Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2) by Spencer DeVeau Page A
Authors: Spencer DeVeau
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ripped, skin whacked with needles and thorns. He looked over his shoulder, saw the phone booth coming, gulped, fearing for his truck more than he feared for his well-being. But he managed to move out of the way before the glass exploded near his right ear and rained down upon him, sticking into his hair, poking his skin, falling down the collar of his shirt.
He almost let go then. If he had, he’d’ve been as flat as the phone booth.
The driver, as his last option, slammed on the breaks. But Frank’s upper-torso strength wasn’t as old and worn as he originally thought, plus his fingernails practically dug into the metal of the hood, like a frightened — he liked to think, determined — cat. He wasn’t going anywhere. And he reached deep down inside of himself, every muscle in his body bulging to the maximum, every joint yelling, and pulled closer to the windshield.
He screamed as he brought his right hand back in a fist. An open-mouthed gape stretched on the driver’s face.
And Frank’s fist struck the glass sideways the same way a judge’s gavel would strike a sound block before requesting order in the court.
It only took one clean hit for the glass to buckle, for the spray of glittering shards to fly inward and rain down on the driver like the destroyed phone booth had. But the driver hadn’t been as lucky. The glass hadn’t just stuck in his hair — most of it had landed in his open mouth, or his widened eyes. Blood streamed down his face like tears. Both hands shot off of the wheel, moving towards the wounds. His whole body lost control, foot slammed on the gas, making the engine whine and wheeze. And the truck veered off of its track like a derailed train.
Three columns held the awning of the hotel in place, made of brick, each one about five feet wide. The truck careened straight for them.
But the man jerked the wheel at the last second, sending the truck on two wheels, slowing it down. Frank held on tight simply by reflex, knowing he’d regret it.
Through the chaos, the man’s face was a bloody mess. His hands held onto the wheel, knuckles white, mouth wide open screaming bloody, glass-choked screams.
Frank saw where the vehicle headed, and slipped off, willing every tendon in his hands to let go despite the fear freezing his body.
His head cracked against the pavement, caused his vision to go fuzzy, blank out like a television that had lost its signal, and he rolled a few feet until a chipped yellow parking block stopped him. He heard a snap and a great spike of agony somehow louder than the rest of the pain, which quickly fizzled away with utter shock as his eyes adjusted.
The truck barreled into the Motel 8 sign that shot straight up into the black sky, flagging tired cross-country drivers as a welcome place to stay.
Frank’s heart broke when the hood of the Ford screeched up like an accordion. So much for ‘Built Ford Tough,’ even though the truck had been nearly half Frank’s age.
It sounded like a garbage masher mating with a wood chipper. And each heart-wrenching screech brought Frank closer to tears. For a second, he thought the tears came, until he realized it was just fluid that had sprayed from the hood, or possibly the blood from the carjacker.
Above him the sign creaked, tottered, and finally fell. Frank watched it happen in slow motion, and didn’t think about moving until the black Shadow passed over his face, coming straight for him.
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
He almost let go then. If he had, he’d’ve been as flat as the phone booth.
The driver, as his last option, slammed on the breaks. But Frank’s upper-torso strength wasn’t as old and worn as he originally thought, plus his fingernails practically dug into the metal of the hood, like a frightened — he liked to think, determined — cat. He wasn’t going anywhere. And he reached deep down inside of himself, every muscle in his body bulging to the maximum, every joint yelling, and pulled closer to the windshield.
He screamed as he brought his right hand back in a fist. An open-mouthed gape stretched on the driver’s face.
And Frank’s fist struck the glass sideways the same way a judge’s gavel would strike a sound block before requesting order in the court.
It only took one clean hit for the glass to buckle, for the spray of glittering shards to fly inward and rain down on the driver like the destroyed phone booth had. But the driver hadn’t been as lucky. The glass hadn’t just stuck in his hair — most of it had landed in his open mouth, or his widened eyes. Blood streamed down his face like tears. Both hands shot off of the wheel, moving towards the wounds. His whole body lost control, foot slammed on the gas, making the engine whine and wheeze. And the truck veered off of its track like a derailed train.
Three columns held the awning of the hotel in place, made of brick, each one about five feet wide. The truck careened straight for them.
But the man jerked the wheel at the last second, sending the truck on two wheels, slowing it down. Frank held on tight simply by reflex, knowing he’d regret it.
Through the chaos, the man’s face was a bloody mess. His hands held onto the wheel, knuckles white, mouth wide open screaming bloody, glass-choked screams.
Frank saw where the vehicle headed, and slipped off, willing every tendon in his hands to let go despite the fear freezing his body.
His head cracked against the pavement, caused his vision to go fuzzy, blank out like a television that had lost its signal, and he rolled a few feet until a chipped yellow parking block stopped him. He heard a snap and a great spike of agony somehow louder than the rest of the pain, which quickly fizzled away with utter shock as his eyes adjusted.
The truck barreled into the Motel 8 sign that shot straight up into the black sky, flagging tired cross-country drivers as a welcome place to stay.
Frank’s heart broke when the hood of the Ford screeched up like an accordion. So much for ‘Built Ford Tough,’ even though the truck had been nearly half Frank’s age.
It sounded like a garbage masher mating with a wood chipper. And each heart-wrenching screech brought Frank closer to tears. For a second, he thought the tears came, until he realized it was just fluid that had sprayed from the hood, or possibly the blood from the carjacker.
Above him the sign creaked, tottered, and finally fell. Frank watched it happen in slow motion, and didn’t think about moving until the black Shadow passed over his face, coming straight for him.
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
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