Deathbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 3)

by Spencer DeVeau

  “He shoots flames out from his palms, Frank. You don’t have a chance,” Harold said, still smiling. Then he turned back to Boris. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a fool.”

  “I’m not a fool. I’m here to kill a Shadow Eater, not to save any Realms.”

  “Charlie is everywhere and nowhere,” the creature said.

  “What the Hell does that even mean?” Frank shouted.

  “It means,” Harold said, “right now, you’re shit out of luck. Just trust me. Trust little Boris here. We cut off the head of the snake, the rest of the body dies. Right, Boris?”

  “I don’t know of any snakes here unless you’re talking of the Black Pits, but I’ve never seen them.”

  Harold shook his head. “No, never mind, it’s just a saying.”

  “Kill the Devil and Charlie dies with him?” Frank said, mostly to himself.

  “Exactly,” Harold said. “It’s that simple.”

  “Simple it is not,” Boris said. “The Renegades have been trying for years, picking off the agents of evil for centuries, but they keep getting stronger, they keep hiding, and…multiplying — ”

  “Cut off a head, two more take its place,” Harold mumbled.

  “No, they do not grow any extra heads.”

  “It’s another…ah, forget it,” Frank said. “See? This thing is dumber than a bucket of rocks. How do you expect him to get us to the Black Pits or whatever in one piece? I’m telling you we’re better off on our own.”

  Harold turned around completely, put his hands on Frank’s shoulders and with his dark eyes, looked him square in the face. “Right now, Frank, this little guy is the best chance we got. We’ve been here for less than a day and we were almost killed by an army of skeletons. We would’ve been if it wasn’t for him. We don’t know anything about this place. He does. It’s that simple. If he tries to turn on us, we kill him. But I don’t think he will. You saw how he looked when I brought out the Shadow Eater’s name. He almost died right there on the spot. I don’t know about you, but that speaks pure hatred to me. And we need that kind of hate on our side,” he said in a low voice.

  Frank swallowed down the lump in his throat. This is why he never had a partner. He was a natural lone wolf, not a team player and not a leader, either. If he was going to screw up, it would be on his own terms. He’d go down with his poor decisions. Now, he felt he was going to go down with someone else’s poor decisions, and it was not a good feeling at all. But Hell was cold, and though he’d never admit it out loud, it was scary. So he nodded.

  “Fine. I’ll follow you guys, but at the first sign of a screw up, I’m putting an arrow through his beady little eyes.”

  Harold smiled with teeth that were the only nice quality about his face. “Thank you, Frank. I need you on my side too. We have a long road ahead of us.”

  Frank returned the smile, his genuine also. He didn’t know what it was, but at that moment Frank would’ve followed Harold Storm anywhere, even the Black Pits of Hell.

  He was closer to doing that than he realized.

  “Now, where is this Resistance?” Harold asked Boris.

  “Let me rest, then I will show you,” Boris answered.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Abandoned Tombs weren’t so abandoned anymore. They stood near the base of a mountain where no sane person would ever be caught dead exploring. The nearest town was on the opposite side and it was called Redwick. It had been on the Realm Protectors’ radar for awhile, but after the supernatural activity died down, Sahara forgot about it.

  The world was a big place, and since one of the most active gates happened to be in Gloomsville, that was where they kept their concentration.

  Rumor around Redwick was that the mountains and underlying forest below were haunted. And Sahara knew that not to be the case, at least to the best of her knowledge. There were worse places in America. A boogeyman was nothing compared to the forces of Hell.

  A line of people flowed out of the dark opening of the mountain, stretching to the forest below. They look disheveled. Raggedy clothes, pale faces, tears in the eyes of the younger ones. Some of them even carried suitcases and makeshift weapons. Above the opening, written in white paint, read: SALVATION.

  Sahara rolled her eyes. Not again, she thought.

  “Will they ever learn?” Felix said.

  In all of the gloom, with the dark and crumbling sky overhead, Felix stood out like an angel in his white robes. True salvation if Sahara had ever seen it.

