Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2) by Spencer DeVeau
Authors: Spencer DeVeau
Ads: Link
needed it all.
With the mutants behind him, what choice did he have?
C HAPTER 15
The black blood stood out on the concrete of the Motel 8’s parking lot, and even Frank, as old as he was and as stuffed as his head had felt, still saw it. The world might’ve been on its way to Hell, but the city got it first. For the most part, the outskirts had been untouched except for the piles of abandoned cars lining the highway out of the city. And even then, it wasn’t that many. Whatever dark magic spilled into the city had done a good job at clamping down on the citizens from escaping.
Frank wondered just how far the witchcraft extended — how far it would extend when it was all said and done. But then he chuckled, bending down to stick a finger in the liquid which looked an awful lot like black tar on the light gray of the cracked concrete, because it didn’t matter what happened after Hell ate away the Earth. Frank had two goals, and he reckoned achieving one would lead him directly into the other.
The voice in his head had grown much more prominent. Driving down the highway, going the only plausible way the Burnt Man would’ve gone — away from the city — and steering through the parked cars, debris, bodies, the voice had whispered to him with such intensity, he slowed down, had to double-check the passenger’s seat for any stragglers he might’ve accidentally picked up back in Vampire country.
Of course, there was nobody there. The whispers came from his own head, and he couldn’t accept that at first, just like he couldn’t accept Travis’ death, his mistake, or the terrible nightmares as of late. But now as he stood there in the parking lot, a string of sticky, black blood dripping off between his fingers, he started to accept that voice.
Go to the Motel 8, it had said.
A voice he welcomed in the world’s gloomy silence. Well, except for the screams. He could always hear the screams. Whether they came from the city or from his head, he wasn’t sure. But they were there, that much remained true.
And the voice hadn’t been wrong.
But now where? Sure, Storm had been to the Motel 8, and judging from the warmth of the blood, from the freshness, it hadn’t been too long ago. He needed the voice again, needed direction. Storm was close, he could smell it. And Frank wouldn’t live long enough to be deemed a failure.
He walked back to the truck, crossbow slung over his back. He left the truck idling, afraid the old horse might keel over on him if he turned it off. Like Frank, the Ford was old, on its last leg, lived a good life. But unlike Frank, the truck’s youthful exuberance hadn’t been refueled by the idea of a Hunt. Machinery was machinery, no simple way around it. The attachment Frank felt for the aging truck wasn’t reciprocated.
Frank jumped as the door slammed shut, the engine kicked into gear, and revved like a pissed-off lion. It had happened so quick, he didn’t have enough time to dive out of the way before the truck hit him. He jumped as it did though, softening the blow. But he screamed regardless, felt his kneecaps buckle, the red-hot pain, then a momentary numbness of nerve overload.
A frazzled looking young man, with wild hair that probably hung down to his asshole had he been standing, sat behind the wheel waving his hand, mouthing the words “Get the fuck off! Move! Move!” which Frank could hardly hear over the engine.
He had no intention of letting go as the truck picked up speed. His hands gripped the steel hood, right beneath the rotten windshield wipers he had meant to replace five years ago. The truck creaked and groaned, engine sounded much worse on the outside than the inside. Sounded like death lurked right behind the next speed bump.
But that theory quickly dissolved as the truck hit the curb and lifted a few inches off of the ground. The driver’s side, where Frank’s right leg wrapped around the left headlight, smacked through the long-forgotten bushes. His jeans
With the mutants behind him, what choice did he have?
C HAPTER 15
The black blood stood out on the concrete of the Motel 8’s parking lot, and even Frank, as old as he was and as stuffed as his head had felt, still saw it. The world might’ve been on its way to Hell, but the city got it first. For the most part, the outskirts had been untouched except for the piles of abandoned cars lining the highway out of the city. And even then, it wasn’t that many. Whatever dark magic spilled into the city had done a good job at clamping down on the citizens from escaping.
Frank wondered just how far the witchcraft extended — how far it would extend when it was all said and done. But then he chuckled, bending down to stick a finger in the liquid which looked an awful lot like black tar on the light gray of the cracked concrete, because it didn’t matter what happened after Hell ate away the Earth. Frank had two goals, and he reckoned achieving one would lead him directly into the other.
The voice in his head had grown much more prominent. Driving down the highway, going the only plausible way the Burnt Man would’ve gone — away from the city — and steering through the parked cars, debris, bodies, the voice had whispered to him with such intensity, he slowed down, had to double-check the passenger’s seat for any stragglers he might’ve accidentally picked up back in Vampire country.
Of course, there was nobody there. The whispers came from his own head, and he couldn’t accept that at first, just like he couldn’t accept Travis’ death, his mistake, or the terrible nightmares as of late. But now as he stood there in the parking lot, a string of sticky, black blood dripping off between his fingers, he started to accept that voice.
Go to the Motel 8, it had said.
A voice he welcomed in the world’s gloomy silence. Well, except for the screams. He could always hear the screams. Whether they came from the city or from his head, he wasn’t sure. But they were there, that much remained true.
And the voice hadn’t been wrong.
But now where? Sure, Storm had been to the Motel 8, and judging from the warmth of the blood, from the freshness, it hadn’t been too long ago. He needed the voice again, needed direction. Storm was close, he could smell it. And Frank wouldn’t live long enough to be deemed a failure.
He walked back to the truck, crossbow slung over his back. He left the truck idling, afraid the old horse might keel over on him if he turned it off. Like Frank, the Ford was old, on its last leg, lived a good life. But unlike Frank, the truck’s youthful exuberance hadn’t been refueled by the idea of a Hunt. Machinery was machinery, no simple way around it. The attachment Frank felt for the aging truck wasn’t reciprocated.
Frank jumped as the door slammed shut, the engine kicked into gear, and revved like a pissed-off lion. It had happened so quick, he didn’t have enough time to dive out of the way before the truck hit him. He jumped as it did though, softening the blow. But he screamed regardless, felt his kneecaps buckle, the red-hot pain, then a momentary numbness of nerve overload.
A frazzled looking young man, with wild hair that probably hung down to his asshole had he been standing, sat behind the wheel waving his hand, mouthing the words “Get the fuck off! Move! Move!” which Frank could hardly hear over the engine.
He had no intention of letting go as the truck picked up speed. His hands gripped the steel hood, right beneath the rotten windshield wipers he had meant to replace five years ago. The truck creaked and groaned, engine sounded much worse on the outside than the inside. Sounded like death lurked right behind the next speed bump.
But that theory quickly dissolved as the truck hit the curb and lifted a few inches off of the ground. The driver’s side, where Frank’s right leg wrapped around the left headlight, smacked through the long-forgotten bushes. His jeans
Similar Books
