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

by Spencer DeVeau

“No!” Harold Storm yelled.

  But it was too late.

  Beth pulled the blade out. It was dripping green as she cocked it back above her head, cackling like a mad Witch, and stabbed the Renegade leader again…and again…

  And again.

  CHAPTER 33

  To kill was divine, Beth thought as she wiped away green blood on her pants. She had felt near her own death only a few moments ago — beaten, bitten, tired, and confused — but now she was reenergized with the thrill of the kill.

  The spider-woman lay gawking. Her eyes were black glass and no longer did any life dance inside of them. Now, that life danced inside of Beth.

  She turned. Octavius held Harold Storm in a tight bear hug, but the Realm Protector no longer struggled to break free. No, he was as limp as the dead thing behind her. Beyond them was the stunted Centaur — no, she wouldn’t call him a Centaur; she’d seen Centaurs before many, many years ago, and this creature was not worthy of that title, just as the dying Worm was no longer worthy of the title Shadow Eater. This particular creature was a runt, cast out from the pack. An imp.

  They caught eyes, her of obsidian and his a drooping mess of sadness, but that changed fast. His eyes sparked like a struck match.

  He screamed then charged at her with all the speed and force of a raging bull. Beth braced for impact. She might’ve been reenergized, but she was sick of this. No more fighting, her Master was waiting — and so was Charlie.

  She raised her blade, not very high since the Centaur was about the size of a Gremlin. He wouldn’t be too hard to dispel. She would dash his brains on the stone floor and pile him up with the rest of them. As long as Storm remained alive, it did not matter.

  But first she would toy with the creature.

  Boris went for her legs, and Beth cackled then stepped out of the way much like the way a Spanish bullfighter would do.

  Boris stumbled, tripped over a few of the spider-woman’s legs, skidded in her sickly, green blood. He crashed into the wall. Beth stalked over to him, nimbly moving through the mess of bodily fluids and limbs and debris.

  “Enough,” she said. “I can make this painless or drawn out, but of which I do is entirely up to you.” She pointed her blade inches away from Boris’ face, his eyes crossing as he looked it down.

  He took a deep mucus-y snort, then spat a wad of bloody spit onto the weapon. “Fuck you,” he said. “Fuck you and your darkness and the stupid Shadow Eaters. Fuck all of you!”

  “Wrong answer,” Beth said. And with the blade, now dripping with the creature’s vile spit, she flicked her wrist and sliced him below his left eye.

  He screeched and twisted, brought a hand up to the wound which spilled fresh blood. But that was the extent of his movement because Beth pressed the blade right above his heart hard enough to rip through the tattered t-shirt he wore. Blood welled in the spot.

  She pushed harder, Boris shrieking with the movement.

  “Stop it! Please, quit it!” Harold Storm yelled. “Leave him out of this. Please!”

  She looked over her shoulder. There was a look of pain on the Realm Protector’s burnt face, one that was more excruciating to look at then the half-horse creature.

  “Why should I?” Beth asked.

  Harold’s chest rose and fell with deep, raspy breaths. His hands were still cuffed behind his back, the dried blood twisted around his wrists like demented tattoos. “Because you want me to cooperate,” he said. “I can make our trip back to your tower a living Hell. You know I can, you both know it. But I will go with you as I am now. I won’t talk. I won’t run. I won’t fight. I’ll just go. And you can do whatever you want to do with me.”

  She looked to the old man still passed out where she had left him. Her head tilted back and forth as she weighed the situation. Storm was powerful, that much was true, but Beth had a lust for blood. “Can I kill him?” she asked, already knowing the answer. “He is at the end of his rope anyway.”

  “No,” Harold said. “No more blood needs to be spilt. Leave them as they are.”

  “Don’t do it, Electus. Don’t give in. I can fight. I’m still strong. The Renegades will live on!” the creature said.

  Beth pressed down, making him squeal like a pig, shutting him up as fast as he’d opened his mouth. “Enough. There will be no more Renegades, I can make sure of that, you freak.”

