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

by Spencer DeVeau

She didn’t want it; she wanted her salvation.

  The blade hovered above her skin, tracing invisible letters in jagged cursive.

  Salvation. Salvation.

  This could be her salvation.

  More tears came, hot and steady. Her breath shook harder. She was sobbing while she turned back to the glowing door, waiting to hear the voices from the old man and Boris, from Spider, from all the Demons who she kept locked away trying to get to her mind, trying to rip it to shreds with their talon-like claws and their dripping, black fangs.

  And it was then that the silence both of the hallway and of her mind crumbled.

  The wall blasted open in a spray of hardwood and fire. Aqua was thrown onto the ground. She skittered to the edge of the room, all of her momentum causing her body to accordion against the stone of the opposite walls of the building.

  Her hand let go of the blade, but it wasn’t lost in the wreckage.

  In a haze of smoke, she blinked slowly. Her whole body vibrating with pain. Pain especially heavy in her side. Slowly, she looked up, saw Frank King duck through the wreckage in a suit of armor — the Knight’s fractured armor. He was too big for it, of course, and his body hung halfway out of the split chest plate, his head too big to fully fit inside of the helmet. He looked like a grown up in a kid’s costume on Halloween. It was absurd. All of it was absurd. She smiled a little, then coughed a choking burst of laughter, bringing more attention to the burning pain in her side.

  Frank King’s face was harsh and full of wrinkled lines. She could see him now as he hopped out of the armor, moving in slow motion, flames illuminating his flesh. Boris poked his head around one of the metal legs, his eyes wide. He brought a shaky hand up to his mouth.

  “Aqua…Aqua, are you okay?”

  She thought she said yes, but her mind was delirious. She thought she was back home. She thought her dad was there, and she’d fallen off the top of the slide attached to the swing set he’d built for her when she was five years old. She’d thought her landing was cushioned by a bee’s nest in the grass, and a legion of yellow and black striped monsters had targeted her side, thought they’d morphed together to make one giant stinger and stung her over and over again until she was red and on the cusp of death.

  Boris came closer, losing the appearance of Aqua’s long-gone father. He reached out and brushed something that was apart of her but wasn’t.

  It was the blade.

  And it hung out of her flesh like a fractured bone.

  “What — what did you do?” Boris said. His eyes danced over the hilt — intricately carved with runes belonging to the dark tongue of the Shadow Eaters. “What were you going to do to Electus?” a flash of anger passed over his face, and his torso stood straighter and tensed like he was about to hit her.

  She smiled a lazy smile and said, “Boris, oh little Borry, I found…I found my salvation.”

  And then her skin fizzled like the lit end of a stick of dynamite. Boris took two steps back, his lips quivering, mouth slowly opening until a scream escaped his throat. “Frank, get down,” he said. “Move! Move!”

  Boris ran away from Aqua and out of her life forever.

  Her skin blazed, the bees stung again and again, and she saw beautiful yellow and red fireworks.

  Aqua’s insides boiled over then blew out of her eyeballs. Her flesh ripped apart. And Like dominoes toppling over one after another, the stone wall blew open in the same spectacular color which had eaten away at her body.

  The Shadow Eaters atop the building opposite received their signal, much to the surprise of the ones called Worm and Octavius, and they came with murder and victory on their minds.

  CHAPTER 28

  Frank’s ears rang and pierced his brain. He didn’t remember much, but he remembered a burst of magnificent light, screams and the smell of charred flesh. It took him a moment to realize where he was, the inverted view having something to do with that. Piles of rubble. Burning clothes. A body.

  He pushed himself up on something firm yet very frail, harsh yet powerful. It was Harold Storm’s body. His eyes were closed, dust settled down on top of his face. He still looked peaceful. He almost looked…dead.

  Frank shot up, more dust and rubble and rock falling into his face. He gripped Harold and shook him.

  Nothing.

  He did it again.

