Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2) (16 page)

“Alright?” she asked.

And he nodded, pushing his thoughts away from such things.

“Good, good,” Roberta said. She rubbed her hands together like a scheming cartoonish villain. “We must go back a few thousands years. And we will need you up and at ‘em if you are to confirm your destiny.”

The way she said
destiny
chilled Harold to his keyless bones. Then the odd group of people — a burnt man, a corpse-y Witch, and a beautiful Realm Protector — joined hands in a small circle. Roberta whispered words so dark and sinister, Harold would’ve ripped his ears off had they not already been ruined.

And then time bent.

C
HAPTER
23

“Where ya going, fella? Salvation is that way,” the cop said, pointing to the opposite direction a menacing man dressed in bloody jeans and a ripped, dirt-stained white t-shirt walked.

The cop hung out of the passenger’s side window of a police cruiser. His sunglasses reflected the fire in the sky, and the slick wax job of the cruiser shimmered with the fire from the buildings of Gloomsville, POPULATION UNKNOWN, now.

“Hey, buddy, I’m talkin’ to you.”

The cruiser rolled backwards at about two miles per hour on a stretch of unblemished road. Whoever drove was hidden by the bulk of the police officer and the slice of gray shotgun sitting in the middle, pointed to the roof. But the car neared the overpass where most visitors would get off near Washington Dr, and there the cars were stacked in ruined hunks of metal.

That’s as far as Frank had to walk — about another mile and a half. Then he’d be in the city. Where the Shadows called to him.

Frank hardly heard the man speak, hardly heard the tires rolling inches away from him, crunching the gravel and sputtering thick black exhaust.

“You really don’t wanna go there. Whole place has gone to Hell.”

“He means literally,” the other man said. Frank wasn’t sure if he was a cop or not, but he talked with the gruff voice of a man who’d smoked one too many Virginia Slims in his miserable existence.

“Buddy, I’m orderin’ you to stop. You take another step and you’re under arrest.”

The driver snorted, shook his head. But Frank stopped anyway, because these men were the equivalence of man-sized flies at a picnic. Just plain annoying.

The car stopped with them. An audible squeak of old brakes despite the shiny look on the body of the Crown Vic. A 2007, maybe a little older. And a Ford, like his dead pickup truck.

But you made them pay, Franky. No worries. You won’t need a truck when you come home. You are coming home, aren’t you?

His father, but the voice was tinged with evil, and it made him question whether he should even acknowledge the voice at all.

But then the cop spoke. “Good, buddy, now hop in the back and we’ll take you as far as Brownstone.”

His voice.

So many voices.

He grunted, holding down a scream. His brain felt like it had begun to split in half. One half a white moon; the other half a burning, dripping, black supernova.

A flashlight clicked on, shined right into Frank’s eyes. His hand shot up to protect his retinas from fizzling out. God, that light. He might’ve shrieked had he not had some control of himself.

“Jesus, man, you’ve covered in blood.”

“He don’t look good, Bill. Let’s get the fuck outta here. Told you this whole place is going to Hell.”

“No, hold on. Take the keys out of the ignition.”

The driver sucked in a sharp breath Frank heard over the screaming in his head.

The light. Kill the light. Kill them.

They’re cops. No. Compose yourself. You’re stronger than that.

Stop your bickering. One goal. Kill Harold Storm, anyone who gets in your way shall bleed too.

The car stopped idling, but the headlights stayed on painting the road in a white light — beams of hope. A click came from the car door as it unlocked and the cop stepped out. He was a big man — beer gut, retired bodybuilder strength, stood about six and half feet, a few inches over Frank, who’d now begun to feel himself shrinking despite the power that undoubtedly coursed through his veins. That black venom. How it tingled inside of him and hurt him at the same time. Toxic sweetness.

He held the shotgun down by his side, yet the muzzle didn’t come close to scraping the tarmac. Frank stood his ground as the cop sized him up. The flashlight passed over his face before shining into Frank’s eyes. He felt the blackness drain from his pupils, run back towards his brain where it would pool like a leaking oil drum. But it wasn’t fast enough, and the cop’s face began to lose all color.

A man who’d probably seen it all on his beats in Gloomsville — gruesome homicides, babies microwaved by crazy crackheads, human trafficking — and he’d shuddered at the image of Frank’s eyes changing color. Was he really that bad? he wondered, couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at himself. Long before he’d set out on his little journey.

