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

by Richard Parry

  “Ah,” said Ajay. “That. Let me tell you a story.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The thing that called itself Talin Moray sat in a big leather chair. The chair crumbled under the weight of time, strips and tatters falling away, the sides ragged with age. It had been black, once, but now sat as a mix of murky gray and sad, pale stuffing. It had power, this chair. It had seen many things, bore witness to the acts that had made Talin what he was today. He kept it always, sending it across continents ahead of him wherever he went.

  The wall behind him was covered in newspaper clippings, scrawled notes, blurry photos. Pieces of old twine walked between each piece, a story stitched broad that told of wondrous things. Miracles. Men and women saved from certain death. Whole gangs killed in a single night. There, an article told of a drug lord that had eluded the FBI for years had been found — very dead — in a room full of spent shell casings. Here and there, a story of a random innocent killed. Talin let his lips curl — there are no innocents. The photos were grainy, always shot at night, catching a glimpse of a single man as he ran back into whichever night had birthed him. Reports of survivors talked of a man who spoke little and did much, often from behind glowing yellow eyes.

  Those eyes belonged to Talin now.

  The photos and clippings were overlaid atop a map of the United States, a scraggly line of clues moving from coast to coast and back again. The twine ended here, in this city called after shikaakwa, where the Great Lakes and the power of the Chicago River met, and merged, feeding and nurturing each other. It wasn’t an old city as such things went, but rich in borrowed memory as people fought and traded and fucked at the water’s edge.

  Hunt.

  “Soon,” he said. He flipped the lid of the silver briefcase closed, the metal snapping at his fingers as it lapped shut. A wisp of smoke peeled from the side of it, caught in an eddy of air and was lost.

  A man in front of him looked up. His black skin complemented the black of the weapon he held, a short machine pistol. It was perfect for loud, noisy work. Outdated. A relic of a time before this day.

  Kill.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, boy,” said Talin. He flexed his hands, marveling at the strength that flowed within him. All of this had been wasted, frittered away in this city at the edge of the water. “Is my driver ready?”

  “Always,” said the man, his teeth bright and white in a savage smile. “Shall I—”

  “No,” said Talin. Something else spoke with his lips. The feeling was strange, a snarl pulling at his teeth. I like this. The L’wha had never graced his presence, had always ridden that whore Raeni, but it had left him open for this other. This was a spirit of pure Night, a prize beyond measure. “I must … hunt.”

  The smile on the man’s face faltered, his weapon half-raised at his side. “But—”

  “I must hunt alone,” said Talin. “Leave me or die.”

  The other man—

  It defies us. It challenges.

  —hesitated a moment, a single moment’s pause conveying a nuance of meaning across the distance that separated them. A few feet, a handful of steps was all it took for Talin to reach the man, push clawed fingers into his chest, and tear out the heart within. The other man’s eyes were wide with shock, the strength leaving him as he slipped backward. Something in the other man that wouldn’t let go of his useless life brought the machine pistol up as he fell back. A final spasm pulled at the trigger, a bark of sound and light and bright, hot—

  It is not the metal that burns with the heat of the sun.

  —fire tracking points across his chest and stomach. Talin took a step or two back, the other man’s heart falling from his hand, red gore falling with a noise like wet fabric hitting the ground. He looked down at the holes on his chest, pulling aside the worn and faded shirt he wore. The holes were stitching themselves closed, knitting together. He touched the brown of his skin with a hand, delighting in the smoothness of it. He looked at his fallen lieutenant, then laughed. A big, easy—

  The fallen do not matter. We must hunt.

  —sound, full of promise at what a new night would bring.

  He spared a glance at the silver briefcase. He had almost all of this spirit of the Night. A fragment remained, something that had fallen free of his trap, and he had not survived this long through a love of loose ends.

