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

by Spencer DeVeau

  “Got a special bullet for him then,” Army-Boy said.

  Steve shook his head hard until he knocked it against Harold’s pointed gun. “Won’t work. Won’t work. He’s immune.”

  Army-Boy cocked his head. “Nobody is immune to that shit.”

  “He’s a Protector, Ricky. He’s immune to all this shit,” Dahlia said.

  “Then why’s his skin dancing with the venom?” Ricky said, pointing his fancy gun sideways up at Harold’s exposed flesh.

  Harold looked down at his hand, saw the squirming black lines and a wave of nausea hit him full force. He nearly collapsed, knees buckled, feeling like wet noodles, but luckily Steve was there for support and was so big that he hadn’t noticed Harold’s hands digging into the soft flesh of his neck. The fear of the situation probably helped mask that, too. Demon venom coursed through his body, no doubt, and it wasn’t completely out of his system. If anything, it had been on a delay because the fire burned through him again. He fell to his knees, screaming like a man who’d just realized he’d been shot only after seeing the blood from the wound for the first time.

  Steve shed the weak grip like a silk scarf and ran towards the steps.

  “Looks like I’ll get to save a bullet,” Ricky said.

  But the wave of nausea passed. Harold blinked hard, felt the buzzing in his head subside back to the way it was and pointed the gun up before Ricky could move on him. Dahlia tensed, gun up again, and Ricky stopped dead in his tracks.

  Harold breathed hard, his whole body shook with the inhales, pain spiked with the exhales. He was okay. Yes. He could get through this. Just like booze, just like a bad buzz. Shake it off.

  “Let them go,” Harold said, but his voice was not as strong as he intended. It was the voice of a child. And he fell again, caught himself on one knee. The aim of the gun fell with him.

  “Let them go?” Ricky said.

  Then Dahlia laughed.

  Steve stayed totally quiet, hidden by the stairwell, his brow poked out between the metal bars, and he wore his hood up as if it would make him stronger, as if it would make a difference.

  “Why would we let these nice people go? Why would we deny them their salvation?” He bellowed out the last part as if he were some god.

  “Let us be saved!” a man yelled from below. “Save us now! Oh Glorious Disciples!”

  The child kept on crying, and the wails spiked once the collective murmur from the crowd grew louder.

  “Hear that?” Rick asked. “Who am I to deny them that?”

  Harold raised his blood-red eyes, blinked hard once and they started to turn the shade of the black venom coursing through his body. He felt the sludge inside of him, the toxicity of it, the poison. How he’d kill to just lay down and sleep the pain away. But he wouldn’t fold, no matter how much he wanted to. Wouldn’t let the venom drag him back to the floor. He kept the gun raised, kept the Disciples at bay.

  “You wanna play this the hard way? Then let’s fuckin play it the hard way. Way I see it, we’re all going to Hell anyway.” He turned toward the other side of the lobby, cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled to the other man who paced back and forth until he caught wind of Ricky’s voice.

  “Get ready to fry ‘em!”

  The other man, wearing a gas mask and the bulletproof vest, held up a thumb. “Okay, boss!”

  Steve gasped. Harold heard his heavy footfalls beating against the metallic steps, then he made it to the landing, a foot away from Dahlia and Ricky, tried to push past them. Rick held his ground. Steve basically ran into a brick wall. “Uh-uh, fat boy. You stick it out until the very end. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “I-can’t,” Steve said. “I’m not ready. I can’t, Rick. Goddamn it, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Harold shook, attempted to stand up, but Dahlia growled, focused her sight on him. “Don’t move.”

  He couldn’t have moved much if he tried.

  “Don’t wanna burn with all the rest of the peasants?”

  Steve gulped. Shook his head.

  “How ‘bout I put a bullet in your brain instead? First class ticket to Hell. You like that idea better?”

  Steve opened his mouth. “No — ”

  But before he could finish, the gun roared and Steve’s face blew off in an explosion of blood. Heavy flesh slapped against metal steps, and Harold could hear his body thudding down all twenty or so of them. It sounded a lot like boots being pulled from the wet mud over and over again until the body stopped at the lobby and a woman screamed bloody murder.

