Somewhere, off in the distance, masked by the sound of his blood-curdling screams, was the roar of the river. The sound of salvation. He could hardly think with the pain frying his nervous system. And after the rolling and the wailing went on for what seemed like an eternity, he trucked on in the pitch black. Past a maze of dilapidated buildings, though the flames licking his flesh didn’t light up the darkness. Old abandoned warehouses with missing panes of glass stood as silent spectators, watching with fractured-windowed smiles, faded bricks.
The sound of the water was closer now, and he could see the cold reflection of the moonlight moving with the waves. Cold touched his feet, soaking through his boots, riding up his pant legs. But the pain would not go away.
Before he plunged, he noticed something odd. Something about his reflection. He wasn’t wrapped in flames, like his body had screamed he was. He was just normal old Harold, with his skin melting like candle wax.
He jumped in the water, relief didn’t take him.
Only the black void did.
CHAPTER 8
He woke up gasping on Sahara’s crummy couch. Had he been sleeping? Unconscious? Or had his eyes been peeled wide open the entire time his memory played out in front of him for the world to see. Sahara watched him with an unhinged jaw.
“We got a big problem, here,” she said, shaking her head.
“Yeah, we do. I should be dead.” Harold’s head pounded exactly like it would’ve if he had a hangover. And over the years, he had gotten quite used to those. But this, this was something else. Like a rabies-infested lion broke loose inside of his mind, thrashing at the walls of his skull, begging to get out. Oh how, he wished he was dead.
“Shut up,” she said. “Let me think. Let me think.” She closed her eyes as if in deep meditation. A minute passed, then two. The room uncomfortably silent. Harold thought back to the memory that was so expertly hidden inside his mind, and probably for good reason. He had heard that traumatic experiences do that sometimes — bury themselves deep so you never have to relive the horror again. Repressed memories, he thought they were called, but this wasn’t one of those. What he had gone through, what he had witnessed was never meant to be repressed because his mind was not meant to still be functioning.
He was supposed to be dead. And feeling all that pain again only put an emphasis on that supposed miracle.
“Shadow Eaters,” Sahara said, breaking the silence as well as Harold’s train of thought.
Harold shrugged. “Yeah, okay, that means nothing to me.”
“They’re Satan’s yes-men. Haven’t made an appearance in a couple thousand years.”
“That’s all nice and all — wait, what? A couple thousand years?”
“Uh, yeah,” Sahara said. “Maybe longer.” She arched an eyebrow, “Does that surprise you or something? I think we’re beyond surprises at this point. What you have embedded in your arm is possibly the greatest weapon in all of the known Realms.”
“I don’t know about that,” Harold said. “Ever hold an AK-47?”
She shook her head.
“Yeah, me either, but it rips through people on the Xbox. Hard to imagine that a key is somehow more powerful than that.”
“What do keys usually do, Harold Storm?”
The way she said his last name brought back memories of primary school, where he’d be off doodling in his notebook, head in clouds, mind off in some distant fairy tale land where wizards and goblins and ghouls were real, not paying attention to whatever math equation or great war was being taught that day. And the teacher would call him out, always using his last name in a steely voice, the type of voice that would cause his insides to shrivel. But he wasn’t a fourth grader anymore, he was a man. A burned, horribly ugly man, but a man nonetheless.
“Obviously it unlocks things,” he said in a voice like venom.
“Congratulations, buddy. Here’s a gold star.”
Harold rolled his eyes.
“Long before I got roped into this job. Millenia ago. A couple rogue Wizards realized they had enough of Satan’s insolence. One of them died in the process, but they successfully managed to lock the bastard up. That’s why this Realm hasn’t ended in a long, long time. Millions of years, Harry.”
“Don’t call me Harry. Never again.”
“Never say never,” she said, a smile playing on her lips. “But we have the keys. The keys to Satan’s cell. And those Shadow Eaters, they want to release their master.”
“Shadow Eaters? Satan? What in the world is going on?” Harold said, mostly to himself.
