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

by Richard Parry

  He’s right. Val straightened his shoulders. “Sorry,” he said.

  “No, it’s cool,” said John. “Your girlfriend is a werewolf. She can take care of herself. Mine drives a cab.”

  “It’s Uber,” said Val.

  “It’s a service that takes you places for money,” said John. “But not like an escort service.” He frowned. “Look, the thing is, she’s—”

  “Family,” said Val. Like that, something—

  Pack.

  —clicked. “She’s one of us.”

  “I’ve never told her,” said John.

  “Maybe we should,” said Val. He looked farther down the street. “One thing, though.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m going to need more than my fists and harsh language. I need my own stick.”

  “This isn’t a stick,” said John. “This is Michelangelo.”

  “You’ve named your stick?”

  “Mike, here,” said John, “hits like the king.”

  “Great,” said Val. “Let’s go find his brother, Donatello.”

  “You’re more a Raphael kind of guy,” said John.

  “Why you figure?” Val looked at his feet. “I’m the smart one, aren’t I?”

  “You got anger issues,” said John. He nudged aside some debris with his foot. “Here.”

  “Is that … is that an actual bat?” Val reached down, his fingers touching the metal. It was black, etchings through the paint marking it up and down the shaft. He let his fingers trace the autograph on the bat, then ran them over the Big Stick inscription at the business end. “Well I’ll be.”

  “What?”

  “This, sports fans,” said Val, “is a genuine Frank Thomas bat. Autographed.”

  “’Big Hurt?’” said John. “I’d like one of those. Let me see it.”

  “You’ve got Mike there,” said Val. “Me and Raph here are just fine. Shoo.” He stood, hefting the bat. It felt light and right in his hand, the weight like the familiar hand of an old lover. Weird.

  Still. Plenty of time to work out how he knew anything about the Chicago White Sox later on. You’ve never been much of a sports fan, Val. Where’d this come from?

  But something in his hands knew how to hold the bat, and he felt a faint hint of memory, like the scent of smoke on the wind.

  • • •

  “That doesn’t look good,” said Val. He pointed with the bat at the ring of police vehicles a block further up. “Still got the lights on, but nobody’s home.” He walked past the door of a police cruiser — the rest of the car nowhere in sight — gouges dragged through the metal. The door had been tossed like a Frisbee, the edge of it buried in the asphalt of the road. He swallowed. That really can’t be good. He only knew of one thing that could leave a memento like that.

  “John.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Check it,” said Val, tapping the door with the toe of his shoe.

  “Looks like one of your calling cards,” said John.

  “Looks like,” said Val. “So here’s the thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The briefcase.”

  “Silver one?” John arched his back, working some kinks out. “Sucked the thing out through your eyeballs?”

  “The very same,” said Val. “What I think we have here is evidence of where it’s gone.”

  “Like a case of herpes?”

  Val sighed. “It’s not … no. Because if you give someone herpes, you don’t lose it.”

  “You got herpes?”

  “No,” said Val. “I have a virus that causes human cells to turn to mush and all your blood to explode out through your chest. I think it’s worse.”

  “So says the man,” said John, “who’s never had herpes.”

  “I got nothing,” said Val. “Back on topic. I think that someone took it.”

  “The herpes?”

  “The—”

  Night.

  “—Night,” said Val.

  “We’re calling it the Night now?”

  “Yeah,” said Val. “Also, I vote we call anyone we meet who’s crazy, well, we call them a zombie.”

  “It’s a little clichéd,” said John, “but we’ll run with it for now.”

  What you’ve got here, thought Val, is more blood on your hands. You’ve lost the Night, and now someone worse than you has it. “John?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need to fix this,” said Val. “We need to—”

  “Hold up,” said John, hand out. “I know.”

  “What?”

  “We need to get the gang back together. Find Sky. Make a call. Chopper in the big guns.”

  “Danny?”

  “And Carlisle.”

  “What about Adalia?” Val rubbed his face, then looked around the street. Aside from the two of them, Chicago was silent as a morgue.

  John looked at his feet. “I hadn’t thought that one through.”

  Val clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Keep working that angle. Let me know how you get on.” Val hefted Raph, giving the bar a twirl. One thing’s for sure. You’re not going to involve more of the people you love, Valentine. This one’s on you. “Let’s go.”

  They walked up to the police perimeter. Val felt like his head was on a swivel, no creature inside him to warn him of danger. He felt its absence like a missing tooth, an ache and a gap, something that had been wrenched out with a pair of pliers.

  That’s new. He’d been wanting to get rid of it for so long, to stop being responsible for the death around him. Thing is, you didn’t take good enough care, and now you’re responsible for … for whatever the hell this is. He paused for a second. “John.”

  “Sup?”

