Charlie’s face changed into something that resembled the way his face had been the night of Harold’s transformation in the parking lot across from Chet’s bar.
Chet, Marcy, Sahara, Felix, he thought. The Mortals. All because of this…this thing in front of me.
It was fight or die, and since both men seemed to be frozen to their respective spots — Frank with one foot on the steps and the other on the cobblestones — Harold chose to fight.
After all, it was his destiny. He was the Electus.
The Dark One’s jaw unhinged, snapping with a ferocity that rivaled a Great White Shark. Harold dove out of the way before the Dark One could bite his head off.
Frank was not so lucky. The old man had been too slow, and the great jaws closed around a finger. Blood spurted from the nub like fountains. Frank did not scream. He did not even so much as show his pain. But the Dark One hardly noticed, he spun around, and spat the digit to the ground, the jaw looking slightly normal.
Harold somersaulted over the broken pieces of Orkane’s sword. He was in arm’s reach of Frank’s crossbow, and he grabbed it.
There were no arrows around, and suddenly, he realized how much of a waste it had all been. Suddenly, he realized this time he would die.
Until a distant howl told him otherwise. A howl from the Alpha, from a lost friend. A broken piece of the sword seemed to buzz in front of him. Harold grabbed at it, his foot slipping into the crossbow’s cocking stirrup. He pulled the string back until he heard it click, his face growing redder, straining against the resistance.
The Dark One was more Bezel now than a mutilated Charlie, and he lunged at Harold with a violent jolt.
Where an arrow would have been loaded in the crossbow’s flight groove, Harold slid the broken piece of steel instead. And almost as reflex, he pulled the trigger, his features never wavering.
He knew what would happen.
He heard the satisfying twang of the string, the whistle through the smoky air, then an even more satisfying thump.
Charlie’s face, inhabited by an unspeakable evil, changed. It had gone from menacing to defeated in the blink of an eye.
Harold shook, but through the shaking, he smiled.
The Dark One crossed his eyes down at the jagged piece of steel sticking out from between his singed brows.
Bullseye.
His pale hand wrapped around it. Blood sputtered from the wound, looking like engine oil.
“I-I lost?” the Dark One said, saying it more like a question.
“Yeah, you did,” Harold replied.
And Charlie’s body — the evil being known as Satan, the Dark One, Bezel, the Devil along with all the other names inside of him— vanished in a cloud of electric blue and neon green.
After a few moments had passed where Harold did nothing but stare into thin air, he laughed. And across the cobblestones, near the stairs with one clean hand wrapped around his bloody fist, Frank laughed, too.
It was a sweet sound.
A sound of victory.
CHAPTER 61
Felix walked out of the tower the same way he had entered.
It has happened, the voice inside of the glass orb whispered to him. You can go now.
But Felix knew it was never that simple. He knew he would not leave this place ever again.
Behind him, the tower began to crumble. The bodies in their shallow graves turned to dust and were taken in the breeze. He walked by the dead Shadow Eaters he had destroyed with his lightning and said a few silent words, mainly asking for forgiveness. Killing was not something he reveled in. It was just something that had to be done from time to time.
He craned his head up to the sky, now simmering with light, a pale orange as if signifying a new day. Now, he hoped, there would be no more killing.
Now, he hoped for peace.
He found Sahara shivering in a pile of black blood. She was not dead, but the Shadow Eater — Beth — she had battled certainly was. Felix may have been old, but he was not weak, and he bent down and scooped Sahara up in his arms.
“F-F-Felix,” she said.
“Hush now, child. It’s over. It’s all over.”
“D-Did Harold make it?”
Felix looked up, seeing the two figures walking toward him on the old road, a billowing cloud of smoke behind them, and he said, “Yes. Yes, he did.” But he already knew this. He had felt it.
Harold limped up to him about a few minutes later, his arms full with Boris’ dead body wrapped in both of their shirts. The makeshift blanket was stained with dark blood.
“Put me down, Felix,” Sahara said.
He did, as Harold passed Boris to Frank.
