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

by Spencer DeVeau

  It was an old trick, one he’d probably learned by watching some stupid spy movie, but he couldn’t deny that it worked. Though the steel wasn’t as clear as a mirror, he saw someone moving in the hall, and it didn’t take him long to figure out who it was despite the lack of a high-definition image.

  It was Aqua. He’d recognize those long legs anywhere. Her feet were raised off of the floor in arches, much like a ballerina. She was tip-toeing down the hall.

  Frank almost chuckled. He had to bring a hand up to cover his mouth and it was almost the same hand resting on top of the arrow. Curse his tired brain. It would’ve clattered on the stony floor, and whatever Aqua was up to would’ve stopped. The reason he laughed was because when she’d directed him to his room with Boris in tow, Frank thought he felt a little spark of love between the two — ridiculous, he knew, but it was almost as if the two of them hated each other so much that they actually loved each other and didn’t know it. And Frank thought of Aqua sneaking down to the little creature’s room for a night of the weirdest sex he could ever imagine — and Frank could imagine some pretty weird sex.

  When the chuckles passed, and the squirts of tears were cleared from his eyes, Frank looked back down at the arrowhead expecting the blurry, lithe shadow to be gone — long gone — but it wasn’t.

  It hovered…she hovered.

  The mirth was taken from Frank in a flash. He no longer thought anything was funny. Now he felt danger.

  Aqua paused as if she heard something, then she moved again. For a second, Frank thought she might bend down, thinking the piece of silver was a coin of some sorts. That’d blow his cover real quick.

  Don’t think you could hop into bed and fake sleep if that happened, do you? Your old body ain’t as nimble as it used be twenty years ago. Hell, it ain’t as nimble as it used be when you got to this godforesaken place. That cold…

  He trailed off. The dark blot of a figure shifted, but it didn’t go far. He guessed she might’ve gone three doors down the hallway, then she stopped again.

  Three doors down. Why did that ring a bell?

  “Gonna be all right on your own?” he remembered saying to Harold who had been swooning back and forth like he’d drunk too much wine. Frank hadn’t touched his; the gray bird had been so delicious and moist, he didn’t need to wash it down.

  “Yeah, I’ll be all right,” Harold had said. “Geez, it’s only three doors down. I’m not your son, old man.”

  Frank had covered the sadness of mentioning his son with a chuckle.

  Three doors down.

  She was going to Harold’s room. Harold had been drugged. It all started to make sense.

  He pushed himself up, bones popping and groaning, and grabbed his crossbow. Then he threw the door open. Just as he stepped into the hallway, he caught a glimpse of her shimmering hair before the door closed.

  He pumped his legs, but he was too late. The latch caught, then the lock clamped.

  “Hey!” he shouted.

  No answer.

  “You leave him alone!”

  No answer.

  “Open up right now or I’m gonna break down the door!”

  CHAPTER 25

  Aqua saw the glimmer of steel beneath the door. She had paused to make sure her fear and anticipation wasn’t playing tricks on her. It had been too long since she’d been the villain. In Hell, she’d been the victim. On Earth she’d always felt like she was the victim, but she didn’t know what a victim was until Gunner had done what he’d done to her.

  But she’d forgotten one key thing: She’d forgotten to make sure the old man had taken his medicine, and now he saw what she meant to do.

  Her pace sped up.

  Storm’s door was only a few feet away, but she could feel the other man’s anger seeping through the wood.

  She opened the door and slipped inside. No less than fifteen seconds later Frank was on the outside banging his fists and shouting words she could barely hear over her own beating heart.

  She would have to act quick.

  A match came free from her pocket, a long, thick one offering enough flame to light half of the spacious room; she took it and moved slowly, almost as nimbly as a cat, and pressed the match to the torch.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she anticipated Storm to be up, sword in hand, ready to fight. Aqua didn’t want to fight. Fighting was the reason she was here in the first place — if she would’ve just tied both of Danny’s hands he would’ve never reached the gun wedged between his headboard and mattress. She thought in that last second of darkness how she would not fight, how she would cower down into a ball and let Harold do whatever he’d intended to do to keep outside forces from getting in the way of his goal.

  When the torch caught, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Harold Storm was out on the farthest side of the room. Drool slopped out of his mouth. His eyes squirmed back and forth beneath the last remnants of his burnt eyelids, etching a mental image only him and his brain could share. The drugs worked, all right.

  Behind her, Frank’s voice grew louder; it mixed with someone else’s.

  Shit, she thought. He woke her up.

  Spider would have no trouble breaking the door down.

  “Aqua, are you okay?”

  It wasn’t Spider’s voice; it was Boris’.

  She snorted. That little half-pint wouldn’t have a chance breaking the door down, but he’d know where to find Spider. If she still held to her old ways, she’d be meditating near the top of the stronghold; and if there was a god, and he was a kind god, despite Aqua already being in Hell, then Spider would be too far gone to hear any of the commotion and would ignore Boris’ pleas for help.

  Aqua bent down to the loose stone in the floor, and she pried it up. There was the long, slender blade given to her by Charlie, the one he’d dunked in the blood.