The cop raised the shotgun, now. “On the ground, pal.”

Frank had no intention of listening, but the rational part of his mind had no intention of getting pumped full of lead. That sharp headache wracked through his skull — that war of choices. He brought his hands up to his temples, and the cop moved fast, backing up until his ass dented the metal of the cruiser, crouching with an eye looking over the barrel of the shotgun.

“I’m-I’m not getting on the ground,” Frank said.

“You have to. I’m a cop, goddamnit! Earl, get out here. I need backup, you asshole.”

Earl didn’t answer, yet Frank saw him staring past the driver’s seat and at him with eyes that nearly took up most of his stubbled-face — a face that was about one more spook from being done with this so-called cop business.

“On the ground now!”

Frank didn’t obey. Instead, he turned and started walking towards the smoking city. The words frothed from his lips, words not his own, but spraying from his throat like a storm.

“I killed the kid. He screamed and I just closed my hands around his throat until his head popped off like a fucking dandelion. What kind of monster are you, Frank? There’s a special place for guys like you. Oh, and his brother. Watched him burn like a human barbecue. My goddamn mouth salivated at the burning meat.”

He wracked. A snake felt like it slithered through his belly. A black one deep in the pits, hissing and craving blood.

He felt the cop’s presence behind him. The cop who heard all of the words, like Frank had served up the confession on a silver platter to the man.

He heard the shotgun pump once. Then a sound like the sky cracking in half. The burning warmth of hot lead. A feeling like his arm popped out of its socket, of skin peeling and bones shattering. Blood spilled over like an unholy volcano.

Frank never screamed, but he fell into the dead grass off of the shoulder of the highway. And the grass was dry before he’d landed with a wet, squishy plop.

There was pain. Muted pain. And he brought his right arm up to his left shoulder, and pulled it away covered in blackish-red liquid.

Blood, but not normal blood.

His crossbow that had been slung across his back was no longer there. He thought he saw it in the grass a few feet away. His vision was rimming with red, though. Anger. Rage. Blood. But really, he’d lost that crossbow in the Motel 8 accident, left it there along with the rest of his old self.

“Jesus Christ, Bill! You shot the poor guy.”

“You didn’t see what I saw. His eyes. Man, his eyes weren’t right.”

“The world ain’t right, Bill. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.”

“Oh shut your vagina, man. I don’t know if you haven’t noticed but it’s kill or be killed. No longer room for civility. Shoot first, ask questions later. You saw what happened at the terminal last night. The people and their fucking eyes, man. Blacker than the Devil’s heart. If anything, you should thank me.”

Frank heard the man’s weight rustling the grass, sinking into the solid earth. He could’ve pushed himself back up, but decided against it. When the next shot goes off, Frank might not be so lucky. The cop, obviously distraught, had jerked at the last minute and the spray of lead had only clipped Frank’s shoulder the first time. One might call it lucky, but Frank, feeling the pain in his body, from the gunshot and from the venom, wouldn’t be one of those people. If it had been a direct hit, then he’d be nothing more than gutsy bloodstain on the highway— and that would’ve been lucky. Death.

The cop stood over him. Frank stayed as still as the ghastly pain would let him.

“Is he dead?” the driver asked, voice now a little closer, out of the cruiser.

“Why don’t you come over and stick your big ass ear on his chest and see if there’s a heartbeat, Dumbo!”

“Don’t be an asshole. Let’s just get the fuck out of here. I didn’t sign up for this anyway. I wanted to protect people, save cats from trees and shit.”

“Funny how things happen. I mean look who they elected President — a goddamned TV star!” Bill’s voice drifted closer. Frank could practically smell the body odor leaking from the guy’s pits, and the fear. That sickening sweet smell of fear invaded Frank’s nostrils.

Get ‘em, boy. Give him us. Give ‘em Hell.

Frank started to push himself up, but the feeling in his left arm was all but gone, now just a faint buzzing.

“Hey, hey, hey don’t move, asshole,” Bill said, then cocked the gun.

Frank didn’t listen, kept trying to push himself up with one bloody hand while his left one hung limply to his side as if all the bones had been turned to dust.

