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

by Spencer DeVeau

  “Even more powerful if Charlie was around,” Beth said. And as she spoke her voice fizzled out. It was too late. She said words which shouldn’t have been spoken.

  His hands — Charlie’s hands, hands that were once as soft and gentle as a lover’s — gripped around her throat. He squeezed, digging his fingernails into her flesh. Her breath came out in ragged gasps.

  The strength was what caught her by surprise, sheer brute force, pure evil. Her vision threatened to go out. It went from gray to black then sort of fuzzed. He could’ve snapped her head if he wanted, she had no doubt about that.

  But he didn’t.

  The fire from the Pits scorched her cheek. She screamed, thinking he wanted her to scream, though that was the extent of his demands she would obey. If he wanted her to die, just give up and join the chorus of tortured voices in the Pits, she would not.

  “Charlie had to go, Bethy.” His voice was calmer, but she could still hear the shakiness beneath it. The anger, the rage of being cooped up in a box for thousands of years. “It wasn’t my choice as much as it was his choice.”

  She said nothing, only whimpered like she thought he wanted. Then he let go, the force which she pushed upward causing her to spring up away from the flames.

  “I’m sorry, Beth, I really am. Charlie is still here…kind of. I am him and he is me. I have his thoughts and memories, and he has mine, though I think mine have scorched him. Done permanent damage to his brain.”

  She swallowed with a dry click. If he knew Charlie’s thoughts, his memories, then he knew what they were up to while he was gone.

  But he knows everything.

  He looked at her as if he was reading her mind — a piercing look that seemed to go through as cleanly as a Deathblade would. He pivoted, clasping his hands behind his back. It was a gesture that was so Charlie but not at the same time.

  “The past is the past. Whatever happened between you and Charlie doesn’t matter. I understand. I was gone and you were lonely. I’d rather you lay with him than anyone else,” he said. His voice was calm, not a sign of shakiness. He exhaled a great burst of breath, spun back around and looked at her with Charlie’s smile plastered on his face. “Whew. I’m glad we got that out of the way. I could’ve killed you…I’m trying to change, Bethy, trying to become better. The inside of that box does things to your mind, humbling things.”

  She matched the smile. It felt false. All of it did. The whole conversation. He knew she was coming just as he knew everything else. She was supposed to be down her for a reason, but that reason had yet to show itself, and if the Dark One was going to kill her, he would’ve done it by now.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she said, and she walked closer to him, feeling the conflicting ice and fire radiating off of his skin. She pressed her torso to his side, wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

  “I’m glad to be back.”

  “Charlie was nice,” she said, “but I always pictured you.”

  If her life was in the balance, she would lie. But was it a lie? Had she not pictured the being known as the Dark One, her Master, her God, her true love? Had she not pictured his mane of silver hair and the tight body that was both seasoned with scars and beautiful, like one of the Mortal’s famous paintings?

  She did.

  And even though it was Charlie’s face, his body, she leaned in and gave her Master a kiss on the cheek. She could feel the skin on the sides of his mouth bunching up into a smile.

  “Oh, I’ve missed you,” he said, his eyes closing, his chest expanding with the rise of a huge breath. Then he screamed, a cry of happiness so alien in the dying kingdom the Shadow Eaters called home. “I’ve missed this place!”

  “We must defend it. We must crush Harold Storm and his band of followers. I can’t lose you again,” she said.

  That smile grew wider.

  “Have no fear. I’ve not come down here to twiddle my thumbs,” he said as he pushed off of her, gliding closer to the Black Pits.

  The choir of pained voices seemed to grow louder. Beth tried to ignore it, tried to tell herself she was imagining it, but the cries of death and shouts of torture rose with each step the Dark One took. She looked toward the sea of black and red and yellow lava. It had been still moments before, barely swaying with the world’s rotation. But now it bubbled. Waves rolled over each other in thick gobs.

  And she saw…arms and legs and…heads.

  They were coming out of the Pits like maggots from the mouth of some sick and bloated corpse.

