The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy

by Richard Parry

  “I was at a rave last night.” The man was losing interest, his eyes tracking a young — and attractive — woman with a toddler in tow. “Look, you need anything else?”

  “No. Thanks. Happy fishing.” The man was already gone, ignoring her.

  Synodic cycle. Well how about that. She turned around, looking at some of the other shelves. Where was she going to find a book on werewolves in the non-fiction section?

  • • •

  She knocked on the door of Danny's home. The day was wearing on, the afternoon sun shifting towards evening.

  “Who is it?”

  “Open the door, Miles.”

  “Christ!” The door yanked open, Miles standing there in a towel. The bandage on his shoulder was freshly pressed on. “You got out.”

  “I wasn’t in jail, Miles.” Carlisle pushed past him, going to the kitchen. Adalia was back at the table, painting. Her face was serious, full of childish focus. Carlisle walked up to her, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “What are you painting, sweetie?”

  “Mom and Valentine.” Adalia turned the painting towards Carlisle. There were two dogs on it.

  Carlisle turned to Miles. “Is this..?”

  “C’mon.” He was tugging on a shirt. “She saw enough by herself.”

  “Right.” Carlisle walked to the windows, looking out. “They haven’t come back, have they.”

  “Melissa—”

  “Call me Carlisle.”

  “Melissa, they’re not coming back.” Miles sounded strained. “They’re de…” He stopped, looking at Adalia.

  Adalia looked back at him. “They’re not dead, silly.”

  “I … of course not, honey.” Miles looked stricken.

  “She’s right, you know.” Carlisle turned back to the window.

  “What? The grenades. There was a lot of silver.” Miles started tying his shoes. “I want them to be okay, too, but—”

  “They’re not dead. I told you.” Adalia’s face was stern. “Scarlett told me—”

  “Who’s Scarlett?” said Carlisle.

  “Oh. Scarlett’s her made up name. Birkita.”

  “Elsie’s daughter?”

  “Yes. Anyway. Scarlett told me. She made a wish on Prancer. She wished that Danny and Val and all of us would be okay.”

  “All of us?” Miles looked at his feet. “I wonder if she knew what that wish would cost her.”

  “Do you know about the synodic cycle?” Carlisle looked around the room. “And you got any coffee on? It’s going to be a long wait.”

  “Do I look like a plumber?”

  “A little. But it’s the Moon.”

  “The Moon?”

  “There’s that echo again.”

  “You’re not making a lot of sense.”

  “I know. Put on the coffee. I’ll take first watch.”

  • • •

  She’d fallen asleep anyway, despite the uncomfortable chair digging into her bruises. She didn’t know how Miles had handled it when he’d been out here last. Carlisle had left him inside, reading a book to Adalia. He’d done enough work for a while, and needed sleep more than her. At least that’s what she’d thought, before dropping off.

  She woke with a start, the predawn light giving the porch a ghostly feel. Kendrick stood in front of her, yellow eyes staring from her face. The woman was naked, and she was carrying Everard. One of his arms was burned, wasted at his side, and he was unconscious. Carlisle blinked at her a couple of times then grabbed her blanket, tossing it around the two of them.

  “Don’t talk. Just come inside.” Carlisle opened the door. Kendrick hesitated, the yellow eyes darting at the doorway and back to Carlisle.

  “It’s okay. She’s safe.” Carlisle grinned. “At least, she was. Miles was reading her, ‘All My Friends Are Dead.’ That man is warped.”

  Kendrick didn’t smile. The yellow was still wild in her eyes. Maybe she wasn’t ready to be human again.

  “I know. It’s a long way back, right?” Carlisle stood inside, holding the door open. “Maybe you should just think about it. Do you remember Adalia?”

  Kendrick nodded, slowly.

  “Good. Do you remember Everard’s coffee? With cinnamon.”

  Kendrick’s gaze went down slowly to the man she carried, then back up. A tear fell from her face. She nodded again.

  “He’s going to be okay. You’ll see. Bring him in.”