Sahara wobbled for a moment, clutching her stomach where a wound blazed red in her pale skin.
Harold ran like a man who’d never ran before. He wrapped his arms around Sahara, lifted her a few inches off of the dirt, and spun her around.
“Careful!” she said, wincing. “Careful. Careful.”
But Harold didn’t listen.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asked once he set her back on her feet.
“A little banged up, you?”
“Nothing major. But the voices are gone. I don’t hear him anymore, Sahara. It’s such a relief. I wouldn’t have done it without Frank. He’s the real hero.”
Frank grumbled. “You were the one who loaded the bow. You were the one who shot him.”
“Frank, don’t be modest. I couldn’t have done it without you.” Harold turned around to face Frank, Felix, and Boris. “I couldn’t have done it without any of you.” He placed a hand on Boris’ shoulder.
“Aye, and may Boris rest in peace, the little bastard. But I’m not being modest. We helped, but Harold Storm, you are the Electus. You. This is all you. Now let’s get the Hell outta here, I’m cold and I’ve lost a finger. I just want to get back home.”
“Well, we got a long walk ahead of us,” Harold said.
Felix smiled, reaching into his robe for the glass orb. “No, you don’t.”
“What do you mean?” Sahara asked.
“Long ago, a Witch came to town to scout for us. Her name was — ”
“Roberta,” Harold said, his eyes lighting up. “That’s who I saw in the shack a ways out on the road. It didn’t look exactly like her, but I knew. I just knew.”
“Roberta, yes,” Felix said. “She planted things here in case something of this magnitude ever happened, and we all know it would. This orb — ”
Sahara cut him off. “No, what do you mean we don’t have a long walk?”
Felix blinked slowly. His smile faded. “I’ve chosen to stay.”
“What?” Sahara said. She parted from Harold and limped over to the Wizard. Her hands gripped his arm. “You can’t.”
“It is my duty, Sahara, as well as it is my punishment.”
“No,” Harold said. “I’ll stay. I am the Electus.”
Felix laughed, shaking his head. “Exactly why we need you in a place where you can see all. This whole war happened because I couldn’t act, because I couldn’t do what needed to be done. You are a better Protector than I, Harold Storm. You and Sahara go to your Realm and you live a happy life. I will run things down here.”
“Why does anyone have to be down here?” Frank said. “Can’t we just forget about it?”
“I wish it were that easy,” Felix answered. “But alas, it is not. People and other beings are not all good, this much we all know, and we have all seen it firsthand. And when they die, where will they go?”
“The Void,” Harold said. “Let them go to the Void.”
“I will, but it is my duty to shepherd them there. And I accept it.”
Sahara grabbed him, burying her head into his chest. “No, you can’t.”
“Sahara, the Creator wills it. I am not foolish enough to disobey the Creator. You will not have seen the last of me, I promise. You can visit whenever you want.” He turned to Frank. “I will see that your friend gets a proper
burial with his fallen comrades back in the city of Ghul.”
Harold nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “And we will visit you.”
“Wouldn’t ever step foot back here again, Felix,” Frank whispered as he set Boris down on the ground, letting the hand that was whole linger on the Centaur. He looked up at Felix. “No offense,” he said.
Felix smiled wide. “None taken. Now go, all of you. Go protect our Realms.” He set the glass orb down in the road, away from the freezing pool of black blood. With his last bit of strength, he called the lightning from the Existence above him, from below him, from all around, and it came with a crack of thunder.
The glass exploded, but no one flinched. They all watched as a door erupted from inside of the orb, manifesting itself from ancient magic.
“Go now,” Felix said. “Be free.”
They went, and when they were gone and the door began to fade in front of him, he dropped to his knees, sobbing.
Felix would never walk the Realms again. Not out of choice, but because this Existence no longer needed him to. He accepted his fate.
CHAPTER 62
The doorway opened up on the beach, the same beach on the city side where Harold Storm went from whiny failure to powerful Realm Protector. But this time, Harold Storm was not alone.
