Hellbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 1) Read online

  Hellbound

  The Realm Protectors Series

  Book One

  by

  Spencer DeVeau

  Copyright © 2016 by Spencer DeVeau

  Cover design by Carmen Rodriguez

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Author’s Note

  For more books, updates, and complimentary review copies visit me at www.spencerdeveau.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  Hellbound

  Thank You

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  He woke covered in burns, seared flesh and singed cotton, almost too afraid to look down at himself. And when he mustered up the courage do so, his neck screamed out in protest. How long had he been there? And where exactly was there?

  His body shuddered. Phantom tears streamed from lidless-eyes. The confusion smacked him in the mouth.

  An arm raised — his arm, which didn’t look like a normal arm at all, not one he remembered — blocking out the sun that beat down upon him. Blisters had formed, yellow and red, and the skin that wasn’t fried was the color of a pale sunburn.

  He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. Cold, salty air cooled his lips, lips which felt like they’d been drained of all moisture.

  His breath shook; he screamed. But the screaming only made it worse.

  The heavy breaths. The pain — head pounding, chest knotting up. A fist came down, punched the ground. The land shifted. Something muffled the hit, bits of sands flew up and scattered across his face, getting in his mouth, sticking to the gummy wounds.

  He sat up. Waves roared a few feet away — he had awakened on a beach. But where, what beach? He was having trouble remembering where the Hell he was. Nothing seemed to register about a beach. He was alone. Not a soul in sight, not even the distant shape of an early morning runner. No one to call out to, to scream for help. Jesus, the thought of screaming, of working those vocal chords made his chest want to explode. That would take so much energy, especially if he felt like he was about to pass out from just sitting up.

  Okay, okay, think. Your name is Harold Storm. You’re a failure. A washed up actor who travelled to the Big City for your bigger break, but wound up driving taxis for chump change.

  He knew his name, his failures, and that was good. Small pieces of his life were coming back. Didn’t explain why he was deep fried or why he was on a beach. Was he dead? Was this Hell?

  He looked down, his breath shaky as he did it. He saw the bits of charred flesh poking out through raggedy jeans, like he was the Incredible Hulk waking up from a fit of rage. His boots were still in tact — those good, ol’ steel-toes. But when he pulled up his arms and his hands from their supporting position in the sand, he saw how the skin was red and brown and even possessed dots of black. There was no more hair and he was hardly able to tell it was skin at all. That was not good. That would take some time healing. Then his hands shot up to his face, to the top of his head. There was no feeling at all.

  He feared the worst. His face, oh god not his face. The moneymaker. The way out of the crummy one room apartment and onto the silver screen.

  He stood, wobbling around like a drunk on winter ice. The tide washed over his boots and he collapsed in the muddy sand. Seashells poked through, biting into his knees, but his body was like one big callous and he hardly felt it at all. All the pain that coursed through his body was mental, like when a cut burned as soon as you noticed it, but before you did, you didn’t feel it at all.

  He crawled out deeper into the water where it was calm enough for him to catch a slight glimpse of his reflection. The reflection rippled at first as he focused his eyes onto the figure that didn’t look like anyone he remembered. Hell, it didn’t look like anyone he’d ever seen in his life. Not anyone meant to be alive.

  He brought a fist down on the reflection, splashing himself with bits of foamy water and shattering the man he’d become. Then another fist came down, then another…until he was breathing heavy and fast like a lifelong smoker trying to run a marathon. On the last bash, he stumbled backward, falling into the water, letting it wash over him. A bird cawed in the distance, breaking through the rumble of waves. He prayed for the undertow to suck him in, drag him under to where he’d never have to see himself again. But that didn’t happen. Nor would it, he knew. Never that lucky.

  The wet sand was not good support, and he struggled getting up and heading back to the spot he came from. It was then when he saw the city off in the far distance. The towering skyscrapers brushing against the white clouds. Somehow, it brought hope, a surge straight to the gut. It was home after all. He forced himself to stand, and one labored step at a time, he moved forward.

  That ghostly pain came now — all in your head, Harry.

  Fire. Knives piercing the flesh all over. Raw. And he collapsed again in the sand, knees first. His eyes were jammed shut, trying to force tears out, but if they came, they evaporated once they hit his skin. He fell, face first and the world around him went black and his mind ran.

  There was a bar, some cheap black front surface, no sign, music pumping out from the cracked door, and the cab was running. Three in the morning, waiting for drunks that can’t risk another DUI. The drunks who sometimes slip you a hundred instead of the twenty they meant to give you. Easy money. Then the homeless man running. The fear in his eyes. But he ran from nothing. There was a key, clanged off the pavement. Harold picked it up, tried to give it back to him.

  Something stung his hand. He dropped the key, but it made no sound. The homeless man turned to him, smiled. Then a wash of waves. The pain. The dark eyes. A gunshot. Too pure. Forked tongues slithering through shark-like teeth.

  The next time he opened his eyes the sun blared, clouds were coming, but wouldn’t block out the glorious yellow for at least a half hour. That didn’t matter. He was beyond any damage the sun could do to him now. And that wasn’t what woke him up.

