Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2)

by Spencer DeVeau

  The cop raised the shotgun, now. “On the ground, pal.”

  Frank had no intention of listening, but the rational part of his mind had no intention of getting pumped full of lead. That sharp headache wracked through his skull — that war of choices. He brought his hands up to his temples, and the cop moved fast, backing up until his ass dented the metal of the cruiser, crouching with an eye looking over the barrel of the shotgun.

  “I’m-I’m not getting on the ground,” Frank said.

  “You have to. I’m a cop, goddamnit! Earl, get out here. I need backup, you asshole.”

  Earl didn’t answer, yet Frank saw him staring past the driver’s seat and at him with eyes that nearly took up most of his stubbled-face — a face that was about one more spook from being done with this so-called cop business.

  “On the ground now!”

  Frank didn’t obey. Instead, he turned and started walking towards the smoking city. The words frothed from his lips, words not his own, but spraying from his throat like a storm.

  “I killed the kid. He screamed and I just closed my hands around his throat until his head popped off like a fucking dandelion. What kind of monster are you, Frank? There’s a special place for guys like you. Oh, and his brother. Watched him burn like a human barbecue. My goddamn mouth salivated at the burning meat.”

  He wracked. A snake felt like it slithered through his belly. A black one deep in the pits, hissing and craving blood.

  He felt the cop’s presence behind him. The cop who heard all of the words, like Frank had served up the confession on a silver platter to the man.

  He heard the shotgun pump once. Then a sound like the sky cracking in half. The burning warmth of hot lead. A feeling like his arm popped out of its socket, of skin peeling and bones shattering. Blood spilled over like an unholy volcano.

  Frank never screamed, but he fell into the dead grass off of the shoulder of the highway. And the grass was dry before he’d landed with a wet, squishy plop.

  There was pain. Muted pain. And he brought his right arm up to his left shoulder, and pulled it away covered in blackish-red liquid.

  Blood, but not normal blood.

  His crossbow that had been slung across his back was no longer there. He thought he saw it in the grass a few feet away. His vision was rimming with red, though. Anger. Rage. Blood. But really, he’d lost that crossbow in the Motel 8 accident, left it there along with the rest of his old self.

  “Jesus Christ, Bill! You shot the poor guy.”

  “You didn’t see what I saw. His eyes. Man, his eyes weren’t right.”

  “The world ain’t right, Bill. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.”

  “Oh shut your vagina, man. I don’t know if you haven’t noticed but it’s kill or be killed. No longer room for civility. Shoot first, ask questions later. You saw what happened at the terminal last night. The people and their fucking eyes, man. Blacker than the Devil’s heart. If anything, you should thank me.”

  Frank heard the man’s weight rustling the grass, sinking into the solid earth. He could’ve pushed himself back up, but decided against it. When the next shot goes off, Frank might not be so lucky. The cop, obviously distraught, had jerked at the last minute and the spray of lead had only clipped Frank’s shoulder the first time. One might call it lucky, but Frank, feeling the pain in his body, from the gunshot and from the venom, wouldn’t be one of those people. If it had been a direct hit, then he’d be nothing more than gutsy bloodstain on the highway— and that would’ve been lucky. Death.

  The cop stood over him. Frank stayed as still as the ghastly pain would let him.

  “Is he dead?” the driver asked, voice now a little closer, out of the cruiser.

  “Why don’t you come over and stick your big ass ear on his chest and see if there’s a heartbeat, Dumbo!”

  “Don’t be an asshole. Let’s just get the fuck out of here. I didn’t sign up for this anyway. I wanted to protect people, save cats from trees and shit.”

  “Funny how things happen. I mean look who they elected President — a goddamned TV star!” Bill’s voice drifted closer. Frank could practically smell the body odor leaking from the guy’s pits, and the fear. That sickening sweet smell of fear invaded Frank’s nostrils.

  Get ‘em, boy. Give him us. Give ‘em Hell.

  Frank started to push himself up, but the feeling in his left arm was all but gone, now just a faint buzzing.

