Marcy got distant. Sometimes stayed at her mother’s place on the outskirts of the town. And he’d come back to an empty home, sit in the silence until he couldn’t take it anymore. And he’d sob.
The next time he’d heard from Marcy, she told him about her plans, about how she wanted to get an abortion because the world they lived in was not the world two idiots could bring up a respectable human being. She told Harold to follow his dreams. And she’d follow hers. The fact he didn’t know what exactly her dreams were broke his heart. And that sealed the deal. Smacked him in the face, leaving a big handprint of reality in bright, burning red. They were too young. Too stupid. But goddamn, how he used to love her.
CHAPTER 17
His gaze flitted to the old wooden television in a dark corner of the living room. It was at an angle where only one side of the room could watch it comfortably. But it didn’t look like it could be watched at all. Of course, the box could and the black screen with a film of dust over it could, too; it just couldn’t be watched because it probably didn’t work at all. What use did Wizards and Witches and Protectors of the Realms have watching daytime soap operas? There were better things to do than get caught up in that.
But Harold needed a distraction. Something to draw his mind away from the painful memories of the only woman he ever loved. Had he loved her? He was unsure of what exactly love was. With no dictionary around, he couldn’t confirm that it was love.
He shook his head. What a mess. He never thought things could get worse, but here he was basically invincible, ugly as all Hell, sitting on some supernatural being’s smelly couch in a run-down apartment, a Hellhound on his lap, and fresh Vampire blood drying underneath his fingernails. Weird. And somehow, he expected it to get weirder.
“Hey Sahara, you got cable?”
She poked her head in around the doorway, pizza sauce spotting her apron, looking like fresh blood. His stomach grumbled at the sight. Pizza equaled Heaven to Harold.
“Cable?”
“Yeah. Does the little picture box work? You know, do moving images pop up and talk to you?”
“I know what a television is, asshole,” she said. “But I don’t know if it works. That was more Felix’s thing.” She pointed to the comic books under the end table, “Those were mine. I think the remote should be around there somewhere.”
Part of him didn’t want to look for the remote. Instead, he could read the kick-ass adventures of Batman and Robin or the incredibility of the Hulk, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to focus hard enough to read the text bubbles, as sparse as they might be. No, he needed some mind-numbing television, just zone out and not care about anything until the commercial breaks. Then eat some pizza and go on living his miserable life until Felix came back and claimed his job because Harold was not cut out for this. He was cut out for death.
He fished around in the couch cushions, nudging Slink off of his lap and the Hellhound replied with a sleepy growl, but rolled over anyhow, submitting. He pulled out a few old coins. At least that’s what he thought they were as his fingers gripped around them. But bringing them up to his line of sight showed them not to be of this country, or even this century. They were about the size of quarters with runes engraved into the frail metal and a picture of a five-armed devil-looking creature sprawled out in the confines a pentagram. He placed them on the coffee table, putting the oddity on the back burner. Though the howling in his head had begun to grow louder.
Another dip between the cushion pulled out a broken fang that must’ve belonged to Slink or a long-gone Hellhound, which he dropped, yelping, like he had picked up a live snake instead.
He fell to his knees, sucking in a deep breath before plunging his hand into the darkness under the couch. Slink was up now, sniffing the top of Harold’s head, drooling onto the wiry tufts of hair that had gone unburned from the Spellfire. He meant to shave that when he had the chance. But no hairdo or amount of makeup could make him look like the prom queen ever again. Maybe a hat would do. Something like the men from the fifties and sixties wore before going out on the town. Then he remembered the money he’d given the homeless man and his own wallet gone forever probably. Buried in the sand. Taken out in the lake’s tide. Burned to ashes.