  • • •

  The altar was new, rich with red. It wasn’t the brown of old blood, but freshly anointed. It had been part of an expressway support, the big concrete block needing seven men to strain and heave to get it here. Their blood had christened it, given the stone its first touch of power.

  There were always more men.

  Talin set a bowl of water down next to the knife. Here was temporary, good enough to hide him from any attention until he was ready to move to where the water met the sky, where the final reckoning would take place. Cages stood at his back, the keening of panicked animals loud around him. He loved the sound, this recognition of fate even in the lowest of creatures. The world was full of things set to be instruments for his will.

  The salt fell in big, coarse chunks as he crumbled it into a pile. Smoke floated up around him, the tallow lamps burning with a smell as familiar to him as good white rum. He let his fingers find the bowl of ash, fine flakes of bone still held within. The ash was from men — if you wanted to command men, you needed the essence of men.

  He turned to the cages, opening the wicker front of one and pulling out a chicken. The bird squawked and clucked, wings beating against his hand before the knife found its throat. Blood spattered against the pile of ash and salt, the smell of it mingling with the smoke of burning tallow. He breathed it in, then tossed the bird aside.

  It is weak.

  Another cage, this time a stoat, small and cunning. He needed its view of treachery to corrupt the hearts of men. Its blood added to the muddy mass on the altar. A third cage, an old tom cat, full of guile and pride. This one he slit down its length, ignoring its last frantic scrabbling at life as he pulled its innards clean and letting them rest atop the red, wet mass growing on the altar. The magic he made was fed by a strength he didn’t know he had, his power lifting up to a new scale that—

  The force of the river’s fall.

  —he hadn’t dared dream of. When he’d sought out the Night he’d known of the physical benefits, but that it would also lift up his inner power was delightful. He looked between the altar and the bodies cast to the side. There was still one thing missing. Snakes, of course.

  Snakes, for their devious nature. Snakes, for the lies they told to Eve at the beginning of it all. Snakes, to make men kill their brothers, as Cain had done to Abel. Snakes, to make fathers kill their children, daughters to whore themselves to spite their mothers.

  Talin took another long breath in, delighting in the smell of—

  Death.

  —it. Not death, he chided the thing inside him. A new beginning.

  …Pack?

  “Of a sort,” he said to the room, the animals in their cages gone silent and still. A breeze tugged at the smoke around him, drawing it to the ground. Talin walked towards the big windows at the side of the room, the smoke dogging his heels. He threw the windows open, big frames opening against a winter sky gone gray, the hope gone with the sun.

  The smoke twined around him, then reached out towards the outside air.

  “Go,” he said to it. “Go. Find it. Destroy it.”

  In a rush, the smoke poured out the window, slipping down the side of the building, and into the waiting city below.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  “I don’t know why we’re here,” said John.

  Val looked up. “It’s a bar,” he said. “They serve beer. I need a beer.”

  “You need a hospital.”

  Val sat himself down on a stool, the leather a shiny red. The air inside hissed a little as he lowered his weight into it. A familiar sound, comfortable. The stools were dotted along the front o
f the bar itself, brass poles at their bases anchored to the ground, islands of safety for anyone who needed a hand with the cares of the moment. “I really think I need a beer.”

  “You could barely walk getting down here.” John sat down beside him anyway.

  Val turned himself on his stool, looking around the bar. He noted the bright red, white and blue neon advertising Bud, cowgirls — for show — carrying trays of drinks around. The floor was covered in peanut shells, the wood of the bar under his fingers dark and worn. The place was seeded with rednecks, the kind that wore Stetsons inside.

  Perfect. “I’ve been thinking about that.” Val fished a few greasy notes from inside his jeans pocket and slapped them down on the bar, holding up a couple fingers to the bartender.

  “About how you need to go to the hospital?”

  “About how I can’t walk.” Val paused as the bartender brought their beers over. Val held one up. “What the hell is this?”

  The bartender paused. “It’s a beer.”

  “It’s a wheat beer.” Val put the beer back down, an almost primal level of disgust making its way to his face.

