Hellbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 1)

by Spencer DeVeau

  The rain let up now. Sprinkling instead of a downpour. But the storm inside Harold’s chest had not dissipated. He forced himself up, wiping away the moisture from his face, feeling the deep roughness of his burns, some smoothness of the pieces of unblemished skin.

  “Marcy!” he yelled. “Marcy!”

  He looked through the window, saw the couch to be vacant. Overhead someone leaned out of their window and yelled back: “Shut the fuck up, man! Marcy don’t want nothing to do with ya!”

  Harold did his best to ignore the remark, but it struck a nerve. Whoever spoke was probably right.

  His heart shattered as the door to their apartment spilled orange light onto the front steps. Two shadows emerged. The bigger of the two — the asshole who took his place — in front of Marcy. Then a third shadow joined in, backlit by the light of foyer. A small one, much smaller. And when it started barking, tail wagging like a propeller carrying him forward, the sadness inside of Harold didn’t hurt as bad.

  Taco was Marcy’s dog, but as they grew closer over the years, Taco more or less became Harold’s dog.

  The dog, ironically a wiener dog, hopped down the steps, crossed the sidewalk and ran into the street. A car honked, and Harold lurched forward, scooping the overly excited dog off of the road and up into his arms. Taco wasn’t turned off by the blisters and disfigured skin on Harold’s face. He licked it while his tail beat against Harold’s ribcage, whipping hard enough for him to feel it through the wet fabric.

  “Cute dog,” Sahara said, reaching a hand out to scratch Taco’s head.

  Harold smiled. He couldn’t help it. Holding Taco was like being in a time machine, being transported back to when he was normal — when they were normal, Marcy and him — and in love. He gripped Taco tight, snuggling his face into his soft fur. He smelled of strawberries. Clean, like he’d just gotten groomed.

  “Oh, you’re such a spoiled little boy,” Harold said, in a sickening baby voice that didn’t match his looks.

  But Sahara laughed, and echoed his tone: “Yes you are. Yes you are.”

  He had felt whole again, completely forgetting about the dark, glistening buildings towering over him, making him feel microscopic, insignificant. Forgot about the heartbreak, the pain, the weight of a Realm soon to be resting on his shoulders. For a few seconds, he could just laugh with Sahara and Taco.

  Then it was all shattered when the man filled Harold’s vision.

  “Hey, creep! Drop the dog. Hand it over,” he said, motioning with his hand.

  Harold’s stomach lurched. This guy looked like a damn model. Well, almost everyone did compared to Harold. The two locked eyes for a moment. The man’s teeth bared like he was a hungry wolf. Like he was ready to put up a fight for the wiener dog.

  Harold would’ve loved nothing more to knock out the guy’s pearly whites, but there were bigger fish to fry, and that fish stood on the top step, shielding her eyes, one hand on the railing.

  “Billy, should I call the police?”

  He leaned back, head cocked to the side, but never taking his eyes off of Harold. “No, hun, it’s alright. I got it under control — ” He leaned in closer, “Right, asshole?” Motioned his hands again.

  He towered over Harold, and Harold was about six feet tall. A couple days ago, no doubt he would’ve lost this fight. Easily. But now, now he had a blade lodged into the very fiber of his left arm. A deathly sharp piece of metal that could slice the guy’s grin clean off.

  Harold ground his teeth, took a step back. The pain in his arm started to become more prominent, like it had back at Sahara’s apartment. He bent over, feeling it wrack through his body, but set the dog down as gently as possible. Taco gave him a curious, sideways glance before Billy, the model picked him up by the skin of his neck. Then he yelped, the sound echoing in Harold’s skull.

  The pain was white hot. That momentary spike of power meant to protect him in times of stress.

  Sahara stepped in front of him, obscuring his view of the horrified Billy.

  “If I were you I’d get the Hell outta here,” she said to him. “Go inside and lock that door — barricade it too if you can. I would.”

  “Hun,” Marcy’s voice said.

  “C-coming,” Billy answered.

  Sahara bent low to help Harold. “Take a deep breath,” she said. “Not here, not right now.” Her head turned in a swivel behind him. “Yeah, really not right now.”