  Kendrick did, then, walking past Carlisle on silent feet. Carlisle shut the door. “You should grab a seat. There, on the couch. I’ll make some coffee. It’s not like his, but maybe it’ll help you remember.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Val held Danny close. He hadn’t been able to stop touching her since he woke up. He’d felt weak as a kitten, and something under his skin itched, but he felt happy. Alive.

  Adalia was playing at the table. She’d apologized for losing Prancer. He’d laughed, and said it was okay, telling her that magic wishing ponies were not supposed to last forever.

  Danny leaned back into him, making a contented noise low in her throat. “I—”

  “I know.”

  “Yes. You know.” Danny snuggled against him. She smelled good.

  “Christ, can you two get a room?” John handed them another cup of coffee each. “It’s disgusting.”

  “It’s my house.” Danny sniffed at the coffee. “You’re not getting better at this, are you?”

  “Die in a carpet fire.” John walked back into the kitchen.

  “I can feel you smiling.” Danny nuzzled his neck, and he stroked her hair. “What happened? I don’t remember.”

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to.” Val sipped the coffee. It really sucked. He laughed out loud.

  “What?” She looked up at him.

  “I love that guy.” Val nodded towards the kitchen.

  “He’s all right.” But the smile tugged at her mouth.

  Carlisle came back in the front door carrying a couple of large brown paper bags. “Thank God. Food.” Val stood, unwrapping himself from Danny. “Let me.”

  “It’s okay.” Carlisle pushed him aside, heading for the kitchen.

  “It’s really not. He’s a terrible cook.” Val grabbed one of the bags, sticking his nose inside. “What the hell is this?”

  “Fruit. Vegetables.”

  “Where’s the steak?”

  “I got steak. That little girl,” and Carlisle nodded at Adalia, “Cannot live on steak alone.”

  “Could she at least try?” Val put on his best I’m-hurt voice. “For me.”

  • • •

  They sat around the table, plates cleaned, a fresh round of coffee in front of them.

  “How did you know?” John sat opposite Val.

  “Know what?” Carlisle sipped at her cup. “Thank God you’re alive, Val. I don’t think I could handle more of his coffee.”

  “I hope you choke on it,” said John. “But — how did you know he was alive?”

  Danny leaned forward, touching Val’s wasted arm. She looked at Carlisle. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “A hunch.”

  “Come on.” John tried the coffee. “Actually, this isn’t bad.”

  “All right. It was Barnes.”

  “Who?” Danny looked between them.

  “Elsie Morgan’s assistant. I know him.” Val looked into his coffee cup. “What’s he got to do with this?”

  “He wrote me a letter.”

  Val tried to hold his coffee in his wasted arm, but it felt too weak. Still, he hadn’t been able to move it this morning, and now he’d finished breakfast he could wriggle his fingers. “What’d it say?”

  “Not much.” Carlisle looked into her own cup. “It was a foolish hope.”

  “What was?” Val flexed the fingers of his hand. Definitely getting better.

  “The Moon. That you’d—”

  “That we’d change.” Val nodded. “We’d be strongest when the moon was full.”

  “Ye
ah. And that…”

  “What?”

  “You held Volk between you and the grenades as you went over the side. I hoped you hadn’t got the full blast.” Carlisle put her cup down. “There’s no way I can write up a report on this.”

  “I went over the side? The side of what? There’s so much I don’t remember…” Val sighed. “Did we get him?”

  “Who?”

  Maker. Father. Betrayer.

  “Volk. The … my maker.” Val realized he was clenching his good hand into a fist. “I don’t remember.”

  Danny's voice was soft. “I remember. A little.” She looked down. “I can still…”

  “What?” Carlisle had leaned forward. “Did he get away?”

  “I’m not sure.” Danny swallowed. “I don’t think so. I can still taste his blood.”

  Everyone sat silent for a few moments. John tried first, the megawatt smile coming out. “There’s one thing I don’t get.”

  “Just one thing?” Val’s smile was lopsided. “What is it?”

