Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2) (11 page)

He forced himself up into a low crouch, then crawled away like a kicked dog. MOTEL 8 split down the middle, leaving MOT to come down like a guillotine. It crumbled the pavement when it hit; shattered it like a hammer striking a piggy bank. A long dormant electrical wire popped out, slicing through the air, white lightning spewing from it.

Frank watched as the sizzling wire touched the hood of the car, and it lit up like a Christmas tree. If the man still sat in the driver’s seat, he’d be nothing but charred flesh. Frank heard him scream. The blood-curdling screams that curdled Frank’s blood.

Then his father’s voice came into his head again, and so did Rule Number Four:
Look out for your own, Franky. You never know when you’ll need an ally.

But that’s not why he rushed towards the car, with his newly cracked ribs and bruising — possibly fractured — shin and knee bones. He ran because he wanted to watch the man suffer. Wanted to watch him burn for stealing his car, for hurting him, and most importantly, for ruining his truck — the only vestige he had to his normal world, before Travis left him alone and cold, so cold.

He remembered taking him to school on his first day of kindergarten, though Travis, as stern and hard-headed as he was, wanted to ride the bus, wanted to meet new friends, show off his little G.I. Joe action figure he carried everywhere with him. But Frank shuddered at the thought of letting his little guy ride the bus alone. He knew how the other kids were — like blood-thirsty animals, willing to kill any weakling to fit in. He’d been one himself back in the day.
 

That first day had been so hard, just the thought of being alone at the house — no Travis, no cheesy kid’s cartoons. No one to make lunch for. No crusts to cut off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Those thoughts had nearly killed him.
 

Travis’ mom had passed when he was two — car accident. But Frank and Lori had been separated at the time — pretty much hated each other at that point — and he’d only seen Travis when
she
wanted him to, which was not much.
 

The three years after Lori’s death had Frank lying awake at night, mentally punching himself in the face for not making more of an effort to see his son those first two years. But he couldn’t go back and change the past. What’s done is done; it wasn’t one of his father’s rules, but it should’ve been.

Rule Number Eleven: What’s done is done. Move on. There, you happy, Franky?

The thoughts washed over him in a blur of rage. He smelled the burning flesh, felt the heat of the flames blasting his face, singeing his gray-speckled eyebrows. No, the thief wouldn’t get off easy. Just like the creature with those dark, dark eyes who’d killed his son; just like Harold Storm.

He edged around the truck, saw the man writhing in flames like the fire had been made of lightning. That wild hair was all but stubble. The blood that had streaked his face was now just a mess of tender flesh and raw meat. Still, the man bucked and rolled, knocking an elbow against the back left hubcap.

Frank kicked a boot into the man’s gut, stepped down, feeling the man’s beer belly squish beneath him.

“Davey,” he moaned. “He’s sick. He’s dyin’. Back by t-that big rock…”

Frank laughed. “If you haven’t noticed, the whole world is dying. Get over it. And you ain’t any exception either, buddy.”

When he felt the heat cooking his sole, he removed the boot, and knelt down next to the man, still twitching. He reached a hand out, covered in blood, and patted the small flames that danced on his dirty, once pale jean jacket.

“So sorry, Charlie,” he said.

The man moaned again as Frank snuffed out the last flame.

“Oh get over it, it’s gonna be a lot hotter where you’re going, my friend.”

He opened his mouth, let out a soft groan. And Frank couldn’t help but smile as the man suffered below him.

Then his lips twitched, phantom words dancing on his tongue. Frank leaned in closer to hear what he had to say, but instead of words, a fountain of black, murky water spewed out of the man’s mouth like projectile vomit or some kind of Demonic faucet.

Frank’s hands shot up in front of him. No good. The water leaked through his hands. Smelled like chemicals, had the consistency of cooking oil. He slipped as he backed away.

The burnt man stood up before him, hovered above, loomed like a black Shadow of death. His eyes only showed the whites and the water slowed down now, only dribbled from his mouth and nose like the last vestiges of a rainstorm. He blinked once, and the whites filled with the same darkness.

Frank might’ve had a heart attack had the rage not been thundering inside of him. Because, before him stood his son’s murderer; the dark man with his Demon eyes and somewhere, his darker blade.

