“Time to move,” Octavius said.
Harold nodded, and pushed himself up.
Beth looked out toward the tower, one hand held above her brow to block out the dying moonlight in the sky. She sighed deeply and turned back to the other two. “This is it,” she said. “This is the last leg of our journey, so savor it, Realm Protector.”
He paid her no attention and hadn’t been for most of the journey. She had tried to get a rise out of him, tried to piss him off with mentions of Marcy’s death, of his failures, of his unborn child’s death, but each time he’d shut his ears, let the remarks bounce off of him.
And when he did the same this time, she let her features show how much it bothered her — a slight frown, the lost gleam in her eyes.
Then, like a cat, her ears perked up. The look that passed her face scared Harold, yet he didn’t know why.
“We have to move,” Beth said. Her voice no longer possessing her normal playful tone. It was satisfying to hear the fear in her voice, too. And Harold knew why, though his dreams the night before were hazy, in the back of his mind he knew what was coming. Far away, but gaining closer with each passing moment, Sahara had found the Wolves. She had tamed them — although Harold knew they could not be tamed — and now they came to save him.
Beth walked over and gripped a handful of Harold’s collar. Behind him, Octavius cuffed him harshly. “If you are planning something, Electus, I will rip off your head myself.”
Harold remained impassive, yet inside of himself he beamed. “I don’t think that will please your Master,” he said.
“We’re close enough that you will still be alive after I do it. Like a chicken from your Realm, running around and looking for your missing part.”
The image flashing in Harold’s mind was not a good one, but he did not let it show on his face.
They moved on, this time Beth moving much quicker than before, and Octavius behind him. He would kick Harold square in the ass each time his footsteps slowed. And Harold didn’t slow to piss them off. He didn’t know how much he could keep walking at this pace under his conditions. The food was the equivalence of shit, the water tasted toxic and probably had been doing more harm to his body than good, and he’d not had a good night of sleep since the Renegade stronghold, and even that was just a short hour nap though it had been deep. Hell, he’d even take that crummy one bedroom apartment he’d rented when him and Marcy split, where the roaches crawled on you in the middle of the night and the neon sign across the street blazed bright enough in hot pink letters — LIVE NUDES! NO BOTTOMS — to go through the thick curtains he had covering the windows. Really, the only place he didn’t want to sleep at anymore was the ground because he thought it was just a few feet removed from where he’d be sleeping permanently soon enough.
They came upon the old crone and the legless man as the white sun or moon — he still wasn’t sure — was covered by a swatch of dark clouds. It was a hut that sat just off the road made of wood as petrified as Harold felt. There looked to be a counter on its side with wooden shutters pulled down in a curve, like some sort of demented mall kiosk.
His breath steamed out in front of his face as they slowed down — thank God. But part of them wanted to keep going.
At the top of the shack hanging from a pole that hung over the forgotten road was a sign written in letters Harold could not quite understand. They were like ancient runes mixed with the American alphabet. He caught a piece of a U here, maybe a T there, but mostly he didn’t understand any of it. The sign was made of wood, too, though not as petrified and the letters appeared to be written in a paint the color of blood — unless it had been blood, of course, and it very well could’ve been, he presumed.
Beth looked over her shoulder at Harold who, if he looked as bad as he felt, wouldn’t be a problem for them right now. Then her eyes looked past him to Octavius, her mouth twisting up in a puckered grimace. For a second, Harold thought her face might’ve gone a shade other than pale, maybe out of anger, but quickly realized that was impossible.
The wind blew a harsh, cold wind, and he shivered in sync with the creaking sign.
“I thought your men burned this down,” she said. “Have you disobeyed Charlie?”
Harold turned. Octavius wasn’t looking back at Beth. He was looking at the shack, his lips parted and his eyes wide in horror. “I-I did. I was here. I watched the flames take it.”
“Then you must’ve imagined it because I spy a shack that has not been affected by flame. I see it how I saw it many moons ago.”
