Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2) (23 page)

Then their hands locked. The boy was not hot or cool, his skin was a perfect temperature — neither living or dead.

Frank smiled. For the first time in a long, long time he had actually smiled, showing teeth and feeling lighter than the day he was born.

“Come home, Dad,” Travis said again.

“I-I can’t — ”

The boy’s grip tightened. His skin had lost his glow, first at the hands and arms where Frank’s eyes stared. Bumps and warts the color of a stormy sky sprouted all over. The flesh hung like the Grim Reaper’s tattered robes, and from the ends of his fingers came long nails — claws, actually — that dug themselves into Frank’s palm.

He screamed; that smile twisted up into a horrible grimace. Blood welled from the newly punctured holes. Frank looked up, just wanting to see his dead son’s face one more time —
you look just like your father —
before he died.

But when he did, the face was gone. And snakes, those black ropey cords that always whispered and hissed, hung from the boy’s eye sockets.

Frank took to screaming again. The fear almost too much. He tried to wrench his arm free, tried to beat at the boy’s tight grip, but it was ironclad. He flailed like a dying fish on the hull of some sadistic fisherman’s boat. The Shadows as the fishermen, watching with sick smiles on their faces as the fish slapped wetly on the wood, until the the beating died down, and its lips twitched in search of water for the last time.

The blood poured from his hand now, slick and wet, beating against the wood in heavy droplets, and it was enough for him to slide out of the thing that was no longer his son’s hands, and Frank fell.

Fell forever, it seemed. No pain; no feeling. There was only laughter, and darkness, and so, so much blood — black and red and fresh.

The steps vanished; the trees disappeared; Shadows were no more.
 

He landed in the grass, back in the graveyard where the unmarked headstone had hung crookedly in the loose dirt. It was no longer unmarked. Now it read:
HERE LIES FRANK KING — ROTTEN HUNTER, FATHER, AND FRIEND

He screamed again, except no noise came out and he heard the snakes rustling through the grass as if amplified through a million speakers. Legs pumped, trying to outrun them. Failing. The gate to the cemetery seemed like it was miles away, but he could still read the sign. In fact, recognized the sign from his last stay in Gloomsville many years ago, while on a hunt for a reanimated corpse.

WEST SPRINGS CEMETERY, it read.

The snakes wrapped around his ankles, threw him into the wet grass. The dirt smeared onto his face, stinging his eyes.

He woke up gasping, looking at a corpse, flailing his arms, beating his fists against the metal table.

The corpse was Roberta. The Witch.

Frank King sobbed, put his big, callous-covered hands over his face and cried like he had at Travis’s funeral. Somehow, it felt good, felt so right.

“The Portal is in West Springs Cemetery,” the Witch said. “You will have to move fast.”

Sahara placed a hand on his shoulder, then talked in a comforting whisper: “It’s okay. Don’t worry. Now we know, and now you can get your revenge.”

C
HAPTER
33

“That’s my daughter up there,” one of the cops said. He pointed towards the sagging telephone wire, where the body hung in the intersection about a hundred feet away.
 

Harold had his back against the brick, the bus in front of him, now upright and wedged between a traffic pole and the abandoned bowling alley. Each time the Demon pummeled the metal, his heart sunk lower. It was wedged pretty good, he didn’t think it would go anywhere, but still, the sound of whining metal and shattering glass, and those roars — more like amplified shrieks — drove him almost to the point of insanity.

He had to save the cops, had to get Chet down. But he couldn’t with the damn monster toying with them.

But no girl had dangled from the sagging wire. It was definitely Chet, and he twitched slightly as if still alive. The cop who saw his daughter must’ve been going crazy.

Or maybe you’re going crazy,
he thought.

Time was short. He’d have to come up with a better plan than just bum rushing the beast.

Same with the cops.

There were only two now. Bobby and Reynolds. Reynolds had a gray mustache that curled at the ends, the obvious de facto leader, the seasoned veteran who was almost completely unfazed by what had happened to the city.
 

“One minute it’s shit, the next minute, it’s shitter,” he had said, as he tried to reload his pistol, and before he wasted his last rounds on the creature. Though most of the bullets had missed and buried themselves into the rubble of Chet’s ruined bar.