“Frank King, you have been chosen.”

“Fuck you,” he said, trying to stand up. But the pain had been so much more prominent in the presence of that caliber of evil.

“Frank King, you have been chosen,” the man repeated. His head bowed, the whites aimed in Frank’s direction.

“I said, fuck you. Give me my son back, and I’ll listen.”

“Frank King — ”

“Enough!” He forced himself up. Too slow. The man’s hand, squeezed Frank’s throat with the force of a boa constrictor. He latched onto the man’s wrist, felt the muscles and the tendons twisting and writhing like black snakes.

“Frank King, you have been chosen. The mark of the Demon brands your throat.” And as the man spoke, Frank’s flesh, the healing wound from the arrow that had struck his son’s murderer, sizzled. He caught a fresh whiff of smoke, and screamed out. But the noise was cut off by the man’s tight grip. “With this mark you shall do the Dark One’s bidding.”

“I-I’m not d-doing anyone’s bid…bid….bidding.”

“You have no choice, Frank King. The venom has taken you. It has been a long time coming. You have fought well, but you are no match for the darkness.”

“I’ll f-find you and k-kill you, you piece of — ”

“Find and kill Harold Storm.”

Frank stopped trying to talk then. It just so happened to be that killing Harold Storm was near the top of his list anyway.

“And his partner, Sahara of the Cloudless Realms.”

“The redhead?”

“Correct, Frank King, the woman with the red hair. She possesses great sickness.” He squeezed harder, causing Frank to hack up hot fire, causing the veins in his eyeballs to bulge. “So she will not be a problem for you.”

“P-please let g-g-go.”

The man didn’t, but he didn’t squeeze harder either. “Harold Storm is stronger than he looks. He may be
Electus,
from the Prophecy of Fates, but you are not as weak as you look either, Frank King. With the venom coursing through your body, you will be even stronger.”

The man let go, and Frank landed on the concrete, knees first. He felt like his nerves would’ve shorted out by then, but they hadn’t, and he did his best to not show it, though he imagined the Demon — man, or whatever it was — knew the pain was there regardless. His hands rubbed at his throat, at the wound he’d forgotten was there, but now blazed with more pain like a bonfire.

“What’s in it for me?” he asked, wheezing.

The man flexed his knuckles. A face of total impassiveness looked to him. And black, black eyes.

“Your son,” he said. A hint of a smile passed over his face.

Frank’s heart might’ve exploded, but that persistent fear still held him. He had felt like crying, too, though he didn’t.

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“I have many powers, Frank King. I am a God, and a God can do whatever he pleases.”

Frank stepped forward, extended his hand. “Shake on it,” he said.

The man raised a fist, ball and joint grinding and sounding like a rusty hinge. The original owner had tried everything in his power not to comply, but the Demon inside was too strong.

Their hands met, and the men — or whatever they were now — shook.

“It is not like you would’ve had much of a choice, Frank King, but I am a man of my word. I have always been. Do my bidding, and meet your son once more.”

“Tell me where he is,” Frank said, cutting straight to it. “And I’ll make sure he suffers.”

His voice sounded alien, unlike his own. More gruff. More sinister.

That slight smile passed over the man’s features once more. He blinked slowly again, erasing the darkness, and bringing back the whites of its inhabitant’s eyes.

“Need I remind you?” he asked, before the black water poured from his mouth, leaked from his eyes, dripped from his nose. “Lake Shallows.”

And Frank didn’t think it was funny or pleasant at all, but still, he smiled. It had been too long since he’d visited the Lake.

C
HAPTER
16

The bar and grill was not as nice as Harold had thought it would’ve been. He didn’t think the term ‘mirage’ applied, but there was sand by the actual lake and the heat could’ve driven a man insane even without the sun.

So maybe it was a mirage.

But inside, was as dead as the things in the water. The music had stopped when he stepped through the threshold. The smells disappeared. Electricity vanished, too. No air conditioner, only the muggy heat stuffed into the building, threatening to choke Harold to death.

He had turned back once he spotted the rotten wood of the hostess’ stand. The hanging signs. The dirt and debris strewn all over the once spotless linoleum. Emptiness. The horror. But the door had slammed closed, and the old Harold would’ve froze right then and there and let the fear shrink him into a miniature version of himself.

