CHAPTER 7
Harold watched it play out before him, sitting on the couch, his head craned, looking at the water stains in the unevenly-cut tiled ceiling. At first it was weird, like watching yourself on a home video from years ago, or hearing your recorded voice for the first time, realizing you really sound like you only breathed helium your whole life instead of air. But he couldn’t help getting sucked in towards the vision that played from his mind. It was a memory playing in crystal clear high definition, and it went like this:
Harold was drunk — nothing new — and barely standing, wouldn’t be whatsoever if it wasn’t for the help of the brick wall he leaned on. Marcy went through with it hours before. She went alone, she told him, no need for moral support. Frankly, it could’ve been a lie — all of it. She was prone to stretching the truth. But he was no saint; there had been a lot of secrets kept between the two. Saturday night binge drinking was one of his. He was supposed to be working, out surveying the streets for people stumbling and messing with their car keys. He had the Cherry District on the weekends. Not much money to be made around there anyway, so what did it matter if the cabbie ended up being the one who needed a cab ride? This Cherry wasn’t so sweet. And no more baby on the way meant less hours at work, which meant less money, which meant more freedom. More stupid decisions. More drinks.
But thinking about that, of the chance of no longer being a father did something weird to Harold’s heart, something that hadn’t happened since he was seventeen and Bethany Wilson left him, citing a move to an out of state college and not wanting to wrestle with the hassles of being in a long distance relationship as the reason.
She was a stone-cold fox. The girl who taught him what love might’ve been, the one who got away. He might’ve thought she felt the same way, but that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when she posted pictures of herself on Facebook, arms draped over a variety of college frat boys, big-chested and beer-bellied who weren’t the same person but resembled each other enough for Harold to think it was. The important thing was that she lied. Or perhaps she just had a different way of coping with things, which he quickly adapted a few years down the road. A drink could go a long way in comforting a broken heart.
Three quarters of a bottle of whiskey later, the pain of his newly broken relationship with another stone-cold fox, Marcy, was nothing but a distant ping. That’s what their relationship was now — broken. There was no coming back from what she’d done at the clinic that day. They were on their last thread of a frayed rope. The alcohol was meant to ease the pain of the fall.
Headlights streamed by him, causing him to shield his eyes. Every few minutes, someone would open the door to the bar, letting stale cigarette smoke and blaring classic rock music fill the air. Harold had come out to be alone, no longer wanting the comfort of Chet’s gruff voice telling him how all vaginas have a hidden set of gremlin teeth specifically designed to tear out the hearts of men once they were close enough to be reeled in.
Above him, the neon light of the bar sign buzzed like it was on the verge of exploding. It would flicker on and off, painting him in a sickly purple hue. He supposed this was rock bottom. He hurt himself, and most importantly, he hurt Marcy. Harold sighed sharply. When he sobered up, listened to the voicemail on his phone about the abortion again, he would go to her apartment and break up with her. It was for the best. He just hoped the jewelry store on Eighth would let him return the engagement ring. Yes, shotgun wedding was the term. He wasn’t proud of it, and neither was his wallet.
But why wait? he thought. Get it over with now. Clean rip like a Band-Aid. Don’t have to drag out the pain any longer.
He walked across the street. His legs felt like noodles, and he longed for the seat of the cab. The warm heat spilling out of the registers. It might be three in the morning, but he couldn’t go on hurting Marcy any longer. The cab was parked in a small lot, under a streetlamp that buzzed louder than Chet’s neon sign. The concrete of the lot was cracked and threatened being swallowed up into a sinkhole, but beat getting a ticket for parking on the side of the street.
He was a few feet away from the cab when a man stumbled out of the alleyway between two covered in scarlet blood that seeped through his clothes. Harold’s eyes snapped open, and he quickly turned, felt himself sobering up.
Not getting mugged today. Not again.
The winos were a big problem in the city, especially around this part of town. Some of them were so thirsty for a drink, they’d rob you without batting an eye.