The remote was there after a few hesitant grasps at dust bunnies and clumps of old hair. He pulled it out then forced himself back up on the couch, nudging Slink out of the way again, who didn’t give him any grief. He smiled at the odd looking dog, and the Hellhound bared his fangs, trying to emulate him. His hand reached out to pet him. Oddly, Harold was beginning to like the damn thing, prior chasing and growling aside. In a way, Slink reminded Harold of himself now. Ugly and cursed by something neither of the two probably fully understood. But Slink just kept trucking on, living his life. Harold nodded and patted Slink again before pointing the remote at the ancient television. It was a cube with wood paneling and an actual knob on the front where you could adjust the volume or change the channels, which was always a last resort. But if the remote didn’t work, he doubted the television would either.
When he hit the ON button his heart leapt up into his throat. Mainly because of the electric cracking noise the television made, like a bulb might’ve broken inside of the box. But then it worked. The light of the television bathed the dark room in an eerie glow, and he heard a female’s voice rambling through a fuzzy picture that was clear enough to make it out.
“Got it to work?” Sahara asked. She walked in holding the pizza she made on a tray and set it on the coffee table. Harold was focused on the steam rising from the food and the aroma of baked cheese, crisped crust.
He reached for a piece, then withdrew his hand as Sahara slapped it away.
“Be careful,” she said, “it’s hot.”
“Trust me, I can take the heat,” he said. The cheese dripped off of the bread and he caught it before it hit the floor.
Sahara moved Slink over to the side and sat down next to Harold who was too busy shoveling the pizza into his mouth, letting the sauce drip down his red skin. Before he knew it, he’d eaten three pieces and his stomach still growled for more. Slink sniffed at his face, but he gave the Hellhound a little bit of a forearm shiver, and continued eating.
“Do you want any…or no?” he said to Sahara through a full mouth. “Because I could eat this whole thing two more times.”
But she wasn’t paying attention. Her head was cocked towards the dusty television in the corner. Harold had been so enamored by the pizza that he hadn’t bothered to turn the channel. When he looked up at it, he saw an Asian woman standing in front of the camera, a microphone in her hand, scarf draped around her neck that blew in the wind. A crowd of people were gathered behind the yellow tape behind her. The ticker along the bottom of the screen was blurry, the white letters blending together, but Harold read it:
ARE THE MONSTERS UNDER OUR BEDS REAL?
He grabbed the remote, tapped the volume button a couple times before realizing what the news reporter was talking about. And when he did, his finger had a mind of its own, punching the OFF button. Except the reporter kept going on. He tapped it again. Nothing. Then he shot up, heading for the television, but Sahara gripped his arm.
“Sit down. I want to hear this.”
“…gruesome murders popping up all over town. It was enough for one young Gloomsvillian to start a conspiracy Web site investigating the deaths beyond what local police forces have been doing.”
Harold’s voice drowned out the reporter. “You surprised by this? I mean from what I saw they’re not too shy about it. Breaking into a blood bank and killing a security guard.”
He looked at Sahara, saw the grim lines forming on her forehead. She clutched her hands into fists. And Harold took a step back, remembering how strong she had been at the boardwalk, remembering how he didn’t want to take another hit by her. Or worse — a stab wound.
“What did you do Harold?”
“What? Nothing!” he said.
She pointed to the t
elevision. The camera was now trained on a pool of black and red blood, like a man carrying an oil drum exploded right there on the sidewalk, but Harold knew what happened. The memory was all too fresh in his mind and he found himself wanting to think about Marcy more than the Vampire’s hand clutched around his neck or the ease of which he ripped out the cop’s throat as if he was plucking flowers from a dead garden.
He blinked once, then twice. Now the banner read:
COP DEAD, LOCAL WOMAN INJURED
Then a pixelated picture of Harold on his knees near Nik’s body, sword still drawn, looking up at the camera with yellowed eyes appeared on the screen.
“Police are looking for this…man. If you have any idea of his whereabout please contact — ”
“Am I really that ugly?” Harold said.
“You idiot. You idiot,” Sahara said, standing up. “Why didn’t you tell me? Goddamn it, you idiot. We have to go. They’ll know where we are.” She sighed. “It’s only a matter of time before the police trace you back to here, too.” She picked up the tray of pizza. Five pieces were left on it. “Have you ever tried fighting Hellions and city police officers? No-go. Huge no-go.”
