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

by Richard Parry

  The shotgun went off again, followed by a scream that turned half way — no, no, NO — into a roar, saw Danny walking towards them both, something wrong in her walk, something animal in the movement as red dripped and spattered along the ground in her wake. Carlisle held Adalia close, her hand over the girl’s eyes as she watched Danny shift into something else. She got herself up on her knees, still holding Adalia and made a break for the door. The shotgun went off again behind her, and there was no scream when the shot hit, just something that roared out its primal anger.

  Carlisle bounced against the door on her way out, the glass in the frame shattering around her. Her hip collided with the Yukon out the front and she stumbled, catching herself before she went over. She stood in the lee of the vehicle, then held Adalia out in front of her. “Are you okay?”

  The girl’s eyes were wide, shock and something very much like fear on her face. “I…”

  “Were you hit?” Carlisle was almost shouting the words, then grabbed at the girl, turning her around. No blood, no blood, thank God, no blood—

  “I’m okay,” said Adalia. “I’m okay.” There were tears in her eyes.

  “Okay,” said Carlisle. Her eyes went to the store. The gun had stopped firing, and only a low growl came from inside. The lights had stuttered out, leaving the inside dim in the half light of winter. “Okay,” she said again. “Look, kid.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kid, I need to go get your mom.”

  Adalia bit her lip. “But—”

  “Kid?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kid, I need to go get your mom.” Carlisle rubbed at her arm, her fingers coming away sticky and wet. Huh. “Because I promised her.”

  “I understand,” said Adalia. “But what if—”

  “Kid?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know,” said Carlisle. “Also, I need to get that asshole Ajay.”

  “Isn’t he—”

  “Wouldn’t count on it,” said Carlisle. “Get in the car. Stay down. Be back soon.”

  She stood up, tugging at the edge of her jacket in the cold. Her fingers flexed, wanting to hold the shape of a gun. Not that it would do anything here. Wrong damn tool, definitely wrong damn situation. Still keeping low, she edged towards the front of the store, then grabbed a last breath of fresh air before stepping back inside.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Talin stalked back and forth in the converted warehouse, the beast pulling at his skin like a fresh new shirt. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or desire or little pieces of both mixed together, but he thought he could hear the city screaming through the big open windows. The winds were cold, a hint of ice carried on the softness of the air, and he breathed it in, closing his eyes and reveling in it.

  The sound of fluid dripping drew his attention back to the room, a faint annoyance teasing at him. His new ears let him feel the texture of the sound, a heavy liquid falling in a regular cadence to land — spat, spat, spat — against the cold concrete floor. Talin let his eyes open and looked back over what he’d created. It was art, pure and simple, something this rotted and decadent city sorely needed.

  Looked at from a distance, it was hard to see where one ended and another began. There were arms, legs, torsos, all naked, mixed and matched against each other. Nature had created them wrong, this one’s belly too fat for his frame, that one’s legs stick-thin against a long body that craved a catwalk. He’d found them all outside, just walking about, living their tiny lives one beat at a time. Together, in his masterpiece, they formed something bigger, bolder than they could ever have been.

  Still. It was missing something. Another piece. Or pieces. He wasn’t sure — he wouldn’t know until he’d—

  Hunt.

  —managed to complete it, one bit at a time. Talin let his eyes wander to the sides of the room, piles of discarded clothing, handbags, briefcases, shoes, and jewelry cast aside like the dross they were. This new power he’d taken—

  Stolen.

  He shook his head. This new power — he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to think as he wanted — he’d taken let him act as he should, without consequence or fear or petty desire. All his ambitions were pure, although he wasn’t sure when he’d wanted to become an artist. That was—

  Memory deep as stone, quiet as earth.

  —something unexpected. Still. He felt it was time to gather himself up and hunt within this new city he’d made.

  • • •

  The miles lost themselves under his feet as he loped along the sidewalk. Such a thin strip of pavement made possible by the dreams of tiny men. He would harness those dreams, yoke them to his purpose and rule this city — and then, the world.

  The stumbling, seething crowd streamed along in his wake. One or two were strong enough to keep pace at his side, but even with the will of—

  They will do as they are told.

  —the Night inside him, urging them on — well, they failed, one by one. There, a man — perhaps once fit and hale, a body made strong by a religion of exercise — fell away, his feet stumbling as his heart gave out inside his chest. Talin marveled as a child no more than ten years old coughed and stumbled, blood bubbling from his lips as his body gave out.

  Never before have I felt this strength. The other, he wasted his gift on trying to fix the weak — the weak can never be fixed.

  His run took him into the city proper, buildings stretching up around him. I hate the feel of this city, but it can be fixed. Changed. Forged. He paused at an intersection, his followers stacking up around him, waiting, breathless, eager, the glory of madness in them. Talin blinked, looking across at a police blockade.

  It is always the way. There are some who can resist. And for them — there is always art.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Sergeant Willis had always tried to do the right thing. That was really how he liked to roll. Back in college, he’d thrown some balls around, dated a cheerleader, found he liked it. Walked her down the aisle, put a ring on her finger — a rock the size of a five year old child’s head attached to a band of pure platinum.

