by Robbie Cox
Death’s Shroud
By
Robbie Cox
Death’s Shroud
First Edition
Copyright 2020 by Robbie Cox
All rights reserved
Cover art by Beautiful Mess Graphics
Interior Artwork by SEA Creations
Editing by CTS Editing & Weis Editing/Proofreading Services
Formatting by CJC Formatting
www.robbiecox.net
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are strictly products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be reproduced in any form, except in assisting in a review. This book may not be resold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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To the believers of magic
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Need More?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Robbie's Books
One
The day had been long, too long. Roger Sanders tossed his keys onto the table that rested near the front door and continued on to the kitchen and a stiff drink. His throat was sore from all the talking he did today. Client after client called, each one needing something and needing it now. They always needed it now. Everything was an emergency to them.
Roger pulled a glass out of the cabinet, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and poured three fingers instead of two. It had been that type of day. Lifting the glass to his lips, he took a long swallow as he turned and leaned back against the counter, sliding a hand into his front pocket. The fiery liquid burned his throat and warmed his belly, bringing a quick comfort to his tired body. He sighed as he lowered the glass, following it with his gaze as he allowed his shoulders to relax, the tension slipping away if only for a moment. He was home. He would not allow the stress of the day to get to him here, not in his sanctuary. He built his home for peace, and tonight, he needed that peace. Fucking clients.
With a bump of his ass against the counter, Roger pushed himself into motion, his arm down at his side, glass held in his fingertips as he walked toward his living room. Reality sucked. At least, his did today, so he would turn to fantasy for the next couple of hours. Plopping down in his recliner, he set his glass on the small wooden end table beside him, and scooped up his latest find from the quaint little bookstore downtown, a fantasy novel from some author he had never heard of before. With a deep breath, he settled back in his recliner, pulling a purple blanket his mother had made for him over his legs and opening the book to where he left off last night. Reaching over, he picked up his glass, took another sip, and started to read.
Roger loved fantasy. Hell, he loved reading period. The chance to escape, find yourself in a whole other world you would never have thought about or have adventures you could never truly take. Many nights, Roger lost himself to exotic romances in steamy locations or solving murderous plots of top officials or rescuing the fair maiden trapped in a high tower. He endured the real world, so he could get home to the worlds created by others, losing himself until sleep called him. Many nights, he found himself waking in the early morning hours, body stiff and screaming because he fell asleep in his recliner, book in his lap, whiskey glass empty. He could read in bed, of course, falling asleep amid warm blankets, his head on soft pillows. But really, what was the fun in that?
With another sip of his whiskey, Roger ran his eyes over the words, following as the dwarfs ran into the tunnels under Mount Dreystone, Sir Roger in the lead; that is, Sir Reginald on the pages. Roger always pictured himself as the main character in all the books he read. After all, wasn’t that the reason for reading? To picture yourself doing the things you read on the pages?
The tunnels were gloomy as the dwarf in front led them, a torch held high—well, as high as a dwarf could hold it—in the air, the flames flickering shadows along the walls as they climbed. The golems were near, Sir Roger could feel them, feel their beady yellow eyes peering out of the gloom, watching them, goosebumps crawling up his skin and his hair standing on end. His mouth felt like a desert as he followed behind, his white-knuckles gripping his sword, braced for the attack he knew would happen. The chill air in the tunnel held the whispers of everyone who passed before them, and Sir Roger was sure it held the voices of the golems ready to pounce.
Roger’s eyes never left the pages of his book as he reached over and picked up his whiskey glass again, bringing it to his lips, a slow movement as he scanned the words in front of him. He took a small sip as the first golem attacked. Roger licked his lips as he swallowed, returning the glass to the table as the first dwarf took a sword in the gut, his entrails spewing out onto the grimy tunnel floor. The torch fell, casting the tunnel in damp darkness. Cries went out as steel slid from sheaths, the clanging of combat surrounding Roger as he leaned his head back in his chair, the first of the golems appearing in the shadows. Roger threw up his sword, blocking the spear the golem thrust at Roger’s chest, knocking the sharp stick to the side as he leaped backward a step.
His gaze continued down the page, fighting to keep his eyes open as he did, the stress of the day urging him to sleep. Not yet. Not in the middle of the battle. He only had a couple more pages left of this chapter. He could finish it. He just needed to see if Sir Ro...Sir Reginald made it out of the tunnel. He could keep…
The tunnel was quiet, however. The dwarfs were gone. So were the golems. Roger stood, glancing around the darkness, the walls of the tunnel casting an eerie glow around him. Glancing down, he noticed the sword in his hand, the blade pointed to the ground. He stared at it, his brows pinched in confusion. How..?
“Weird, isn’t it?” a deep, guttural voice sounded from behind him.