“Yeah. I know it’s a lot to take in. But if you think this Realm is bad now, wait until those bastards release the king bastard. You like having your skin stripped off by Demons while you’re getting slobbered on by a thousand hungry Hellhounds? For all of eternity? That sound fun to you?”
“Sounds like a shitty time.”
“Oh you don’t even know, Storm.”
“But Marcy, I have to go see her. Let her know I’m alright.”
“There won’t be a Marcy unless we find and destroy the Eaters. And you can, Harold. We can.”
She reached out and gripped his hand. Warm, comforting flesh on top of an overcooked piece of meat. It was nice, he couldn’t lie. Butterflies might’ve started flapping their bright colorful wings in the pit of his stomach, but Marcy. He couldn’t let her go thinking he’s face down in some ditch somewhere. She’d worry and when she worries, not even the Shadow Eaters of Hell have a chance. Then his mind started wondering, with the wound of the memory fresh in his mind. The girl, Beth, she had his wallet, knew his name, his address. And even though it wasn’t exactly where he was staying at the time, it was where Marcy was. What if they mustered up the courage to make sure they finished the job? What if they thought he hung in the same circle as the homeless Wizard? And maybe the key was there. That would be bad.
He imagined her opening the door, exasperated, feet hurting from her eight hour shift at Bernie’s Diner. They might prod her with questions and she’d give them back her usual after-work bitchy attitude. Next thing you know she’s burning up from the inside. Lungs and heart turned to ash — if they could find her heart.
Harold shot up, ran towards the door. He pulled the handle, the wood frame expanding towards him with the force of his grip, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Unlock it, right now. Marcy could be in trouble, goddamnit.”
Sahara looked at him like he was crazy. “What? This is so much bigger than Marcy! Relax for a minute.”
“No,” he said, then yanked the doorknob again, the screws whining under their strain. He didn’t know why, or how, but he sensed it, sensed the trouble brewing in the air of the city that leaked through the bottom crack of the door. Knew that Marcy was next on the menu for the Shadow Eaters, just an appetizer before the Gates of Hell were broken open and the city flooded with everyone’s deepest, darkest fears. But with the nifty new power he had acquired in his arm along with his menacing look, he knew he could get the job done. Could kill those bastards where they stood, send them packing back to Hell without their suitcases and weld the Gates shut. Still, he had a hard time believing any of this. Just because he saw it play out in his head didn’t make it real. If anything Sahara could’ve drugged him and this could all be some hallucination. The only thing keeping him from going fully insane was Marcy. The anchor to the real world, and he had made sure that anchor was hooked deep into the fabric of reality.
“Fine,” Sahara said. “If they’re there, then it’s too late. But you aren’t going on your own. You’re too important now. Maybe you’ve never been important in your life, except to a handful of people. One look at you tells me that’s probably true. So give me a second.”
Sahara left the room.
Harold yanked on the door until his knuckles vibrated. He didn’t have a second. But then he stopped as he tried to catch his breath, trying to see himself in his mind, how he looked doing this. A crazy burn victim trying to escape.
Like he was some sort of mental patient. And that picture left a bad taste in his mouth. It was all too much. With his back to the door, now, he slid down slowly, head pounding, hands still vibrating and the left pulsing from where the sword had escaped. He cast his look down to the Persian rug, trying not to picture Marcy in the clutches of Charlie and Beth. With those teeth. Those tar-black eyes.
A hammer beat on something metallic, and a few moments later Sahara poked her head around the corner. She threw something that glinted in the air. And his reaction was quicker and better than he imagined. Ice cold steel filled his hands.
“Here,” Sahara said. “You might need that until you figure out how to control the Deathblade in your arm. Demon speech isn’t easy.”
“Sounded like Latin to me.”
“There’s more to an incantation than just words, Storm.”