Octavius shook his head. He took a few steps toward the part of the shack that faced the road, the part that was shuttered. He put a hand on the wood. Part of it crumbled to the touch, fell like ashes from the end of a burning cigarette, and was taken by the wind. He pulled his hand back as if the wood had bit him, gasping.
“What?” Beth asked with urgency in her voice. “What was it?”
“We burned it when she was still here, do you remember? When she gave us those readings? And she talked…she talked of him.” He pointed to Harold.
“It was nonsense,” Beth said. “It still is.”
Octavius reached a hand out again. “Only my imagination…” he mumbled, but Harold could hear him plainly.
Then, as his fingers touched the wood again, he jumped and screamed.
“What?” Beth shouted. “What? Speak to me, you buffoon!”
“Warm,” Octavius said. He was looking down at his fingers. Harold saw a tinge of blackness on the tips. “The wood is warm.”
Beth flared her nostrils, and walked over to where Octavius stood clutching his hand. Harold thought she was going to strike him, but she didn’t. Instead, she reached for the wood.
This is my chance, Harold thought. This is it. You’ll have to run and you’ll have to run fast, but you won’t have to run far. You’ll just have to run until you find a hiding place, then you can wait. You can wait for the Wolves and Sahara and whatever other army she brought.
But those thoughts were snapped in half when the wooden shutters flew open. Whatever grogginess had invaded Harold’s mind and seized his muscles and bones was shaken off when he looked at the old crone behind the counter.
She was basically a skeleton with a thin layer of dusty skin the color of spoiled milk over her bones. Her chin might have been the thickest part about her and that wasn’t saying much. On it was a series of large warts where long hairs hung. Her eyes were covered with a thin film of cataracts. Then she smiled, revealing a mouthful of teeth more full of black spots then actual teeth.
“Surprised to see me?” the old crone asked Beth. Her voice was that of a bullfrog. “We’ve been lonely out here on this desolate road. Business ain’t like what it used to be.”
“I-I watched you die,” Beth said. “This can’t — you can’t be…this is a dream.”
I wish, Harold thought.
“You cannot kill me, Beth,” the old crone said.
There was a moment of heavy silence that followed.
Then the old crone broke it. “How is your lover liking the glass? I see he uses it very often.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Charlie,” the old crone answered. “He looks into it every night. I warned him what it’ll do to him. I warned him on a night very much like this many, many years ago, but he didn’t care. He didn’t heed my warning. Now he’s gone crazy, hasn’t he?”
Beth did not answer.
Harold really should’ve been running now, but he couldn’t get his feet to move. There was something about the old woman which had frozen him to the spot, something so utterly familiar yet so alien about her. It was an uncomfortable feeling, really, and he would’ve been happier anywhere else.
“He has. It is true, Beth.” Then the old crone cackled a laugh that sounded like petrified bones snapping in half. “The thing about a seeing glass is that it sees both ways. Though I may have been gone for many years, I have seen it all. My influence has been
upon you more than you know.”
Octavius turned from the shack, holding his hands over his ears, jamming his eyes closed. He looked like someone whose mind was turning on itself.
“Lies,” Beth said. “All of it is lies. I knew not to trust you then, and I know not to trust you now. This shack, you — it’s all a mirage.”
“How can I prove it to you?” the old crone asked, then she raised a bony finger next to her temple and gasped. “Oh, I know. Yes, I do. Yes. Yes. I do,” she said in a singsong voice.
Harold watched with bated breath as the woman bent down behind the counter, disappearing for a split second then reappearing with a man. He had to blink rapidly, unable to rub the grogginess from his eyes since his hands were cuffed behind his back.
What the old crone held was not exactly a man — not a full one at least. It was just a head, a torso, one and a half arms, and legs which were missing from the middle of thigh down. His face was a crooked mess of features in all the wrong places. If you asked Harold what he’d been looking at at that exact moment, he would’ve answered by saying he was looking at an abomination. The hair was wispy, the skin pale and pockmarked and full of festering wounds. Spittle ran down from the corner of his mouth in waves of black venom.