The sky had taken back its bluish hue. Through a sheen of white, puffy clouds, the sun beat down on their cold shoulders. They accepted it with smiles on their faces. Aside from the smoldering buildings and continuous drone of police and ambulance sirens, Harold thought it just might be back to normal.
“Think the hospitals are back in business?” Frank asked, looking at the distant buildings. “Too bad I didn’t save my finger. Could’ve reattached it. Aw, who cares? I got nine other ones, don’t I?”
“No, I don’t think they’ll be working,” Harold answered. “Not for awhile at least. But, if my apartment isn’t destroyed,” Harold said, “I’m sure we could patch you up. I got the supplies enough to last until we can get you proper help.”
Frank nodded. “Better. Just as long as one of you can carry me. I’m feeling a little woozy.”
They left the beach, but not before Harold gave one last look across the water at the dilapidated building known as The Lake Bar and Grill. Roberta Washington would no longer be there, but he smiled anyway.
They walked through the same alley where Harold had seen Slink digging through trash, where he first met Sahara, and where he first fell in love — true love.
The inside of the city, from what they could see wasn’t as bad as he’d remembered when the sky opened up and the stairs led to the Portal. Trash and broken glass and bricks littered the streets. A few cars were turned on their roofs. A streetlamp leaned against a building front, stray wires sparking into the open air.
Gloomsville was as quiet as it had ever been. It was asleep but waking.
A few streets later, with Harold’s old apartment still intact and now in sight, they saw the first sign of life. A man stumbled out of an alleyway. “You’re him, ain’t ya? Our savior.”
Harold nodded. No being coy about it. Harold Storm saved the Realms. He was their savior.
“Is it over?” the man asked. He had a wild look in his eyes, like a man who’d been through war. Blood stained the army-green jacket he wore — black blood. In one of his hands, he held a gun.
“It is, friend,” Harold answered.
The man beamed. He raised the gun up into the air and fired three times, each shot causing the the three of them to cringe.
Sahara’s arm raised, but Harold pushed it away. The Deathblade would not be needed.
“It’s a signal,” Harold said.
“Aye,” Frank said.
After the last shot’s echoes died out, people streamed out of buildings. A woman holding her child in a blanket stained with soot poked her head out of a door. A man wearing a trucker’s hat crawled out of a storm drain. Others looked down upon the group from the top of buildings.
“It’s him!” the man shouted. “It’s him!”
“Is it really?” a woman shouted back.
“Yes. He saved the city! He saved the world.”
The next thing Harold knew he was getting mobbed by a crowd of people. They hugged him. Grabbed his hands and kissed them. More people rubbed his head. Another said they were in the terminal station when he battled the pale man with the dark eyes. He let the praise wash over him like rain on a scorching hot day. It was then a sound roared in the back of his mind. A familiar one — the sound of his Wolves. Beaten but not broken.
“I need some help for my friend,” Harold said when the crowd around him dispersed, and as he spoke, the buzz of their voices died down. He was the center of attention, something he always wanted. They hung on his every word.
A young woman with almond colored hair stepped forward. “I’m a nurse,” she said.
“Frank here needs a nurse. Got any supplies?”
She tapped at a bag slung around her shoulders. “Not everything I need, but enough.”
Harold turned to look at Frank to see what he thought of that, but the old man was too awe-struck to notice anything besides the woman. When he finally did notice, he raised his eyebrows at Harold a couple times and said, “Thanks, buddy,” with a sly smile on his face. The two walked hip to hip, and Harold could practically hear the wedding bells…or at the least the creak of bed springs in the near-future.
Harold raised his hands to the crowd, and they cheered again. And as him and Sahara walked hand in hand through the streets, the crowd parted.
The door to his apartment’s lobby was open. They entered.
A sound caused them to stop. Nails scraping on linoleum, then a soft whine. For a moment, fear seized them. But just for a moment because the creature that crept from the shadows was no Demon or monster. It was Slink — a little dirty and scratched up but otherwise all right.
