Deathbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 3) Page 12

  Just one peek.

  But a knock at the door had caused him to jump. No, it wasn’t a knock; it was a bang. If it were a hall guard, one who held the weak spears, they would have gently tapped the door a few times. Hopeful not to disturb Charlie. When you disturb Charlie, when you get on his bad side, they knew, you might end up like Clint — gutted and your soul devoured.

  Charlie looked at the door with a gaze that could’ve set it on fire. He waited for a moment just to make sure he was not imagining it or going crazy like the old Witch had said he might.

  Sure enough the bangs came again, this time hard, rattling the door off its frame, releasing old dust and rot into the air and into Charlie’s nostrils.

  “Who is it?”

  “Otis, you ninny! Open the door, I have urgent news!”

  Charlie slowly reached for the door handle. When his cold fingers clutched the metal, he hesitated. The word TRAP danced across his mind. UPRISING and COUP soon followed. Now would’ve been a perfect time for Otis and Johnny. They longed for the power given to them in the days of old, days when they might’ve been worth two shits if not to the Kingdom, but to the Master himself.

  Yes, it would be the perfect time. Beth and two of Charlie’s best soldiers — soldiers he trusted which amounted more than any fighting skills ever would — were gone. He was surrounded by half-trained guards whose sarcastic gazes he felt bear into his back when he strolled by them. Charlie was a sitting duck.

  Otis loved one thing more than he loved food, and that one thing was…GLORY burning his brain in bright, red letters…letters of betrayal.

  “Charlie!”

  He didn’t answer. No. He wouldn’t answer. His Hellblade sat in its jet-black canister. Charlie grabbed it, clutched it with fingers minus most of their fingernails.

  And at that moment, he felt the Seeing Eye which he’d peered through more times than he should have, looking back at him. Mocking him. Laughing at him.

  Charlie turned toward it then quickly away back to the door now rattling in its frame.

  “It’s important, Charlie!”

  Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose. Crazy. He was going crazy. The Witch was right and now she’s laughing at him through the glass, on the other side of the universe observing him like an animal in a zoo. He crossed the room, keeping the glass at his back, and reached for the door handle. He threw it open, his face twisted into a horrible, frightening grimace. “What? What is it?” he said.

  Otis was not scared, at least not by the reaction he’d roused out of Charlie. His eyes studied him up and down, but they were distant, almost as if they were looking elsewhere, somewhere far off in the dying land.

  Seeing this, made Charlie’s breath hitch. Has he called for me? He wondered. He’s gotten out somehow, and he’s angry with the way I’ve been running things, and with the way I’ve been sleeping with his number one girl. I am dead. Dead.

  Otis’ next words were like nails in the coffin. He said, “He’s here. He’s come back.”

  A moment of silence passed between the two Shadow Eaters, both of high status in the Dark One’s army, both of high intelligence and skill with a blade, and in that moment, fear seized their vocal chords.

  Otis broke the silence. “You killed him and he was born again. Two scouts saw what he did. He took down a Brevinik as if it were the size of a Mortal’s kitten.” Otis’s eyes were wide. He spoke with an urgency in his voice that would’ve made someone think the sky was falling.

  Charlie’s mind reeled. Dead and now back? Who was he talking about? Satan had been stripped of his power, but he had not died. You cannot kill pure evil, that much was true. Pure evil never died. One could lock it up for as long as the bars would hold, if necessary; but as was the case in the oncoming days, evil would escape the chains it was bound in.

  “He’s pure white…from head to toe,” Otis said.

  Charlie didn’t answer. He just stared at the old general with sharp eyes, bearing into his very soul, trying to figure out what was going on.

  Otis gripped him and shook, a gesture which would’ve had Otis minus a hand if they had been in the company of soldiers. “Don’t you get it? We are dead. Him and Storm will knock down our gates. They’ll burn our tower, and then they’ll devour our Master as easily as a Krak devours scrub.”

  Then it hit him.

  Felix.

  Charlie’s mouth parted open. Understanding passed over his face, slackening his features, but tightening his heart and stomach.