  “No,” Storm said, “leave them be and you have my word that I will be no trouble on our trip.”

  Beth’s lip snarled.

  “I should at least get even, is that okay, oh great and powerful Electus?” she motioned to her calf which was missing a hearty chunk of skin. “Blood for blood and all that.” She moved the blade down to Boris’ leg. “Just a chunk, nothing more. He’ll heal…maybe.”

  “No!” Harold said.

  His voice made Beth jump; she hoped he had not seen it, but if he was who the Prophecy deemed him to be then he did. The Electus did not miss much. His voice was like cold steel, like a Deathblade through the gut, and it had sent chills up her spine.

  Slowly, she brought her blade away from Boris then retracted it back to the black canisters. “As you wish, Chosen One,” she said mockingly. “I’ll let them live their miserable lives.” She turned to Boris. “But it won’t be much longer. And when the Dark One rises, he won’t make your second-death easier, little creature. No, I’ll make sure he doesn’t. It’ll be long and painful. He’ll draw out each rip and tear of your soul. You’ll be flayed, strung up for all of Hell to see. The crows will peck at you. They’ll nibble on your eyeballs, until you’re blind and screaming and begging — ”

  “Enough,” Harold Storm said, again in that icy voice of cold steel.

  She backed away slowly and turned from the bleeding creature, but not before she offered him a smile.

  “Very well,” she said. “We can go.” She looked to Octavius, her smile now gone. “Go get the gloves.

  Octavius’ lips trembled before he spoke. “But — but that was supposed to be Worm’s job.”

  “Do you smell that, Octavius? Do you smell the burned meat and singed clothing?” she asked.

  Octavius nodded.

  “You know what that is?” She let the silence hang a moment, knowing Octavius wouldn’t answer her question, then she said, “That’s the smell of stupidity. Worm was stupid and he went and got himself killed.”

  “How is that my fault?” he said, scowling.

  “It’s your fault because you didn’t offer him help. That’s why you two were chosen, was it not?”

  “But — ”

  “Enough,” Beth said, cutting Octavius off. “You made your bed now lie in it. Go…now!”

  Octavius moved like he was on fire. She surveyed the room. The old man was still out and would probably be out for another hour or so. Hunter he may be, but she had put the clamps on his windpipe and even the strongest of Mortals wouldn’t stand a chance against that. The Centaur’s eyes fluttered as if he was on the verge of blacking out, a common result of being touched by a Hellblade, but she had to hand it to the little guy, he was tougher than she imagined one of his size and stature would be.

  When Octavius returned he had a pair of gloves. They glinted pure onyx, forged from the deepest fires of the Black Pits. He shook as he put them on. Beth glared at him and he never balked from her stare.

  “We can’t just leave it here,” Beth said. “Can we? That would be stupider than getting killed.”

  Octavius walked over to the sword of Orkane. He tried to mask the shudders that wracked through his body. The sword looked pristine in the mess of the room. Crystal clear. Almost perfect. But to Beth, a weapon like it, which had been used to slay the Great Demons many years ago, was anything but perfect. She was almost in pain as she looked at it.

  “I dare you to pick it up without the gloves, you wimp,” Harold said.

  “You said you would cooperate,” Beth replied. She ignored Octavius’ reproachful gaze as he hovered over the blade. “It would be a sha
me if our little agreement was breached here, especially so early on.”

  “Trip hasn’t started yet,” Harold said, grinning.

  “Be quiet,” she said.

  Octavius took a series of deep, shaky breaths.

  “Don’t burn up,” Harold mumbled. Beth chose to ignore it. Best she let Octavius get on with it, and part of her was curious. Charlie said they would be enough protection. But that same part of Beth — the curious part — knew he’d be wrong, and she wanted him to be wrong. She craved the madness and the death.

  Octavius’ hand shook under the cover of the metal glove. His forehead shined with sweat and his lips trembled almost as hard as his fingers.

  “Do it,” she demanded.

  And he did.