Harold let out a grumble, let his head fall down to stare at the weapon. A small pistol that had some weight to it, and felt like a live grenade in his hands. He’d never held a gun before — a real one, at least. But for some reason, the weight of the thing, the pure ferocity coiled inside it, made him feel safer. Like he might be invincible if he kept it on him at all times. After he finished staring at the gun, he propped his head up and said: “I don’t get it. You had a gun, yet you went around the beach, looking for trouble with a BB gun. That makes no sense to me.”
“It was Felix’s. He kept it locked in a drawer.”
“Spell-locked?”
“Used to be, but when you pass on all spells become useless and never stand a chance to a good old fashioned hammer. Don’t think Felix will be needing it much anymore. Not where he’s at right now.”
“Where is he? Dead?”
“Something like that,” she said. “But he’ll be back.”
CHAPTER 9
The streets buzzed with the chatter of people. The honking of cars, tires rolled on the pavement, thumping potholes. Headlights bathed the two in a yellow glow. Up ahead a bum begged for change. People walked in tight groups. The darkness in between the streetlights meant open season, and Harold loved it. Without the light, he felt safe. No judging eyes. No whispers. And they had come, always would.
The bums hand withdrew when Harold passed, and he stared with newly sober eyes.
I can’t look that bad, can I? Harold thought.
They were rounding East Hawkin Ave. Marcy’s apartment was about two blocks away. Not as far as Harold’s mind, thinking about how he’d talk to her. It’d been so long, at least it seemed, since that last phone call. The one that told him he would no longer be a father.
The pending conversation played a million different ways in his mind and each time ended badly. With her screaming and crying. The word ‘Freak’ always thrown around in those conversations. Yes, they were never-ending nightmares, and he was so invested that he hadn’t noticed the rain until he stepped in a deep puddle, water flooding his shoes. He looked back. Sahara trailed behind, a hood over her head, red hair plastered to her face. Her breath fogged out of her mouth, and she flashed a pair of pissed-off eyes in his direction.
She didn’t have to go. Only Harold did. He didn’t need a babysitter, he could handle himself. For crying out loud, he survived an attack by Shadow Eaters. That didn’t mean much to him, but according to Sahara he might as well have been a God.
All he wanted was Marcy’s touch, her warm hand brushing against his cheek, telling him it’ll all be okay and he’s still nice-looking on the inside and that’s all that matters.
His pace quickened.
Behind him, Sahara said, “Wait up, asshole!”
He turned the corner, the towering brownstone apartment complex now within view. Her first floor apartment. The lights were on, blinds open. He could see the large red sofa from across the street, through the shadows of cars passing by. The glow from the television projected itself onto the far wall.
He slowed down about twenty five feet from the stoop. Sahara barreled into him.
“Now you catch up,” he said. “Just wait out here. I’m going in.”
The glow flickered as a shadow passed in front of it — Marcy. Harold started to cross the street, stopped then slouched behind a parked rusty Ford pickup. Sahara didn’t follow. She stood under an awning from an adjacent apartment building a few feet away from Harold. Flashes of lightning crisscrossed overhead, painting Harold’s burns in sickly pale blue light. He recoiled at the sight of himself in the Ford’s window’s reflection, and he thought he might never get over that for as long as he lived.
“What I just don’t get,” Sahara said, mostly speaking to herself, “is why didn’t Felix fight back?”
“Yeah. Uh-huh,” Harold mumbled. He hardly listened, moving his line of sight to the misty window, looking at his lover, feeling like he was in his own special bubble, the pit of his stomach fluttering. Cars drove by going well under the speed limit, their windshield wipers flinging rain to the left and right, tires splashing through puddles. He loathed each one that blocked his point of view.
“If he had the key, he could’ve summoned his blade. Gutted those assholes with a flick of the wrist. But he ran. Then he gave it to you. I don’t get it. Unless…no. No, that’s just silly. A myth.” Sahara said.