“Does he look familiar?” the old crone asked.
“Enough!” Octavius shouted. He was looking at the woman now, then studying what she held on the counter, her hands underneath the thing’s armpits. “Enough! Enough!”
Harold wanted to echo the Shadow Eater’s voice, but he was too afraid of doing so. Because shouting his disdain would mean the old crone had won, and that Harold Storm had officially gone crazy.
“Does he, Beth?” the old crone asked again, her milky eyes moving quick from Octavius to Beth, a crooked smile on her face. “Because he should.”
“No,” Beth said. “No. This isn’t real. None of it is.”
“I found him crawling along the road not too long ago. He was talking then. He had told me and if he could talk now he’d tell you this is what he did to himself. Then your Master finished the job. His name is Charlie. He is a vile and ugly monster. This is his soul…well what is left of it after your Master had taken it as a payment long ago. I imagine both of yours looks the same.”
“No!” Beth said. The hurt in her voice shocked Harold. He might have been actually feeling bad for the woman. “No! No!”
“Yes,” the old crone said. “His vessel is compromised. The Dark One uses it as his own. He is strong, but Harold Storm is stronger. And the Wolves come down from the mountains. Yes! They do! They do! You will be no match for them, no match at all.”
“Enough!” Beth yelled.
Her Hellblade came out in a flash of darkness and screeching metal. She raised it over the counter, and grabbed the woman by the throat. Harold heard a sizzling noise, saw small drifts of smoke come from beneath her palm.
Beth was screaming now. She didn’t let go despite the burning.
He could smell the flesh, too. It was sickening sweet, like death.
Beth plunged the sword into the old crone, right in the throat. But as the metal touched wrinkly skin, the woman vanished into a puff of dust and ash. The remains of Charlie did the same. Candlelight went out behind her. The scenery changed. What was once alive and lived-in was now rotten and desolate. The stores of potions and glassware went from gleaming to dusty. Everything new and alive had died.
They were engulfed by the quiet.
Octavius fell on the ground, rolling and clutching the sides of his head. “Make it stop. Make it stop,” he said.
Harold saw it all change right before his eyes, and now it looked like it had when he’d first laid eyes on it: old, abandoned, meshing with the backdrop of Hell almost perfectly.
Beth looked him in the eyes, and she stormed over. As she walked, she kicked Octavius, still rolling on the abandoned road, in the ribs. He yelped like a puppy and promptly shut up.
“You,” she said. Her voice was calm with an underlying bit of shakiness. “You. Move now!”
They went, but as Harold turned to look over his shoulder at Octavius, trying to gauge the Shadow Eater’s weaknesses, he saw a blur of gray and red, like fire riding on a great beast.
CHAPTER 42
Sahara watched the odd scene from the cover of dead trees a half mile from where the three dark shapes had stopped on the road. Her own eyes could not see this far, but when one of the Wolves had stopped, turned to her and put its head up, she understood.
She touched the back of its neck, the fur matted with blood and dirt yet still soft, and when her hands entwined with the fur, something happened. She saw through the Wolf. Everything that had been black and fiery and even purple in the sky was dulled to a lesser hue. Not black and white, but muted. And somehow, everything seemed sharper. She could see the wrinkles in Harold’s dirt-stained pants. Could see the dried blood under his ear.
They stood at the wooden box that might’ve been a shabby house many centuries ago.
“What do you see?” Felix asked.
“They’re just standing there talking to nothing.”
Felix laughed. He stood by her side, hands folded across his chest as if he were giving another one of his famous lessons instead of trying to save their asses. “Oh, they’re not talking to nothing,” he said. “They’re talking to ghosts. Whether it’s their own personal ghosts or real ghosts, I cannot say.”
“We should attack now,” Sahara said.
“No, we wait until they’re closer to the gates.”
“Closer? The closer they get the more backup they’ll have. And they have home court advantage. We attack now!”