  It had cost him three months’ salary, cold hard cash that couldn’t have been used in any other way than doing the right thing — making Libby happy. Truth be told, it’d been a little more than three months of his salary, but he hadn’t told Libby that. It wasn’t important, you know? Fifty years from now he’d never remember how much it cost, but he’d always remember the smile on her face.

  When his Dad was bailed up with that infection, he’d dropped some vacation time on the problem, moved into the old man’s house for a couple weeks, spent time hammering and sawing, putting in new drywall, fixing the place up so he wouldn’t get sick again. Hell, it wasn’t that far away from a real vacation anyway. Libby had come along and made them iced tea to drink on the porch when it got too hot to do much else. At least people hadn’t been shooting at him.

  Or, really, trying to bite him. That was weird. Ten years in the force now, he’d seen some wild times, even that one where a man had used a pair of pliers to pull out his own teeth. Said they were demons in his head or something. Willis didn’t know much about that, except that insurance wouldn’t cover it, and that poor bastard would be left eating all his meals through a straw.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead, put his hat back on, straightened the uniform. His people standing to the left and right of him wore expressions ranging from confusion to anger, fear to something a little more blank than useful. That was okay, they’d come around, they just needed someone in charge to do the right thing. Unlike that useless prick Davis, the man had run screaming down the road thirty minutes ago and they hadn’t heard from him since. Doing the right thing seemed a little harder when your superior officer was so spineless he invited insubordination.

  Still. Libby wouldn’t have liked it if he’d busted the man’s jaw. Or maybe she would have, but with number two on the way they needed a steady paycheck so he rolled wi
th it. The universe had a way of working this kind of shit out, and with Davis turning crazy with fear and running off without the squad — well, that there was a problem solving itself.

  Dispatch were about as much use as teats on a bull, nothing but crazy coming out of the radio, so he’d turned it off.

  “Officer Tomlin.” Willis squinted a little at the new crowd gathering a couple blocks down, perched at an intersection. “Tomlin, let me see those glasses.”

  Tomlin handed him the binoculars, and Willis leaned against their makeshift barricade of cars, adjusting the focus so he could see what was what. Sure as sin, right there was another pack of them, looking for trouble and a place to let it free. “Tomlin?”

  “Sir.” Tomlin was a good one, didn’t get nervous under fire. She seemed a natural, maybe the kind that would wear the sergeant’s stripes herself before too long.

  Willis lowered the glasses, looking at his team. “Tomlin, there’s another group coming up. You know what that means.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She turned away from him, starting to organize their group. Not that there was much organizing to do, Willis had seen to that, but the thing about doing the right thing was also making sure that your team felt important. Useful. Every piece more important than the whole, his Dad had told him once. Make them feel useful, they’ll be useful. Words to live by.

  Still. There was something strange about this new group. Willis felt his mouth form into a half smile, and he hid it by wiping some of the grime from his face. Strange, huh? This whole day was strange. Let’s just say it’s more strange. As near as Willis could tell, the whole city had gone barking mad, citizens clawing at each other. Sure, they’d had briefings on terror attacks, he knew the drill for when someone dropped a pack of white powder in the mail and called in an Anthrax scare. What he didn’t have a procedure for was when citizens started hunting in packs, roaming the city, biting and clawing at each other. Willis rubbed his arm through his uniform, his sleeve hiding the mark on his forearm where one of them had sunk in teeth.

  It had been Tomlin who’d pulled that one off.

  Focus, Willis. He held the glasses back up, looking for what had set off his weird-shit-o-meter. He scanned the pack, doubled back. There. One of the freaks wasn’t like the others. Seemed more focused somehow. In charge. Willis couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was a focal point for this pack. It made a certain kind of crazy sense. If the disease — or whatever it was — that had got into the fine people of Chicago made people hunt in packs, well, maybe they needed a pack leader.

  Hell if I know. That one’s above my pay grade. You need to stay with the program, Willis. Your job’s same as it always has been. Keep the bad people of Chicago from hurting the good. Do the right thing.

  Willis rubbed at his jaw. Something about the other man kept nagging at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Maybe a fresh set of eyes. “Tomlin?”

  “Sir.” She was at his elbow again, and he held out the binoculars to her.

  “Check out that group over there. See the guy, kind of in the middle.”

  “Dirty shirt?”

  Willis frowned. “I thought it was gray.”

  “Definitely dirty, sir.” She leaned on the car in front of them. “My husband rocks a set of dreads like that.”

  “Bobby has dreads?” Willis paused for a second. Need to get them over for another barbecue. Been too long. The thought was crazy in the middle of all the rest of this crazy, so he went with it. “That I’ve got to see. You guys want to come over this weekend?”

  “Beers and a game?”

  “I figure.”

  “You’re on,” she said. “So, that guy. Seems outside of it. Blending in, maybe.”

  Blending in. That could be it. If he had a cure, some kind of immunity maybe, they needed to get him to safety. Do the right thing. “Maybe,” he said. “I tell you what. They come this way, try not to shoot that guy first. Spread the word.”

  “On it,” she said. “Don’t shoot him first. Maybe second, third.”

