t fight the pain. The only thing she could do was let it happen and hope that it would be over soon.