  “No, that can’t be,” Charlie said. “I watched him die — we watched him die. Me and Beth. He was stripped of his power.” Charlie turned toward the shelves, shelves which were the home of three very dear possessions of his: the Seeing glass, the vial of Electus’ blood, and the key which had belonged to Felix and had been passed to his forgotten son, Harold Storm, only to be taken in the Coliseum nearly a week earlier.

  “I know,” Otis said. He looked down at his feet, let go of Charlie. “I know. It’s a sign…”

  “Oh, spare me your garbage.”

  “It’s a sign we aren’t meant to win. He was dead, and he was born again. Only a man with the deepest, darkest secrets of the Existence could pull off such a feat. We should have left them alone. We should have never broadcasted our plans. Poor decisions, poor decisions! They’re coming back to haunt us!”

  Now it was Charlie’s turn to grab Otis. He let the roughness of his chewed-up nails dig into the old Shadow Eater’s flesh, but Otis took no notice. His eyes were still far away, looking into a doomed future, no doubt.

  “Stop it!” Charlie said. “Stop it right now! We didn’t broadcast any plans. They were weak. What was once twenty of them had been whittled down to two, and they were exiled to the Mortal world. He was nothing but a glorified security guard. He was not and is not dangerous.”

  “But…but…” Otis babbled.

  Charlie raised a hand, cocked it back behind his ear, and swung forward. His palm slapped against the droopy flesh of Otis’ face. When he looked back up, his eyes were no longer glassy and distant; they were sharp, focused.

  “He was not alone,” Otis said. A thin line of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Charlie did not feel guilty.

  “Who, Otis? Who?”

  He thought of Harold Storm and Felix teamed up, thought of how defenseless that would make them. The two of them together would put a damper on too many plans. Beth, for one; when he released his Master, for another.

  “The redhead girl,” Otis answered. “It was her blade that shattered the beast’s armor, and it had surged with white lightning.”

  “She should be dead. We pumped her with enough venom to make the Dark One sick,” Charlie said.

  Otis said nothing.

  “How sure are you that it is Felix?”

  “The scouts are two of our best men. They don’t see much out there these days, but when they do, they’re descriptions are on par with photo-realism, you know, the Mortal’s form of magic with the tiny, black boxes and blinding flashes — .”

  Charlie raised his hand, threatening another hit. “Yes, I know what photographs are.”

  Otis’ eyes shifted back to his feet. He must’ve felt the tension and danger in the air because Charlie gave it off in waves.

  “What do we do, Charlie?” Otis asked, still not meeting his eyes. “Shall we call the Council?”

  “No,” Charlie answered. “Keep this out of the Dark One’s mind. He will need his strength for when I free him.”

  “Why wait?” Otis barked. “Time is running short for us. They have moved their forces. They are coming for our King.”

  “We can handle them, Otis,” Charlie said, turning his back on the man. “Because we are strong and together we are much stronger than any of them. Correct?”

  He gave Otis a chance to answer the question, which both of them knew was largely rhetorical, and Otis didn’t take that chance.

  “I want to be absolutely sure his arrival will be safe
when it is time to break him free from the cage,” Charlie said after a moment.

  Otis nodded.

  “You understand?”

  Otis nodded again, this time vigorously.

  “Good. Now, keep this between us. And bring your two scouts to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Otis said, and he swiftly turned to leave.

  Charlie caught him before he vanished completely. “Remember,” he said, his eyes sharp as the point of his blade, “keep it between us.”

  Otis gulped, and then he left.

  Charlie could trust him. Otis was no imbecile, he understood the balance of power in the Dark One’s kingdom, and he’d been a witness to Charlie’s cruelty on more than one occasion, the most recent being Clint. Yes, he would keep his old mouth shut. No need to rile up the remaining soldiers. They were dejected enough. Spirits and morale were down, and surprisingly, those were not attributes Charlie wanted his army of Hellions to have while they tried to claim back the Realms below them. It was the scouts he had to worry about — and Beth, the back of his mind said, except not in his own internal voice, instead it was the Witch’s. He shook the thought from his brain. Beth was strong, she was tough, she could handle her self, especially with Octavius and Worm by her side. And Aqua had proven to him how badly she wanted her freedom and revenge in return for the Electus. He figured she’d pretty much kill herself in order to fulfill the Shadow Eater’s wishes, because if she didn’t, death would be a sweet relief compared to what Charlie would personally do to her soul. Aqua understood that.