  “Hey, hey, hey don’t move, asshole,” Bill said, then cocked the gun.

  Frank didn’t listen, kept trying to push himself up with one bloody hand while his left one hung limply to his side as if all the bones had been turned to dust.

  The sky split open again. Frank jumped. But it was just a warning shot, rounds pumped towards Heaven. Frank smiled, sensing the weakness of the burly cop. Frank had him right where he wanted him, knew what would happen next.

  A show of testosterone. A kick to the ribs, or a boot on the back, maybe if the man was as sadistic as he looked, he’d stomp Frank’s bleeding shoulder. But none of those happened.

  Because Frank was stronger than he thought he was. And he stood up, facing the cop, who held the shotgun with one arm like a knight preparing to lance. The other arm shook, but the cop did his best to hide it.

  His eyes ran over the bloody-black mess of Frank’s shoulder. Frank followed his gaze. “Yeah, thanks a lot,” he said. “Now give me the gun, since you thought you had the authority to shoot me.” His voice was gruff, now he’d sounded like he’d been smoking a pack a day, even though he’d quit a decade ago.

  “I have the authority to do whatever the f — ”

  His words were cut short by Frank’s iron right-handed grip. Fingers closed around the cop’s thick neck, and God, it felt so good. The muscles and tendons straining under the force, like wires on a suspension bridge, twanging with the weight of the kill. He tried to bring his left arm up again, but it didn’t obey.

  One hand would have to do.

  The shotgun went off, the kick-back making Frank lose his grip. A cloud of dirt billowed up around them. The cop hacked, coughed. But Frank was on him quick. Knees drove into the man’s barrel chest. His legs kicked, arms flailed. He yelled for his partner, yelled for backup that never showed. Frank hardly noticed the man on the shoulder of the highway, head poked up around the white hood of the cruiser with his gun drawn, hardly noticed the man’s gaping mouth, the sweat rolling down his flushed face, or the way his hat hung crookedly off of his head, shaking, threatening to fall off into the dirt and pebbles. No Frank King only focused on the kill.

  In the back of his mind, the old Frank King, screamed for him to stop, screamed louder than the cop with the metal shotgun pressed into the softest spot of his stubbly neck. But the redness of the guy’s face which grew to purple and finally black did well to silence the old Frank King. And the thought of him still there, buried deep down into his subconscious sickened him more than the bloody snot leaking out of the cop’s nostrils.

  He stopped kicking, eyeballs bugged out like a semi-truck had flattened him across the middle.

  Frank took the shotgun off of him with one hand. Stood up, let it rest against his thigh as he brushed the dirt and bloody spit off of his jeans. Then he made his way towards the police cruiser, with the shotgun securely tucked under his armpit.

  The other cop and Frank caught eyes — Frank’s now almost radiant black eyes. Metal clattered off of the hood, the gun hit the pavement, and the beige slacks of the cop — standard uniform pants, Frank was sure — darkened near the crotch.

  “I’ll need the keys.”

  “Yeah, sure, sure. Here ya go,” he babbled, tossing the keys to Frank. “I didn’t like Bill much anyway. He was a nasty sort of bastard. Probably better off that way, ya know?”

  Frank snarled his lip towards the cop, who looked more like a fat man playing dress up on Halloween than an actual officer of the law.

  He threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, don’t kill me, man. Have so
me mercy. Please!”

  “I’m not. I just want the car.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Take it. Anything you want — ”

  “And your soul.”

  The dark voice in his head, the Shadows, screamed in agreement, like starving animals. And the old Frank shrunk to the size of a molecule as the new one practically flew across the hood with the grace of a young man, clutching the cop’s shoulders, taking him down to the pavement. His head thumped hard against the road, and Frank feasted like it was an all you can eat Soul buffet.