  From behind him, he heard a faint moan. He turned around and looked in time to see a pile of rock and wood from the bed, now pointed downward like a slide, start shifting. Two small horns reached out first, then Boris’ head came next. He was bloody. One eye already bruised. When he opened his mouth, there was a black spot in his bottom row of teeth. He rubbed at his head hesitantly, finding purchase on a slick of dark blood. He pulled his hand away and with it, a string of goo, then looked at the same hand with a worried expression on his face.

  “Aqua?” he asked.

  Frank flicked his head in the direction of the smoking pile of clothes.

  Aqua was no more; she’d gone up like a blaze of fireworks on the Fourth of July. Good riddance, Frank thought. This is all her fault. Harold’s dead and it’s all her fault —

  Harold started to cough.

  Frank’s eyes ballooned.

  “The Wolves,” Harold said, “they got me, they tore out my throat.”

  Frank’s eyes began to water, and he didn’t let Harold see. Men like Frank King didn’t cry, and he hadn’t since Charlie murdered his son. He was on the verge now, however.

  Frank leaned down and hugged the kid.

  “Geez, old man, what happened?” Harold said, humor in his voice. “You going to cry?”

  Frank let go of him, hoping his eyes wouldn’t betray him. He reached out and patted Harold on the shoulder. “Just glad to see you up and at ‘em.”

  “Wish I could’ve…” he trailed off, his head turning back and forth between the ruined dungeon bedroom. “What in the Hell happened?”

  “He almost killed you, kid. She would’ve too, if it wasn’t for me and Boris. We had to break down the door. It was spellbound, he said, and I didn’t really know what that meant, just knew how no spell was a match for a wrecking ball.” The words poured out of him. Inside, he was a mixture of happiness and elation, fear and fright.

  Harold dusted himself off and began to make a motion to get up. His head swiveled, taking it all in then it stopped at Boris.

  The little creature was sobbing silently. He clutched at the pile of singed clothing, smoke coiling up around his face in waves. “Aqua,” he said. “I never got to tell her how I felt.”

  “Maybe you will after this afterlife,” an unknown voice said.

  Frank snapped his head to the hole in the wall. Outside, cold wind was already streaming in, but somehow it had seemed to get colder. He couldn’t see who the voice belonged to. It was a woman’s voice, no doubt, but not one he’d recognized. Could it have been Spider? And at that moment he hoped it wasn’t. No doubt she would want to defend one of her own, and hadn’t Aqua died because of Frank’s brutality?

  Harold went as rigid as a corpse. He turned his head slowly toward Frank then scanned the bed. Frank followed the gaze. He was looking for his sword which made Frank’s gut clench in fear of his own weapon. Where was his crossbow? He’d never find it in the wreckage, and if he did, he would never find it in one piece.

  Frank saw the sword before he saw anything else, wedged between a charred piece of bedpost and part of the torn-up wall. It was almost impossible to miss its glaring white hilt and the polished, almost brand new silver in all the gloomy destruction. He made a motion for it. He would not die without a weapon in hand.

  But Harold grabbed him before Frank’s palm could close around the hilt. “No,” he whispered. There was a wild fire in his eyes.

  “Good choice, Frank King,” the woman’s voice said again, and goosebumps prickled all over Frank’s skin. For a brief second, he thought the voice to belong to Aqua. Then the moment passed. He came back to reality. Aqua was dead.<
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  Harold stood rigid again, not motioning for his blade.

  The shadow emerged into the faint, crackling firelight. She was a slender, pale-face woman with a head of dark hair that shined like the blade of Harold’s sword.

  Frank found himself wanting her and hating her at the same time, a feeling he’d never felt so strongly in his life.

  Two more shadows followed closely behind her. They were some of the biggest men Frank had seen, also pale-faced and dark-haired. They wore matching suits of carbon-plated armor, black swords clipped on their belt like that of Charlie had on the steps of the portal.

  They were Shadow Eaters.

  Frank balled his hands into fists. He could hear his own erratic breathing in his ears, his heart beat thudding with rage.

  He took a step forward.

  The largest one who looked big enough to have his own gravitational pull about him reached his hand downward, unclipped the black cylindrical canister. His fingers played at a button on the side.