  She was not sure what it would do to Harold, but she knew it would not kill him, though the strong scent begged to differ. Even if Harold Storm did die, she knew that whatever happened would free her. And she knew it would protect her only friends: Spider, Boris, and the Knight.

  She walked over to him, the blade in hand.

  Harold Storm didn’t move to stop her as she raised the blade up over his body.

  Just a cut, Charlie’s voice said in her mind, drowning out the banging and pleading from across the room and on the other side of the door. Make him bleed with his own blood and he will lose his powers. Then he’ll be no match for you or me or anybody. And you and your little Renegades can ride off into the warm sunset hand in hand.

  She didn’t know if it was true. After all, this thing was the enemy according to Spider. He was everything bad in this universe. And if they didn’t put a stop to him and his fellow Shadow Eaters, he would end up freeing Satan.

  The Knight’s gallant voice in her head: You think Hell is bad now? Wait until the Dark One breaks free of the cage the Realm Protectors put him in. We must never let that happen.

  “And I won’t,” Aqua answered herself, sounding more and more like a crazy person.

  CHAPTER 26

  Frank’s knuckles leaked bright, red blood. The door was made of the hardest wood he’d ever had the pleasure of knocking against. He didn’t think think one of his arrows would even be able to penetrate it. And he’d raised the loaded crossbow on more than one occasion, images of the ricocheting bolt driving into one of his eyes. What a way to die, he thought.

  But now he was ready to at least give it a shot until a pair of hairy and cold hands closed around his forearm. In Frank’s burst of craziness he hadn’t heard the little creature creep up behind him.

  He turned the bow on him at once. “Get her to open that door, or your face will be part of a Renegade shish kebab.”

  “Who?”

  “The dark bitch.”

  Boris wasn’t frightened; Frank didn’t frighten him and he thought he probably didn’t frighten a lot of people any longer, not since his hair started to turn sil
ver and his muscles started to deflate. Still, Boris turned to the door and gently but firmly said, “Aqua, are you okay?”

  She didn’t listen, but a light had come on in the room and Frank could see her shadow shifting, then it stopped like it had outside of Frank’s own room.

  She had heard. She listened. She knew what was happening.

  Frank gritted his teeth, started banging on the door again.

  “You better not be apart of this,” he said to Boris, who was squatting to get a better look through the crack in the door. If the room was the same layout as Frank’s, he figured the creature wouldn’t be able to see where she was. She would be away from the door and near Harold’s bed.

  But what did she mean to do?

  He hit the door harder, muttered, “God…” under his breath. “If I only had a — ” He stopped mid-hit, and snatched Boris by the collar of his rough spun shirt like a claw machine ripping up a stuffed horse. “Use your fire, you little troll.”

  Boris squinted at him, then pried Frank’s fingers free from his collar. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Maybe if you would ask nicely…I don’t think we have anything to worry about…Aqua, she’s a kind soul.”

  Frank rolled his eyes. A kind soul in Hell? Yeah, right.

  “If she was a kind soul, she wouldn’t have locked the door. She’s up to something, and it don’t smell right,” Frank said.

  Boris squinted, then made a circle with his thumb and forefinger in one hand and stuck out a finger in his other. “Maybe they’re…you know.”

  Frank rolled his eyes again, if he rolled them any harder he imagined they might pop right out.

  He shook his head. “No, Harold has eyes for the redheaded gal. He’s a good fellow, I can sense that about him. He’s…oh, what did you freaks call it? Erectus?”

  “Electus,” Boris corrected.

  “Potato, po-tah-toe, Erectus, Electus, doesn’t matter. What matters is we get this door down. So burn it to Hell.”

  Boris regarded Frank with a wandering eye. “Have you tried the handle?” His face was dead serious.

  Frank raised a hand, ready to come down on the little freak’s brow like the wrath of god when he caught himself. Instead, very carefully, he said, “Yes, Boris, I tried the door handle. Why would you think I wouldn’t?”

  “Well, you’re a Mortal,” Boris said.

  “Just burn it down!” Frank yelled, eyes bulging.

  “I don’t know if I can. These types of rooms, these buildings were built to withstand exactly that,” he said.

  “Well give it a motherfucking try!”

  Boris sighed heavily, then assumed a stance that screamed battle. His eyes rolled back like a dying man’s, exposing a thin sliver of dark pupil. Frank took a couple precautionary steps backward. His arm shot up to shield his eyes and the eyebrows above them from being singed off. Beneath the Centaur’s shirt, the rock glowed a vicious red.

  A burst of heat filled the surrounding area; it was both exhilarating and terrifying. He smelled the wood roasting, risked a glance over his forearm and crossbow to see the dark wood turning a bright orange. Boris’ face twisted up into an expression of pain, mouth a tight line, forehead creased.

  Then the flames stopped as fast as they came. Boris bent over breathing heavily. The door glowed still, but the glow was fading. Frank didn’t know what he expected. For it to crumble to ashes, for it to catch flame and burn the whole damn stronghold down from the bottom up…maybe. But none of that happened. Now the door took on the same color of dark brown.