  “How did Danny … I dunno. What’s the word for it?” John looked at the ceiling. “How’d she turn? You didn’t bite her in the shower or … oh. The shower.” He put air quotes around the last word.

  Danny snorted. “Now it’s some sort of STD?”

  Val snorted. “Heck if I know. I’m new at this. If we had Volk we might be able to get some answers.” He tapped his cup, then looked at Danny — alive! — at his side. His gaze drifted across each of them around the table. “Thank you. You guys, you’re…”

  Pack.

  “It’s okay.” John looked at him. “Just remember this next time I ask you to help move my house, okay?”

  Val laughed. It was okay. He was—

  Running free.

  NIGHT'S FALL

  Would you let a stranger take your curse even if it would damn the world?

  In the five years since their Pack left the ruins of a Biomne facility, Adalia Kendrick has discovered gifts of her own. While her mother Danny tries to run from the curse of the Night’s Favor, Adalia speaks to those only she can see. She speaks to the dead.

  Stories of the Night’s dark gift have reached across the seas to Talin Moray, a man who will stop at nothing to possess its power. With his mastery of Vodou he brings the city of Chicago to its knees. Armies fall. Zombies roam the streets, and no one is safe. Talin will become the king of a ruined world.

  Five years is a long time to run, trying to turn the curse of the Night’s Favor into a blessing. Will Val and Danny’s yearning to be free from the Night’s Favor mean losing everything? Is Adalia’s power – and the dead boy that walks with her – enough to stand against Talin?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “What I’m thinking,” said Carlisle to the barman, “is that you’re a thief.”

  The barman blinked at her. “Say what?”

  “Because I know a thief when I see one,” she said, her words slurring just a little. She leaned forward over the bar. “Serious … seriously? Twenty bucks for a shot of Jack is theft.”

  “You could drink somewhere else,” said the barman. “Free country.”

  Carlisle gave a long, lazy smile. “Free country.” Only bar in this town. If you can call it a town. She’d heard of one-horse towns, and this place was a horse short. No one else was in the bar tonight, the broken-down old jukebox spitting out the same two songs on repeat. She’d had about as much Johnny Cash as she could take. The door to the bar opened behind her, and she felt a gust of cold chase someone inside. She didn’t turn to look, still holding her glass of Jack.

  “That’s right,” said the bartender, his eyes lighting up a little as he saw a new potential customer. He started to clean a glass — Carlisle was about to say something else when a man slipped into the seat beside her.

  She knew it was a man before she turned, the way he put himself in that chair like he had sovereign land rights. Carlisle spent some time taking him in. Close cut hair, ebony skin, stacked like a Vegas deck of cards inside a suit worth north of a couple grand. Like. She kept the lazy smile on. “Well hello, sailor.”

  “I’m not really a sailor,” said the man. “But I’m impressed you guessed that I came here in a ship.”

  Carlisle let the smile fade away into a frown. His accent was strange. “Where you from?”

  “The Caribbean, originally,” he said. “More recently, Queens.” The man gave the barman a nod. “Rum and Coke. Easy on the Coke.”

  “Starting hard, or…” Carlisle let herself trail off. Something isn’t right. That old instinct came back, the cop inside her refusing to die like it should. Too much damn alcohol, that’s your problem. Thought you’d come out, get lucky, and here you are talking to a — a something. “You some kind of soldier?”

  “Not really,” said the man, lifting his rum and Coke, breathing in the aroma. He smiled, his eyes closed. “More of a problem-solver.”

  Carlisle pushed her barstool back a little. “What kinds of problems you looking to solve tonight?”

  The man laughed, something easy in it, and turned to look at Carlisle properly for what seemed like the first time. “That depends. You bring any trouble with you?”

  “Left all my problems behind,” she said, the lie coming easy. “Why else come to a shit hole like this?”

  “Hey,” said the bartender.

  “Maybe your problems are trying to catch up,” said Caribbean. “Maybe your problems are only just starting.” He gestured with a hand to the air around her. “I can see your problems. They tug at you like needy children.”