He didn’t speak of the man hanging from the wire. But every so often, when there’d be a lull from the Demon’s attacks, his eyes flickered to the spot and his complexion would match the color of his mustache.

“My daughter, man. Use that fucking sword and cut her down,” the other cop, Bobby, said. He had been nagging Harold for the last two minutes. And Harold had been dutifully ignoring him.

Nerves,
he thought.
This kid hasn’t seen much action. Probably his first week on the job and Satan decides it’s a nice week to fuck up the world.

Harold shook his head at it all.
 

That’s not his daughter; that’s my bartender.
But even the voice in his mind began to sound defeated.

His initial rush towards the creature didn’t help; it proved to be a large failure. The blade never connected with the Demon’s flesh, but the Demon’s fist — that was about the size of Harold altogether — had slammed into him and knocked his limp body skittering across the cracked pavement of the old parking lot opposite of Chet’s ruined bar. It had hurt beautifully. Real physical human pain, bruises and blood and cracked ribs, punctured lungs. Not like that magic pain, like the Spellfire or the Demon magic Charlie had used on him in the coliseum; that was different, more mental than anything: almost enough to drive a person’s brain and body to shut down.

But the physical pain — he needed that. It was like black coffee on an early morning. The blood flowed through him like a waterfall; his mind had begun to clear up and he realized, wincing and hobbling his way towards the pinned cops, that he needed a plan, needed some help.

His eyes went to the telephone wire.

As he watched, the old man stirred, and Harold’s heart lifted a little bit. He wasn’t dead, not yet.

“My daughter,” Bobby said again.
 

He pressed up against Harold, gripped him by his thin undershirt, trench coat flapping to either side. The man’s hands shook, blood smeared his knuckles. He was out of bullets, too. And when he’d shot his last one, he’d taken to punching the brick wall with fury. Harold was surprised the cop’s hands still worked at all.

“Your daughter’s not up there!” Harold yelled, annoyed. He pushed the cop off of him.

Bobby’s teeth clenched together. He pointed again. “There she is! Swinging like a worm from a hook, man. You gotta do something.”

“You do it,” Harold said quiet and calm.

The Demon smashed the bus again, this time, so hard that it had lifted up on two wheels before settling back down on all four with a thunderous thud. The next punch probably wouldn’t be lucky. That beast was playing with them, like a cat might play with a mouse; and it was growing impatient.

Ten minutes had passed since the third cop had tried to make a run for it right as Harold hobbled over, staying low to the wall, out of the beast’s line of sight. Harold hadn’t caught his name, but he’d caught the spray of blood against his face when the beast picked the poor guy up in one hand and tossed him at the bowling alley. He splattered like a cracked egg, slid down the bricks slow and slimy before puddling in loose flesh and shattered bones at the base near Reynolds. Reynolds hadn’t tried to show his fear, his disgust, but it was still written plainly in the old man’s tired eyes as the blood began to dry on the bricks.

Harold watched him, now, anything to avoid the pained Chet on a wire and the frantic, possibly crazy, Bobby yelling about his daughter.

The old man caught Harold’s eyes, eyes that showed a glimmer of hope, that lifted Harold’s spirit up just the slightest bit.

“My days are done, fellas,” Reynolds said.
 

He dropped the empty gun, the sound hollow and booming in the momentary calm. All that could be heard before was the Demon’s tornado-like inhales and exhales.

Bobby looked at the old man with raised eyebrows. “No it’s not. We got the Burnt Savior here. He can rescue us.”

Reynolds shook his head. “No, not I. You, maybe. It’s okay, I’ve lived a good life.”

“What?” Harold said. “Don’t even think about it — we just have to bide our time come up with a counter. I need a minute — ”

“No,” Reynolds said, turning his back on Harold.
 

He walked, and when Harold tried to grab at his hanging shirttail, tried to stop him from doing whatever he intended, Bobby snagged the Protector’s arm. Harold never missed a beat, turned around and sucker punched the young cop in the stomach.

But it was too late.

Reynolds broke the threshold of protection the bus and the brick wall offered them, too far from Harold to reach out and stop again.
 