  He flipped his crossbow around so the butt aimed at the door, and he walloped the door something good. If it had been normal wood, it would’ve shattered then on the spot. Frank put all the strength he had into that swing — and it had been a lot of strength, the gray meat and little relaxation having something to do with that. Nothing happened beside the vibration coming back to him through the crossbow, sending jolts of pain up his forearm and bicep, all the way up to his head. Still, he swung again, this time with less force.

  Something sounded like it shattered, but when a piece of carbon casing fell at Frank’s feet, bouncing up and twirling around before hitting again, he knew it was a losing battle.

  “Spellbound,” Boris wheezed. He still slumped, hands on his knees. His breath came to him in pained groans. “We…aren’t getting through it.”

  “We have to,” Frank said. “We have to or we all die. She drugged him, she drugged Harold. I knew I should’ve never trusted you, but I did because he did — ” Frank didn’t notice at first, his vision rimmed red with rage, but he now had Boris in his hands again, not by the collar, but by the neck and his face was turning the color of a blueberry.

  Frank gasped and dropped the creature. Boris rubbed at his neck, began gasping for breath again.

  “You just…have…to think outside the box,” he said.

  Frank closed his eyes.

  Think outside the box, Franky. Think. Think. Think.

  But nothing came besides the empty feelings of rage.

  “I should kill you,” Frank managed to say. “I should kill all of you!”

  “If it wasn’t for us, you’d be dead!” Boris said. A spark lit on his fingers; it was weak, but it was enough to snap Frank back to reality. He had no qualms with the creature. His qualms were with the woman. The creature had proven to be pretty valuable, had gotten him out of a jam on more than one occasion, and he was an outcast already to this group of so-called Renegades. His goal was to get Harold Storm out of that room safely even if he had to smash out the whole —

  The wall. We can’t break down the door so we’ll just go break down the whole damn wall, he thought.

  And he thought this thought as he stormed up the hallway and turned right to where the steady thrum of machinery came from behind a cracked door. This room held the Knight, his shriveled, old man’s body, weaker and more fragile than a newborn baby; and it also held the Knight’s sliced armor.

  Frank called for Boris.

  Soon, the little hoof-claps filled his ears, and soon Frank would don the suit of armor and save his friend even if it killed him.

  CHAPTER 27

  She couldn’t do it, as much as she wanted to do it, she couldn’t. In Hell, she was not a killer. And this man, this sleeping, drugged man, was more important than she could comprehend. Just being in his presence frightened her, and he wasn’t even conscious. Sure, Charlie’s presence had frightened her too, but in a boogeyman sort of way, in an unstable dynamite sort of way. Harold Storm frightened her in a way the vastness of the universe frightened her, in the way all the unknown secrets of life and death frightened her. His power was incomprehensible. She’d read the book, she’d heard the stories many times from Spider, saw the look in her glassy eyes when she spoke of this being she’d never met until tonight, and each time it was as if some invisible hand reached out and gripped her by the throat.

  No, Aqua could not go through with it.

  If she could kill him, if she could destroy Electus, the war between good and evil might end, There would be no more light and dark. She could be the gray in the middle, the equilibrium, the balance.

  But she couldn’t.

  The congealed blood on the tip of the blade seemed to whisper as if it was mocking her for being such a coward. She couldn’t take it anymore.

  Outside the banging was getting more frantic. Whooshes of flames danced beneath the door. It would not burn; it would not break, but soon they would get in. She better make up her mind. His people would be here to take Storm away, and if Storm was not crippled by a magic worse than drugs, Aqua and her people would be.

  Tears streamed down her face. They were silent tears.

  Do it.

  Don’t do it.

  Do it.

  Her mind seesawed back and forth. Many years ago, she would have no qualms about this. She would have ran the blade along Storm’s throat as if he were nothing but an animal.

  The flames had stopped. The f
aint chattering outside of the wall had stopped. She feared the worst, feared Spider’s terrible and accusing gaze. Feared the words like a mother says to a child: “Now Aqua, I’m not mad, I’m just terribly disappointed in you. Terribly disappointed.”

  Charlie said when she cut Storm there would be a signal. It had something to do with whatever potion he’d dipped the blade in. On that signal, his Eaters would be there to take what they thought was theirs. But she also thought that a cut on this man would be damning.

  She looked at the blade now, eyes tracing how it curved and danced with firelight except for the tip which was caked with something resembling muddy blood. She held her arm out, hand in a tight fist.

  On earth, she’d contemplated suicide many times. It was always in the back of her mind, whispering to her. Thoughts like these were an addiction. In some weird, messed-up way, it reminded her she was still alive, just like the men she’d killed weren’t.

  And when the gunshot exploded from Danny’s hand and her head rung, and she saw red and white and finally black, a question had been whispered to her from the same voices who’d whispered suicide.

  Damnation or salvation?

  She, in a frantic state, a dead and journeying state, had answered, “Salvation.”

  “Wrong,” the voice said.

  And so came the torture and the cold and the place where she’d go for all eternity, until her soul was devoured by the Dark One.