  “Yeah,” said the bartender. “Microbrewery. Does a great run in boutique—”

  Val held up a hand. “One second.” He pushed himself back from the bar, keeping his movements slow and careful. He took an exaggerated look around the bar, letting his eyes linger on the Budweiser sign. He turned back to the bartender. “The thing is, you come into a place like this to drink a regular, completely flavorless beer. Maybe it comes out warm, a little flat, doesn’t matter.”

  The bartender looked at the bottles on the bar. “You want a flat beer?”

  “I want a beer made with hops,” said Val. He looked at John. “You?”

  John shrugged. “I’m not really—”

  “He wants a beer made of hops too,” said Val.

  The bartender sighed. “I figured there’d be a wider spectrum of tastes in Chicago.”

  “It’s not that,” said Val. “You’ve got cats and dogs living together here. Cowgirls and wheat beer.”

  “Got it,” said the bartender. “How about a Miller?”

  “You can do better,” said Val.

  “Bud?”

  “Is it cold?”

  “It’s not a Miller.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Val.

  Their beers arrived, the cash disappearing in their wake. Val watched John out of the corner of his eye, then sighed. “Spit it out.”

  “It’d be rude,” said John, “because you made such a thing of getting these.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a Bud,” said John. “Tastes like Drano.”

  “It tastes,” said Val, “like nothing in particular.”

  “Kinda my point.”

  “You don’t get it,” said Val. “For the last five years, I’ve been able to taste the flavor of cereal the guy who bottled the stuff had, a thousand miles away. I’ve had the, what do you call them, the taste buds of some kind of super…” He gestured with his bottle.

  John shifted in his seat. “Dog?”

  “Sure,” said Val. “Some kind of super dog.”

  “Or a werewolf.”

  “Or one of those,” said Val. “Thing is, there’s been no respite. It’s always on. No stopping the sensory train. And now … it’s just gone.”

  “You can’t taste the beer?”

  “I can’t taste it any more than you,” said Val. He took a long pull. “And I’m betting something else is going to happen.”

  John’s brow furrowed. “I can’t wait to hear this one.”

  “I’m betting I can get drunk,” said Val, then tipped back the bottle and drained it.

  “Well, shit,” said John. “It’s ten in the morning, but what the hell.”

  Val slapped some more notes on the bar. He reached up, touching at his nose, his fingers coming away red with blood.

  “You’re going to want to get that looked at,” said John.

  “I want to get drunk first,” said Val.

  • • •

  The bar top in front of Val held four empties. He spared a glance at John, that Miles Megawatt Smile still firmly in place. “How do you do it?”

  John shrugged. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m me.”

  Val smiled at that, but couldn’t hold the expression on his face. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “You okay?”

  “Not really,” said Val. “I’m drunk at slightly past ten in the morning, and I miss my girlfriend.”

  “Well, this is weird,” said John.

  “What?”

  “I’m saying it’s weird,” said John. “You were never a maudlin drunk.”

  “Jesus,” said Val, “I was just passing time. And I’m not drunk.”

  “Could you drive?”

  “I could drive,” said Val, “but not legally. Doesn’t mean I’m drunk.” He wiped at his nose, his hand coming away sticky with blood.

  John sat in silence for a moment. “She’s coming back,” he said eventually.

  Val dabbed at his nose with a napkin. “Sure,” he said, meaning, I think she’s gone.

  John pushed a mostly empty bottle around in front of him. “I think—”

  “Your friend okay?” The bartender was back, something packaged up to look like concern in his eyes. He pointed at the napkin.

  John flicked him a glance. “Not a good time.”

  “It’s just that he’s bleeding—”

  “Look,” said John, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but fuck off.” Val saw he had the Megawatt Smile out. A smile like that could mask all manner of insults and make you feel good about getting them.

  Still. The bartender wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not. “Uh—”

  “It’s fine,” said John. “He gets these nosebleeds.”