  Harold blinked away a tear. He didn’t like the son-of-a-bitch, but Steve was just a kid, like Jerry. Dumb kids whose minds were too easily molded by the first group to embrace and accept him. That left a bad taste in his mouth, burned deeper than the venom. Go back ten years and Harold would’ve been just like him. Except, no one ever offered. Not even a Satanic worshiping cult like the Disciples.

  Dahlia never wavered, never so much as looked away from the sight of her rifle and the burnt man who shook with violence, with rage.

  Then Ricky’s laughter filled his ears. “Couldn’t leave this Realm without blowin’ someone’s brains out one last time,” he said. He had a big grin poking out of his wiry, black beard. “Never liked the fat ass anyway. Did you, girl?”

  “No, sir,” Dahlia said through the harsh line of her mouth.

  “Good, good. Looks like I did us a favor. Kid would’ve took forever to cook, would’ve whined the whole time like a little bitch.” Another chuckle, then he raised the gun to his mouth, blew out the smoke like it was a birthday candle.

  Dahlia joined in on the laughter, but never took her eyes off Harold. She knew, saw it in his eyes, what he was capable of, even though Harold was still unsure himself.

  Not only did the child wail now, so did the mother, along with a few other people — men, women, and children alike.

  “Alright, Ben! Give ‘em Hell.”

  Ben no doubt wore a sick and twisted smile under his gas mask. He turned his back on them, and the next thing that happened made Harold wish the venom had ate away his eardrums. A siren wailed. Up above, a silver-white light flickered with the rhythm of the deafening noise. Each flash reminded Harold of a camera going off in a dark, dark place, and each flash brought out the worst of the situation.

  Blood lined the steps, dripped from the handrail. A piece of Steve’s face — some scalp with curly brown hair attached to it — hung over the balcony, threatening to fall down on to the crowd a story below.

  Harold felt his stomach tighten, then something squirm through it, like a slimy eel. He hoped it was the brutality and the overall sickness of Steve’s murder that made him feel that way, but the lights kept flashing, and he saw how his skin turned uglier than before. Blacker. Deader.

  Something straight from Hell.

  Metal churned behind him, as if one of the trains scheduled for arrival had somehow jumped the tracks and took the steps through the broken front entrance. It took everything Harold had to turn his head and see the shutters coming down over the glass windows and the doors.

  Then the alarm died, lights stopped. Harold could hear again once the ringing in his head dulled. It was dark inside, much darker than before without the faint moonlight trickling in through the large glass windows.

  “I don’t thank him much, but thank you, God for all the terrorist attacks. Nothing like a total lockdown to simulate a human oven.” He pointed to the metal.

  Ricky started down the steps.

  “Light ‘em up! Light ‘em up, Benny-boy!”

  The gun trained on Harold finally lowered. “But, boss, what about him?” Dahlia said, motioning to Harold.

  His insides twisted, throat convulsed.

  Welcome home. Welcome home, Storm. Wipe your feet. Take off your coat, it might get hot in here, flashed in his mind. Like someone stood inches away from his ears, whispering the words in a Demon’s tongue.

  “What about him?” Ricky
said. “He’s going down with us. Win-win.”

  Dahlia’s posture broke under the fear; Harold could see the shaking hand that held the rifle.

  “Fine! Shoot him if it’ll make you feel better.” Rick narrowed his eyes, “I don’t know, though. Looks like the venom is taking its toll on him right about now. I’d say save your bullets. Come down here with me and bask in the glory of melting flesh. Let the venom consume him.”

  Dahlia’s eyes flicked from Rick to Harold, Rick to Harold. She blinked slowly as if deciding what to do, and she raised her gun, signaling her decision.

  The flames started at a crawl up the wooden support beams.

  Harold threw his arms up in defense.

  CHAPTER 28

  Fear unlike anything else. People screamed; the baby cried. Pain. He had rushed her as she pulled the trigger, but he was not quick enough. The rifle went off. That hot lead doused in venom sizzled into his flesh. The Wolves yelped. He was failing, an unstable Alpha, showed them how weak he was.