The sky split open again. Frank jumped. But it was just a warning shot, rounds pumped towards Heaven. Frank smiled, sensing the weakness of the burly cop. Frank had him right where he wanted him, knew what would happen next.

A show of testosterone. A kick to the ribs, or a boot on the back, maybe if the man was as sadistic as he looked, he’d stomp Frank’s bleeding shoulder. But none of those happened.

Because Frank was stronger than he thought he was. And he stood up, facing the cop, who held the shotgun with one arm like a knight preparing to lance. The other arm shook, but the cop did his best to hide it.

His eyes ran over the bloody-black mess of Frank’s shoulder. Frank followed his gaze. “Yeah, thanks a lot,” he said. “Now give me the gun, since you thought you had the authority to shoot me.” His voice was gruff, now he’d sounded like he’d been smoking a pack a day, even though he’d quit a decade ago.

“I have the authority to do whatever the f — ”

His words were cut short by Frank’s iron right-handed grip. Fingers closed around the cop’s thick neck, and God, it felt so good. The muscles and tendons straining under the force, like wires on a suspension bridge, twanging with the weight of the kill. He tried to bring his left arm up again, but it didn’t obey.

One hand would have to do.

The shotgun went off, the kick-back making Frank lose his grip. A cloud of dirt billowed up around them. The cop hacked, coughed. But Frank was on him quick. Knees drove into the man’s barrel chest. His legs kicked, arms flailed. He yelled for his partner, yelled for backup that never showed. Frank hardly noticed the man on the shoulder of the highway, head poked up around the white hood of the cruiser with his gun drawn, hardly noticed the man’s gaping mouth, the sweat rolling down his flushed face, or the way his hat hung crookedly off of his head, shaking, threatening to fall off into the dirt and pebbles. No Frank King only focused on the kill.

In the back of his mind, the old Frank King, screamed for him to stop, screamed louder than the cop with the metal shotgun pressed into the softest spot of his stubbly neck. But the redness of the guy’s face which grew to purple and finally black did well to silence the old Frank King. And the thought of him still there, buried deep down into his subconscious sickened him more than the bloody snot leaking out of the cop’s nostrils.

He stopped kicking, eyeballs bugged out like a semi-truck had flattened him across the middle.

Frank took the shotgun off of him with one hand. Stood up, let it rest against his thigh as he brushed the dirt and bloody spit off of his jeans. Then he made his way towards the police cruiser, with the shotgun securely tucked under his armpit.

The other cop and Frank caught eyes — Frank’s now almost radiant black eyes. Metal clattered off of the hood, the gun hit the pavement, and the beige slacks of the cop — standard uniform pants, Frank was sure — darkened near the crotch.

“I’ll need the keys.”

“Yeah, sure, sure. Here ya go,” he babbled, tossing the keys to Frank. “I didn’t like Bill much anyway. He was a nasty sort of bastard. Probably better off that way, ya know?”

Frank snarled his lip towards the cop, who looked more like a fat man playing dress up on Halloween than an actual officer of the law.

He threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, don’t kill me, man. Have some mercy. Please!”

“I’m not. I just want the car.”

“Yeah, whatever. Take it. Anything you want — ”

“And your soul.”

The dark voice in his head, the Shadows, screamed in agreement, like starving animals. And the old Frank shrunk to the size of a molecule as the new one practically flew across the hood with the grace of a young man, clutching the cop’s shoulders, taking him down to the pavement. His head thumped hard against the road, and Frank feasted like it was an all you can eat Soul buffet.

C
HAPTER
24

No tank tops and board shorts for Harold. Not where the three of them were now. He wore a long silver robe, the fabric made of the softest silk he’d ever had the pleasure of touching, and on his face was a large skeleton of some sort of bird he’d never seen. Not one from his when, anyhow. If it was the same one that adorned Roberta’s and Sahara’s faces as well as the rest of the twenty or so people in the large room made of stone, then he’d known it was definitely not a bird of the Earth Realm. It was like the skull of a king vulture only much, much bigger. They covered the figure’s faces completely. And they weren’t your Native American skull-masks that were typically worn like visors around their foreheads; these were full face masks. And the whiteness the bones were supposed to be weren’t actually white at all; they were more like a titanium gray, like the color of Sahara’s Deathblade. Like the Deathblade Harold now missed more than anything.