Turning, Roger spotted a tall, dark-haired man staring at him, his lips twisted in a lopsided grin. “Where am I?” Roger asked, confusion pinching his brows. “How did I get here? I was in my recliner, reading…”
“Oh, you still are,” the man said, and Roger took the time to look the man over more thoroughly. While the stranger was tall, he was far from scrawny, his shoulders thick, his legs powerful as he stood there in…a cloak? Is he wearing a monk’s robe? How much did I drink? “You’re sound asleep in your chair, the book you were reading open in your lap, one hand still clutching the edge.”
Roger glanced down at the sword in his hand. “Then how…?” He jerked his gaze back to the stranger. “This is a dream?” Could a person know they were dreaming? Could it be as simple as waking up?
> The man nodded, smiling. “It is a dream. You’re safe at home, all locked into your snug little abode, sound asleep in your comfortable chair, dreaming of being a warrior in some unknown land, fighting demons and saving the world. Pathetic, really, since you fail so miserably at real life.” He shrugged as he took a step toward Roger, his head tilted to the side as a grin spread across his face. “I thought I would give you a chance to make your dreams come true. Would you like that?”
Roger glanced at the sword again, still not comprehending. “I don’t understand. Why am I here?”
The other man sighed, shaking his head. “I just told you. I am here to give you a chance to be the warrior you dream of being, but can only live through the characters of the books you read.”
Whispers started filtering from the back of the tunnel, harsh whispers of guttural snips and cries, along with the scraping of nails on the tunnel floor. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” Panic wrapped its icy fingers around Roger’s heart, his eyes going wide as he jerked his attention behind him at the sound.
The other man grinned, and for the first time, Roger saw the other’s ominous red eyes glowing as his lips turned up into a smirk. “I am Tharon, a revenant serving Death, and I’m doing this because I can.”
“You will leave this man’s mind, Tharon,” another voice snapped, causing Roger to spin as an older man with graying hair stepped out of the tunnel from behind Roger. Blue fire sparked around his bony fingers as he walked past Roger, ignoring him, and confronted the revenant. The man’s eyes seemed to glow with the same blue fire that smothered his hands. “His dreams are not your playground.” The newcomer wore more normal attire: jeans, a brown sports coat over a yellow button-down shirt, grungy white sneakers. He was definitely not a character from Roger’s book. What the hell is going on?
Tharon laughed, the sound scraping on Roger’s nerves, his fear making him want to vomit. “You are so very wrong, dear Nazareth,” the revenant said. “All dreams are my playground, and this man wastes his life in them. He doesn’t dream to accomplish any true purpose, no grand scheme rests behind his fantasies, merely an escape from life, a life deprived from others. Why should I not give him a chance to see those fantasies come true?”
Roger watched as the newcomer slid in front of him, a barricade between Tharon and Roger. How is this happening? What kind of dream is this? Roger could not remember ever having such a nightmare, but a nightmare this was, one from which he desperately needed to wake.
“His life is his life, just like the lives of the others before you killed them,” Nazareth said. “This is going to end. Today. Now. Hekate demands it.”
The revenant tilted his head back and roared his laughter to the tunnel’s ceiling. When he faced Nazareth once more, Roger could tell Tharon couldn’t care less about whatever Hekate said. “I serve Death, Nazareth, and you well know this. Your precious goddess has no hold on me. I serve the brothers three: Death, Sleep, and Dream. Your goddess may guard the Underworld with her hounds, but Death rules it.” Tharon tilted his head, looking around Nazareth to Roger. “And tonight, Death will have one more for his chamber.”
The fire around the gray-haired man’s hands flamed brighter, hotter, so hot Roger could feel the heat from where he stood. “No, Tharon. Tonight Death will lose.”
Tharon laughed once more. “As if you could accomplish that, old man,” he sneered. “Your time is almost up, and we both know it. You grow weak, your power fading. Your time as a necromancer, a walker between realms, is almost at an end. Don’t make tonight your last battle.”
“I have more left in me than you know, revenant.” The gray-haired man shot his arms out in front of him, blue flames erupting from his hands as he sent the power into Tharon.
Tharon blocked the attack easily enough, sending his own red flames of magic back at Nazareth, who barely managed to block the bolts of power in time. The two kept hurling magic at each other, the tunnel filling with the sizzling smell of sulfur and something else Roger couldn’t identify. The air filled with smoke, and then Roger watched as Nazareth missed a block and Tharon’s power struck him in the upper arm, spinning him into the tunnel wall. The revenant didn’t let up his attack, but kept sending bolt after bolt of magical power at the gray-haired man, pinning him to the wall.
Roger clenched his eyes shut, willing himself to awaken.