  Nothing happened…nothing besides a mad crack of laughter escaping his trembling lips. Charlie is always right, Beth thought, then she smiled. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

  But for the briefest of moments, Beth thought she saw Octavius hesitate. He might have had some inkling of what kind of power he held in his hands, but Beth knew his mind couldn’t totally comprehend it.

  The look passed from Octavius’ face. He smiled at Beth. “What about the others? We aren’t really going to leave them here, are we?”

  “The Mortal will be dead before we cross the Krak’s bridge. As for the Centaur…he will not be stupid enough to follow us. And if he does, I will do much worse to him than I did to his Arachnid friend,” Beth said.

  Octavius nodded.

  They left the Renegades beaten and broken, heading toward Harold Storm’s doom.

  CHAPTER 34

  They hadn’t talked much since she destroyed the beast, and that bothered her. Climbing up the rocky slopes of what might have passed as Hell’s countryside, there was so much she wanted to ask him. Where’d he gone? Why Harold Storm? What was the After-Existence like? And so on.

  She knew it was nothing personal.

  It’s the cold, she thought. The cold gets to you. My lord, the cold gets to you worse than the screams.

  For about twenty minutes — at least that’s how long she felt had passed since they began climbing the steady rise of sharp land, but really, who knew? — there was a sound in the air. It was something resembling screams, but she wasn’t sure, wouldn’t bet money on it.

  Sahara had flashed her blade and started to sprint when Felix had grabbed her and shook his head. He looked even worse then, all ashy and wrinkled, hair plastered to his forehead in sweaty clumps. “They do not need our help,” he had said. “Remember where you are.”

  They were in Hell, and her need to help everyone that crossed her path flared in her mind every time she heard those horrible choked screams. She tried to ignore it, but as they climbed upward, the sounds only increased.

  Each time, her hair wanted to leap from her head and arms in terrible hackles. But each time, she willed herself to keep going…for the Realms and for Harold Storm.

  “There,” Felix said, pointing. A gust of chilly wind took his white robes — a magnificent juxtaposition to the barren wastelands of Hell.

  She followed his finger. Over the crest of the hill, three jagged spikes punched a hole through a black cloud which hung low over the remains of what might’ve once been a city.

  “Wow,” she said. The structure rose into the sky as high as any skyscraper of the Mortal Realm. It’s black surface glistened, making it resembles volcanic glass. “That’s where he sat?” she asked. “Where he ruled?”

  The two of them stood now, no longer moving up the hill despite Sahara feeling the pull of the tower, feeling its sharp black talons digging into her shoulders. She resisted it as best she could, but there was no ignoring the anticipation that squirmed in her stomach.

  Nearly all the teachings of a Realm Protector, save for the lessons on combat and control, were of the Dark One, of Satan, of pure evil. She had not been there to witness the imprisonment or the shattering of the key, she had not witnessed the complete annihilation of the Council or the Reconfiguration later, but she had known, somehow, someway, that she would be in this very spot, standing on a hill where the only living things had died thousands of years ago, witnessing the tower in all of its terrifying glory.

  “That’s where he sits, yes,” Felix answered. “That’s where he’ll sit again.”

  Sahara blinked stupidly, eyes still fixed on the tower. Felix’s words echoed in her head, distant at first then as loud as a fire alarm. “What?” she said, turning toward him.

  “We are too late, but I always knew we would be.”

  “No, we’re not! We’re right here! We can put an end to it.” Her arm tingled and her mind purred with the black cats stalking through a jungle she’d never set foot in.

  “What’s done is done. It’s only a matter of time.”

  She scoffed. “You sound nothing like the Wizard who raised me. You sound…you sound…like a coward!”

  The words escaped her lips and as soon as they did, she wanted to take them back. Felix would not say how the words hurt him, but Sahara could see it in his eyes. It was only a split second of reaction.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it.”

  He raised a hand halfheartedly. “No bother, my child. We are fatigued from our journey, we are irritated, it is only natural.”