  “Maybe,” said Willis, hearing the desperate humor in her voice. “Maybe, Tomlin.” Willis checked his weapon, making sure his revolver was loaded. He’d used it more today than he had in the last ten years, inside or out of a practice range.

  Turned out, they didn’t have long to wait. The new pack worked its way towards them, shuffling to a halt again about fifty feet away. Willis shrugged, cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello.”

  The other guy — please, God, let him be immune, let there be some kind of way to stop all this — blinked at him across the empty distance. “Officer Willis.”

  Now that was strange, the man knowing his name. Willis felt that needed some kind of response. “It seems you know my name, sir. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “It’s written on your shirt,” the other man said. He made a vague gesture towards Willis that could have been pointing at his badge, him, the squad, or the world in general. “Clear as day.”

  “Clear as … you’re telling me you can read my shirt from fifty feet away?”

  “The Night gives me certain privileges,” the other man said. “What I want to know is how you’re … resisting.”

  “Immune?” said Willis. “We were wanting to ask you the same thing. Why those shamblers around you haven’t gone wild.”

  “My children do as they’re told,” said the other man. “For some reason, you’ve resisted the call to become one of them.” He paused, licking his lips. “One of us.”

  “Sir,” said Willis, “if you don’t mind me saying, you’re not making a lot of sense.”

  “It might seem that way,” said the man. “How are you doing it?”

  “Just trying to do the right thing,” said Willis. “So. Sir. If you walk slowly away from the herd…”

  “Herd?” The man cocked his head, something like a smile on his face. “I think pack is a better term.”

  Tomlin was at his shoulder again. “Sarge? Something’s not right with this one.”

  “You think?” Willis was only half listening. Thing is, there’s a time when you need to uphold the law, and there’s a time you need to do the right thing. Right now, the right thing is getting this screwball to walk the fuck away. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move on.”

  “Move on?”

  “Clear the area,” said Willis.

  “Ah,” said the man. “Yes. We’ll clear the area.” He tipped his head towards Willis and his squad, and the pack surrounding him leapt forward like bulls out of the gate. Willis had time to blink once before he heard the report of Tomlin’s weapon, brought his own up to bear and started squeezing the trigger.

  Too damn many. Six rounds in the chamber, even assuming every shot hit there was no way they’d drop ‘em all, and Brummel at least — maybe a couple others — was a lousy shot. Willis found himself looking past the rush of the pack to the other man, standing still as a stone, still fifty feet away. Fifty feet was a bad range for a pistol shot, but what the hell. Seemed like the right thing to do. Willis lifted his sidearm, breathed out, and squeezed. The shot rang out, the bullet hitting the other man right in the head.

  Willis didn’t have time to clap himself on the back. Sure, one in a million shot, whatever, he could write it up in the report if that ever happened. Until then, he’d need to—

  The pack stopped dead, swaying on their feet. Still had crazy in their eyes, but it was like someone had put down their remote control. They looked at each other, and at Willis’s squad. Some of them drooled, but none of them moved forward.

  “Nice shot, Sarge,” said Tomlin. “What did you do?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Willis. “It seemed—”

  Something huge lifted itself from the pavement behind the pack. It was taller than a man, impossibly muscled, with fangs and claws and Lord knew what else. Willis stared, mouth open, then threw a glance at Tomlin. “Are you…”

  “Yeah,” she said. There was a kind of resigned set
to her shoulders. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Willis. He looked at his squad, then back at the creature. He stared into yellow eyes. Hell with it. He lifted his sidearm again and started firing.

  Ah, he thought a few heartbeats later. That wasn’t the right thing to do.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Rex found the inside of the building a little dim for his tastes, the light from the open door reaching slender fingers in behind him. There was a woman lying face down on the floor, a pool of blood around her head. Probably gone, but he needed to check anyway. He crouched down, old knees protesting, and checked for a pulse at her neck. Nope.

  He dragged himself back to his feet, heading towards the elevators. He clicked the button, but no light came on. Great, just great. At least he’d spent some time keeping in shape, right? The walk up seven flights of stairs wouldn’t kill him. The stairs in the old building were opposite the elevators in the lobby, an open ring with a banister rising up through the core. He spared a look up, the top lost to a dim gloom.

  Or maybe it was just his eyes. It’s not like those were getting any younger either.

  Rex started up the stairs, just the way everyone else would, except a little slower. He held the taser in one hand, thinking of Sky waiting back out in the car. She probably wouldn’t wait for an old guy to get up and down seven flights of stairs, but that was okay. She’d done her bit, and now he needed to find Just James and do his part.

  Nice girl. He hoped she’d find her boyfriend. Joe? John? Something like that.

  Three flights later, he came across a second body. Young man, lying face up this time, eyes open. A lot of people died with their eyes open, that was the truth, but Rex had an innate distrust of people who acted dead but had their eyes open.

  “Son?” Rex shuffled a step closer. “Son, are you okay?”

  The man didn’t move. Rex frowned, waited a couple more beats, then said, “Son, I can see you breathing. I’m just gonna come out and say it, you’re behaving in a way that makes me overly cautious. You understand what I’m saying here?”