  “The human race is an interesting one, but not exactly a smart one,” Sahara said matter of factly.

  “Ah, ah, don’t speak ill of the humans. They’ve had their fair share of greats. Harold Storm is technically a human.”

  “No,” Sahara said, “he’s something else.”

  “It’s all about perspective, young lady. Surely you know this.” Felix smiled and winked, then began to walk up the line.

  The people they passed regarded them with fear in their eyes. They looked like refugees, something out of an old World War or Holocaust film.

  “Hey, they’re cutting!” someone shouted. Felix didn’t stop, and more started to groan and fidget. “Wait your turn,” the voice said again, now distant.

  Sahara looked back, saw a tired, middle-aged man with two children, one on each arm. The kids looked like they didn’t know what sleep was. They were about five or seven years old, one boy, one girl. The boy’s hair stuck up in a dreadful cowlick; the girl had a head full of blonde curls.

  “Felix, wait,” Sahara said.

  “Time is short, Sahara. We cannot wait.” He stopped, looked back at her, then past her to where the shouting father stood. “We can’t help them all. Only some. We have places to go and you know as well as I do that if we do not get there, then we will save no one.”

  The way he spoke was with such finality, such cold seriousness, it scared her.

  A sinking feeling filled her chest. She likened it to seeing a stray dog in the city, starved, fur matted with blood, drooping eyes, but could do nothing to help it, aside from maybe put it down. But she wasn’t that harsh, and apparently neither were the other citizens of Gloomsville who had turned a blind eye to the poor beast.

  These aren’t animals, she thought, these are people.

  She had to save them. What was stopping her, Felix? The same Wizard who’d up and left her to fend for herself when arguably the second biggest uprising in all of Existence happened to occur. No, she was independent. She’d fended for herself, even helped develop Electus into the Chosen One we was supposed to become.

  She turned her back on Felix, walking toward the father and his children. He clutched their shoulders, brought them closer to his sides. They both looked up at her with wide-eyed amazement. And she wondered why. No one ever gave her a second glance in the city unless it was a perv who had a kink for redheads. Then she remembered. The venom. The dark dreams. The cusp of death. She must’ve looked ten times worse than everyone else there. And she didn’t even want to look down at herself to confirm it.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said to the man when he flinched. “It’s not safe here.”

  “It’s not safe anywhere,” the man said. He was about six inches taller than Sahara who was tall for a woman. His dirty shirt was a black and white checkered design, pants were more dust than jeans, and on his feet were heavy work boots that suggested he spent most of his time in the factories on the other side of the mountain. Bags fell from beneath his eyes, blacker than the sky. The chaos had only been going on for a few days but it had struck hard. She remembered seeing the abandoned Army vehicles on the outside of the city, scratched deeply with Demon claws. There were a lot of people at the Tombs, but she wondered how many didn’t get out of the city before it started eating itself alive, and that sinking feeling took hold of her stomach again.

  “I know that, but this is a trick,” she said. “There is no salvation, only damnation.”

  “Thanks, lady, but I think I’ll tak
e my chances,” his voice was curt, but the fear was still written on his face.

  She bent down at the knee, coming eye to eye with the children. “I’m Sahara, what’s your names?” Then she stuck out a hand.

  “I — ” the little boy began but his father jerked him back.

  “Don’t talk to my kids, you crazy woman,” he said.

  “I’m not crazy. Look around you,” she pointed to the skies. “This Realm is ending. And we’re trying to help you and you’re being a total jackass.”

  Now everyone was looking in her direction. She could feel their eyes weighing on her.

  A big man stepped forward; he had a rifle slung over his back. His stature blocked out the little bit of light filtering through the dark clouds, casting a shadow over her. When he spoke, the ground rumbled. “Listen, lady, either you’re drunk, you’re crazy, or you’re both. Don’t matter. First come, first serve basis. You understand that, right? World might be ending but there’s rules, okay?”

  “I’m not crazy,” she said, but she barely heard herself speak.

