The Protectors

Amela Robince, a once average 18 year old girl living in Spring Lake, Virginia. She has gone her whole life believing she was anything but interesting, and at the bottom of the list when it came to special. Suddenly, her life takes a dramatic turn when she discovers a mysterious ball of light in the woods near her house. She came in contact with this strange attraction, and since then, her new immortal life was anything but average. Sustaining new powers, with a new job to help defend the world against intimidating monsters with 7 other strangers, Amela has the world placed on her shoulders. Battling her way through the supernatural and attempting to resist the inevitable charms of fellow Protector Harry Styles, follow us on this incredible journey of love, loss, and crusade.

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1. Prologue

 

London, England
1834


After a scandalous night of drinking and hookers, Harry stumbled down the dead streets of old London, his vision blurry as he tried his best to walk and stand up at the same time. His drunken eyes were clouding with the yellow-tinged lights that aligned the stone paved streets. Small debris and stray papers breezed through the roads and alley ways with the light wind, ruffling Harry’s curls as he collapsed on a street bench, too intoxicated to make sense of his surroundings.  He heard distant shouts from the bar he had just exited down the street; his also drunk crew was making their way out, shouting Harry’s name.

Harry tried to call out, but for some reason the words could not escape his lips. When he attempted to stand from the bench, his usually strong and toned muscles gave little strength. He heard the shouts and calls from his friends growing weaker and weaker as they headed in the opposite direction. Harry closed his eyes, resting them for a few moments before he opened them again, staring up at the night sky, the bright stars blurry and deformed.

He was about to close his lids once more when he saw a tinge of bright light in the corner of his eye. His head slowly turned to find a small sphere of light floating besides the railing of the bridge that lead to the water below. This glowing orb was so bright, Harry was mesmerized. Looking at this ball of light made him stronger somehow, strong enough to stand up and stumble over to the source. It was like a gravitational pull; he needed to be close to it. The object made no sound; in fact it seemed to have muted everything around Harry. He could no longer hear the rustling of papers across stone pavement, or the calm streaming of water against the rock bed below the bridge. Though he could feel the wind on his skin, he couldn’t hear the familiar sound of it moving in the air.

It was as if the world went silent, and all that mattered was Harry and this mysterious ball of light. He reached out his hand, edging nearer and nearer to the attraction. His fingertips came in contact with the light, but he couldn’t feel anything. At first, nothing happened. Harry felt almost disappointed, he had expected at least something to occur. He pulled his arm away leisurely, and right at that moment, the world had exploded into a fit of light.

Harry was blasted on his back; all he could see was a fluorescent, blinding white light that began to burn his eyes. He closed them tight, raising his arm over his eyes for extra coverage against the powerful vigor that was now all of his surroundings. The force of the light exploding was ferocious, rushing his curls in the desperate wind. Harry felt a painful tingling up his arm, starting from the hand he had touched the light with. He didn’t dare open his eyes, for fear of what the area in London looked like now. He could still hear the roaring of explosion and the force as it began to burn his skin.

He needed to get away, he needed to crawl out of the area where the light did not reach, but he felt his ears giving out, the loud roaring sounding more dull as it continued to pound his eardrums. At this point, his mind was slipping in and out of consciousness, but he needed to stay awake. He could not give out here, not like this. He gave an attempt to flip is body over on his stomach so he could crawl, but that was the last he did before the light’s power over came him, and his mind slipped fully into darkness.

 

***

Harry woke in his bed, shooting bolt upright and breathing profusely. His shirt stuck to his chest in a mat of sweat, his hair clinging to his damp forehead. He looked around the room frantically, only to find himself alone in his dark bedroom. His drunken state had subsided, leaving one terrible hangover. His head was pounding with the sudden jerk of motion, and he groaned.

What had happened? How long had he been asleep? Harry slowly climbed out of his bed, his body achy and tense all over, like an old man walking for the first time in a long time. He peered out of his bedroom window; the street below was peaceful and quiet. Harry’s mind recollected the memory of what felt like just a few minutes ago, the roaring and striking white light that had erupted all around him when he had come in contact with it. Nothing seemed out of place, which confused Harry, causing his eyebrows to furrow.

“What in bloody hell…?” he muttered to himself.

Suddenly, the aching in his head worsened. Harry touched his forehead, wincing in pain as his head felt like it was about to explode. He sat down on his bedside, his leg suddenly aching. The next moment, everything started to ache. All of his muscles felt as if they were ripping apart, convulsing and getting the sensation that they were on fire. Harry threw himself back in his bed, letting out shouts of pain as his muscles ripped and tore. He looked down at his skin, which was gleaming with sweat but unharmed. There was no tearing in his skin as he had felt, all the while his muscles and every inch of his body were working in pain. Harry seemed to forget everything, for nothing mattered now but the terrible anguish sweeping through him, stabbing his muscles and bones like knives. His back arched against the pain of his spine splitting, the bones and muscles in his legs burning with penetrating torture. After what felt like hours of agony, the hurt in his muscles began to subside. Abruptly, he was doubled up over his bed; puking contents of an unknown substance.