Harold felt the man’s presence behind him. He was too drunk to fight back, he knew, and if he broke into a run, he’d no doubt vomit or crack an ankle on the uneven pavement. The best plan was to play it cool, get in the cab, lock the doors.
But that plan disintegrated when the homeless man gripped one of Harold’s shoulders with flesh so icy that he felt it through his heavy leather jacket. Harold whirled around, tightening his hands into a fist, ready to hit the guy so hard that one of his eyes might pop out of his head. But he didn’t. Because those eyes, deep, sunken eyes, did not seem malicious to Harold. They asked for help — needed help.
He felt the pit of his stomach shrivel up. The man was broken, just like Harold. He felt the pain through the man’s intense gaze and instead of retorting with violence, he offered a helping hand to the man. Words bubbled on the cusp of Harold’s lips, but the man cut him off.
“Run, Harold,” he said.
“How do you know my name?” Harold asked, his voice a whisper.
The man’s grip tightened, his face close enough to where his long, white beard tickled Harold’s face as the wind blew. He pushed him up against the brick wall of a building, just a few feet from where the cab was parked. Harold had been so close. He could’ve avoided all of this. Hell, he’d rather be in the bar, guzzling down every dusty bottle on the shelves behind Chet until his organs just stopped. But no, he let Marcy somehow dictate his decisions, even with her halfway across the city.
Maybe Harold misjudged the homeless man’s character, because a funny feeling started to slice the pits of his stomach: that all too familiar feeling of fear and danger.
“I-I don’t have my wallet on me. I got a tab at the bar,” Harold tried to explain.
“I don’t want your money, you buffoon.” His hand dug deep into the pocket of his coat. A twisted, pained look passed his face. There was a sound like a switchblade’s knife being born.
Harold took a step back, wobbly, and nearly fell. His hands shot over his stomach, flexing his abdominal muscles, expecting to be gutted like a fish. But the man held nothing of harm. Just a key. A jagged looking piece of metal. Obsidian black. Antique-looking. Possibly worth a lot of money.
“You have to go. Now. Alright? They’re coming and if they find that key then all is lost.” He thrusted the object into Harold’s chest, but he pushed the man’s bloody hand away.
“They? We? I don’t even know you, man. Back off. Don’t drag me down into your pool of shit.”
Though the subconscious part of Harold’s mind, the Harold watching the scene play out like a matinee at the local theater recognized the Wizard from the beach — Felix.
The man tilted his head. “Please,” he said.
A clatter came from the alley in front of Harold. He looked down the length of the darkness, searching for the noise. A motion light flicked on above a door, casting a shadow of two broad-shouldered figures coming closer and closer, the shadows expanding until they stretched to the length of the two story building’s walls. Except, Harold saw nothing, no figures to cast the shadows at all. Just thin air.
“They’re here,” the homeless man said in a small voice. “Go! Right now! There’s still time. You mustn’t let them get the key.”
He thrust it out again. This time Harold took it. And when he touched it, energy coursed through his body. He blamed the alcohol, but subconsciously he knew something wasn’t right. And when he saw the man and the woman dressed in their
business attire, like two Wall Street goons, careened down the alleyway, he really knew something was up. They weren’t there before. Now they were, black shadows attached to their feet, stretching the length of the alleyway, hints of venomous smiles playing on their lips.
They didn’t seem to notice him yet, so he scrambled out of their view before they did, not chancing to run, to fall and die right there in that crummy parking lot. He army-crawled under the cab. The homeless man’s feet were still visible from Harold’s vantage point. Then two more sets of feet joined his.
Harold gulped.
“Felix, Felix, Felix,” the female said, clucking her tongue. “Running only makes it worse.”
“I’m done running,” Felix, the homeless man, answered.
“Good. Now hand it over.”
“Why, what are you talking about?” Felix said, his voice jingling with amusement.
“Don’t play stupid, you Wizard scum,” the other Wall Street type said.
There was a pause. No voices, only the sound of tires rolling by far off on the road.