  Her Master laughed, the noise bouncing off of the cavernous walls. And when he stopped, he said, “Have no fear. I have an army of souls even I wouldn’t eat.” He grabbed Beth, pulled her closer. “And you know how hungry I get.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Sahara had left the camp not long after Felix finished up his story. Her head was still reeling from it. Growing up, Felix had been tight-lipped on the past, always saying she need not know more than she had to. And then Bam! Sit him down in front of a low burning fire and across from the supposed Electus, the supposed reincarnation of the Lost Three, and he spills his guts like a drunk.

  She had to pee, excusing herself and not being coy about it, either. Realm Protector or not, bodily functions affected us all, she thought.

  She went the opposite direction of the Wolves. There were still six of them, their furs now stained with fresh blood. They looked like they’d rolled around in tar. She wasn’t upset about this, by no means. Octavius was a Shadow Eater, and Shadow Eaters deserved to die.

  But why? Because the Wizard says so? Wake up, Sahara. The Wizard keeps things from you.

  She kept walking, her mind trying to go to other places. In a place like Hell where everything was gray and dead, her mind seemed to want to go to its darker thoughts.

  She eyed the Wolves, who sat on their haunches. Their eyes never left Harold Storm, and it was like he didn’t even notice. He was their sun; they revolved around him. Goosebumps prickled up her arms and not from the cold. She swiped at them, then turned her head away. A rock about the size of a midsize sedan sat a ways off the road. It was almost at the crest of a hill and she imagined, just for the slightest moment, kicking it and letting it roll down the ruts of the road, knocking those Wolves around like bowling pins.

  She sighed. No, she was not like that, not like that at all.

  She walked behind it, pulled her pants down and squatted in the dead grass. The urine steamed in the cold.

  What a relief, she thought. I’m getting warmed by my own piss. Goody me.

  Up along the crest of the hill, a branch snapped. She jumped. In one motion, she stopped relieving herself, pulled her pants up and summoned those wild jungle cats in her mind. It was happening, she thought. The Dark One had flanked them with his armies and they were literally caught with their pants around their ankles. She thought of running, too. This journey had been a long and arduous one, and she needed a warm bed and a weekend’s worth of sleep.

  Harold Storm wouldn’t run. He would fight no matter what. Just like he fought for you in the coliseum of Demons. He sacrificed his own power for you. He took a chance. That’s what your life is all about. Taking chances. Not being frightened over every little noise.

  But she was frightened. The numbers of his army were not known to her, though she figured they were known to Felix. But it was safe to say most of the people in Existence were not pure or saintly. Most of them ended up in Hell, tortured, destroyed. She imagined Octavius cresting the hill, his throat missing a large chunk of flesh, a fountain of black spurting from the wound.

  “You smell the smoke?” a voice said.

  The question was answered back with a grumble. “Only thing I smell is your hooves. You ever wash those things? Hot damn.”

  Sahara saw the tiny horns first, and she gulped. Now her blade was out and she gripped it with all her might. She wanted to call out to Harold and Felix, warn them, but if she did then she risked the element of surprise.

&nbs
p; After the horns, came a face. An ugly one — so ugly it might’ve been cute in a dog-like way, like Slink back on earth.

  Then another face bobbed over the path. This one, she recognized. The fear in her chest released and she sighed.

  It was Frank King. An odd sight, indeed, but not one she’d let dampen her spirits. She didn’t know the Hunter well enough to merit the reaction, but he was a familiar face, and a familiar face in Hell goes a long way.

  “Frank!” she shouted, springing up.

  The old man who had been infected with the venom on earth, who’d been purged by the great Witch Roberta Washington now looked worse off than he did then. He was gaunt. Skin wrinkled and loose, his features no longer as sharp and tight. He had a beard, too, about a month’s worth of gray hair hanging from his chin, coiled along his sideburns. His hair was longer. It was as if Frank King had been a product of Hell rather than a casual visitor, as if he had been molded in the Black Pits, lost in the Void. Sahara wasn’t surprised. Despite Frank and Harold’s arrival nearly three days ago, according to her internal clock, Hell had a funny way with time. Minutes could feel like hours. Hours could feel like seconds. Days could translate to months and years.