  CHAPTER 24

  No tank tops and board shorts for Harold. Not where the three of them were now. He wore a long silver robe, the fabric made of the softest silk he’d ever had the pleasure of touching, and on his face was a large skeleton of some sort of bird he’d never seen. Not one from his when, anyhow. If it was the same one that adorned Roberta’s and Sahara’s faces as well as the rest of the twenty or so people in the large room made of stone, then he’d known it was definitely not a bird of the Earth Realm. It was like the skull of a king vulture only much, much bigger. They covered the figure’s faces completely. And they weren’t your Native American skull-masks that were typically worn like visors around their foreheads; these were full face masks. And the whiteness the bones were supposed to be weren’t actually white at all; they were more like a titanium gray, like the color of Sahara’s Deathblade. Like the Deathblade Harold now missed more than anything.

  Nothing like being surrounded by a bunch of people dressed in robes and wearing the skulls of some giant bird to get the fear rolling.

  He leaned over to Sahara and started to whisper, but the sound of drums, deep bass-heavy drums beat his voice back down his throat.

  A man stood on a platform that rose from the cobblestone flooring. Torches burned on the walls, one near each of the man’s shoulders. He cleared his throat, although he had the crowd’s full attention. His beak swiveled, surveying his audience, and when he did, Harold saw the two black feathers, the size of human forearm bones stuck into the sides of the skull, where the man’s ears might’ve been. But Harold knew very well that his ears might not be there at all, might not even be human. Harold wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d seen more surprising stuff. Demons, Vampires, Corpse-Witches, Squeebs, and so on. Now he could add a vulture cult to the list.

  “We are gathered here today — ”

  Great a funeral, Harold thought, even stifled a chuckle because, how much more depressing could his life get? He’d been with a Witch that had the ability to travel through time, could probably go anywhere, but chose to attend some cultish funeral instead of the Dawn of Man or something much cooler.

  Sahara nudged him with her elbow, and turned her mask in his direction. He could see those bright irises burning through the eyeholes. And he practically melted, thankful that the three of them hung towards the back of the group, near a couple giant stone pillars because he felt his knees weaken. God, how could a woman do that with just her eyes, in a horrendous bird skull no less?

  “— to discuss the dark dreams, we’ve been having,” the man continued.

  The crowd collectively shifted like a class of fifth graders in sex ed class.

  “Yes, yes, I know how horrible they’ve been, but I believe these are an oncoming sign.”

  “For what?” someone barked, not giving the man much time to finish.

  The speaker held up a hand to the crowd. “Please, Oliver, let me speak.”

  “We don’t have time for talk. I’ve seen the darkness — the Shadows are closing in around our Realms. Each passing moment we spend standing with our mouths hung open, the Shadows get closer.”

  Two people in front of Harold turned to each other and whispered in hissing voices, nodding, nearly scraping beaks. The hiss swept over the crowd.

  “Oliver’s right!” a woman said.

  “Let me speak!” the man on the platform shouted. “Quiet. You will obey me.” He spoke with a force that tightened Harold’s chest, made him never want to speak again.

  The whispers died on the spot. Quiet. So silent, Harold worried they’d hear his heartbeat racing. Sahara’s hand found his and gripped it tight as if to say everything would be alright, then let go. Her skin was warm still, but not as hot as it’d been when the venom nearly consumed her. He found his own skin prickling as he longed for that smoothness again.

  “A Prophecy came to me last night,” the man went on. “Our Savior’s arrival is near, and in a thousand years, he shall arrive, wielding the sword of Wolves.”

  “No,” Oliver cried. “No, the savior died in the pits of Hell!”

  The crowd stomped their right feet twice in unison, and raised their hands above their heads to make an “O” as they shouted, “Orkane!” Harold and Sahara were the only ones who had not participated, and again he was thankful they hung in the back.

  But Roberta had participated, he saw her jerk out of the corner of his eyes, despite most of his peripheral being cut off by the metallic skull over his face.

  The man on the platform laughed then, and shook his head, the feathers flowing with the movement. “No, no, you are wrong, Oliver. You and I worship false Gods. It is time we opened our eyes. Orkane was not our Savior. He could not wield the blade. His cunning and bravery took him a long way, but he could not complete the task. Open your eyes!” The man turned and punched the wall with a bare fist. One of the torches fell from its holder, and made blackness dance along the room. The two people directly in front of Harold shuffled back a few paces in an attempt to dodge the man’s rage.