  “Uh-uh, killer. Best watch yourself. Next time you move I’ll cut off an ear.”

  “Easy, Worm,” the woman said. “There’s no need for violence…yet. We can sort this out as civilized people, like the people from your Realm, right, Storm?”

  Harold didn’t answer.

  “Fuck that,” Frank said. “I’ll die before I palaver with the likes of you.” He spat the words from his tongue as if they were toxic phlegm.

  The woman walked toward him, passing Boris. Her hips swung back and forth, rhythmically.

  “If you want to return home, you’ll have to, Frank.”

  “You’ve ruined our home,” Frank said. “It was on its way to Hell when we left. I can’t imagine what it looks like now.”

  The woman purred, a smile on her face. “Oh, we’ve brightened the place up, trust me. We gave it a makeover.”

  “Killing billions of people and painting the walls with blood won’t make it better than it was. I’ve hunted things like you all my life. I know you’re nothing but windbags. You may have our world for now, but we will get it back. Trust me.”

  She shook her head. Both of the men with her laughed and their eyes darted to each other as if they were in on some joke Frank knew nothing about.

  “What’s so funny?” Frank said.

  Harold watched him, too; he could feel the Realm Protector’s gaze bearing into his side.

  “You don’t know do you?” she asked.

  Frank didn’t speak, only watched her wearily.

  “All those years of hunting, those years of winning and killing things because they’re different, because you think you can protect your puny Realm, because you think you’re better than those things…it’s taught you nothing, has it?”

  “Taught him how to open his big, fat trap,” the man named Worm said. “Ain’t that right, Octavius?”

  The other man nodded with a smile on his face, but it was not one of sheer buffoonery like Worm’s. This one knew Frank was dangerous, Frank could tell by the way he eyed him. The smile and laughs showed humor, but the eyes showed intelligence.

  Where’s your rule about that one, Dad? Frank thought. Oh, that’s right, it’s one of mine. Think I’ll start making my own list if I get outta here alive, maybe even update yours.

  “Enough, Worm,” the woman hissed. The laughter went out of her eyes, turned into black ice. “You have killed many, Frank King, but you cannot kill us. Charlie told me. He talked of you the way he talks of bugs that find their way into his bedchambers. They are only an annoyance, nothing more. And we can squash you under our heels just as easily.”

  He lunged now. An image of his son in his arms, choking on his last few breaths, a gleam of tears in both of their eyes came to him. He remembered the black blade, how it seemed to suck away all the light around it, buzzing in his ears.

  Frank King meant to kill this woman who spoke of Charlie.

  Of course, this was a snap decision. Part of his mind yelled at him not to make a move because he would be cut down in a blink of an eye. But the rage was too much; it overcame the rationality.

  The woman’s eyes got wide.

  “Move, Beth,” Worm shouted. He jolted, and instead of Frank’s hands closing around the woman’s throat like he’d intended, he was met with the steel-feeling of Worm’s barrel chest.

  He bounced off as fast as he’d lunged.

  Then, the black blade came out. Fire still burning in the dungeon dimmed, the smell of burning wood lessened.

  Frank fell on his ass near what was left of the bed.

  There was a blur of black figures. More blades came out but it was enough of a distraction for Harold to move from the spot he had seemed grounded in, and it was enough for him to retrieve his blade.

  CHAPTER 29

  Harold’s hand closed around the hilt of Orkane’s sword, and when he did, the Wolves howled. They howled like they’d howled that night in the park.

  It was a strong howl, the kind of howl you’d hear in the waking hours of the night when the full moon blazed and the air was chilly.

  A power surged through Harold as strong as that howl.

  He heard Beth scream, her blade in hand — as a matter of fact, all three of them had their blades out. They swam with blackness, a blackness only the powers of Hell could manifest, one which made Harold feel desolation and despair.

  At Beth’s foot, wrapped around her like a pair of ankle cuffs, was Boris’s hands. His teeth were bared, and he saw black liquid dripping from the corners of his mouth. Beth’s skin was now exposed through the dark jumpsuit she wore, but the skin was red and rimmed with the same black blood covering the Centaur.