The old cop threw his arms up as if welcoming the light of Heaven to shine down and take him to paradise, and turned to Harold, and Bobby who was doubled over and wheezing on the curb, hand wrapped tightly around the traffic pole. Reynolds smiled, eyes flittered up towards the wire, and smiled even wider.

No harps played; no angels flapped their wings; no heavenly white lights shined. All that came down was one grubby, slimy mitt with claws as sharp as blades and as black as tar. It snatched Reynolds up.

The old cop didn’t scream when the Demon brought him to his mouth. Harold heard the crunch, the juicy bites, solid flesh slapping the road. He nearly puked again, doubled over just as Bobby had.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Bobby said with an almost steady voice. “We gotta get the fuck outta here. You almost messed that up. C’mon, let’s go! Don’t let the poor bastard die in vain.”

Harold turned to the man, the rage boiling inside of him, chest heaving, knuckles clenched. He raised a hand, was ready to punch him again, but stopped mid-swing.

Bobby had black pits where his pupils should’ve been. Veins of pure onyx danced in the whites of his eyes.

Harold started to back away.

“What? What’s the matter?” Bobby asked. He stood straighter, more menacing.

Harold could feel the blackness in him start to drift up towards his brain, like a lava lamp. He had kept it at bay ever since acquiring the sword of Orkane, but it was slipping.
 

He
was slipping.

“Come on, Harry. We gotta get the fuck outta here,” Bobby said. His voice had become tinny, garbled like a cell phone’s last words as it sinks to the bottom of a pool.

“I-I never told you my name,” Harold said.

“Everyone knows your name — you’re Harold Storm. Gloomsville’s mightiest superhero: the Realm’s weakest Protector.”

Harold brought the sword up with wobbly arms. “Protector? You don’t know about that.”

Bobby edged closer. Eyes darker. Skin darkening, squirming with the Shadows.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Not Bobby’s voice anymore. Much lower, more evil.

The beast pounded the bus. It rocked again, paused at the apex. The rubber of the tires squealed as the weight forced it towards Harold. A Shadow cast over him. He felt the wind; the bits of glass. Heard dripping blood. Felt the presence of the Demon hovering above him.
 

The bus rolled over and Harold stepped forward, metal brushing his arm as the road cracked more with the weight of the overturned vehicle.

A fork of lightning cracked through the orange sky — purple white — and ash and fire fell onto his shoulders.

Bobby lurched — not Bobby anymore. Now, Harold saw Charlie’s face.
 

Behind him, the body of Chet swung with the breeze.

Another flash of lightning.

Now Chet was a skeleton, picked clean by crows that had nested inside of his ribcage. A Forked tongue ran over the bones.

Harold screamed, drowned out by thunder.

Next came the heave of Orkane’s sword, spearing into Charlie’s gut. Harold’s eyes jammed shut, body rocked with the force of life leaving the Shadow Eater.

He opened his eyes. Charlie did not slide off of the blade; Bobby did. And the pain wracked his features. Fresh red painted the silver blade. And wide eyes — normal,
human
eyes

Charlie stood behind him, leaned up against the pole, a smile on his face.

Bobby’s hands, covered in blood, reached out to Harold again, grabbed the hem of his trench coat. “M-My d-daughter,” he wheezed before his body fell to the sidewalk like a heavy blanket.

Charlie clapped. “Very, very nice, Harold. I knew you could do it. You definitely look the part of a murderer. No — a cop killer!”

Harold felt tears roll down his cheeks. Then he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Black smudged his scarred knuckles.
 

He looked back towards the Shadow Eater.

Charlie wore a cocky and confident face. He’d looked like a man with a purpose now; one who was in control, who held a royal flush. One key down, another to go. But Harold sensed the Shadow Eater didn’t want a key.

No, he wanted Harold’s head.

“You passed your initiation, Harry. Now become one of us.”

His wispy hair tickled his burnt scalp when a sour wind struck him. The Demon still hovered above, drool hanging from its parted mouth, blood tinging its fangs.

Harold was trapped. Broken. Beaten. “Fuck you,” he said.

Charlie sensed the despair, smiled wider and shrugged. “So be it.” He pointed at the Demon, “Get him, boy.”

The beast scooped him up like a hand of God.

C
HAPTER
34