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

by Spencer DeVeau

  A bolt of rage struck him. He raised his blade up and sliced down at the being posing as Charlie.

  Faster than the blink of an eye, the Dark One drew his own blade. They met with a horrible noise, and the reverberation knocked Harold backward into one of the black beings that had crawled out of the fire. Slime and death greeted him.

  “I said we would need no weapons, Harold. We can discuss how I will kill you and all you love without violence. I like to think we are civilized men, are we not?”

  Harold wheezed.

  “No weapons!” the Dark One screeched.

  A vision as real as the fire around Harold filled his head. The Wolves were back, they were splitting from his soul like ghosts. The Alpha detached from Harold and he felt so empty, then it lunged with a roar, snapping its jaws loud enough to echo through the large cavern. The rest followed.

  They didn’t even get close to the Dark One, who, in this vision, stood like a black monolith of terror.

  The Dark One raised his hands up in front of him, the sword still in his right, pointed up, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

  The Wolves yelped. Their shaggy bodies thumped to the cobblestones, their furs mangled and twisted, their necks broken.

  Dead.

  Harold look down awestruck.

  Silence. No howling. No Wolves.

  He dropped to his knees and out of this vision.

  “Like I said, Harold, Wolves or Panthers or Elephants, it doesn’t matter. The Shadows rule all.”

  Harold’s sword clattered to the ground. He reached out with shaky hands, burying them into the Wolves’ fur, but not feeling anything besides thin air.

  “What did you do?” Harold said, his voice as shaky as his hands.

  “I proved the power of the darkness to you, that’s all.”

  Harold stood up, filling his hand with the sword of Orkane again.

  “I proved to you that it is useless to resist. You know of the darkness as much as you know of the Wolves. And now you know which is more powerful. So I will give you a chance to join me. And if you deny it, I will destroy you. But it will not be fast and painless. No, I will draw it out. Make sure you feel pain over every inch of your body. I will make sure your screams are loud enough to be heard throughout all the Realms. What will it be?”

  Harold crouched down, streams of dark soldiers going by on either side of him. He raised the blade up and he said, “Fuck you.”

  The Dark One sighed. “Okay, Storm, it’s your funeral.”

  Their blades met in a symphony of steel.

  CHAPTER 53

  They came to the gate not long after they left, their breathing ragged and pained. The Wolves lagged behind, and when something like a thunderclap sounded, Sahara turned her head to look at them. The Alpha reared up on its hind legs like a spooked horse and yelped — a terrible noise of pain and fear. Then the Wolf fell over.

  Sahara took off after it, the rest of the group following her.

  The other Wolves followed suit. Yelping. Keeling over. Fresh red blood ran from their eyes. Their mouths foamed and frothed with spittle resembling cottage cheese. Their breathing had stopped.

  They were dead.

  “Bezel,” Felix said, putting an arm on Sahara’s shoulder. She had to do everything in her power to fight the sadness down, but she did.

  “Let’s go,” she said through gritted teeth.

  They arrived at the open gate soon after. A guard stood near the encroaching darkness, unseen. Sahara could smell him, the cloying, sickening sweet smell of death.

  “Come out with your hands up,” she said. “You are vastly outnumbered.”

  “Oh, I know that,” the man said. His voice was wispy and old. “I mean no harm. That is why I left the gate open. Your friend has gone to the Black Pits, and I am to wait here until he either succeeds or fails.”

  “Why’s that?” Sahara asked, genuinely curious.

  The man stepped out of the dark. He was old, weaponless, and not someone she sensed any danger from.

  “I go with the winner, always,” the old man said and he smiled.

  She shook her head, then led the group through the gate into the kingdom.

  “Where’s the Black Pits?” she asked the man. And just as she asked, there was an explosion about a mile or so down a winding, black road. Fire plumed, scraping the sky.

  “Not a good sign,” the old gatekeeper said. “Looks like I’ll be bowing to the Dark One again.”

  “Not it I shove an arrow through your eye,” Frank said.