He didn’t.

He stood a little taller, embraced the darkness.

You don’t belong here,
that voice in his head had whispered.
But somehow he knew he did. Knew fate had drawn him here with the promise of rest and relaxation, and air conditioning.

Now he walked around, taking in the mustiness, the old rusty lights that hung from the ceiling with dead bulbs. Only slivers of fire made its way through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating the smallest of areas.

Embrace the Shadows. Be free.

No.

He walked onward. Hands felt around the darkness, but for what? Something that would help Sahara, something that would give him answers.

A burst of ghostly white energy in the other room caught his eye, and he followed. Turned the corner into a great bar area. Long forgotten televisions hung from the walls — not the flat screens so common of Harold’s day, but the bulky square kind that needed two pounds of reinforced steel to hold them up. A screen above him near his left had been fractured straight down the middle, the bar too. Upturned stools and broken glass bottles lined his path.

The white light was blinding now. He hoped he hadn’t died. Don’t go into the light as the saying went, and Harold seemed to be doing exactly that. Until his eyes adjusted and the white light took up the shape of a human-like figure who sat in the corner of the room, far away from the bar beneath a shuttered window.

Harold’s legs didn’t want to keep going, but they did. And soon he was face to face with the figure.

It raised a glowing arm up towards Harold’s throat and part of him recoiled, though his brain must’ve not gotten the message because he didn’t back away. Luckily all the light had done was snap their fingers — or whatever they had attached at the end of the cylindrical limb that looked like an arm.

Harold’s eyes jammed closed with the sound of the snap. It hadn’t came at him like a regular sound, didn’t float in the air for a fraction of a second before entering his ears then his brain. No, it went straight to his head as if dynamite had been ignited by a gunshot, and he fell to his knees clutching the sides of his skull.

The noise reverberated for what seemed like decades, but when he opened his eyes again, it appeared that it had reverberated backwards. The bar was alive and pumping. No more cracked screened televisions. Now pictures moved across the screens like a television was apt to do, showcasing a baseball game. Cigarette smoke filled the air, causing Harold to see everything through a gray film.

A man carrying a bottle of beer with a retro design passed by, wearing a paisley shirt and a face covered in wiry brown mutton chops. He nodded to a group of friends on the opposite end of the bar. “Alright, alright,” he said. “Now this party’s gettin’ started. Guh-roovy!”

Harold said, “What the fuck?” softly under his breath before a man sporting a blood-red suit jacket and a neatly tied bowtie bent down to yank him up. On his face were a pair of Buddy Holly horn-rimmed glasses.

“If you’re too drunk to stand, buddy, then I think it’s about time you went home.” He looked behind him at the yellow sunlight streaming in, at the crisp blue water on the horizon, the tens — maybe hundreds of people — on the lake, tanned and smiling. “Not even two p.m. and you’re wasted, buddy. C’mon, bad for business.”

That voice sounded familiar. And so did the atmosphere. Though Harold might not have been a thought in his mother and father’s heads — and wouldn’t be for possibly another fifteen years — he’d felt like he’d been here before, felt like he’d seen this particular
now
in the history books, the movies, and old television shows.

The man had a tight grip on Harold, as he looked down, and saw he wore a tank top, a pair of all too short swim trunks, plain blue and alarmingly thin, as well as thong-toed sandals on his feet dusted with pale sand.
 

The man with the bowtie had a handful of the tank top Harold never remembered putting on and as he brought him closer to his face, his magnified eyes blinked slowly. “Man, oh man, you look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks,” Harold answered. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

“‘Nam?” he asked, letting go of him.

Harold started to say a smart-ass response, but the bartender cut him off.

“Me, too.” He pulled out a ball chain necklace from under his collar and dog tags hung over his bow tie. “4
th
Infantry. Got clipped in the Battle of Dak. Goddamned slit-eyes. They sent me home in ’69, right when that Armstrong fella walked on the moon. While my friends, the ones stuck out in that fuckin’ jungle, were gettin’ shot at and losing limbs. Fuckin waste of money and lives, I’ll tell ya. But you, man, you looked like you got it the worst. What were ya, a POW?”