  “Whatever,” the big man said. “Back of the line.”

  She stood straight, looked to her left to see Felix watching her from near the mouth of the cave, his arms folded across his chest and a big I-told-you-so look in his eyes. Since Sahara’s disturbance, no one in the line had moved beyond the ones who were already deep in the mountain. Most of them just stared at her like they would’ve stared at that starving dog roaming the streets and back alleys of Gloomsville, or the way they would’ve looked at a terrible highway accident as they slowed their cars to maneuver through the traffic and caution cones.

  It made her sick to her stomach. Why should she try to save such an inferior race? They weren’t worth it. Maybe the Hellions were right.

  Some of the people were whispering now, not bothering to hide it.

  It all happened so fast. The slow purring of the Black Panther. Claws shooting out of its paws as it hunted prey. That tingling in her arm.

  Then the Deathblade.

  The crowd lurched back collectively. Some gasped, but most of them screamed. Her vision ran red.

  The big guy snapped his rifle from off of his shoulder, took aim. “The bitch is one of them. Like the freak on the news.”

  Freak? she thought. They were calling him a hero not too long ago.

  She didn’t let the anger get to her. Her blade retracted in a flash, and she stood there meeting the eyes of the crowd with mild embarrassment. A Realm Protector does not succumb to such Mortal folly. They are meant to be regal and honorable, never letting anger get the best of them.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be a Protector, she thought. Then the thought was quickly vanquished as she heard the gun go off. The shot went wide, striking the dirt about ten feet to her left. And the sound echoed through the mountains, and would’ve notified anything around where the tasty people were. So she didn’t let the man squeeze it again. The blade was back out, and it cut through the rifle as if it were made of straw instead of steel.

  The man dropped the back half, tears in his eyes, and fell back into the slowly dispersing line.

  She hesitated to look over to Felix, scared for what his expression would be. But a Protector didn’t let the fear get the best of them, either.

  He hadn’t changed much. Arms were still folded over his chest, eyes still piercing into her. But he had a smile on his face.

  A smile that was wiped away by the sound of a man’s voice. Deep and earth-shaking. An evil voice.

  “What’s the fuck is going on out here?” it said.

  Sahara turned to see a man dressed in dark robes, flanked by two more people — a woman with gray hair, and a younger man with a scar on his face and half an ear on his right side — wearing the same garb as he.

  “Shit, it’s them,” the leader said, and he pulled out a pistol and aimed it square at Sahara’s chest.

  CHAPTER 10

  Frank had never been a city boy. Growing up, it was all fields and woods. Hunting evil otherworldly creatures wasn’t all he did. Deer, rabbit, ducks. His father and his father’s father had always been the type to fend for themselves, and it was imminent that Frank would wind up doing the same as would his own son had he not been murdered.

  The city trips were few and far between. There were a few times when Frank and a couple of his buddies would make their way to a nearby metropolis for drinks or women, but always in the back of his mind, Frank would hear his father listing off his infamous rules. Have fun was never one of them. He was weighed down by a sense of duty. There was never any time to just let loose; and when he did, there was never any time to feel good about it. Then his father died, and the sense of duty got worse. Frank took up residence in the woods. He built his place by hand, his young son helping him on the weekends he got visitation rights. Though helping went about as far as handing him a hammer or some nails or the screwdriver with the yellow handle. It was still nice to spend that time together. It might’ve slowed the process down, but Frank would’ve done just about anything to go back in time and relive it again.

  Anything but this place.

  Though the dead city of Hell should’ve appealed right to his loner nature, it didn’t. It just made him feel…well, lonely.

  Where the skyscrapers should’ve been were spires instead. Gothic-looking. Sharp. They stretched into the dark sky like giants and made Frank feel small. He couldn’t imagine how they had made Boris feel. Yet, the little guy led them without any hesitation, without flinching.