  “We are Protectors. It is up to us to protect these Realms. The Mortals rely on us and yet, up here we rabble and bicker with each other like children! You must listen to me.”

  Oliver turned to the crowd, threw his arms up as if he were a referee calling a touchdown. “Fine! We shall let the Wizard speak his insanity.” He turned back towards the man on the stone platform. “Go on, Felix. Speak your blasphemy.”

  Harold’s heart nearly shot out of his throat. The dreams came back in one big rush. His father, the tasks at hand, then the horrible images of the Wizard dying on the pavement with Charlie and Beth standing over him. He started to walk forward, almost absentmindedly. Soon, he parted the two Protectors that had stood in front of him, and made his way towards the front of the crowd.

  Felix took off his mask, stared into the sea of people with the intensity of a man who might’ve been able to shoot laser beams from his eyes. He looked much, much younger, but still wizened. His hair wasn’t a shock of greasy white. It was more like a shiny silver that matched the robe, and the wrinkles on his face were present, but not the deep fault lines they’d been in the parking lot across the street from Chet’s bar.

  “The Savior from my dreams,” Felix said, after clearing his throat, “will look as if they’d come from the pits of Hell. A Demon with burnt flesh, with yellow and red eyes.”

  Harold locked his hands together behind his back so the robe would cover his flesh, his burns. For a moment, Felix and him caught eyes, but it was just a passing glance that Harold thought went on longer than it actually had.

  “Dreams mean nothing,” Oliver mumbled next to Harold. And Harold snorted because he wished that were the case.

  Felix’s eyes drifted towards the tall man, and ignored him. “We will fight the Hell Realm for nearly a thousand years before the Savior emerges. And they will be thrown into the middle of the war, torn apart by the Shadows.”

  “A thousand years is a long time,” a woman said near the platform. “Must we worry our minds with such trivial thoughts?”

  Felix smiled, looked to the woman, whose brown hair spilled out of the vulture mask like a silk waterfall.

  “Yes, my love,” he said, “we must. Because as we speak, the powers below are recovering, growing stronger. They gear up for one last fight.”

  “That’s no different than they always do,” Oliver said. “But the Hellions are lost without their Master. The Dark One rots i
nside of a cage and we live in peace.”

  “You as well as the rest of us know that will not last. The Dark One is a sinister beast, and if he continues to live on then there is always a risk.”

  “But we cannot kill him,” the woman said.

  Felix blinked slowly, bowed his head. “I know, that is why you must listen to me. Only the Savior can — Electus.” He stepped down from the platform, reached a hand up towards the woman’s mask, and pulled it off gently.

  She didn’t stop him, only looked at him with pure affection, soft eyes and a softer smile on her face. He cupped her chin in his hand.

  “Because he will be our son,” Felix said.

  The smile disappeared from the woman’s face as she stepped back. Her eyes narrowed, then her hands went to her stomach. “Our son?” she whispered.

  Felix nodded.

  Harold gulped. It was him in the womb of the woman. That was his mom. His head started to pulse.

  Time felt like it exploded.

  The voice in his head was distant, but he heard it, despite it sounding like a choppy, long-distance phone call.

  You don’t belong there, Harold Storm. Come join your true family.

  His vision started to prickle with stars. He gasped hard, but it was lost amongst the worried chattering from the crowd, chattering that sounded as if the group had begun to question the sanity of their leader, just as Harold had begun to question his own sanity.

  He was lost in a world of Shadows and silver robes and horrendous vulture masks.

  CHAPTER 25

  Sahara knelt next to him, jerking his shoulders. “Harold? Harold?” she said, voice a thunderous echo that shattered his eardrums.

  Something was happening to him. He was being torn apart.

  He blinked, took a few deep breaths, trying to let the pain pass over him. When he registered what he saw, he nearly passed out again.