  “It hurts,” he said, gripping his burnt hand. “So bad.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “What was the saying. I can’t remember. Please…please t-tell me,” he said, straining. “Luporom something…the wolves…they’re clawing at my flesh, lapping at the blood — ”

  Harold looked up, saw Marcy staring down at him from the top step, sad eyes practically melting off of her face. Billy grabbed her shoulder, yanked her back, almost causing her to lose her balance and fall.

  The fury spiked in the pit of Harold’s stomach. The stares of the new couple never wavered, and though the lighting was sparse, and Harold’s eyes bulged with anger, he could’ve sworn, for at least one brief moment, that something registered in Marcy’s eyes.

  Something like pity.

  He ignored the pain, hoped it would ignore him too. And he pushed past Sahara, mounting the steps. The little dog barked its head off, but not in a protective way, more of an ‘I missed you’ way, like a whimper mixed with excitement. But it was enough to catch the attention of Billy, make the guy’s eyes balloon, and Harold pushed his way inside. A blast of heat washed over Harold. Marcy bent down and picked up the dog before he could shoot out again.

  Billy didn’t waste anytime, either. No more words must’ve been his motto because he raised a hand up and swung at Harold.

  Harold easily dodged it and caught Billy’s arm. In one swift motion he threw all of his weight towards the ground, dragging Billy down with him. The man’s arm cracked over Harold’s knee, sickening, with an audible pop. Billy cried out into the night, sounded like he was starting to sob. Harold stepped over him, gripped his ankles and tossed him out of the lobby door into the cold drizzle.

  He looked over his shoulder at Sahara, who stood there with her arms folded across her chest, red hair blowing in the wind. But she made no move to stop him. He could’ve sworn that he’d seen a smile on her face. Like a proud parent watching their child score the winning basket or touchdown.

  For a moment, triumph pumped through his veins until he caught the ghost of his reflection. It all came crashing down. How sick he looked. What a freak. A corpse. Not Harold Storm, not the Harold Storm who Marcy Jones had fallen in love with.

  He shrugged it off. She’d know when he spoke, when he reminded her of how much they shared each other’s joy. Love was blind, isn’t that what they always said?

  She stood there, breathed heavy with Taco clutched in her arms. She shook, but the dog wagged his tail and tried to shimmy his way out of her arms.

  “P-please, please don’t hurt us anymore,” Marcy said.

  Harold stared at her, admiring her perfect complexion, the way her eyes were wide in fear, but showcased how utterly beautiful the light blue color was.

  “Marcy, it’s me,” Harold said.

  She took a step back. The dog fell from her hands, and Harold saw him fall, saw him flail out of Marcy’s arms and was able to react before the dog hit the floor. He snagged him, and he yipped, but relaxed once he was secure in Harold’s arms.

  “Harry?” Marcy said. Her back was up against the wall. Now her whole body shook, then her head. “No. You’re dead — you’re dead.”

  “They found my body?”

  She said nothing.

  “I’m here now, babe.”

  “It’s been…it’s been weeks, Harold, since I’ve seen you. Things have changed.”

  He inched closer to her, set the dog on the tiled lobby floor, reached his hand out, the light catching on the blistered, raw mess. Marcy recoiled. Her shoes squeaked as she felt be
hind her for the doorknob that led to the stairwell.

  Harold’s hand slammed into the door, not letting it open. Marcy squealed, and for a second Harold had to look down and make sure he hadn’t accidentally stepped on the dog’s paw.

  “Wait. Just wait, hear me out,” he said.

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  “No.”

  He turned to look out the window, towards the sidewalk where Billy was slowly rising up from his fetal position. Sahara hovered over him, her blade out and pointed at the man’s face. She said something and her body convulsed with the force of the words. A tiny crowd of people hovered behind her, arms motioning, lips moving. None looked like police officers, not yet. He had some time, but not enough to explain it all. Cursed with a blade inside of his body. Protector of Realm. Attacked by a Hellhound. Burnt to a crisp. Oh yeah, and his soul was almost eaten by some Demon. It was too much to tell her, so he said, “I love you,” instead.

