Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2) by Spencer DeVeau Page B
Authors: Spencer DeVeau
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— all just products of rampant dementia and post traumatic stress disorder, that voice in his head spoke, and with the utmost confidence.
He shrugged off that moment of doubt and began walking away. He might be going crazy, and he might eventually have to accept the fact that it would be his undoing. But still optimism was another thing preached by his original teacher, his father. And he could ask the questions that mattered if it meant finding the Dark One who’d slain Travis.
Questions like: How many more trees would he have to visit before he found him, the him the voice spoke about ? How many visions would he have to have before he couldn’t take it anymore and he actually pressed hard enough on the arrow against his neck to free him of it all?
He didn’t have the answers, but he was willing to find out, willing to swim in the blood of the Vampires and the Demons for the rest of time if it meant gaining that knowledge.
“Not even a goodbye? After you tried to skewer my brain, really, man?”
Frank turned his head until his chin hovered over his left shoulder, not giving the burned man his full attention, crossbow still in his right hand, somehow heavier with the weight of failure, and he said: “It’s not goodbye, Storm. I imagine I’ll see you in Hell before this is all said and done.”
“Ah nice, real philosophical. Can I get a little help over here? I think you owe me that much. I’m not exactly in my best physical condition, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Leave the girl, and save yourself, Storm,” Frank said before turning away and leaving.
Behind him, he heard the man’s lagging footsteps shuffling. And he had a smile on his face as he thought about the impending conflict. He craved blood and he only needed the slightest sign of ill will for provocation — for a reason to pull the trigger. He’d killed innocent supernaturals for much less, and a man like Storm — one who’d hung with the Vampires and burned in the fires of Hell — didn’t deserve to walk amongst the Mortals of Earth.
Rule Number Two: Don’t swing first, but make sure you swing last, his father’s voice sang in his mind, like a preacher.
So many voices.
But the distant echo of his father brought him back to the riverbed, near the reeds taller than his ten year old frame, stronger too. Father wrestled a worm onto a fishing hook, making a show of how harshly he’d speared the insect, making sure the punch of metal into wormy flesh coincided with swing last.
“I wish it were that easy,” Storm said.
And Frank wheeled around to see the razor-sharp point of a blade running from the flesh of the red-headed woman in Storm’s arms. His fingers curled around the girl’s hands which curled around the hilt, directing the movement like a demented puppeteer.
Frank backed away, but the blade followed until the harsh wooden walls pressed against his back and the blade dug into the wrinkled flesh of his neck, right above the healing cut of his own doing. And when the blade met his skin, a voice shrieked in his head, one he’d not heard yet, but he recognized as pure evil.
“Now, the way I see it,” Storm said, eyes narrowed at the tip of the blade disappearing into the folds of Frank’s neck, “You owe me for the stress you put me under for no apparent reason other than the fact that you didn’t like my looks. Which, I guess, is typical from an old asshole like yourself, but what can I do? I think it’s time you pay your dues. And if you obey, and help me get out of here alive, I’ll spare your life.”
Frank tried to talk. But his muscles had froze, fearing that one wrong syllable would cause his Adam’s apple to bob up and he’d choke on a pool of his own blood.
“I think you and I could make a great team. We both have a common interest, and if we get my friend some help here, we might even be the Three Musketeers 2.0.” Storm paused, regarded Frank carefully, then: “I told you my name, now what’s
He shrugged off that moment of doubt and began walking away. He might be going crazy, and he might eventually have to accept the fact that it would be his undoing. But still optimism was another thing preached by his original teacher, his father. And he could ask the questions that mattered if it meant finding the Dark One who’d slain Travis.
Questions like: How many more trees would he have to visit before he found him, the him the voice spoke about ? How many visions would he have to have before he couldn’t take it anymore and he actually pressed hard enough on the arrow against his neck to free him of it all?
He didn’t have the answers, but he was willing to find out, willing to swim in the blood of the Vampires and the Demons for the rest of time if it meant gaining that knowledge.
“Not even a goodbye? After you tried to skewer my brain, really, man?”
Frank turned his head until his chin hovered over his left shoulder, not giving the burned man his full attention, crossbow still in his right hand, somehow heavier with the weight of failure, and he said: “It’s not goodbye, Storm. I imagine I’ll see you in Hell before this is all said and done.”
“Ah nice, real philosophical. Can I get a little help over here? I think you owe me that much. I’m not exactly in my best physical condition, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Leave the girl, and save yourself, Storm,” Frank said before turning away and leaving.
Behind him, he heard the man’s lagging footsteps shuffling. And he had a smile on his face as he thought about the impending conflict. He craved blood and he only needed the slightest sign of ill will for provocation — for a reason to pull the trigger. He’d killed innocent supernaturals for much less, and a man like Storm — one who’d hung with the Vampires and burned in the fires of Hell — didn’t deserve to walk amongst the Mortals of Earth.
Rule Number Two: Don’t swing first, but make sure you swing last, his father’s voice sang in his mind, like a preacher.
So many voices.
But the distant echo of his father brought him back to the riverbed, near the reeds taller than his ten year old frame, stronger too. Father wrestled a worm onto a fishing hook, making a show of how harshly he’d speared the insect, making sure the punch of metal into wormy flesh coincided with swing last.
“I wish it were that easy,” Storm said.
And Frank wheeled around to see the razor-sharp point of a blade running from the flesh of the red-headed woman in Storm’s arms. His fingers curled around the girl’s hands which curled around the hilt, directing the movement like a demented puppeteer.
Frank backed away, but the blade followed until the harsh wooden walls pressed against his back and the blade dug into the wrinkled flesh of his neck, right above the healing cut of his own doing. And when the blade met his skin, a voice shrieked in his head, one he’d not heard yet, but he recognized as pure evil.
“Now, the way I see it,” Storm said, eyes narrowed at the tip of the blade disappearing into the folds of Frank’s neck, “You owe me for the stress you put me under for no apparent reason other than the fact that you didn’t like my looks. Which, I guess, is typical from an old asshole like yourself, but what can I do? I think it’s time you pay your dues. And if you obey, and help me get out of here alive, I’ll spare your life.”
Frank tried to talk. But his muscles had froze, fearing that one wrong syllable would cause his Adam’s apple to bob up and he’d choke on a pool of his own blood.
“I think you and I could make a great team. We both have a common interest, and if we get my friend some help here, we might even be the Three Musketeers 2.0.” Storm paused, regarded Frank carefully, then: “I told you my name, now what’s
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