  Death, around the corner, almost there. He heard it deep inside of his head. Saw the black silhouettes waiting for him, darker in the darkness.

  The flames squirmed up the walls. He could feel the heat below, hear the pain and the agony emanating from the poor souls under him. Save them. He had to. Get them out of the terminal, out into the open air. The baby cried, so loud, his head felt like it might explode, body felt like it might shut down. He was on the edge, toeing over the abyss. He could drop, just fall, let it take him. The pain would be gone, he thought, he’d be normal again. But Sahara’s face floated up in front of him, the way she looked on the broadcast at Chet’s — bloody, broken, beaten, missing her hand, her blade. He took a shaky breath.

  The Deathblade glowed red like iron out of a fire. He touched the metal and his skin smoked as it retracted back into his arm, leaving nothing besides his charred hand. He had to mask a yelp, though he doubted anyone would’ve heard it over the screams, the roar of the flames, and the steady bangs coming from the muzzle of the rifle.

  Move. You have to. Now.

  He stood up — legs, chest, arms all feeling like they weighed a thousand pounds. The black snake of death twisted in his gut. His head pulsed, teeth bared.

  The shots had stopped. A momentarily lightning strike of fear flashed in Dahlia’s eyes. Sweat had ruined her makeup. She looked like a melting clown doll, like she belonged in Hell.

  Harold’s head spun. And for a second, he had left the dying terminal.

  The Wolves’ paws pattered against the rock cliff. They ran through the flames, the black, venomous flames, nuzzling at the fallen Alpha. The dark, yellow eyes blinked open, pupils dilated. The flames shrunk. Brain burned. Then the Wolves howled; howled bloody murder. Ready for the kill.

  He was back and the strength surged in his muscles. He flexed involuntarily, but Harold imagined it made him look menacing, like he belonged in Hell, too. He dashed the twenty or so feet before Dahlia could pull the trigger.

  “Circumventa Lupis!” he shouted in a voice that was all too evil.

  The Deathblade shot out, looked bad, but it did its job — sliced the rifle clean in half. Dahlia was left standing there holding the back end, eyes wide, face paler under her white makeup.

  Harold yelled at the top of his lungs, raised the blade, the broken gun at his feet. He meant to skewer the girl, give her a quick ticket to Hell. Get it over with so he could retract the blade, get rid of the burning in his bones, in his head.

  But he let the blade fall because that’s exactly what she wanted despite the fear written on her face. For a moment, all he could hear was her breathing, her heartbeat. The flames danced by, casting orange and red lights on the two of them. He could’ve killed her then, but he didn’t. She was just a monkey following orders. He wanted the big cheese, and not even Ricky unless the opportunity presented itself because he didn’t doubt he’d ram his blade through the guy’s throat.

  “Run,” Harold said to Dahlia.

  She didn’t. She stood there like a stone monument to her sins.

  “Fine. Burn with the rest of these idiots.”

  He walked past her, smelling the stink of sweat and fear.

  Downstairs, the fire threatened the group of people. Some had taken it amongst themselves, a few out of the thirty or so people, to run to the metal shudders and closed off doors and beat their hands against them like animals trapped in a cage. So pointless.

  He ran down the steps, feet squeaking in Steve’s blood, his corpse alight at the bottom. As he hopped over it a knee gave out and he struggled to rise back up.

  “It is him!” someone shouted — a woman.

  He looked up to see an African-American lady dressed in the garb of a preschool teacher — oversized colorful skirt, Halloween pumpkins on her blouse — knelt down beside him.

  “Oh, child, you don’t look so good.”

  Harold ignored her, ignored her extended hand. Ricky and the other guy — Ben, the gas mask — were across the lobby, laying down with their arms spread out like they were in the process of making snow angels. They waited with — though it was hard to tell through the wafting black smoke — large smiles on their faces.

  “Honey, help us. Please. Like you saved the boy and his mother.”

  That got Harold’s attention. “What?” he asked.