  The voice did.

  “You’re a good man, Harold Storm,” someone said.

  Harold tried to talk, but it came out as a wheeze, vaguely resembling the word ‘Help.’

  “Not many people had the courage you had last night.”

  Great, Harold thought. Courage usually comes from the drunks. And he’d be in trouble if he slipped back to the comfort of the bottle again. Marcy would never speak to him if she found out.

  “Sorry about the burns. That was quite unfortunate…Listen, we don’t have much time. Do you still have it?”

  Right, the burns. The lack of physical pain had made him forget how deformed he might’ve been.

  Marcy won’t talk to me anyway. No one will except this nagging voice in my head.

  Harold lifted up his head. Standing there, was the same homeless man he vaguely remembered from last night. Long white hair, scraggly and unwashed for what looked like decades. A beard equally as gross and he wouldn’t doubt housed a few different species of birds. The ripped and dirt-stained jean jacket. One big toe stuck out of a hole in one of his shoes. Swiss-cheese pant legs. A wispy outline, like he wasn’t physically there so much as he was in Harold’s head.

  “Thought it wasn’t y-yours,” Harold said.

  The man knelt down in the sand. The smell was overwhelming. Stale cigarette smoke and rotting garbage. Enough to make Harold burst into a fit of coughs once he inhal
ed. The man had to be there. No way he could imagine something so real. He rolled over, away from the guy, seeing in the distance a few beach goers walking hand in hand, someone else with a dog on a leash.

  “Check your pockets.”

  Harold didn’t think he still had pockets. But his hands snaked into them without so much as an opposing thought. The man had a way with words and he sensed this guy could probably charm the pants off him if he said the right things.

  On the left side, his finger popped out of a hole at the bottom of the pocket. No key there. But there was something else. He pulled it out. It was a picture of a woman and man he recognized as himself. No doubt the woman was Marcy. Amnesia or not, he could never forget those iridescent green eyes, that silky black hair, that shape. His heart almost exploded just looking at her. Then he saw himself, how he used to look and that inflated heart wheezed out all hope. He used to be a decent enough looking fellow. Strong jaw, ashy-colored hair. (That was now nothing but ashes.) And a face that belonged on the silver screen. His opportunity hadn’t came yet and there was a two hundred percent chance that it never would.

  He clutched the picture, almost hugging it. It gave him strength. An alcohol-less form of courage.

  “The key, Harold. The key.”

  He fished inside the left pocket and felt cold metal. This was good. He was getting feeling back, at least in the rawness of his fingertips. He pulled out the key. Obsidian black, glowing with a orange hue. It bit into his skin again as he gripped it, didn’t hurt nearly as bad as before. Didn’t matter, either. His mind was off in the clouds, thinking about Marcy, about what she’d do if she saw him like this.

  “Here,” Harold said. The words came out effortless, conversational as if he wasn’t a mutilated piece of beach garbage talking to some crazy homeless man.

  The man held up his hands, shook his head. “No. No, you keep it, Harold. I wanted to make sure you still had it and they didn’t.” He moved his jacket away from his body, showing a shirt that might’ve once been white in a previous life. Instead, it was the color of wet sand, like the sand by the tide, and it had a mixture of red and black blooming from a spot near the heart, absorbing into the cotton, turning the whiter parts a dirty shade of scarlet.

  “You see, Harold, only the living can handle that key,” the man said, while black fingers crept over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 2

  That was good, actually. Harold held the key, which meant he was still alive, even though he probably didn’t deserve to be after going through whatever he went through. Though he called bullshit, thinking the homeless man was drunk off cheap wine. That’s why they called them winos, right?

  Harold rested on his knees, holding the key in one hand, the picture in the other. “I need help,” he said. “Not a key.”

  “Let it take you,” the man said. He edged closer, holding his arm out. He gripped Harold’s hand, the one holding the key like it was a fresh slice of pizza and he was starved. Then Harold’s own hand closed over the man’s, grimy and wet, but cool against his sizzling flesh.

  A flash of something invaded his mind. Images of greatness, of death, of chaos. What might’ve been. What could be. Harold ripped his hand away, teeth bared more than he intended. “Don’t touch me,” he said in a wheeze.

  The man’s eyes dropped down lower on his wrinkled face. “Please, Harold. Time is not in our favor.”

  Those black clawed fingers emerged again, tugged on the old man’s jacket. Sharpness snagged the fabric.

  “Take your key,” Harold said. He averted his gaze to the beach. Surely he was crazy. None of it could be happening.

  “I cannot,” the man said, voice straining. “I am on my way out of this world. You are our only hope.” His hand reached out again. Harold didn’t try moving it, but there was no flash this time. “Take the key to Sahara.”

  Harold let the words hang in the air for a second. “The desert? I really don’t think I could handle a desert right now, man.”

  “No, Sahara will help you. She can protect us — ” The man doubled over, letting go of his hand. He thumped down into the sand. There was a light in his eyes that Harold could see dimming, like the way a bulb flickered before it shorted out. His face turned red. A vein throbbed, pulsed in his forehead.

