Shadowbound: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Realm Protectors Book 2) by Spencer DeVeau Page B
Authors: Spencer DeVeau
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scream. The blood-curdling screams that curdled Frank’s blood.
Then his father’s voice came into his head again, and so did Rule Number Four: Look out for your own, Franky. You never know when you’ll need an ally.
But that’s not why he rushed towards the car, with his newly cracked ribs and bruising — possibly fractured — shin and knee bones. He ran because he wanted to watch the man suffer. Wanted to watch him burn for stealing his car, for hurting him, and most importantly, for ruining his truck — the only vestige he had to his normal world, before Travis left him alone and cold, so cold.
He remembered taking him to school on his first day of kindergarten, though Travis, as stern and hard-headed as he was, wanted to ride the bus, wanted to meet new friends, show off his little G.I. Joe action figure he carried everywhere with him. But Frank shuddered at the thought of letting his little guy ride the bus alone. He knew how the other kids were — like blood-thirsty animals, willing to kill any weakling to fit in. He’d been one himself back in the day.
That first day had been so hard, just the thought of being alone at the house — no Travis, no cheesy kid’s cartoons. No one to make lunch for. No crusts to cut off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Those thoughts had nearly killed him.
Travis’ mom had passed when he was two — car accident. But Frank and Lori had been separated at the time — pretty much hated each other at that point — and he’d only seen Travis when she wanted him to, which was not much.
The three years after Lori’s death had Frank lying awake at night, mentally punching himself in the face for not making more of an effort to see his son those first two years. But he couldn’t go back and change the past. What’s done is done; it wasn’t one of his father’s rules, but it should’ve been.
Rule Number Eleven: What’s done is done. Move on. There, you happy, Franky?
The thoughts washed over him in a blur of rage. He smelled the burning flesh, felt the heat of the flames blasting his face, singeing his gray-speckled eyebrows. No, the thief wouldn’t get off easy. Just like the creature with those dark, dark eyes who’d killed his son; just like Harold Storm.
He edged around the truck, saw the man writhing in flames like the fire had been made of lightning. That wild hair was all but stubble. The blood that had streaked his face was now just a mess of tender flesh and raw meat. Still, the man bucked and rolled, knocking an elbow against the back left hubcap.
Frank kicked a boot into the man’s gut, stepped down, feeling the man’s beer belly squish beneath him.
“Davey,” he moaned. “He’s sick. He’s dyin’. Back by t-that big rock…”
Frank laughed. “If you haven’t noticed, the whole world is dying. Get over it. And you ain’t any exception either, buddy.”
When he felt the heat cooking his sole, he removed the boot, and knelt down next to the man, still twitching. He reached a hand out, covered in blood, and patted the small flames that danced on his dirty, once pale jean jacket.
“So sorry, Charlie,” he said.
The man moaned again as Frank snuffed out the last flame.
“Oh get over it, it’s gonna be a lot hotter where you’re going, my friend.”
He opened his mouth, let out a soft groan. And Frank couldn’t help but smile as the man suffered below him.
Then his lips twitched, phantom words dancing on his tongue. Frank leaned in closer to hear what he had to say, but instead of words, a fountain of black, murky water spewed out of the man’s mouth like projectile vomit or some kind of Demonic faucet.
Frank’s hands shot up in front of him. No good. The water leaked through his hands. Smelled like chemicals, had the consistency of cooking oil. He slipped as he backed away.
The burnt man stood up before him, hovered above, loomed like a black Shadow of death. His eyes only showed the whites and the water slowed down
Then his father’s voice came into his head again, and so did Rule Number Four: Look out for your own, Franky. You never know when you’ll need an ally.
But that’s not why he rushed towards the car, with his newly cracked ribs and bruising — possibly fractured — shin and knee bones. He ran because he wanted to watch the man suffer. Wanted to watch him burn for stealing his car, for hurting him, and most importantly, for ruining his truck — the only vestige he had to his normal world, before Travis left him alone and cold, so cold.
He remembered taking him to school on his first day of kindergarten, though Travis, as stern and hard-headed as he was, wanted to ride the bus, wanted to meet new friends, show off his little G.I. Joe action figure he carried everywhere with him. But Frank shuddered at the thought of letting his little guy ride the bus alone. He knew how the other kids were — like blood-thirsty animals, willing to kill any weakling to fit in. He’d been one himself back in the day.
That first day had been so hard, just the thought of being alone at the house — no Travis, no cheesy kid’s cartoons. No one to make lunch for. No crusts to cut off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Those thoughts had nearly killed him.
Travis’ mom had passed when he was two — car accident. But Frank and Lori had been separated at the time — pretty much hated each other at that point — and he’d only seen Travis when she wanted him to, which was not much.
The three years after Lori’s death had Frank lying awake at night, mentally punching himself in the face for not making more of an effort to see his son those first two years. But he couldn’t go back and change the past. What’s done is done; it wasn’t one of his father’s rules, but it should’ve been.
Rule Number Eleven: What’s done is done. Move on. There, you happy, Franky?
The thoughts washed over him in a blur of rage. He smelled the burning flesh, felt the heat of the flames blasting his face, singeing his gray-speckled eyebrows. No, the thief wouldn’t get off easy. Just like the creature with those dark, dark eyes who’d killed his son; just like Harold Storm.
He edged around the truck, saw the man writhing in flames like the fire had been made of lightning. That wild hair was all but stubble. The blood that had streaked his face was now just a mess of tender flesh and raw meat. Still, the man bucked and rolled, knocking an elbow against the back left hubcap.
Frank kicked a boot into the man’s gut, stepped down, feeling the man’s beer belly squish beneath him.
“Davey,” he moaned. “He’s sick. He’s dyin’. Back by t-that big rock…”
Frank laughed. “If you haven’t noticed, the whole world is dying. Get over it. And you ain’t any exception either, buddy.”
When he felt the heat cooking his sole, he removed the boot, and knelt down next to the man, still twitching. He reached a hand out, covered in blood, and patted the small flames that danced on his dirty, once pale jean jacket.
“So sorry, Charlie,” he said.
The man moaned again as Frank snuffed out the last flame.
“Oh get over it, it’s gonna be a lot hotter where you’re going, my friend.”
He opened his mouth, let out a soft groan. And Frank couldn’t help but smile as the man suffered below him.
Then his lips twitched, phantom words dancing on his tongue. Frank leaned in closer to hear what he had to say, but instead of words, a fountain of black, murky water spewed out of the man’s mouth like projectile vomit or some kind of Demonic faucet.
Frank’s hands shot up in front of him. No good. The water leaked through his hands. Smelled like chemicals, had the consistency of cooking oil. He slipped as he backed away.
The burnt man stood up before him, hovered above, loomed like a black Shadow of death. His eyes only showed the whites and the water slowed down
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