  “Do I come across as a sociopath?” Val tapped his bat against the ground, feeling the weight of it land against the ground at his feet. “It’s a serious question.”

  “You want to do this now?” John gestured with his free hand at the cars ahead of them. “There’s shit going on here.”

  “Sure, fine,” said Val. “You don’t call, you don’t write…”

  “Look, okay,” said John. “The thing is—”

  There were five of them, screaming and ranting, meaningless words tossed in front of them as they cascaded out a first story level to land on the sidewalk to their side. They surged as one, darting like a school of carnivorous fish. They boiled up and over John like he was a jungle gym — John got one good swing in with his piece of wood, a resounding thwak as it connected with one of the zombie’s heads, the man — man? Is that a man or a woman? — tumbling back. The other four bore John to the ground, and he went down with a yell.

  Val felt that small hand on his wrist again, a tiny helper tugging him along. He stepped forward, the Sox bat in his hand spinning like a gymnastics baton. The first hit landed with a hollow, wet noise, the skull of a — Christ, it’s a woman, don’t look, just get it done — zombie caving in. The remaining three looked up from John, all heads moving at the same time like they were operated by the same remote control. Val hefted the bat. “Get off him, you crackerjack motherfuckers! It’s me you want. And you know what? You want a piece of me? Come get some.”

  They heaved forward, a mess of scrabbling claws — hands — and they were on him. The bat swung like it knew the moves to this dance, a touch there breaking an arm, a solid hit there knocking the wind out of another. Val had a single, pure moment to marvel at how he knew how to move this well — you might make it out of this alive, you might just — before one of them sank its teeth into his arm.

  He yelled, the pain cutting through everything as blood bubbled up and around the teeth in his flesh. He tried to shake it — it’s just some guy, he’s got a Walmart apron on — off, more blood welling up. Another one tackled him around his middle, and the three of them — Christ, where’s the other one, where did it go — fell to the ground. The world shrank to immediate, bright points — the pain of his arm, a ragged end of agony attached to him, the breath
knocked out of him, some piece of stone or wood or God only knew digging into his spine. Val felt the false strength of adrenaline wearing thin, his struggles becoming less effective. The virus in his veins was taking its toll, and here — well, Val, this is how it ends. You don’t get to save the world this time.

  The weight on his chest lifted, the one that had tackled him — middle aged woman, hair in curlers, a stylist’s bib still around her neck — pulled off and up into the air. John. John had lifted her, raising her whole body above him. John dropped her down, spine against his knee, and the woman’s movement’s stilled. Val was still wrestling with Walmart, and he saw John pick up his piece of timber, step forward, and swing it. Val’s free hand came up involuntarily to cover his face as John’s swing connected with the back of the man’s head. The grip of teeth lessened, and Val pushed the other man’s body away. John held a hand out, and Val got to his feet.

  They were breathing hard. Val swallowed, then said, “Thanks.”

  “This shit,” said John between lungfuls of air, “was easier when you were super-powered.”

  Val pointed at the man with the Walmart apron on, blood and saliva running down the man’s chin. His eyes were closed but he was still breathing. “That one’s still alive.”

  “I don’t think so,” said John. “Take a closer look.”

  Val took a couple steps forward, bent down with his hands braced on his knees. It’s easy to forget just how much effort it is to do anything at all when you’re normal. The other man’s color was changing, red patches blooming over his skin. Blood began to seep out through his closed eyes, and after a moment the body began to sag, pulling itself apart from within. Val reached a hand out, but there wasn’t anything to be done. He caught the shaking in his own hand. It’s only a matter of time before that happens to you. You’re on the clock, Everard, and there’s no snooze button at the end. “The virus.”

  “I figure,” said John. “The good news is that if they try to eat you, you’ll take ‘em with you.”

  “I’m not sure that’s good news,” said Val, “for anyone in the situation you just described.”

  “Well, there’s one piece of genuinely good news,” said John.

  “How you figure?” said Val. “The city’s fucked, and I’m dying of an engineered military virus.”

  “Well, that’s it,” said John. “You’re not. I was trying to tell you at the bar — I don’t think they got it all. Like they were using a hose to siphon out all the gas, but got interrupted. There’s a little left in the bottom of the tank.”

  “Maybe,” said Val. “Makes sense. But…”

  “But what?”

  “It’s just going to keep me alive to watch how this ends,” said Val. “It’s not going to do anything. It’s not going to help.”

  “Turn that frown upside down,” said John. “Let’s get back to base and work this one through. We need a plan.”

  “We also need a base,” said Val. “All we got is an apartment.”

  “Yeah,” said John. “That’s our base. Use your imagination a little. You said you were the smart one.”