I’m too drunk for this, Harold thought, but really he wasn’t. The shock of it all was like taking a cold shower and instead of water, coffee came out. Felix’s legs shuffled in place, or maybe it was Harold’s double vision.
“If I had the key, don’t you think I’d fight back?” he said, his voice becoming stronger, more confident.
“I don’t know. Rumor has it that you are kind of dumb,” the man said.
Felix’s laughter echoed in the quiet night. “Dumb? If I were dumb would I be able to imprison the most evil Sorcerer of all? Wouldn’t that make him the dumbest? And you two equally as dumb for working with him?”
“Enough,” the woman said. She snapped her fingers. The man’s feet, long black loafers shinier than a new coin, moved in Felix’s direction, and soon Felix let out a gurgling noise, his body lifted off the concrete about six inches. “I didn’t want to have to get violent, not really. But you’ve forced my hand, Felix.”
Felix replied, though Harold couldn’t make it out through the strain.
“Pardon?” the woman said, giggling.
More choked words.
Then Felix hit the concrete like a sack of bricks — crumpled, defeated. He caught eyes with Harold. A pained look, but he shook his head slightly, telling him with his eyes to stay put. Don’t be a hero. Harold gripped the key with so much force, he thought he might turn it to dust. The cold metal, buzzing with power, unknown power, bit into his skin.
“Kill him,” the woman said. “See if he’s lying.”
“Be my honor,” the man replied.
A large hand reached down, picked Felix up like a piece of trash on the ground. The homeless-looking man screamed, and Harold couldn’t take it any longer. He was drunk, stupid, and too brave for his own good. Don’t be a hero? He was tired of not doing the right thing, of standing by while bullies did whatever they pleased.
Harold slipped out from under the car. His first thought was to fight, but he knew he’d lose. The only punch he’d ever thrown in his life happened to be in video games.
The next thing he thought of was to go get help. Blood had been shed. Murder was in the air. Chet wouldn’t like it. Another death would probably put him out of business altogether. He’d be quick to call the cops. It was a solid plan. All Harold had to do was go unnoticed, which was not an easy task. He was a six foot human being trapped under a car. Getting out without making noise while sober would be a challenge. Now drunk, that was just impossible.
Felix cried out again.
Maybe someone would come. They had to hear him. People are naturally curious, naturally crave drama.
“Geez, that’s a lot of blood, Felix,” the woman said.
“I told you,” he answered.
“He doesn’t have it. Now what? Can we eat him?”
Harold jammed the key deep in his pocket, then shimmied out, his bottom half sticking out beyond the opposite side of the car. He stopped dead when he heard the man’s plan.
Eat him?
He had to be having some kind of drunk nightmare.
“No. We cannot eat him. His kind is poison. Be patient. We’ll find a meal yet,” the woman said.
“Then what do we do with him?”
“Remember where we’re at, Charlie,” the female said like a teasing child.
Charlie chuckled. “How do you kill a Wizard? They always asked me. I never knew the answer down there.”
“Up here it’s easy,” the woman said.
Then something clicked.
A gunshot went off, rattling the frame of the cab, thunderous on an otherwise clear night. Harold jumped, banged his head on some type of metal above him. But hardly noticed the pain because the fear was too prominent.
Felix’s body dropped.
Charlie bent down to pick him back up, face nearly all a gleaming-white smile when he saw Harold, then he practically licked his lips. His grip strangled Harold, while he gasped and kicked, but couldn’t escape the clutches of the well-dressed man. The moonlight shone down upon them. Blood speckled the collar of the man’s white button-up that he wore under his black sports coat.
He had a slicked comb over of jet black hair and a winning, predatory smile.
“I found dinner,” he said to the woman.
Felix lay in a heap at her feet, dark blood pooling on the pavement. The life began to stream out of Harold’s mouth in plumes of foggy breath.
This is it. The end.
She returned the smile. Her hair slicked back in a business-like ponytail, the same inky black color. Same shark-toothed grin.
“I don’t know, Charlie, I think I deserve better than fast food.”