“Slink!” Sahara yelled. She bent down and took the Hellhound in her arms, scratching him madly. Harold’s smile couldn’t get any wider. He leaned forward, taking in the unsettling yet wonderful smell of wet garbage and brimstone from the dog. Then he rubbed him behind his ears.
“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” he asked, causing Slink to fan his rat tail like mad.
After the excitement settled, and the three of them made their way up to Harold’s apartment, Sahara yawned.
“I’m going to sleep for days,” she said, still clutching her side. She had since let Slink out of her arms, and he was now busy sniffing everything Harold owned.
Harold had forgotten about Sahara’s wound. She saw his eyes drifting to it and she shook her head. “No, I’m okay. I just need to rest.”
He nodded. “Before you do, there’s something I been wanting to do.”
Her eyes lit up, and as Harold moved closer, she didn’t shy away. He was not the most handsome, his skin was burned and ruined, and he didn’t smell the best, either, but Sahara didn’t care.
She took a shaky breath. “Oh, yeah? What did you want to do?”
And he answered her with wordless lips. The two kissed long and deep, their bodies pressed together. Harold had forgotten about everything in that moment — about the dead friends and lovers, about the burns, about the failures, even about the successes. None of it mattered any longer. It was all in the past.
When they parted, they both trembled.
“Will it be okay?” she asked.
“Yes, I promise,” he answered.
And for the first time in Harold’s life, he meant those words.
The End
Afterword
Thank you for reading, sincerely. If you’ve stuck with the series for three books, I am eternally grateful, seriously. I know this volume was longer than the others — it had to be — so I don’t expect you to read on any longer (you’re probably tired of me, I get it), but if you would like to find out a little background on how Harold and the Realm Protectors came to be, then by all means, read
on:
The concept of Harold Storm and his merry band of Realm Protectors dates back a pretty long time. When I was in the third grade, I, like most boys obsessed with superheroes and kick-ass action stories, decided to make up my own comic book. This comic book was Harold the Hot Dog, a superhero that was literally a giant hot dog with an Elvis haircut, ketchup and mustard on his utility belt, and a long cape with an H emblazoned on the back. He would battle giant, ruthless cheeseburgers, dill pickles with eye masks, and so many more stupid picnic foods. I’d try to sell these comic books written and drawn on folded pieces of computer paper for $0.25. The only ones who bought them from me was my mom, and probably my grandma. Did they read them? Doubt it. These comic books were nothing special — believe me, they were pretty much forgettable — but I remember them fondly. Maybe it’s because it was the first time I created something, the first time I gave my voice to characters. I don’t know. I didn’t keep the story going. Harold the Hot Dog lasted about three to five issues, then life kind of did it’s thing. I got older. I played sports. Hung out with my friends. Failed algebra and geometry. You know how it goes. Then, about twelve years later, I got back into creating. I loved reading as much as I loved movies and TV shows, so I figured why not tried to write a book. What’s the worst that could happen, right?
Well, four failed novels later (which will never see the light of day) and a handful of rejected short stories was the answer. Followed by a long stretch of no writing, of life getting me down, of slowly withering away. Then, in late 2015, I decided to dust off an old idea. That idea was Harold the Hot Dog, except if I was going to bring him out in a novel, I couldn’t have him be a giant wiener. I had to have him be a bad ass human who’d just been burned so badly that he looked like a microwaved hot dog — silly, I know.
And that’s what I did. Three books in and Harold’s story is complete. No, these stories were not always easy to write, they didn’t just come to me in a crazy burst of inspiration, that much is true, and especially true for this one. But the stories are done…for now. I knew going in I’d need three books, perhaps four, and three is what I got, with the third being much longer. I have ideas for more; Gloomsville will always need its Realm Protectors, but I don’t think I’ll be writing them unless the demand is great. So If you liked this series, please leave a review and tell me you liked it. And, if you want more stories set within Harold’s world - er, Realms — then by all means send me an email and let me know! You can reach me at [email protected] any time, day or night.
Deathbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 3) Page 26