  The bartender took a look around the bar, then moved through a grimy door to the kitchen. It was old and stuck just before it was fully closed. It was funny the things you noticed, just before everything went to hell. “So look,” said Carlisle. “I’m here to have some drinks. Maybe get laid. Can you help with any of that?”

  Caribbean downed the last of his drink in a long swallow, then turned the glass over in his hand. “Detective Carlisle?”

  Fuck. “Not anymore.”

  “Detective Carlisle, we’re trying to track down some friends of yours. Do you know a—”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “No, I don’t know anyone. Not who you’re looking for. And,” she said, as the man’s eyes widened slightly, “not her either. And definitely not the next person you’re going to ask about.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Caribbean. “That’s what we call a ‘crying shame.’ Do you know why it’s called that?”

  Carlisle tipped her head from side to side, loosening up her shoulders, just getting the kinks out. “Because someone always ends up crying.”

  He nodded. “Do I look like the crying sort to you?”

  Carlisle laughed, and Caribbean looked startled. “No,” she said, “but you’ve made a huge mistake — and I mean, a massive, colossal fuck-up — if you think I’m the crying type.”

  “The name I was going to ask you about,” said Caribbean, “was Elliot.”

  Carlisle blinked at him in the silence left between the tracks changing on the jukebox. Her veins felt like they’d just started running ice instead of blood, her head clearing from the fuzz of the alcohol. She could hear the machine catch, clicking as it tried to drop another disc in. She swallowed. “What did you say?”

  “I thought that might get your attention,” said Caribbean. “What would it be worth to you if you could see him again?”

  “Elliot’s dead,” said Carlisle.

  “Is he, now?” Caribbean reached behind the bar, snagging out the bottle of rum. “I wonder about that.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Let me ask you something,” said Caribbean. “Let’s assume he’s dead. What if I said I could bring him back to life?”

  “I’d say you were crazy in the coconut,” she said.

  “Well,” said Caribbean, “that’s not an unusual reaction to get.”

  “You ask people about their dead friends ofte
n?”

  “Often enough,” he said. “It’s a growth industry, in my line of work.”

  “Right,” said Carlisle. Here’s a good one. Guy walks into a bar, asks about your dead friend Elliot… “What exactly is your line of work?”

  “I get things done,” he said. “The job title changes week to week.”

  “First you said you were a problem solver. Now you say you can raise the dead.”

  “They don’t have to be different things,” said the man. “And I don’t raise the dead. I’m more of an intermediary. The woman who stands behind me is the one who can raise the dead.”

  “Fancy trick,” said Carlisle, turning on her stool to lean back against the bar. She took in the room — no one else here, clear exits, she should just get out. This kind of crazy talk wouldn’t lead to any good.

  “I can tell,” said Caribbean, the soft touch of his accent making him easy to listen to, “that you’re having trouble believing me.”

  “You think?”

  “Here’s a little taste,” he said, reaching — slowly, Carlisle noticed — into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a few items — a small vial of clear liquid, a hand-rolled cigar, an old-style lighter. He placed these on the bar, then splashed a generous portion of rum into his glass. He emptied in the clear liquid, then raised the cigar.

  “There’s no smoking in here,” said Carlisle. “Not that I give a shit, but you know.” She pointed at the sign on the bar top, right next to the lighter. Thank you for not smoking.

  “I see it,” said Caribbean. “I don’t think they mean this kind of smoke.” He picked up the lighter, flicking it open, a long tongue of flame kissing the end of the cigar. He drew big puffs, then blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. “That feels right.” He puffed a few more times, then blew another stream of smoke over the top of his glass. Instead of the smoke flowing past, it clustered and gathered at the top of the rum. Small eddies pulled the tiny cloud about, which then seemed to be drawn into the dark liquid.

  “There’s a thing you don’t see every day,” said Carlisle. “But if you think I’m drinking that, you’ve got another thing coming.”