  She could sense the lie in his voice.

  “Come on, we must forge our path onward. Still a long ways to go.”

  He pushed up the hill, kicking up a cloud of bone-white dust with each step. The screams were back, louder than before, though Sahara figured they’d never stopped, she’d just ignored them. She looked back to the tower, past Felix’s stooped figure and frazzled white hair. In this land, where everything was black and metal and deathly, Felix would stick out like a sore thumb. There was too much good in him, and she loved him for that. But for some reason, some sick and demented reason, she loved that tower, loved how the sight of it had taken her breath away and muted all the other sounds and sights of this Realm for just a split second.

  As they walked down the hill, she saw something move in the valley below. A flash of silver.

  Could be nothing. Could be that I’m tired and hungry and scared…or it could be death waiting around the decaying trees to snatch me up and tear my soul apart.

  She said nothing about it aloud, and they continued to walk.

  CHAPTER 35

  The room tasted of tangy blood.

  Charlie looked at the two scouts bleeding out on his bedroom floor. His breath rose and fell.

  But he felt good.

  They were not totally dead, not yet. Just the vessels in which their souls were encased. They would be dead soon, and his Master would have another meal — a luxury in a time where the meals were few and far between. Though Charlie didn’t like feeding on his own as much as he liked feeding on the damned and the broken, the thought of eating at least one of the dead scout’s souls was enticing.

  The Dark One would not appreciate it, even if he didn’t know. Because somehow, it seemed, he always knew.

  So Charlie stepped out into the hallway where a guard named Clint no longer stood at his post. The order of the Shadow Eaters was crumbling and it was Charlie’s fault. He turned left to the steps.

  Three floors later, he was at the pinnacle.

  His head felt stuffed. His breathing still harsh and pained.

  What should he do?

  He glided along the top of the tower’s smooth surface to where the spikes hung from the edge like thorns on a rose, and he looked down. The height was amazing, breathtaking. Felix was coming for him, the woman with the red hair at his side, and far on the other side, Electus was here, also coming for him if Beth had failed and he was not sure if she had — the seeing glass had not offered a view. What was once crystal clear was now murky and fogged. He was trapped in the middle of three beings of pure goodness determined to put an end to his rule.

  What should he do?

  He could jump; h
e could fall until he no longer fell anymore. Put an end to this suffering inside of his head. He would rip his own soul out if he had one, but it had long been offered to the Dark One. Sold for a power greater than himself.

  He hoped Beth was all right. He hoped the wastelands would get to Felix. He hoped for power.

  But all of his hope was worthless, he knew.

  * * * * *

  Otis saw Charlie leave, then he saw the tracks of black he left behind him. It was blood. Otis had not liked the scouts. They were tolerable, sure, but he had not liked them.

  He hated them.

  They were nobody important.

  He kept telling himself this over and over as he pushed against the door. It was a way to cope with what he expected to see when he entered the Shadow Eater’s meeting room.

  The door didn’t budge.

  He hated them.

  They were nobody important.

  The door was locked.

  Otis held out a trembling finger to the lock. If Charlie caught him in the act, he would be executed for sure.

  His fingers pulsed with a burst of magic. Smoke fizzled around the lock, then the metal blackened and fell off. He caught it, wincing as the heat burned his flesh.

  They are nobody important.

  He pushed the door open.

  He hated them.

  They were dead. Their stomachs gashed open, black blood slowly trickling from the wound. The younger one whose name was Craig was missing half of his jaw, like it had been ripped off with a crowbar. Both of them stared at Otis blankly, almost accusingly.

  He hated them.

  Nobody important.

  But they were not the reason he had forced himself into Charlie’s room, and still, he couldn’t turn away from the horror on the floor.

  He crossed the room, never taking his eyes off of the bodies, thinking, This is going to be you. You are going to be caught. You’re nothing but an imbecile. Stay out of affairs that aren’t your own. Hadn’t someone important told you that many years ago? Hadn’t you always listened? And isn’t it why you are still here?