  She went ghost-white.

  “Harold,” she said. “We aren’t — we aren’t together anymore. I’m with Billy now.”

  His heart might’ve exploded if he felt that he still had one. It’s not like he hadn’t discerned that information already. He’d seen them cuddling through the window, saw their kiss. It was just the way she said it, the way her voice sounded so final.

  “I’m different now, Marcy. I’m important. I was given a gift.”

  “The gift to just up and disappear? Avoid my phone calls and worry me sick? Because if that’s the case then I don’t think that’s much of a gift.”

  “What about the baby?”

  “I had an abortion. Harold, it was for the best. We both knew that.”

  His lips quivered, then let out a dry sniffle, like sandpaper scratching against firewood. He turned away from her, his eyes cast downward, looking at Taco wagging his tail, the gleam of moisture in his eyes.

  “I’m different now,” he repeated.

  “How so? Because you’re disfigured and if you held a baby you’d scar it for life? Because you look worse on the outside than you do on the inside?” She scoffed. “Please, Harold, you’re no different. Open your eyes we aren’t good for each other any longer. I don’t think we ever were.”

  “So it’s because of the way I look?”

  “Well you aren’t any handsomer, that’s true.”

  He rested his head on the lobby door, the cold glass steaming at his touch. The word freak flashed in his mind.

  “I have a power now,” he whispered. “I can be a hero.”

  “No you can’t, Harold. Just like you couldn’t be an actor, just like you couldn’t satisfy me in the bedroom, or make me feel special.”

  He turned, looked her over. “Good old Marcy,” he said. “Never misses a beat.”

  His hand closed around the doorknob, but before he twisted it, he bent down and pet the dog behind her ears, made a couple kissing noises. Then he opened the door. The cold air blasted him in the face. He was halfway out of the door when he turned and said, “Goodbye.” Because he meant it that time. For good. He knew the path he’d follow was only one way. No coming back. Enjoy your crappy existence, Marcy.

  Billy scrambled away from him as he lumbered over to Sahara, who stepped out of Harold’s way.

  “You alright?” she asked.

  He paused, turned around.

  “Do we have rules, as Protectors? Like under what circumstances can I kill someone?” He eyed Billy, who tried to get up with the support of one arm — the other looked about as useful as a rubber chicken — but Harold’s boot came down on the man’s chest, almost absentmindedly.

  “Uh…” Sahara said. “Never? I don’t know. There are no rules, I guess. But obviously you shouldn’t just kill someone for your own enjoyment. Kind of goes against what we stand for.”

  Harold didn’t care. He looked down at this guy he’d never heard of or met before tonight, and he pointed his left hand at the cowering Billy.

  Billy threw up his hands, elbows protecting his face.

  Harold cocked his arm back, flung it out again. The wolves ran in a pack inside of his body, snarling, begging to come out, but the words wouldn’t find his lips, wouldn’t fill the foggy night air.

  Nothing happened.

  Sahara just laughed, placed her hand on his burnt flesh. “Calm down, Harold. Let it go. He’s not worth it.”

  Harold looked into her eyes, saw the seriousness in them. And he listened. His arm fell down to his side, and he walked on, passing Billy.

  The man let out a large exhale and ran back to the apartment. And Harold never looked back after that.

  He had work to do.

  CHAPTER 10

  The night had reached its pinnacle. Moon covered by clouds, stars lost in a sea of towering building and exhaust fumes.

  Harold had managed to get himself under control. Thank God. But he still felt funny. Whether it was from what happened at Marcy’s or the near emergence of his Deathblade, he didn’t know.

  They stopped outside of a diner tucked into a tiny alleyway off of a small street. One plate glass window showed an empty store and a bored looking waitress playing on a smartphone, fist under her chin, bunching up the folds of her face and distorting her features in a most unflattering way.

  When Sahara pushed the door open, a bell rang. The lady didn’t budge.

  “Hello,” Sahara said after about a minute and in a voice that said she was trying hard not to smash the girl’s face in.

  “Ah, yeah. Any place you’d like,” the waitress said, moving her hand away. Harold raised an eyebrow. Now he was the ugliest person in here by far. Unless the cook looked like a zombie’s asshole, too. Chances of that were slim.