Intensive nausea swept over him as he puked up the contents of his last meal. After throwing up, Harry flopped his head back on his pillow, exhausted. What just happened? What could explain the torture and agony his body just felt a minute ago, and then suddenly throwing up all but his stomach? Harry felt a drip below his nose. When he reached his hand up and pulled it back, there was blood. Great. Now his nose was bleeding. Not that it was a big deal, it just confused him. None of these side effects fitted together. Was it the light that did this to him? Harry didn’t bother cleaning the blood up, for his body felt too exhausted to even move. Plus, he’s endured a lot more blood spill than a nose bleed, from so many bar fights he’s participated in. 

When Harry thought he could fall asleep again, the migraine from his hangover returned. His head began to throb, the throbbing turning quickly into stressed pain. Harry never remembered a hangover being this bad, and certainly not one that caused your muscles to feel as if they had caught fire. He didn’t bother sitting up, for he knew that would only make the pain in his head worse. His brain felt as if it were ripping apart, banging on either side of his skull, looking for a way out. His vision blurred, his dark bedroom becoming a slur of shadows. Harry tried to massage his temples with his fingers, hoping to relief some pain, but it was no use.

He heard screams. His eyes flew open to find his ceiling on fire. The flames danced and swerved, forming demonic faces that laughed at him, mocking his horror. Harry tried to move, but he was paralyzed, arms by his side. He couldn’t even turn his head. He was forced to stare up at the face threatening to inhale him, to burn him with its forces of hell. The screaming increased, the noise becoming so loud his ears began to bleed, the blood trickling slowly from his ear to his neck. He tried to breathe, but his throat had closed tightly, refusing to let the passage of air.

Quickly, the face of the demon on his ceiling disappeared, and Harry was let free of his invisible chains. His throat had opened again and he gaped at his ceiling, inhaling oxygen vigorously. He was stunned to find his ceiling the way it originally was. He didn’t know whether this series of strange events was over yet, so he lay back in his bed, waiting for the next wave of pain. He was sweating terribly, as if his body was desperately trying to release a fever one c ouldn’t sweat out. After a few minutes of his body slightly stinging, probably recovering from what had happened shortly before, he cautiously rose from his bed and swung his legs around to place his feet on the floor. He still wore his muddy boots, making a mess of his bed sheets and wooden floor that Harry could care less about. The upchuck he left earlier left a stench that he thought he should probably clean up, but he was in no condition to be up and moving, so he just sat for a while.

His eyes rested on the moon outside his window, which left a path of light edging into his bedroom. His head thumped and his limbs shook slightly from the unexpected pain. The muscles in his throat started to work, threatening another wave of nausea. This brought him enough strength to move quickly to the bathroom and empty the contents, though surprised there still were any, in the sink. He used as much strength as he could, feeling weak and fragile as he had ever felt in his entire life, to look at himself in the mirror. Deep circles had formed under his eyes from exhaustion and his brown curly hair was ruffled and unruly. His normally deep forest green eyes sparked with an unsettling tinge of bronze around the edge of his irises. His skin was pale and drained. He’d never seen himself so weak; Harry normally was strong and alert, apart from when he was drunk.

He didn’t like seeing himself this way; in fact he hated seeing himself useless, defenseless.  Anger formed inside of him as his father’s booming voice echoed in his mind, “Weaklings are useless! You need to be strong, tough, and ready to defend yourself! You need to be intimidating. But, of course, you will amount to be nothing, Harry. Not if you keep up with your paper airplanes and flying kites.” His father’s mocking laughter of fake pity fueled Harry’s anger as in one swift movement his fist came in contact with the glass, shattering the mirror; broken shards landing in the sink and around his feet.

Harry stumbled back, still weak, but stronger because of the anger that boiled inside him, as it always did when he thought about his father. He swung around and gripped onto the doorframe for support, only to find wood crushing beneath his fingers. He came fully out of the bathroom and clasped onto a chair by the desk for support again, only for the chair to break in half under his weight.

Harry fell on his knee, his muscles tensing and becoming more rigid. He brought his other knee down and collapsed onto the wooden floor, dust and dirt swirling as his heavy body thunked to the ground. Harry let out a groan, his eyelids fluttering until they became too heavy to keep open. He felt his thoughts fading, his anger boiling down, and the world left him as he fell into another unconscious state.

                

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