  “Really?”

  “Had ‘em all his life,” said John. “Comes with migraines or some shit. Hell if I know. I look like a doctor?”

  “No,” said the bartender.

  “What,” said John, “I look too stupid to be a doctor?”

  “I … I’m going to help someone else,” said the bartender, and stalked off.

  “Thanks,” said Val.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” said John. “We need to talk.”

  “We are talking.”

  “We’re drinking beer and your nose won’t stop bleeding.”

  “It’s stopped now,” said Val.

  There was a raised voice from the front of the bar, the sound of anger mingled with surprise. Val saw John look towards the front, concern briefly touching his face, before his friend leaned in a little closer. “Do you think,” he said, “that your bleeding nose is the worst thing that’s happened today?”

  “I think it’s, what do you call it, collateral damage.” Val took another sip of his beer, but the taste of it had gone stale. A little too flavorless. Hell.

  “How you figure?” There was another shout from the front, John looking away again. “Hang on a second.” He moved to stand.

  “No, wait,” said Val, putting a hand on his arm. “You want me to kill people?”

  “No, it’s—”

  “I get this, what do you call it, this curse—”

  “Gift,” said John. “It’s a gift.”

  “Oh fuck off,” said Val. “I kill people, John.”

  “Two things,” said John. “First is, I’m going to cut you some slack here because you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Second thing is,” said John, “you don’t kill people. Hell, if anything, you save people.”

  “What?” Val blinked. “You’ll have to unpack that for me.”

  “It kills people,” said John. “Not you. You’re like some kind of Boy Scout, heading off and doing stupid shit.”

  “We’re the same,” said Val. “It’s a part of me.”

  “Hold the pho
ne,” said John. He got up from his stool. “There’s something going on at the front. While I’m gone, I’ve got some homework for you. If you’re the same, how is it that you go out and do your hero thing on every night that ends in Y?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” said Val.

  “No, really,” said John. “Can’t you hear it?”

  Val paused, realized he was half way off his stool. He felt caught, snagged against the edge of an unfamiliar feeling. Or was it familiar? Wanting to help, but being too powerless to get involved. “I—”

  “I’ll be right back,” said John, pushing himself off his stool and walking towards the front of the bar. Val watched him go, turning his stool around in place, his feet skipping along the edge of the footrest. His balance skipped a beat and he almost came off. He felt a flash of embarrassment, chased away by happiness. A few hours ago, he wouldn’t have been able to trip himself up if he’d tried. Something else—

  A part of the Night.

  —would have stepped forward, reached out through his arms and legs and his very thoughts to stop him falling. It was the same thing that left a body count in his wake, orphaned children beyond counting. Beyond remembering, except he couldn’t forget either, not anymore.

  There’s good news, though. He picked his beer up off the bar. It’s all gone. You’re free.

  A crash from the front pulled him out of his thoughts, and he was off the stool before he’d even thought about it. Something inside him—

  Danger.

  —tried to pull him forward, a feeling like a small hand on his arm, no stronger than a child’s tug. He took a tentative step towards the front of the bar, a press of people there jockeying for position, trying to see what was going on. He picked out the back of John’s head, that confident Miles swagger taking him through the press of people with ease. Val swallowed, took another step forward—

  A shot rang out, and the press of bodies changed, a surge in the other direction. There were screams, shouts of alarm, and Val could see John there, standing his ground, one of the bar girls pushed behind him. He had a hand out in a just hold the fuck on gesture. Val followed the direction of his arm, trying to see through the people scattering and saw a man. Homeless, by the look of it, his clothes … no, not homeless. He was dressed okay, casual denim and a hoodie emblazoned with Tits Free Zone on the front, but what made him look homeless was his eyes. Val had seen it before, something wild and lost, people who had just kind of checked out and left another thing behind instead of themselves. Something cracked by life’s relentless pressure.