Wails erupted inside the tunnel, jerking Roger around, eyes wide as he held the sword in front of him as best as he could. Golems poured out of the opening, screaming as they reached out for Roger, their bony fingers scratching at everything around them. They appeared just as Roger imagined from the book, and that sight froze him in place. The sword remained fixed in front of him, but it remained a useless weapon in his hands. The first wave of golems hit him hard in the chest, a scream ripping from his throat as they knocked him backward, their sharp claws ripping at his flesh, tearing him to pieces.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Squatting down, one hand resting on his knee, Officer Mark Rochester stared at the body in the recliner, the book held with limp fingers in the man’s lap, a glass of whiskey half drank on the table beside him, the fear etched onto the man’s face, his mouth wide as if he died in mid-scream.
“What the hell was he reading?” Tricia Pierce, the city’s medical examiner, stared at the man in the chair, a one Roger Sanders, her brows raised as she stood there, hands on her hips. “The latest Stephen King novel?”
Mark ran a hand through his dark hair as he blew out a sigh. “The 911 call said someone heard screaming from inside this house.” He shook his head. “But there’s not a mark on the body anywhere. Look at him. He’s sitting there, a book in his hand, a drink beside him. He was relaxed before whatever happened. There are no signs of a break-in, no doors unlocked or windows open. By all signs, he was alone, enjoying a quiet night of reading.” He glanced up at the M.E. “Could something do this? Some…disease…condition…” He arched an eyebrow at him. “Could whatever he read have caused this?”
Tricia stared down at him, her lips turned into a soft smirk. “That’s one author who could be a hit man without ever leaving his house if that were the case.” She turned her attention back to the body. “To be honest, I have no idea what could have caused this, and I won’t until I get him back on my table. Then, I’ll tell you what killed him. It’ll be your job to figure out how and by whom. Now, if you’ve finished getting your notes, I’ll get my people in here to take the body.”
Mark nodded as he pushed himself to his feet. He had seen some crazy things over the past couple of months since meeting Rhychard Bartlett and his magical friends. Mark wondered if perhaps what he stared at was more in their wheelhouse than his. He looked at every case that came across his desk with different eyes now, knowing that somehow demons and creatures with power walked his town. The problem was knowing what was from the world of nightmares and what was just plain human evil.
Turning the crime scene over to Tricia and her team, Mark walked back out the front door into the dark Tuesday evening, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging at his side. Flashing lights circled their colors over the nearby houses and trees. How in the world would he investigate a death of what appeared to be such a passive man? Who in the world would have wanted this man dead?
An animal scurried deeper inside some nearby bushes, drawing his attention to the side. Another man from the medical examiner’s office passed by, pushing a gurney into the house. Mark followed him with his gaze, hoping Tricia discovered natural causes and he could wrap up this case. He sighed, worried he had become too cynical thanks to everything he had seen over the last month. Not everything was some demon wanting to destroy the world.
God, I hope it’s not a demon wanting to destroy the world.
Two
Death is inevitable. That was something Laci Valentine learned on the streets over the past eight years. Except for her, of course. She knew, because she tried to kill herself several times just to end the nightmare of
her existence. Ripped from her home at sixteen by Jerome Williams to become a whore of his, working his streets, she wanted to end her life just to rid herself of the guilt and disgust that filled her daily. She almost succeeded once, but then Jerome found her and threatened her with the one thing with which he always threatened her—her sister.
She felt the sting against her face as her head snapped to the side from his smack, tears streaming down her face. “If you ever try that bullshit again, if you go for help, if you run away, if you do anything except what I tell you to do, I’ll go straight for that precious little sister of yours. She’ll be working my streets, and I swear, I won’t be nearly as nice to her as I am to you. I’ll turn her into a strung out whore, used up before she’s twenty. She’ll never see the light of day as I bring john after john in here to use her. Do you understand me, bitch?” He slapped her again for good measure.
Laci—Buttercup back then—understood all too well. Jerome always made good on his threats.
Her life only grew more complicated from there. Pastor Adrian Michaels threatened to kill her, sending gargoyles to end her life at Mark Shepherd Park. She hadn’t even known gargoyles existed! That’s when she entered the world of Rhychard Bartlett and his team of faerie creatures and when death covered her like a cloak, wrapping her in its frigid grip and dragging her into a deep despair. First, the people of Harvest Fellowship died, followed by the Warrior’s girlfriend, Renny Saunders. Adrian Michaels died that day as well, and before it was over, Laci killed the demon, Vargas, with a flagpole through his chest. Rhychard killed Jerome, freeing Laci forever.
However, death followed her from that place to the Leary Building where she watched the deaths of Emily Jenkins and her family followed by the witch, Rose Tillery. Several in the Bottoms died that night as well, and death still wasn’t finished with Laci.