  The little guy had bit her, had bit her hard.

  She still screamed, and it caused the two big Eater’s she was with to turn their heads in her direction. One — this one known as Octavius — even made a motion to kick Boris off of her, and he did, but it was rather half-hearted.

  Boris rolled across the wreckage, and stopped against the door with a shattering crunch.

  The Eaters advanced.

  Harold held steady, howls in his head. They were his now, he could tame them, could make them do whatever he wanted them to do. It gave him power and confidence.

  Octavius swung low, and Harold hopped over the blade easily just as Worm swung his sword. Harold blocked the blow.

  Worm stumbled back, a grimace on his face, eyes beady. He raised the blade again, this time with two hands like an executioner of medieval times ready to behead a murderer in front of a large crowd.

  Too easy.

  With a flick of the wrist, the sword of Orkane sliced down Worm’s uncovered midsection. His eyes bulged with pain, mouth twisted for a moment. It was all Harold saw before the smoke covered the man’s face like a hood.

  But the wound glowed red and sizzled. He saw, for a moment, Worm’s breastbone, then he saw beyond that too, where a shrunken, rotten black ball that might’ve once been a heart laid lifelessly in a tangle of blueberry arteries.

  The heart may no longer beat, but Worm felt pain. He staggered away toward the hole in the wall.

  “Where are you going, you buffoon?” Beth screamed. She was far away from the battle, hand working at the wound on her calf.

  Octavius eyed Harold, and the look he gave him was one that seemed to shut the howls in his head up. Nothing but emptiness.

  Octavius meant business.

  His first swing was tight to the body. He wasn’t some fool playing with a practice sword; he was seasoned, smart, and fast.

  Almost as fast as Harold.

  Their blades rang out like the tolling of a bell.

  Each hit was on target. Harold met it with a volley, but Octavius was so fast, he couldn’t get any of his own in. Too busy trying to stay alive.

  Sweat started to pop on his forehead despite the freezing temperatures. He thought that both good and bad. Good, because he could still sweat. His spell burns hadn’t completely taken that away from him. He reckoned if
he’d lived through this, he would have a lot booze to sweat out later. Bad, because the sweat was coming out of his palms too. One slip, one mistimed parry, and he was dead, his quest failed, the Realms as he briefly knew them gone.

  Octavius spun, flashing his black blade in a blur, causing Harold to stumble backward. He kept his feet, and a defensive position, but now Beth was coming for him. He’d known Beth as a great fighter, perhaps even better than Octavius, and definitely on par with Charlie. There was no way he could take both of them on.

  For a brief second, without the howls from the Wolves, without Sahara or Felix or even Marcy by his side, Harold thought about running, thought about leaving this all behind and just running until his legs gave out on him. He could probably get away. He’d run back to the Portal, back to the Realm he came from, maybe take up residence in some cave somewhere where no one could find him. Live out the rest of his days as a hermit while the world fell apart around him.

  The weight of it all was almost too much.

  When he was younger, and he’d seen the movie which made him want to become an actor in the first place, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly starring Clint Eastwood, he often thought of himself as the lone outlaw. It was something he always wanted to be, deep down. And now was his chance. A life on the run. A life without responsibility.

  He took a deep breath, a short one, but deep nonetheless. It was all he could do to steady himself. To remind himself that he was no longer that Harold. He might’ve failed on Earth, but he would not fail here.

  He regained his footing, then raised the blade. To his left, he could feel Frank stirring. He saw the old man raise his crossbow, dug out from piles of debris. The string twanged and followed up with a swoosh noise. The arrow was a blur of steel, and Frank King was as true with his aim as Clint Eastwood had been.

  It sliced through the air, toward Beth’s head. By the time she noticed she was about to be skewered, Harold watched with hope written on his face. There was no way she could’ve blocked it, but somehow, her blade whirled, and the arrow deflected downward, clinking off of the stone floor, all force and hope dead.