  “Yes, you’re all over the news.”

  “They’re looking for me,” he said. “To kill me.”

  “No, you are a hero. They want to reward you. People fear what they don’t understand and they didn’t understand the monster that you killed, or…” she looked down at the dying blade in his hand, “…or that thing coming from your skin, but they understand good versus evil. And you, my friend, are the good.”

  He felt a wave of euphoria wash over him. Him? The good? People looking up to him, wanting him to save the day? He loved and hated the notion at the same time. Harold’s life had been a series of failures and close calls, scars and pain, but now he had meaning, real meaning.

  Two more people rushed over to him. One a large man probably in his fifties with silver-streaked black hair, and the other, the mother with a bundle of blankets clutched to her breast. Faint cries came from the blankets, not as loud as before and they were fading. She coughed, held her shirt over her mouth.

  “Save us,” she said, muffled.

  The large man didn’t offer a hand, he just bent down, picked Harold up by the lapels of his trench coat, and didn’t let go until Harold stood on his own. Even then he tottered like a drunk, like a dying man.

  Harold pointed to the steps. “Up there. We can get out up there. Big windows. I can cut through.”

  The trio wasted no time heading for the steps, but paused when something above snapped and crackled like a mad bolt of lightning. A support beam toppled over. The teacher and the mother dodged out of the way as quick as possible, knocking Harold over like two bowling balls coming for the last pin. The last bit of clean air in the building had whooshed out of his lungs. The mother landed on her back with the baby securely in her clutches.

  The large man was not so lucky. And his feet poked out from under the burning beam like the witch in the Wizard of Oz. Thick smoke masked the rest of the gruesomeness.

  “Chaos! Chaos!” Ricky yelled, laughing like a madman.

  The flames spread too fast. Soon the three of them were surrounded by fire, and it inched closer like the Wolves had on that cliff.

  “There’s got to be another way up,” the teacher said.

  “Only way is through them,” Harold said. He pointed to Ricky and Ben, waiting for the flames to consume them. They blocked the only way out of the Realm.

  The teacher shook her head.

  “Either that or die!” the mother said. “I don’t want to die. And I don’t want my baby to die either!”

  “Stick behind me,” Harold said. And he trudged along the hot marble floor, walking through a wall of flames without pain, letting them absorb into his skin t
o give the women a safe passage. When he had reached the fountain in the middle, the American flag above them had caught. Another ceiling beam fell, crashed ten feet away. The women both cried out.

  He’s coming.

  Coming.

  Now.

  The voice inside his head was just a whisper, though it might as well have been yelled through a bullhorn.

  Then Ricky’s laughter cut the voice off.

  Harold leaned back. “Stay here,” he said to the two women cowering at the fountain. The rest of the people were either dead or still beating their bloody fists against the metal shudders. A man laid to Harold’s right smoking and crisping, smelling like barbecue. A woman farther down was covered in broken wood, barely stirring, too far gone to save. There were others though, others that Harold could’ve still saved.

  Ricky had the gun raised. He wasted no time firing.

  First shot sent a spray of fountain water up out of the fountain. It splashed the encroaching flames, sizzled. The mother screamed.

  Don’t poke your goddamn head out. Stay put, Harold thought.

  He expected the next bullet to rip through his stomach, but the next bullet never came. Instead, Rick lowered his weapon.

  “Don’t be a buzzkill, buddy. Enjoy the party,” he yelled over the roar of the chaos.

  “Let us through,” Harold said. “If you haven’t noticed I’m equipped with a sword that comes from my wrist on my command and can pretty much cut through any material, including assholes like you.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that.”

  He raised the gun, pulled the trigger.

  The bullet whizzed through the air. Moved in slow motion. Harold thought, this is it. This is the end. Venom to the head. And he wouldn’t lie, he welcomed it. But the bullet never reached him. It just hung in the air. Then a breeze followed.

  Ice.

  The fire vanished, sucked from the atmosphere like drink from a straw.

  The shutters went up. Pale moonlight spilled into the lobby, glistened off of the hanging bullet.