  Part of Frank’s mind still told him it was a trap, that’s why the creature was so calm. But another part of his mind told him that maybe there was nothing to be afraid of. This wasn’t as logical because Frank had just been looking for firewood when a bunch of skeletons rose from their shallow graves and tried to kill him. The logical thing to think would be: Hell is not safe, never trust Hell, never trust anything from Hell…not if you want to live.

  Yet, he couldn’t argue with Harold, couldn’t argue with the man’s leadership.

  They walked down a large, open road. There were no painted lines to separate the traffic; it was all black rock. Not asphalt or pavement. Just rock that would’ve done a number on your tires. Somehow, Frank doubted anyone in Hell drove a car.

  “How much farther?” Frank asked.

  Harold walked ahead of him with his sword stuck through a hole in his pocket, his head hung low and each step looking more and more like a pain.

  “Not far. Not far,” Boris said. “We would be there quicker if you’re up to it.”

  “What do you mean?” Frank said, his lip snarling. “You got some kind of magic you ain’t telling us about?”

  Boris stopped, turned around and shook his head. “Just the flames, I promise. What I mean is, that I am part beast, and I can run pretty fast.”

  “You don’t look it,” Frank said. “With those sausage-link legs.”

  “Leave the poor guy alone,” Harold said. He flashed his eyes to Frank, and Frank noticed how much of a darker hue they’d taken on since entering the city a couple of miles ago. It scared Frank, caused him to stumble his words. “I-I’m not messing with him,” Frank said.

  “Boris,” Harold said, walking forward and clapping the beast on his bare shoulder, “you do your thing. We will keep up, right, Franky?”

  Frank gritted his teeth, slung the crossbow over his back, and nodded.

  The beast’s eyes flitted down to his hooves. “If you say so.” He turned, and like a bolt of lighting, he took off. Hooves click-clacking on the rock surface.

  Frank and Harold followed.

  CHAPTER 11

  Charlie watched the Realm Protector through a small orb planted on a desk in the corner of his room. He had him right where he wanted him. Soon, he’d fall into the trap, that was if Beth could pull it offHe was sure Beth would come through. She had never let him down before. Though, how many times had he let her down?

  Too many to count.

  That w
as okay, he’d tell himself. Love was not an emotion that came easily to a Shadow Eater. Sometimes he just had to fight those feelings. Sometimes they tore him apart. He often dreamt about her. And he hated those dreams. Too many smiles. Too much kissing and hand-holding.

  The thoughts of her. Constant thoughts. When the Realm Protector had almost beat him on Earth, not once but twice, whose face had floated up in front of his? Whose touch did he long for when he thought he was dying?

  Beth’s.

  He hated it.

  How his Master would hang him for it. Love is a weakness, he would say. Love will get you killed. But hadn’t Charlie had a love for his Master? If it wasn’t for that love, where would they all be?

  Dead and gone.

  He crossed back through the room to the exit and entered the hallway. The floors were the color of scarlet. Painted with the blood of a thousand Mortals, of a thousand sinners.

  A straining voice came to his head. “Food, please,” that voice said. It was a voice that came all too often, not one Charlie could ignore because he was not the Master. He was the servant. Maybe, his time would come. Had the Protector’s not imprisoned the Dark One, there might’ve been an heir. There wasn’t, and the closest thing he had to a son was Charlie. But Charlie didn’t want this kingdom in its current state. He was not old enough to remember the glory days, the days the Devil talked of on so many nights, but part of him wanted it. And if he got to one day sit in the fabled chair of darkness, he would not be stupid enough to get captured and imprisoned. He would make sure all who opposed him were vanquished.

  A guard stood as straight as a flagpole at the end of the hallway. Charlie couldn’t remember this one’s name, but he remembered liking him. A large compliment given the fact Charlie didn’t like many people at all.

  He stood with a spear in one hand, a shield in the other. Pointless, Charlie thought. The tower had not been attacked since Charlie himself was on guard duty.

  When Charlie squared up in front of the young Shadow Eater, the man tensed up. “At ease,” Charlie said. “What’s your name, soldier?”