  Charlie went over to the shelves, tried not to look at the glass, and instead picked up the vial of thick, black-reddish blood. Soon, he would put forth the ritual, and soon his Master would be free.

  Then you are giving up your power, he thought, again not in his voice, but in a strained, crazy version of the Witch’s. You are going back to the old ways, back to the days where you are nothing but a lap dog. Nothing but his puppet!

  He set the vial back down. He did not want to give up his power, but not doing so would mean death, and Charlie didn’t want to die.

  He wanted to kill.

  A few moments later, Otis returned with two brawny men Charlie recognized as Crazy Craig and Mad Marv. They walked toward Charlie, and each time they moved, their muscles rippled under the black, scouting outfits they wore. Charlie reached out and took Craig’s hands in his own, smiling, and said, “Thank you for your exquisite service. A reward is in order, I think.” He turned and did the same to Marv. He could smell the nervous sweat radiating off of them.

  Both of them nodded with equally flattering smiles on their faces.

  False smiles.

  “Otis, leave us,” Charlie said.

  Otis did.

  “And close the door on your way out.”

  The door closed like the final thud of a casket.

  Charlie didn’t want to die.

  Charlie wanted to kill.

  * * * * *

  Otis walked from the door like a man through a minefield. The screams were not comforting. Many years ago, Otis would’ve relished those screams, wouldn’t he? Was it not long ago when Otis himself would have done the same thing Charlie was doing behind the door if he were in his position?

  The answer was a firm yes.

  But time had gone on, though time was a funny thing in Hell. One moment Otis could remember sitting at the right hand of the Dark One himself, the room full of smoke and sex and of foods only fit for a king. A dead man played the strings, crooning about the end of the world. Satan would whisper, and oh, how is voice was so sweet and comforting, yet so powerful and full of confidence. Then the next moment, times like those felt like they happened thousands of years ago, or they felt like they had never happened at all.

  Marvin screamed now. Charlie must’ve been finished with Crazy Craig.

  He wants me to hear. He means to frighten me, but I don’t frighten easily, my boy. Never have, never will, Otis thought.

  And he smiled at the fact that Crazy Craig had not given Charlie the satisfaction of crying out with his last dying breaths. The soldier had been taught well. When given a choice to beg for your life, beg to a thing too crazy to comprehend how crazy it actually it, you will most likely die anyway, and you must never beg.

  Otis’ footsteps sped up, but Marvin’s screams didn’t fade; they increased. He shouted about his skin, how he needed his skin, and Otis knew then what Charlie was doing to him. He was flaying him alive, peeling his flesh from his bones like that of a Mortal’s fruit — banana was the word. Otis was quite fond of Mortal delicacies: apples, oranges, grapes, and yes…bananas. He’d had one just mere hours ago if his internal clock was telling the truth.

  He thought three things as he rounded the hallway and headed for the stairs where his chambers were four floors below.

  First, he thought Charlie needed to be stopped and he would recruit Johnny to his cause, and they would rat the crazy bastard out to the Dark One. Second, he thought if he could get to his chambers he could escape the horribly pained screams coming from Marvin — though as long as Otis lived, which was not much longer, he would never erase those screams from his mind. Third, and lastly, he thought after he got his wits about him and the door to his chamber was tightly shut and locked he would throw out all of his bananas.

  CHAPTER 24

  The last time Frank had remembered sleeping a full night, aside from the quick, two or three hour catnaps he’d taken here and there, he was visited by a spirit who led him toward Harold Storm. He didn’t know what exactly the ghost was, and he didn’t really care to find out, but he was glad he was with the Protector. Storm had proven to be a fine man despite his young age and grotesque figure. Besides, in Hell, Frank thought it didn’t matter much what one looked like. Take Boris for example, the little guy had the appearance of something that had crawled out of Satan’s asshole.

  Frank chuckled at the thought.