  Felix placed an arm on his, holding him back. “No need, Mr. King, this one can do us no harm.”

  “As wise as he looks,” the gatekeeper said, smiling. “I’d appreciate that advice.”

  “Come on,” Sahara said.

  They went on.

  The road was pothole ridden, the concrete brittle. Long ago, a wagon might’ve been able to ride down the blacktop without so much as a bump, but those days were over. High buildings looked down upon them. They seemed to lean together as if peeking over their shoulders. Sahara’s breathing sped up, a sense of claustrophobia and fear choking her. The place was quiet, almost too quiet, but she figured that would be how a dying city would sound, didn’t mean she had to like it.

  She led the way as best as she could, trying to keep her head high and her shoulders back. Behind her, she heard the clopping hooves of Boris, and Frank’s own choppy steps. She stopped to take a look because something was absent. And she saw Felix was gone.

  “Where did Felix go?” she asked, stopping in the middle of the cold dirt of the road.

  “Huh?” Frank said. He was looking up to the towering buildings that glinted like black ice against the blacker backdrop of the sky. They were beautiful, Sahara thought, quite a sight to behold. It was too bad such beauty was laced with so much malice.

  “Felix,” she said again.

  “He was right here,” Boris said, his head swiveling.

  A spike of anger dampened Sahara’s fear. Had he given up again? Too afraid to go through with what he couldn’t do long before Sahara’s time? She didn’t really think so, but there was a seed of doubt, and sometimes, that’s all one needed.

  Far away, someone screamed. It filled the city streets, whistling through the abandoned buildings like wind. Unmistakably, Sahara knew, it was Harold’s scream.

  “Was that who I think it was?” Boris said.

  “Quit yapping and get moving,” Frank said. His teeth were bared, and he held the crossbow just below his chin as he scanned the dark streets.

  “Felix, you better not have ditched us,” Sahara whispered.

  “What was that?” Boris asked.

  “Nothing, let’s go,” she said and broke off into a run. She was not more than three steps in when a blur of white dropped in front of her. The ground shook with the force of the figure’s landing. For a second, she thought it was Felix, somehow dropping out of the shadows, but that notion was destroyed when she heard the cackling. It was a cackling she knew all too well from her time tied up in the coliseum, put on display to a thousand Demons all laughing and salivating over her soul. It was Beth, and she had her Hellblade in hand.

  “Drop it, bitch!” Frank yelled. “I’ll shoot, don’t think I won’t shoot you!”

  Beth glanced in his direction. “Like you shot at Charlie on earth? Or like you tried to shoot me back in Ghul? I’m not scared of your Mortal weapon. It does nothing but annoy me, and I hate to be annoyed.” A sly smile spread across her face.

  Sahara shuffled backward and away from Beth, never taking her eyes off of the Shadow Eater. She put a hand up to Frank. “Stand down,” she said. “I can take her. Just go to the Pits.”

  “But we won’t know what to do when we get there,” Boris said. “We can’t go without — ”

  “Just go!” Sahara shouted. “I can handle this, and then I’ll be right there behind you.”

  That scream filled the air again.

  Frank and Bo
ris hesitated, their eyes going back and forth between Sahara and Beth and the road ahead of them. Then Boris spoke up. “I want her,” he said, his voice like iron. “She killed my family. She killed Spider and she is the reason Aqua is dead.”

  “That dark bitch acted on her own free will, not my fault she was too stupid to go through with a simple plan. Spider…well, she had it coming. A freak like that should’ve been put down a long time ago.”

  Boris charged forward, kicking up a cloud of dust as he came. He was little, but he was powerful, Sahara could sense that. She felt the heat baking off of him before she even threw herself in his path. A spark of red flamed from under his shirt, but when she stopped him, it went out.

  “Go!” Sahara yelled, this time her voice crushed all future arguments from the Mortal and the Centaur. “Go now, I will make this quick.”