  They picked the booth near the corner where the only thing that separated them from the bathroom was an old timey jukebox. The table was spic and span, matched the unblemished white and black checkered floor. Harold looked around the walls, taking in the tacky pictures above the bar. Pictures of cars from the fifties with sharp bumpers and sharper dressed drivers behind the wheels. Each picture was surrounded by a cheap gold frame.

  The bar in front of the wall was empty. No smell of food cooking in the back. No sounds of clinking kitchen utensils. The toilet flushed and the bathroom door opened up, revealing a man wearing a cook’s hat, a spotless apron, gut spilling over his waist band. He tipped his hat to Sahara and Harold. “Good evening,” he said. Then his eyes bulged for a second as he looked Harold up and down. After a moment, he averted his gaze back to the tiled floor, never blinking.

  It was something Harold expected to happen, something he’d have to get used to. Besides, after seeing Marcy with another guy, he didn’t care much anymore. He’d rather be dead, than knowing about them.

  The smell of the cook’s insides leaked out from the cracked bathroom door, and the duo ended up moving to the other end of the diner. The waitress hadn’t noticed, never taking her eyes off the phone.

  “I’m hungry, but not this hungry,” Harold said, pinching the half of a crisped nose settled on his face. “I know a lot nicer cheap places.”

  “Oh now you remember stuff?”

  “Kind of. Like I know where everything is, but I couldn’t tell you the names of the streets without looking at the signs or who the mayor is. Nothing like important, you know?” He looked down at a small pile of salt near the sugar packets, furrowing the skin of his forehead. “You know what? I can’t even tell you the name of the city.”

  “Gloomsville,” Sahara said, looking down at her menu. “The city in between Hell and God’s asshole,” she said. Her eyes left the menu, went towards the waitress behind him. “Hey! Seriously?” she yelled.

  Harold heard the waitress’ sneakers squeaking over to them, then her grumbling throat.

  Gloomsville. It sounded like a joke, but it wasn’t. It came flooding back to him. Good old Gloomsville, USA. A city named as a joke because it was anything but Gloomy. One of the greatest cultural and economic cities in t
he country. But the real money was in the movie business and that’s why Harold had moved here in the first place nearly five years ago. If you want to be an actor, you have to have some skills or really, really good looks. He lacked in both those categories. And the more time went on, the less he improved. Drinking. Sleeping too much. Staying up too late. Skipping workouts. Slamming pizzas. It all caught up to him. So he took a taxi job instead. Fell in love. Got comfortable. Now he was a walking corpse.

  And Marcy was all he had and now she was gone. What else did he have to live for? Sure, he could apparently save the world, or Realm, or whatever, but who cared?

  “Ringing any bells?” Sahara said, snapping him out of his daydream.

  “Too many,” he replied.

  “What ya want?” the waitress asked. “Milkshake machine is broken by the way.” She chewed gum, eyes glued to the notepad in her left hand, pen in her right hand.

  “You got fries?” Harold asked.

  “What? You dunno how to read a menu?”

  He glanced down at the menu, saw a very Photoshopped picture of a steaming hot cheeseburger and a basket of fries. “Just give me that,” he said, a finger jammed onto the laminated paper.

  She looked down, nodded, said, “Anything to drink?” as she looked up. Then she shuffled backwards, dropping her pen and notepad. “Holy moly. You don’t look so good, mister.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said. He rolled his eyes then focused back on the menu. “You got coke?”

  “P-Pepsi alright?”

  That one hurt worse than her reaction.

  “Fine,” he said.

  She nodded too fast, looking more like a bobblehead than a human. “For you?” she asked, turning to Sahara.

  “Same thing. Extra pickles.”

  “Alright. It’ll be right out.” She turned back to Harold. “Seriously guy, you should see a doctor. Try not to bleed on the booth. I don’t wanna be here past my shift cleaning up your syrupy blood and skin shed.”

  Harold flashed her a thumbs up and the creepiest grin he could muster, which wasn’t hard. He just hoped when he got his food it’d be spit-free.