  Far down the hall was the steady thrum of some type of machinery. When he’d asked the black woman with the scars what it was — Aqua, Frank; you may be getting old, but don’t be old and a racist, he thought — she told him it was the Knight’s machinery and it was supposedly healing him. Harold had sliced his armor wide open. It had cut through the metal like it was made of tissue paper. And now Frank found himself thinking, Good job, kid. Mainly because the damn robot had been much of the reason his head was pounding.

  They’d proven to be decent folk, these Renegades, once the misunderstandings were cleared up. They’d given him a meal and a place to recover. The meal had hit the spot, though like the dream, he wasn’t sure what it was and he didn’t care to find out, either. The room wasn’t the Ritz-Carlton, but it had a soft feather bed. As he lay wrapped in a blanket made from the skin of some beast Frank had never heard of, with warmth and silence all around him, Frank was content. And he had been about to accept sleep with open arms, no longer afraid of the Demonic visions and whispers.

  He was going to sleep hard and he was going to sleep fast until he heard something that wasn’t any sound of machinery. Frank had been hunting most of his life, his ears were tuned to hear the slightest hiccup among the standard sound of things. A snapped twig, the ruffling of grass, sped up breathing, and sometimes he thought he could hear the flowing of his enemies blood and the way it froze up when they stared the tip of one of his special arrows head on. He loved that sound, even if his mind made it up.

  The sound outside of his door was a sound of treachery and sneak. It was the sound of a Witch sneaking up to the edge of the shadows at a bonfire, hiding and watching her next meal with a twisted smile on her face. He kept the crossbow on the pillow next to him, much like Harold Storm had kept the sword of Orkane on his pillow; but unlike Harold, Frank was readily alert. Aqua had poisoned his drink as well, but he’d been too busy wolfing down the gray bird to notice he had a drink. And Aqua had been too busy studying Harold, trying to not give away to either Spider or the new guests how she was playing both
sides that she’d not noticed Frank hadn’t taken a drink at all.

  He got up as limber as he would’ve twenty years ago, and took the crossbow in hand. It would be too unwieldy in a pinch and since he was without a blade for close quarters combat, he grabbed an arrow and held it as if it were a knife. From there, he crept toward the door. His hand shook as it reached out to the handle. He’d remembered the squeal it made as Aqua had shut it, and visions of Spider wrapping six of her eight limbs around his throat while she drained him of all his blood hammered in his head harder than any blow the Knight had dealt him. But he would not let the fear take him. He was Frank King. Hunting was in his blood. He had survived the Demon Venom. Had killed thousands of beasts. Had proven to himself he was capable of taking down the worst of the worst.

  But not your son’s killer, a voice whispered inside of him.

  He gripped the arrow tight enough to make the metal creak in his fist, gripped it hard enough to silence that voice. Faintly, the latch clicked causing Frank to hold his breath, but the noise was almost soundless. He couldn’t open it, he knew it would be the end of whatever sneaking was going on outside of his door. He’d open it and ask for some water or something, and whoever was out there would make up some silly excuse as to why they’re putting their ear to his door or the door across the hall, and that would be the end of it all. He’d need to catch whoever was out there in the act — that was the key difference here compared to what it was like out in the fields. Out in the fields, he could shoot first and ask questions later, and usually there were no questions asked because Frank King didn’t miss, and when he shot, he shot to kill. Simple as that. He’d leave the questions to the gods.

  The arrow still in hand, he slid it under the couple inches of space between floor and door. The metal tip, he kept clean, always. Polished steel was the only way to kill a monster, though when his son was killed by the Shadow Eater and Frank had fallen into harsh times, he’d threw all his hunting gear onto the floor as it was with dried blood and guts still on the tips of the arrows. Then when things got really sticky and depression seized his throat and dragged him down, that hunting gear found a nice, safe place into the closet where it would sit for almost another year. Sometimes he’d pull out the arrow — the one which speared the Demon — and he’d look at the dried blood; it was the reason he was in this mess in the first place, the reason he was on his knees, bones and joints crying out, “Please go back to bed, you old idiot!”, shoving an arrow underneath the crack of the door.