Read Online Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2) by Spencer DeVeau - Free Book Online
Authors: Spencer DeVeau
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yours?”
“Frank King,” he answered, but that was all he could say as he nodded, his father’s voice ringing in the back of his mind:
Rule Number Three: Don’t be a cocky asshole, or you’ll die.
C HAPTER 9
Sahara didn’t have much time, if any at all. Harold could feel her heartbeat slowing as he cradled her against his chest. For such a petite girl she must’ve weighed close to two hundred pounds, yet he didn’t know whether that had to do with the fact she was a Protector of the Realms, or the fact she had what must’ve been about a hundred pounds worth of Demon venom coursing through her body.
All Harold knew for sure was that he needed to get her help, and she needed that help fast. The Vampires may not have liked him, but Sahara was an old friend — and he felt his face flushing thinking about it — to Roman; an old flame perhaps. She’d never revealed any details, but there was evidence enough. When Roman was alive, Harold could’ve gotten high on the hormones leaking off of their skin, like they were bugs and mating season was nigh.
Bleh, he thought, shuddering.
Sahara had been the woman of his dreams and without her, he didn’t know where he’d be — dead, probably. She was there when he needed her, and in the past few days that was a lot. They had been fast friends, and — he hoped — slow lovers. Now she needed him, and he wasn’t going to let some grumpy, older and much uglier version of Legolas stand in his way.
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?
Besides, that crossbow seemed to come in handy against the Demons. If there were anymore outside of the throne room, Frank could cut a path, and Harold could find the Vampires. One of them would be sure to help, wouldn’t they?
Outside of the room, past the crumpled iron door and the sea of black blood, a smell of death hung in the air like the smell of a dying fire. The decay of venom-induced corpses would probably never leave Harold’s nostrils, sadly, and he accepted that. A torch flickered at the end of the hallway, near the steps, wooden and intricately carved by the Keebler Elves, at least Harold made himself think that to lighten the dark storm brewing in the recesses of his mind. A mind balancing on a high wire ten feet above a volcano with one foot and no safety net below; a mind threatened by the venom.
But no, Harold wouldn’t — couldn’t — let it take him. The thoughts, the dark thoughts. The death, the power. Oh Dark One, the power.
Where you belong, Harry.
Come home.
No.
He wouldn’t. He was a Protector, even if his Deathblade was gone, and the Wolves were dead inside of his mind, decaying, with the maggots devouring their flesh, laying their eggs in their dying warmth. Protectors persevered, and Harold was sick of giving up. Marcy had been right back at her apartment complex when the rage boiled inside of him and he nearly killed her model boyfriend. She had told him how he’d been a failure, and he’d been blinded by the fact that time had been in his favor. His acting career would take off one day, right? He’d get out of the city and into a mansion in the mountains. Parties every night. The booze would flow like the blood of the dead ones strewn in the hall he walked through on his way to the steps, with Sahara cradled in his arms, her death blade extended, and Frank ahead of him, sights aimed down.
The girls, too. He’d have any girl he wanted. And his bank account — would never have to worry about money again.
Right?
Wrong.
Though Marcy had been right.
Frank sucked in a deep, shaky breath in front of him. Harold could smell the fear rolling off of the man — and the doubt.
Harold’s time would never come because Time didn’t care about someone’s goals and dreams. That bitch never stopped; the clocks continued to tick and tock; the world still spun. Yeah, even if you never achieved your dreams, Time would never relent.
Harold’s time was now, and it had took him awhile to
“Frank King,” he answered, but that was all he could say as he nodded, his father’s voice ringing in the back of his mind:
Rule Number Three: Don’t be a cocky asshole, or you’ll die.
C HAPTER 9
Sahara didn’t have much time, if any at all. Harold could feel her heartbeat slowing as he cradled her against his chest. For such a petite girl she must’ve weighed close to two hundred pounds, yet he didn’t know whether that had to do with the fact she was a Protector of the Realms, or the fact she had what must’ve been about a hundred pounds worth of Demon venom coursing through her body.
All Harold knew for sure was that he needed to get her help, and she needed that help fast. The Vampires may not have liked him, but Sahara was an old friend — and he felt his face flushing thinking about it — to Roman; an old flame perhaps. She’d never revealed any details, but there was evidence enough. When Roman was alive, Harold could’ve gotten high on the hormones leaking off of their skin, like they were bugs and mating season was nigh.
Bleh, he thought, shuddering.
Sahara had been the woman of his dreams and without her, he didn’t know where he’d be — dead, probably. She was there when he needed her, and in the past few days that was a lot. They had been fast friends, and — he hoped — slow lovers. Now she needed him, and he wasn’t going to let some grumpy, older and much uglier version of Legolas stand in his way.
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?
Besides, that crossbow seemed to come in handy against the Demons. If there were anymore outside of the throne room, Frank could cut a path, and Harold could find the Vampires. One of them would be sure to help, wouldn’t they?
Outside of the room, past the crumpled iron door and the sea of black blood, a smell of death hung in the air like the smell of a dying fire. The decay of venom-induced corpses would probably never leave Harold’s nostrils, sadly, and he accepted that. A torch flickered at the end of the hallway, near the steps, wooden and intricately carved by the Keebler Elves, at least Harold made himself think that to lighten the dark storm brewing in the recesses of his mind. A mind balancing on a high wire ten feet above a volcano with one foot and no safety net below; a mind threatened by the venom.
But no, Harold wouldn’t — couldn’t — let it take him. The thoughts, the dark thoughts. The death, the power. Oh Dark One, the power.
Where you belong, Harry.
Come home.
No.
He wouldn’t. He was a Protector, even if his Deathblade was gone, and the Wolves were dead inside of his mind, decaying, with the maggots devouring their flesh, laying their eggs in their dying warmth. Protectors persevered, and Harold was sick of giving up. Marcy had been right back at her apartment complex when the rage boiled inside of him and he nearly killed her model boyfriend. She had told him how he’d been a failure, and he’d been blinded by the fact that time had been in his favor. His acting career would take off one day, right? He’d get out of the city and into a mansion in the mountains. Parties every night. The booze would flow like the blood of the dead ones strewn in the hall he walked through on his way to the steps, with Sahara cradled in his arms, her death blade extended, and Frank ahead of him, sights aimed down.
The girls, too. He’d have any girl he wanted. And his bank account — would never have to worry about money again.
Right?
Wrong.
Though Marcy had been right.
Frank sucked in a deep, shaky breath in front of him. Harold could smell the fear rolling off of the man — and the doubt.
Harold’s time would never come because Time didn’t care about someone’s goals and dreams. That bitch never stopped; the clocks continued to tick and tock; the world still spun. Yeah, even if you never achieved your dreams, Time would never relent.
Harold’s time was now, and it had took him awhile to