  She wondered how she looked now.

  The gaunt figure squinted his eyes, then brought a hand up to his brow.

  She ran up to them, and hugged Frank tight.

  The hug lasted for what felt like thirty seconds — but who knew for sure? And she inhaled the smell of sweat and dirt on his skin. He patted her once very tentatively and then they parted.

  When she pulled away, the Hunter actually smiled. Another odd sight. He looked to his companion. “Oh, how rude of me not to introduce this miniature asshole to my right. This here is Boris. He’s saved me on more than a few occasions.”

  “Dynamite comes in small packages,” the creature said to Frank, then promptly flipped him off.

  Frank turned back to Sahara, his eyes no longer playful. “It’s good to see you. Glad to know you ain’t mad at me still for trying to kill you.”

  She shrugged. “You weren’t in your right mind. No harm done. And you couldn’t kill me if you wanted to.”

  The creature snorted.

  Frank hit him with a boot to the bottom. “Can it, Boris.” He looked back to Sahara, that sunken look in his eyes. “Is he…”

  “He’s alive,” Sahara answered. “A little beaten up, but he’s alive. His Wolves found us, and we found him. Got to him before the Eaters could get him to their Master.”

  “Now what?” Frank asked. “I’m not one to give up, but this has been murder on my body. I’m not built for conditions like these. We’re all together. I say we regroup.”

  Sahara nodded. “I wish, but he’ll never go for it. The power is in his head now. And a man with power and a Prophecy is a dangerous thing.”

  Boris snarled. “I’m siding with the Electus,” he said. “Might as well play by their rules.” One of his hands was on his neck, digging beneath his rough shirt. He fiddled with something like a religious man might nervously fiddle with a crucifix pendant. It was an absentminded gesture.

  “Worth a shot,” Frank said. “I’m just glad he’s all right.”

  She smiled. “You’re not so mean after all, are you, Frank King?”

  He shrugged. “Hell does a thing or two to a man’s soul.”

  “That’s the truth,” Sahara answered. “Come on, I’ll take you to camp.”

  They walked, her in the lead. She was not in the best shape either, but the sluggish pace at which Frank and his Centaur friend walked was that of a zombie. Hell had certainly taken a toll on them all. And Mortals who were not supposed to be there didn’t stand a chance. Mortals like Frank King. The walk which should have taken two minutes wound up taking five, and she had to keep glancing back over her shoulder to make sure they hadn’t passed out.

  But when Frank finally caught sight of the drifting smoke and the stooped figures sitting around the smoldering remains of the fire, his features lit up.

  “Never thought I’d be happy to see your crispy ass,” Frank said, a big grin on his face.

  Boris laughed and galloped toward the rising Realm Protector.

  Frank sped up, too, but his pace was still sluggish, that of a man on his way out. The venom that had inhabited his brain was plenty, but like a flash fire in a forest of dead trees, it burned quick. The protection with it.

  The two men embraced each other like brothers. Sahara had never expected to see love in such a dark and rotten place. She eyed Felix who watched the men hug and laugh and clap each other on the back with a gleam of tears in his eyes.

  “How did you make it?” Harold asked. “I was sure you two were would be dead.”

  “We made it because you saved us,” Boris said. “Beth would’ve cut us down just to see us bleed.”

  “Yep,” Frank grumbled. “Little man is right. Just ‘cause you saved us doesn’t mean we can’t try to return the favor.” He looked around the camp at the Wolf guards, sitting there like gargoyles. “Look like someone already beat us to it.”

  Harold nodded. “But it’s not over,” he said. “I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  Sahara followed his gaze as it turned to the distant black kingdom, to the tower that rose into the sky like a dark giant. He turned back and looked at her with a smile on his face. “The war is just starting.” Then his eyes shifted to Frank and Boris and Felix. “Are you all up for it?”

  She nodded, and so did the rest of them.