“Wait, I’m not done,” Harold said, extending a hand out towards the tray.
She looked down at the pizza, then threw the food at the opposite wall with enough force to indent the plaster with the texture of the pepperonis. It slid down wallpaper, leaving behind a dull red trail of sauce and flopped onto the floor.
“You know there’s starving children right here in this very town and you have the nerve to just throw half a perfectly good pizza away. How dare you,” Harold said.
“Shut your mouth,” she said. “Silent treatment starts now.”
Harold chuckled. Typical girl thing. “So I can say whatever I want and you’ll just ignore me?”
“No.” She looked to him with a misplaced smile on her otherwise angry features. “You open your mouth and I gut you.”
Her blade came out, stopping an inch from his groin. He didn’t think she meant it, but better safe than sorry.
“We have to go,” she said. “Need to find a safe spot.” She fumbled in her pockets, looking for something. “Roman! Roman will help us.”
“What? No way. Not after I sliced open one of his Emo friends and you killed the other one.”
“What did I say about talking?”
He brought up a hand to his mouth and made a my-lips-are-sealed motion followed with a feigned act of throwing away the metaphorical key.
“He won’t care, might even be happy you killed Nik. Anything to keep his daughter safe and pure. You know how it is with protective fathers.”
Actually, Harold didn’t. His father was never around much growing up and nor was he a girl who needed protected. Last time he saw Pops, he was about eight or nine. And even at that age he could sense the ‘I gotta do this’ in his dad’s body language. Hadn’t had the urge to speak to the man since. But he kept quiet, fearing for his testicles. You know what they say: Burn the man to death, but please god, don’t take his balls.
Sahara threw her apron off, left the room for a minute then came back with a suitcase. “I suspect we won’t be staying here for awhile.”
Harold looked at her, could’ve sworn she put on makeup and even smelled a tad fruitier. But for what? Running from the law and a group of Hell’s minions weren’t exactly the same thing as dinner at a fancy restaurant.
She walked towards the door, patting her thigh and whistling as Slink perched himself up on the arm of the chair, ears standing up and tail wagging. He jumped off the couch, thudding against the Persian rug with more oomph than his tiny body should’ve given off and walked at the heels of Sahara.
She opened the door.
Slink growled low and throaty before Harold could turn around and see what he growled at.
A man stood in the doorway, a big shark-toothed smile painted on his face, and something in Harold’s mind clicked. He recognized the guy as the one who tried and failed to steal his soul. Charlie.
His head nearly hit the doorframe as he ducked in, shoving past Sahara and closing the door. Slink kept growling, sounding like a rocket’s engines rumbling before blast off. Then the man flicked his gaze to the Hellhound, his mouth screwed up into a snarl, and Slink whimpered, tail falling between his legs like a deflated balloon.
“Wow, she really did a number on you,” Charlie said, looking Harold up and down. “Never seen someone survive Spellfire. But I guess it makes sense with the key and all.” He scratched his forehead, leaned in closer. “If anything you’re a bit prettier. You should thank Beth.”
Harold had never felt pure hatred. Sure, he said he hated some things on occasion, even his dad from time to time, but those were just words, words you can say without meaning. But looking at Charlie, his crisp business suit, onyx colored hair, and that smug, smug grin on his face, Harold felt the hate. It replaced his blood, let his heart pump pure, venomous hate instead.
He didn’t answer to the Shadow Eater. No witty reply, just stared him down.
“Alright, then. Hope you die quietly, too” He advanced forward. Harold stood his ground, waiting for it to happen, waiting for the Wolves to do their bidding, to howl bloody murder and for the sharp steel to shoot out of his forearm, and the the hilt made of bone to fill his hand.
But Sahara had a mind of her own and he should’ve known she’d be way ahead of him. Her blade came out quick, and she stood there with her muscles flexed, her back rigid.