Harold offered her a look then an absentminded shrug, but the way she stared at him, studying him like an alien specimen, made his skin crawl. He turned his head back to the apartment’s direction. Marcy laid on the couch, a blanket draped over her, hands in a bag of potato chips. She looked like she might’ve just gotten off work, still dressed in the black slacks the diner forces all the waitresses to wear. He thought he saw a slice of red apron poking out from underneath the blanket too, but he was too far to really tell and the air was foggy. The rain that came down didn’t help either.
“It just doesn’t make sense. Felix was a badass. I know they’re Shadow Eaters, and we haven’t faced a threat like that in a long, long time, but c’mon, at least try to put up a fight. What’s so special about you?”
“Nothing,” Harold answered. “Nothing at all.”
“Agreed,” Sahara said. She leaned forward, footsteps hitting the sidewalk, coming closer to Harold. Her hands went above her brow, blocking the oncoming rain. “Wait a second, who’s that?” She pointed.
The butterflies in Harold’s stomach disintegrated. A shadow passed across Marcy, and in the haze, Harold saw the tall figure standing above her, imagined her eyes getting wide, hands shielding herself in self defense.
The Shadow Eaters. It had to be. They were back to finish the job. He leapt up from his squatting position, felt Sahara’s hand on his as she said, “No, wait, you idiot.” But he broke through her grip, despite how strong she was. The dark of night all around him grew darker, like he walked in a tunnel and at the end was this gruesome scene where Marcy awaits her death, awaits her soul to be eaten.
A car horn honked, tires screeched against the road.
“Harold!” Sahara yelled out. But he didn’t stop, hardly noticed the car barreling towards him. Finally, he turned his head when he felt the heat from the grille through his pant legs and the thud of the slammed driver’s side door.
“Watch where you’re fuckin’ walkin’, you big dummy.”
The glow of the man’s cigarette danced as he yelled.
Harold turned his head, stared back into the open window, flexing his hand, feeling the scorched flesh stretching and breaking open. Bits of skin fell from his fists like rust that falls from an old hunk of metal.
“Harold, don’t!” Sahara said.
“This city gets more and more fucked everyday,” the driver said, before getting back into his car, revving his engine, and sending sprayed rainwater in every direction.
The shadow in front of Marcy towered over her, head craned down. A hand reached out and grabbed hers, then it bent down to eye level. Harold’s heart felt like someone was using it as a stress ball.
Then it got even worse.
The shadow k
issed her. Not just a peck, but a hand ran through her hair, the other scooped under her legs, lifted her a few inches off of the couch. Marcy seemed to go slack in the shadow’s arms until her leg kicked out and the kiss broke off. She threw her head back in laughter, brushing away a few strands of hair from her forehead. The shadow sat down next to her, and then Harold realized that he wasn’t much of a shadow at all.
He was a man, a regular looking man, like Harold had once looked no more than a day ago. His hair was a dirty blonde color, almost like the sand of the beach Harold woke up on. He had a jaw chiseled out of marble. Slim, maybe even a little bit athletic looking. Dressed in a dress shirt, tie hanging loose around his neck, top two buttons undone. His smile was enough to make Harold forget he was standing outside in the cold air with colder rain running down his face, icing him to the bones.
“Who’s that?” Sahara asked over the roar of the thunderstorm. She gripped his arm, where his skin crinkled like newspaper underneath the ratty trench coat he took from Sahara’s apartment. She tried to pull him off the road, back to the rusty pick up truck.
“Dead meat,” he answered.
He held his ground.
“Adultery?” Sahara asked, mouth hung open.
Harold didn’t bother correcting her. The fury in him seemed to filter out most of her voice. He took a step forward, but his knees buckled. Next thing he knew he looked like he was about to propose to Sahara as she got in front of him, helping him up. He was grateful for the rain then. Happy the wetness and the dominant dark would hide the impending tears. Unfortunately, his sobs were louder than the intermittent thunder overhead.
Sahara’s eyes widened, she shook her head. “What the Hell?” she said. “Are you going crazy or something? Please don’t tell me I got stuck with a crazy person. I can’t handle that, not right now. That’s too much to juggle.”
Hellbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 1) Page 5