  “Good. We move at full dark. So get some sleep.”

  Sahara looked up at the sky which was already dark, but in about two hours, she guessed, a large black cloud swollen with rain and lightning would cover the faded moon. A calm overtook her then, one she was not expecting.

  CHAPTER 49

  Harold and Felix walked away from the camp as the rest of them slept. They could sleep, Harold knew, without any trouble because of his Pack. With the Wolves there guarding them, they might as well had been in an indestructible steel cage.

  Felix put a hand on his shoulder. It was a small hand, one Harold barely registered the feeling of. He put his arm around him in return, a kind of half-embrace, and the feeling of weakness and frailty filled Harold again. Felix may have been back from the dead, but he was still not in good shape.

  Hell, are any of us? he thought.

  “Are you scared?” Felix asked.

  “Of what?”

  “What will come?”

  “Death, you mean,” Harold said. “I’m not scared of death. Not anymore. And if I have to die to save us, then I will gladly do it.”

  Felix offered a smile that was absent of all joy. Almost a smile of pity. “Not you, Harold, but us. Are you prepared for us to die?”

  Harold’s voice disappeared in his throat. He had not thought of his friends dying. They had agreed to help, but he knew this was his fight. The scope of danger this mission presented hit him like tsunami waves. He had grown to love Sahara, and he wanted to survive this, wanted her to survive this because he wanted to see where that love would go. Frank might’ve been a bitter asshole ninety percent of the time, but in this short span they shared in Hell, he’d been more genuine than any friend he had back in Gloomsville. Boris, too. The little guy had proven to be more than a half horse who could shoot flames from his hands.

  These people were more than friends; they were family. His family. And he’d grown up without much of one at all. It was nice, too nice to throw away.

  “I guess I’m not,” Harold croaked.

  “Well, you must be, Harold. Nothing last forever and oftentimes the best things in our lives are just passing moments.” He sighed. “I know how you feel.”

  “You do?” Harold asked.

  They were off the road now. The ground was harder than the trees surrounding them. They looked as if they’d crumble at the slightest touch. Far away something yowled as if their limbs were being plucked off.

  Above, the sk
y grew darker with every breath.

  “I do, yes,” Felix answered. His white robes didn’t have a speck of dirt on them. He was a picture of brilliance, radiating good in the land of bad. “Bezel and Orkane were my kin. We were almost inseparable.” He sighed again. “I’m afraid I did not speak the whole truth back at the campfire.”

  “What are you talking about?” Harold asked. This was not a time for half-truths. He wanted to run.

  Like you always run, Harry, that toxic voice said in his head. Like you ran from your dreams. Like you ran from your family. Like you ran from Marcy and your child in her womb. Oh, but you’ll crawl, won’t you. You’ll crawl back to earth and back to the bottle. Crawl under your covers where you think you’re safe and warm and happy.

  “Bezel,” Felix said. “I couldn’t kill him.”

  “Right, because the Realms are like a tripod and the Creator appointed you three to keep Existence on its feet.”

  Felix chuckled. “I wish it were that simple, Harold. I could’ve killed Bezel. I wish I would’ve now. But life is full of regrets whether we mean to live to the fullest or not. That much is always true.”

  "You couldn’t do it?”

  Felix shook his head. “He was my brother. My blood. I could not. Even if it meant the suffering of trillions and trillions of souls. I put myself ahead of the Realms, and that is not why I was given this gift. I’ve dealt with the guilt for more years than you can comprehend, Harold. I do not want you to have to deal with that.”

  Harold said nothing, only stared. His knees felt weak and he knew if he fell over, he’d take down whatever he tried to grab on for support with him, whether it was Felix or the dead trees. The weight of the situation was really settling in. The call to run. To give up. He tried to fight it down in much the same way he’d try to fight down bad medicine as a child, but it he had no luck.

  “If you can kill him, you have to. If it means losing your friends, your loved ones, you have to do that, too. Even me, Harold. Even Sahara and Frank and Boris. Even your Wolves.”