Charlie’s face animated into fake fear. “Oh no. Not a Deathblade.” He tapped his pockets. “Oh, wait. What do we have here?” He pulled out something that looked vaguely like a flashlight without the bulb attached to it at the end. “Looks like I’ve got a little something, too.”
He pressed a button. A long blade of black metal extended from the handle. Two other smaller blades extended from the sides, forming a cross guard. And as Harold stared at the sword, he couldn’t help but notice the malice laced within it, how it looked like it was forged specially in the fire pits of Hell.
Charlie smiled wider, looked to Harold as he raised the blade up in a type of fencing position. “Oops, mate, looks like mine’s bigger too. She’s gonna love getting poked by it.”
“Poke your mother,” Sahara said, swinging her Deathblade in a wide arc.
The two pieces of steel kissed.
And Harold stood there looking like an idiot.
CHAPTER 18
Sahara threw a flurry of swings, but Charlie dodged them with ease. He backed away, then swung his own blade. Sahara always blocked it. But each time it happened Charlie laughed and moved more fluidly, as if it were a ballroom dance.
Sweat shined on Sahara’s forehead and her movements were getting slower each time. Harold could hear her breathing from where he stood. He had to do something. Couldn’t let her get cut down. Not because he cared or anything, but because if she died then he’d be a goner for sure. Even though that’s what he might’ve wanted — to die. But he was sure the Shadow Eater wouldn’t let him die painlessly. No, the son-of-a-bitch would drag it out, laugh while he did it. Just for the giggles.
Despite Sahara’s intensity and sarcastic manners, he liked her. She made him pizza after all.
Sahara swung again. Harold charged at Charlie right as he blocked Sahara’s hit, thinking it would be his only chance, but Charlie somehow managed to swing back. Harold had to hop like he was playing reverse hopscotch to avoid getting chopped in half. Still, the blade managed to nick him, nothing but a pinprick. A pinprick from Hell.
He screamed, feeling the blackness writhe inside of him like a thousand spiked snakes. He collapsed on one knee, sucking in as much air as he could while his lungs felt like they iced over.
The metal clinked again.
Sahara spun away from one hit then hopped into her own. Charlie blocked it and swung at Sahara’s head. Harold felt the color drain from his face. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
>
She was going to be too late — going to be headless.
But at the last millisecond, she ducked, hair flying as she crashed to her knees. The Hellblade caught a hearty chunk of strands and vaporized it before crashing into the drywall, slicing the peeled wallpaper, and getting lodged into it.. She swiped at Charlie’s feet, but he hopped, hand still gripped on his own blade, yanking. The sword wouldn’t budge. Cords popped from his neck as he tried and tried to pull it free. The first sense of alarm from the otherwise cool and collected Shadow Eater.
Sahara moved in, her teeth bared like a wolf going for the kill. She smelled the blood, the opportunity.
Harold rose, mentally begging the Wolves to howl, to let him know they hadn’t left without him, hadn’t turned him into a lone Wolf. But they didn’t answer.
He didn’t know why he advanced on the Shadow Eater unarmed, but he did. Maybe he’d get a lucky punch in and hold him down while Sahara sliced him up real good.
If he could just hear the Wolves.
Charlie’s eyes split between watching Sahara advance and Harold lumber closer to him. As Sahara lifted up her blade, she said, “See you in Hell.”
But Charlie’s long leg extended out, plowing into her stomach, knocking her back ten feet with a solid thump that spoke dented plaster. She looked like the pizza she’d thrown earlier, all floppy and sliding down the wall with a trail of red smearing from the back of her head. Except it wasn’t pizza sauce.
Harold froze in his tracks, making sure he did so far enough from Charlie where he wouldn’t be on the wrong end of one of those kicks.
The sword pulled free from the wall in a cloud of dust. And the Shadow Eater had that stupid grin on his face. Harold’s muscles twitched. He knew he was doomed. What was his best bet? Let it happen? Let the thing take him to Hell so he could unlock Satan then suffer while the Spellfire wracked through his body? He could run. But what about Sahara?
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