Read Online Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2) by Spencer DeVeau - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Spencer DeVeau
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Move!”
But Harold couldn’t. His options were drown or get eaten, or drop Sahara and try to swim through the roaring wave of black venom. He wasn’t a good swimmer, and no way in Hell would he drop Sahara, which also meant that he couldn’t fight either.
The Demon didn’t care about those things; neither did the wave.
An arrow struck the Demon in the thigh, and the beast’s knee buckled. Rippling skin and jagged bones jutting out from beneath it.
“Goddamn it, Storm, drop the girl and fight. I can’t hold him off myself.”
The wave had slowed down, suspended in mid-air like a paused movie. Maybe he wouldn’t drown after all.
In all the chaos, Harold breathed a sigh of relief, then the Demon roared again; a sound the clearheaded Harold heard with all too much intensity. He felt the hot breath of the damn thing right near the back of his neck. The poor hat on his head — rippled and torn all over, speared by an arrow, and not even two days old — blew wildly down the hallway as if Harold got caught in the middle of a tornado.
Frank’s crossbow clattered off of the floor, and he screamed. The Demon held him with one hand like a giant playing with an action figure and he brought the man up to his bared teeth, jaws opening wider than the mouth of a tunnel. The fangs dripped with black venom; sour breath destroyed the earthy scent of the Tree; and Frank looked into the blackness like a man sick of life and ready for death.
Harold watched with wide open eyes, until the beast grunted. And the noise smacked Harold in the face with sensibility. He didn’t know what to do. Frank was halfway in the beast’s maw, kicking and fighting, but he could see the fight dying within him, like a man giving up.
He cradled Sahara like a sick child. He had no Deathblade. No Wolves. No strength. No back up. A head full of venom, himself. And the old man had tried to kill him, actually. They weren’t exactly friends. Plus the eyes — those black eyes. It had just been a minute, but surely Harold wasn’t crazy, was he? He’d seen it.
And now, he was given a choice, and as the horrible breath of the monster filled the hall, and the sounds from the black wave of venom clashed behind him, the right choice became clearer.
He ran, maneuvering by the distracted Demon.
His feet bounded up the three flights of stairs to a room he faintly remembered, that might’ve been the room he had first entered when Sahara could still stand on her own. There they had waited for someone to direct them to the King. But now the room’s walls dripped with black ichor, like drying motor oil, and the smell reminded Harold of his Grandfather’s funeral. That sickening sweet smell of death and flowers. Earth and decay.
His head whirled.
He heard the Demon shriek, before Frank’s faint voice escaped from three levels below, yelling: “ No!”
Harold shook it off. The man would’ve killed him as soon as he had the chance anyway, he tried to tell himself. Frank was a loose cannon. A man thirsty for revenge. Quick to pull the trigger on whomever he could place blame on.
And Harold could find his own way — after all, he wasn’t the old Harold anymore, right? He was the new lean, mean, burnt machine that destroyed the supernatural for shits and giggles.
The new Harold wouldn’t leave a man to his death, that black voice inside of his head hissed. But the Harold we want would. I am oh so proud of you.
The magic door, the one that had glowed orange and amber when Sahara pushed it open was ripped away. And in the trunk of the great tree stood a gaping hole. Fractures and splinters edged the outline. Black lines of death ran up the bark like cancer.
Outside, the piny scent of the forest became the smell of an upturned graveyard. Half a Vampire laid in a pool of blood at his feet. An arm here, an arm there. A crumpled Demon corpse hung from a broken tree. The dark outlines of birds pecked away at the scaly flesh. Harold cringed at the
But Harold couldn’t. His options were drown or get eaten, or drop Sahara and try to swim through the roaring wave of black venom. He wasn’t a good swimmer, and no way in Hell would he drop Sahara, which also meant that he couldn’t fight either.
The Demon didn’t care about those things; neither did the wave.
An arrow struck the Demon in the thigh, and the beast’s knee buckled. Rippling skin and jagged bones jutting out from beneath it.
“Goddamn it, Storm, drop the girl and fight. I can’t hold him off myself.”
The wave had slowed down, suspended in mid-air like a paused movie. Maybe he wouldn’t drown after all.
In all the chaos, Harold breathed a sigh of relief, then the Demon roared again; a sound the clearheaded Harold heard with all too much intensity. He felt the hot breath of the damn thing right near the back of his neck. The poor hat on his head — rippled and torn all over, speared by an arrow, and not even two days old — blew wildly down the hallway as if Harold got caught in the middle of a tornado.
Frank’s crossbow clattered off of the floor, and he screamed. The Demon held him with one hand like a giant playing with an action figure and he brought the man up to his bared teeth, jaws opening wider than the mouth of a tunnel. The fangs dripped with black venom; sour breath destroyed the earthy scent of the Tree; and Frank looked into the blackness like a man sick of life and ready for death.
Harold watched with wide open eyes, until the beast grunted. And the noise smacked Harold in the face with sensibility. He didn’t know what to do. Frank was halfway in the beast’s maw, kicking and fighting, but he could see the fight dying within him, like a man giving up.
He cradled Sahara like a sick child. He had no Deathblade. No Wolves. No strength. No back up. A head full of venom, himself. And the old man had tried to kill him, actually. They weren’t exactly friends. Plus the eyes — those black eyes. It had just been a minute, but surely Harold wasn’t crazy, was he? He’d seen it.
And now, he was given a choice, and as the horrible breath of the monster filled the hall, and the sounds from the black wave of venom clashed behind him, the right choice became clearer.
He ran, maneuvering by the distracted Demon.
His feet bounded up the three flights of stairs to a room he faintly remembered, that might’ve been the room he had first entered when Sahara could still stand on her own. There they had waited for someone to direct them to the King. But now the room’s walls dripped with black ichor, like drying motor oil, and the smell reminded Harold of his Grandfather’s funeral. That sickening sweet smell of death and flowers. Earth and decay.
His head whirled.
He heard the Demon shriek, before Frank’s faint voice escaped from three levels below, yelling: “ No!”
Harold shook it off. The man would’ve killed him as soon as he had the chance anyway, he tried to tell himself. Frank was a loose cannon. A man thirsty for revenge. Quick to pull the trigger on whomever he could place blame on.
And Harold could find his own way — after all, he wasn’t the old Harold anymore, right? He was the new lean, mean, burnt machine that destroyed the supernatural for shits and giggles.
The new Harold wouldn’t leave a man to his death, that black voice inside of his head hissed. But the Harold we want would. I am oh so proud of you.
The magic door, the one that had glowed orange and amber when Sahara pushed it open was ripped away. And in the trunk of the great tree stood a gaping hole. Fractures and splinters edged the outline. Black lines of death ran up the bark like cancer.
Outside, the piny scent of the forest became the smell of an upturned graveyard. Half a Vampire laid in a pool of blood at his feet. An arm here, an arm there. A crumpled Demon corpse hung from a broken tree. The dark outlines of birds pecked away at the scaly flesh. Harold cringed at the
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