“No,” Felix said, his voice stern. “Just wait. Ghosts do more than haunt us.”
Sahara waited.
Not much seemed to happen for awhile, and then something did.
The male Shadow Eater clutched at his head, dropping to the ground and rolling like he was on fire. She could hear his faint screams carried on the cold wind. Beth drew her sword, made a motion like she was stabbing something, but was really stabbing nothing but the air instead. Harold watched with fear and confusion on his face.
Sahara thought, Go, dummy! This is your chance. Run while you still can. But Harold was just as fixated on whatever the other two were.
“Now!” Sahara said. “We go now.”
“Yes,” Felix said in almost a whisper.
Sahara hopped on the Wolf’s back. It didn’t buckle under her weight for it was a strong beast, bigger than the others. Its paws dug into the earth and they were off, their snarls filling the air.
CHAPTER 43
Harold smiled.
“What are you smiling about, Realm Protector? You’re a dead man,” Octavius said. His eyes were a bit droopy and bloodshot. He no longer stood tall and proud. It was as if the sword he held in his scabbard — Harold’s sword — weighed him down.
Harold didn’t answer him.
Then behind him, he heard Beth say, “Move!” And Octavius’ eyes shot open. In one swift movement, he pulled his Hellblade free and spun off the road. It was almost like he was in a ballet, and Harold didn’t think he would’ve been able to move that fast.
The blur of shapes was closer now. Every bad thing that had happened to him — his failed goals, Marcy’s separation, the abortion that wasn’t an abortion and the senseless murder of an unborn child, the lost hand, the lost mind, all of it — had vanished.
Because what came down from those rocky, dead slopes was a pack of Wolves, and he knew it to be his Wolves. The flame was Sahara, and he felt his heartbeat speed up in his chest. Beside her, was another he loved. Felix.
Harold was saved.
Beth’s blade shot out.
Harold, still handcuffed, turned to meet her eyes, but she was not looking at him, she was looking at the wave of death swooping down upon her.
It was all going to be all right.
At least that’s what he’d thought as he looked around
at the six Wolves sitting around them in a semicircle. They were beautiful, majestic beasts. Their eyes shined with a golden yellow. Their hair was a soft gray and white. One was bigger than the other, and Harold knew it to be the Alpha, the one he’d had so much trouble controlling in his dreams. And they caught eyes, the two of them locked in a fiery stare of understanding.
That stare said there could be two Alphas now as long as the Realms were kept safe.
Sahara and Felix approached him. Her with her Deathblade out, catching glints of the dying light above, and Felix with his arms folded across his chest.
Harold smiled at them, but they didn’t smile back. Their eyes were narrowed like two gunfighters before an oncoming shootout.
Then an arm closed around his throat, locking underneath his chin in a sleeper hold. It was Octavius, Harold recognizing the foul stench radiating off of him.
“Don’t come any closer, or I’ll kill him with his own blade,” Octavius said, his voice shaky.
They stopped.
“No need for that,” Felix said.
“No, there’s no need for you,” Octavius retorted. “This is over. The Dark One is free and he has risen. We are taking Harold Storm with us.”
Behind them, Harold heard fleeting footsteps. Then Felix smiled.
“We?” Felix said. “Look behind you, Octavius, there is no ‘we’ any longer. Your partner has ran.”
“What?” he said, and he squeezed Harold harder beneath his chin causing his eyes to bug out.
“Should we get her?” Sahara asked.
“No,” Felix answered. “You heard Octavius, if we come any closer he will put an end to Harold. We don’t want that.” The way his voice was so calm unnerved Harold. This was definitely not a time to be calm.
Octavius risked a quick glance, pulling Harold around with him. He saw, in the distance, the faintest outline of a lithe shape running through the dead grass, now off the road. The Dark One’s walls were not far, and she would reach them in twenty minutes if she continued her current pace. She would be safe behind them.
Deathbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 3) Page 19