  Beth laughed hard, streams of icy tears rolling from the corners of her eyes. “He’s so cute, isn’t he? If he wasn’t such a heathen I might keep him as a pet.”

  “Dream big,” Sahara said.

  Frank and Boris left, Frank not looking back. But Boris did, and his face looked as if they’d already been defeated. And though Sahara didn’t show it, she felt it.

  She drew her blade.

  CHAPTER 54

  Felix heard the whispers as soon as they’d gotten to the old shack, and then he heard them ever since, but as they got closer and closer to the kingdom, they grew as loud as the thunder and lightning. When they passed through the gates, he couldn’t take it anymore.

  Sahara was a strong pupil — Not much of a pupil anymore, he thought. She could handle whatever was ahead of her on her own, and if she couldn’t…well, then that was the way the Creator intended it to be. That was their destiny.

  Just as the whispers calling to him were his.

  He knew what he would have to do, and if it meant sacrificing himself, then that was the way it had to be.

  The tower rose into the sky like a giant, black finger. In those halls, the dead walked and moaned, but most importantly, they whispered.

  Sahara led the way with Boris and Frank King close behind her. He took this opportunity to break off from the pack.

  He reached the tower not long after, his hands shaking, the voices practically shouting in his head. It would not be deserted, some of the straggling Shadow Eaters would have been left to guard it, but he was not worried. Fear might’ve been intruding on his mind, but it would not intrude on his powers, that much was for sure.

  He came upon a graveyard full of broken headstones and upturned soil, beyond this, the tower loomed large. So large, in fact, he had to crane his head up just to see the spikes punching the clouds.

  He walked on.

  It is here, the voices said, here you will find your way home. Here the circle makes the square.

  He was not sure what that meant, but he recognized the voice.

  In the graves, yellow-boned faces stared up at him with hollow eyes.

  There would be no sneaking in, he was above that. The front door was there for a reason, was it not?

  It stood three times taller than him, and as he got closer, making his way through the graveyard, he could read writing on the door. It said, in bright red letters, HE HAS RISEN.

  Felix thought to himself, Not for long.

  And the confidence which filled him then was great and something he had not felt in a long, long time.

  He walked up the beaten path, now, his hands balled into fists. He could knock, he supposed, or he could huff and puff and blow the door down. Or, he could pummel it with white lightning.

  As he made up his mind, his eyes began to roll to the back of his head. Static electricity sent the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing at attention. His mouth twisted into a puckered grimace. Teeth buzzed. Long, white hair blew with the same force of the wind.

  Two guards in long, dark robes spotted him from an upper window. He could hear their voices faintly, carried by the wind.

  It made no difference. The lightning had already been drawn. He would be weak afterwards, but they would be dead.

  His eyes flickered back to their normal position. He saw their ghostly faces looking down on him, saw them jump from an opening in the tower, saw the cloud of dust. They came down with swords in hand, grimaces on their faces. But Felix hardly noticed. His mind was gone, drawing on the power of the Existence. A power gifted to him through sacrifice.

  One of the Shadow Eaters lunged at him with the blade. It sliced through the air. Felix barely saw it, but moved out of the way. The blade struck the ground. He could hear faint grunts. The other guard came at him from behind. He heard the choppy footsteps, the ragged breathing. Felix moved to the side. They almost stabbed each other. Then Felix called for the lightning. It would drain him momentarily, but he sensed no one else.

  The bolt hammered the ground beneath the Shadow Eater’s feet. Fire melted away the cold in a flash. He heard them scream out in anguish as the voltage burned away their flesh. The blades fell, clattering and spinning at their smoldering boots.

  Felix’s eyesight focused.

  No longer were they flesh and Demon blood. Now they were skeletons — blackened husks of bone, more akin to the corpses in the upturned graves.

  Felix moved on.

  That night where Harold Storm took on the responsibility that had been his for much longer than he knew, Felix died willingly.