  Harold reached a hand out to steady the man, caught a glimpse of his own charred flesh, and retracted it back to his side.

  “ — She can still save the world. Keep him locked up.”

  “Who? What?”

  “Go…go to 345 Garden Grove. Apartment 722. She will help you understand…”

  The two black hands shot out of thin air again, revealing even blacker forearms. Tufts of scraggly hair blew with the ocean breeze. The sky darkened. There were screams, piercing screams that came from neither Harold or the dying homeless man. They clutched at the man. Claws raked across his face, not spilling blood, only tearing flesh, ripping it away into nothingness. One more gripped him around the shoulders. The man moved, shimmied, tried to get them off of him like a man who’d accidentally stumbled into a web full of baby spiders.

  Harold froze. Eyes wide.

  “Go, Harold. Give the key to her!” The man’s voice was gruff.

  The claw by his face moved down to his shoulder and they jerked. He vanished right before his eyes in a puff of black smoke.

  The sky lightened again. Sounds came back — the crash of rolling waves, birds cawing high in the blue sky, the same dog from before barking a ways off as he chased the tennis ball his owner threw into the water.

  Then Harold, stood there now, knees buckling, head spun. He felt nauseous, like he’d ridden a Tilt-A-Whirl directly after winning a hot dog eating competition.

  He fell, cushioned by the warm sand. The key in one hand, picture in the other.

  He slipped the picture back in his pocket — the pocket that seemed to be permanently glued to the hard melted wax that had become his skin.

  The key, now. What the Hell was he supposed to do with the key? A heavy thing in his hand. Not painted black, so much as made from something blacker than the dead of night. Cold metal with a slight buzz to it. It made his soot-covered patches of skin — whatever he had left — crawl. He sat there in a world of pain, lost in fire. Confusion.

  The dog, now on a leash, and its owner walked closer, kicking up clouds of sand as they came. Harold could see the man, his long jacket, fleece sweatpants. The skull cap down over his head. The sun might’ve been out, might’ve been beaming, but Harold couldn’t tell what the temperature was.

  The dog barked, yanking his owner forward. A Golden Retriever with fangs bared, spit slobbering out of its mouth. The owner struggled to pull the dog away from Harold, because Harold had no intention to move. He sat there and admired the beauty of the dog, remembering how he and Marcy were going to buy a Retriever of their own after the baby came and he had enough saved up to put a sizable down payment on a house in the suburbs after he got his big break, of course. You know how it goes — white picket fence, two car garage, swing set in the back. Not a care in the world.

  The barking — a mere two feet away from his face, judging by the putrid smell of dog breath — snapped him out of that long forgotten fantasy and back into the Twilight Zone nightmare he was in now. He’d pinch himself, but knew he wouldn’t feel it anyway, conscious or not.

  “Down boy,” the owner said in a strangled voice.

  Harold closed his eyes slowly, opened and narrowed them on the dog’s snout. “Boo,” he whispered.

  The dog yelped and sunk away. If the thing had distinguishable shoulders, Harold imagined they would’ve drooped.

  Dogs hate you. At least you have that going for you, Harold.

  Somehow the owner looked more spooked. His eyes caught Harold’s for a split second and then his pace quickened, dragging the Golden Retriever along with him. After they were far away and there was no one else to bother him on the beach, he got up off his knees, key still in hand, that phantom mental pain near
ly unbearable. Every step felt like he was ripping off one giant Band-Aid after another. Ten minutes passed before he cleared the beach and found the sidewalk. He heaved and his lungs burned. First stop, hospital. But how? No cell phone, no one in sight. He’d have to find an open business or a house and knock and hope they weren’t as easily spooked as the dog was.

  The beach parking lot was empty, and who was Harold kidding? He didn’t have the guts, or the knowledge, to break into a car and hot wire it. The thought of his back pressed against the leather of a driver’s seat brought the dull stinging in his body up a couple notches and he thought he’d just grin and bear it until he found someone who’d help him out.

  Then the old homeless man’s voice flashed in his mind: “She will help you understand…” Where was that place again? Was he crazy to want to go there and see what the Hell the guy was talking about?

  Yes.

  He looked down at the key in his hand, and the way the metal, jagged and sharp, could probably be mistaken for a knife of some sort, so he decided his pocket would be the best place for it now. It’s one thing walking around looking like a zombie, but an entirely different thing looking like a zombie and carrying a weapon in the city. Cops everywhere and curious, wandering eyes plus Harold would not be a winning equation.

  The sidewalk was dotted with beaded drops of moisture. Must’ve rained overnight, though Harold didn’t recall waking up wet. A gust of wind blew an empty bag of chips across the concrete, scraping, and filling Harold’s head with noise. The wind blew harder, catching him, not letting him move as easily, blowing against the wounds. He grunted.

  There was a bench about fifty feet away, but he didn’t think he’d make it and boy, did he need a rest. And a hospital bed. Buckets of Neosporin, too. Then someone whispered again. Or was it the wind?