“Come on, I’m starving. And he can’t even see us. Look at the poor bastard, drunk off his ass. We’ll be doing this Realm a favor by getting rid of him.”
Harold whimpered. But he could see them. What were they talking about? Then he remembered how he couldn’t see them earlier, only their shadows, couldn’t see them until…until he had the key.
Play it cool, he thought. But don’t act like you’re trying to play it cool. And that was hard, but he tried.
Then the man’s mouth opened wide enough to devour Harold’s head in one swift gulp, and he nearly pissed himself.
The night had gotten very strange, very fast.
Charlie’s breath brought the hairs on the back of his neck to attention. The stench was horrendous, like rotting corpses spritzed with hard-boiled eggs. It made Harold’s eyes water.
“Make sure you save some for me, Charlie, dear,” the woman said. She dug her hand into Harold’s back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He heard the slap of leather against her hand.
“Oh Beth, you know I will, my love,” Charlie responded in a laughable cockney accent.
“Oh, Harold Storm. What a wonderful name,” she said. “Who’s this? What a pretty, pretty girl. Such a shame.”
Charlie laughed. “Who cares?” he said, then his mouth gaped once more, teeth like razor blades. Harold felt like his insides were being sucked out from him with an industrial vacuum cleaner. The pain so severe, so unlike anything he’d ever experienced in life, unlike anything his small mind could fathom.
His hands went up to his throat, clawing at the flesh. He was going to die. Couldn’t breathe. Brain on fire. Heart exploding.
Charlie’s neck was a maze of cords and veins. Face was a mess of malicious wrinkles. Eyes like pools of hot tar.
Beth, clapped her hands behind Harold. He could practically hear her stomach growling, begging for food. What the Hell were these things? What was going on? He swore to God that he’d never drink again. Never leave Marcy’s side. Get a second job. Buy her a nice engagement ring. Just let him live, god, please.
Then the man dropped him. Sharp nails plucked out of the flesh of his ribs.
“What’s the matter?” Beth asked.
Harold rubbed his head, feeling more drunk than before. Closer to death
. He started to crawl away, but Beth’s foot came down hard on his hands, stopping him in place, and he howled out in pain.
“Help!” he wheezed. “Someone please help me.”
Charlie made a noise like he was about to vomit. “Bleh,” he said. “Bleh, bleh, bleh, bleh!”
“What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” Beth asked.
“He-he’s too pure. I’ve never tasted anything like that. Oh please, Beth, cut out my tongue!”
A scowl passed over Beth’s face. “Such a disappointment.” Her gangly fingers pressed against her stomach.
“Come on. Let’s go,” Charlie said. “We can look for the girl. She must have both the keys.”
Beth stepped down harder on Harold’s hand. He felt his eyes nearly pop out of his head, the pain almost unbearable. He cried out again, slicing through the night’s silence.
Please, I’ll never drink again. Please, god, spare me, Harold thought.
“She’ll put up a fight. Won’t be an easy win,” Beth said.
“Agreed, I’ll need a meal before. Can’t fight on an empty stomach. There’s gotta be a crackhouse around here somewhere. A few screams and a struggle inside will seem normal, won’t it? But what about this fellow?” Charlie said, pointing down to Harold pinned under Beth’s foot. His eyes were a normal shade. Blue now. Frosty-blue.
“Easy,” Beth said. “Poor guy probably thinks he’s losing his mind.” She raised a hand up slowly from the side of her. She had her index finger pointed like a gun straight at Harold’s chest as she said the words. “Let’s put him out his misery.”
Charlie grinned wide.
“Timete Noctem,” Beth said in a voice unlike her own — slithery, serpent-like.
Harold’s mouth shot open, but it was too late to protest. A wave of flames engulfed him. He smelled his own burning flesh, his singeing hair. The screams sounded like somebody else’s, somewhere far, far distant. He rolled on the concrete, writhing like a dying snake. The duo already walked away from him, not bothering to look back.
Hellbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 1) Page 4