  It was a sacrifice, a blood offering to the Creator in an attempt to stop the venom from seeping through the fabric of Existence. It had worked, too, because when he awoke, he was stronger. Harold Storm was still alive, and the Shadow Eaters were no closer to their goal of letting Bezel run amok across the Realms.

  But Felix should’ve known. Should’ve known that a man like Harold Storm, despite all his flaws and bursts of intermittent responsibility, would sacrifice himself for the good of another. In his case, Sahara. He was the reason the young girl, who he’d found in the snow as a baby, who he’d helped raise, was still alive. It was in this limbo between life and death that Felix had to come forward and show Harold the true nature of his power. And like, a product of Felix’s loins, Harold pulled through. He was even better, accepting this responsibility without so much as a hint of giving up. Felix should’ve been proud, but there was work to be done.

  When he entered the tower, the voices became clearer.

  It was a woman’s voice, one he knew almost all too well — the voice of the Witch who could walk between worlds, the voice of Roberta Washington.

  “Top floor,” she said. “Follow the trail of blood.”

  The stairs wound upward to his left like some kind of twisted, black vine. He heard nothing else inside, thankfully. Or else he would have to fight without the power of the lightning.

  He walked for what seemed like hours, never getting out of breath and at no rush. When the time of death came — whether Harold Storm’s or Bezel’s — Felix would know.

  He saw the trail of blood before he reached the top floor. It was longer than he’d expected, and it was not red like the Mortal’s but black instead.

  Anger lingered in the air, long distilled rage which had left a sharp aroma like the last vestiges of a vengeful fire. It ran the length of the hallway. Felix stepped through it, splashing droplets onto his white robe. The end came at a closed door with a broken lock.

  Felix pushed the door open slowly. He was ready for a fight, but he did not expect one. Two bodies lay crumpled on the floor, the source of the blood. One of their faces had been demolished, jaw ripped out, eyes gouged. It was a mess, and only something the work of a monster could’ve done. They were not the reason he was there.

  The reason he was there — the source of the whispering — came from the bookshelf . It was an artifact planted a long time ago, a relic of a Witch too strong for her own good.

  “A safety net in case we fall.”

  He saw it staring at him through a crack between leather-bound books. It glowed
with a ridiculous silver light, inside swam the hopes and dreams, the past and the future.

  Felix saw a door. Just a normal door, nothing elaborate about it. Faded wood and a brass doorknob.

  “When the time is right you will break the glass,” Roberta’s voice said.

  “But then you’ll die,” Felix whispered. He was surprised by how hoarse he sounded. The lightning strike had taken more out of him than he originally believed.

  “I’ve been dead a long time, Felix. Besides, I had no hope. This life, this Existence, it has hope, even an old fool like yourself can see that, can’t you?”

  Felix grasped the glass orb with trembling fingers, then slipped it into an inside pocket of his white robe.

  If I break this, will I break myself? he wondered.

  CHAPTER 55

  The damned souls watched, standing as still as statues, ready to move on their Master’s word.

  Harold felt sweat trickle down his face.

  They had been battling for what seemed like forever, and the Dark One did not seem to tire. Harold, on the other hand…

  Each time he swung, each time their blades slammed into each other, Harold was reminded of how futile it was. He had lost a long time ago, it seemed. Lost as soon as he’d stepped into this Realm, as soon as he let the Shadows which swam inside of his mind take control.

  The howls were gone.

  He fought on sheer willpower.

  A slice came across his midsection. He blocked it with a sloppy counter. The Dark One spun away in a perfect pirouette. Fire raged behind him. Somewhere in the distance, a giant stomped the ground, causing tremors to shake the very foundation of the Black Pits.

  Bezel, wearing Charlie’s skin, laughed mirthlessly. The sound was enough to drive Harold to his knees.

  “You give up?” Bezel asked. “Are you waving the white flag?”

  Harold couldn’t answer, and if he could, he wouldn’t have. He was on his knees, but he had not given up; only his legs had. Still, he raised the sword of Orkane in front of him, preparing to block the next blow.