  Val felt himself smiling, in spite of it all. The Night was gone, most of it having left him, but John was here, and together, they might just be able to save the world anyway.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  “You need to go in after her.” The boy leaned against the side of the Yukon, the edges of his frame soft against the light of winter’s sun. “She’s not going to make it.”

  “She’ll make it,” said Adalia, meaning, She’s got to make it. “She’s Carlisle.”

  “That’s right,” said the boy. “She’s only Carlisle.”

  “I’ve seen her save the world.”

  The boy thought on that for a few beats. “I don’t know about that. I’ve only ever seen her save you guys.”

  It was Adalia’s turn to pause, her voice hardening. “She’ll be fine.”

  The boy spun on her, all angry eyes and black lashes. “She’s just a, a person! She can die.”

  Adalia let out a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I know,” she said.

  “So get in there.” The boy walked a few paces away from the Yukon, then came back in front of her. “I know you want to. You’re out here in the cold instead of in the car.”

  “I don’t know what I want,” said Adalia. She would do it for you. “I don’t want my mom to hurt her.”

  “Your mom won’t hurt you,” said the boy. “You know that.”

  “She’s not herself,” said Adalia. “I’m not sure.” But she found her feet taking the first nervous steps towards the front of the store, steps that turned into a halting run. She came up against the dark frame of the doorway, broken glass crunching under her feet as she looked inside.

  Black, black, and more black. A hint of a fallen shelf, a bright spark from the edge of the room as something electrical hissed and spat the last of its life away. She felt him at her elbow, close enough to touch. She almost did, but reached a hand out to push the door open instead. It hissed against the shock set at the top of the frame, the bottom scraping against old linoleum and pieces of glass as she pushed it open. Water droplets tapped like a hundred tiny fingers against her hair as she stepped inside, the sprinklers raining their own misery into the room.

  She felt the presence of something massive shifting in the gloom, the smell of wet fur in the air. A low growl, the bass heavy in it so as to make it almost directionless, came at her out of the gloom. Adalia swallowed. Her heart was hammering, hammering, hammering in her chest, and she felt so full of fear that she was sure it would make her burst. Adalia opened her mouth to call into the gloom, but no noise came out.

  “That’s probably not a good idea,” he said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Adalia swallowed, ignoring him. She tried to find her voice around the frail fingers of fear at her throat. “Mom?”

  The darkness at the back of the store shifted as two glowing eyes turned to face her. Adalia froze, nothing conscious in it at all, she was rooted to the spot like someone had glued her feet in place. The creature moved with an urgency born of hate, stamping through the store, tossing a shelf aside, a cascade of sanitary products falling like rain. It came to stand before her. Adalia looked up at it, took in the teeth and claws, something wet and red around its muzzle. Please, no. “Mom?”

  “Kid?” said Carlisle’s voice from across the room, her voice a steady calm born of long practice. “Kid, I think you need to step back, nice and slow.”

  The creature turned to face Carlisle, and Adalia followed its gaze. Carlisle was standing — she’s alive, thank you thank you thank you — behind the counter, her arm hooked under the unconscious form of Ajay. The man’s head lolled, eyes closed, but he appeared otherwise unharmed. Carlisle’s other arm was pointed out at the creature, her sidearm held in her hand. Adalia could see the faintest tremor in the weapon, could see Carlisle’s eyes were wide with a kind of fear she’d never seen before.

  “It’s okay, Melissa,” said Adalia. “It’s—”

  The creature roared, flexing its arms, the claws bared. Saliva and worse dripped from its muzzle, and it licked its lips. It took a step, then another, towards Carlisle.

  “Mom!” Adalia skipped sideways, putting herself in front of the thing. She waved her arms above her head. “Mom. It’s Carlisle. You remember Carlisle, don’t you?”

  The creature tipped its head to one side, ears forward like a curious dog. Adalia was aware that Carlisle was on the move, the sound of shuffle drag, shuffle drag as she pulled Ajay with her. Adalia swallowed, her eyes moving towards the boy. He shrugged, then said, “This one’s a bit outside my area of expertise.”

  The creature’s head turned whip quick to look at the boy. Its yellow eyes narrowed — she can see him! — and it took a step towards him.

  Adalia watched him swallow, taking a nervous step back. One of his arms passed through a broken shelf, and her mind shied away from what she saw. “Mom.
Don’t look at him. Look at me.”

  “Look at who, kid?” Carlisle was close behind her. “No, doesn’t matter. Go. Get gone. You’ve done your part.”

  “No,” said Adalia.

  “Kid—”

  “No,” she hissed. “Please, Melissa. Please go.” Adalia watched as the creature — Mom, it’s Mom — paced around the boy, low and steady like a hunting cat. It growled again.

  “Your mom,” said Carlisle, “will kill me if I go. She will also kill me if I stay. I’m kinda fucked here.” Adalia caught the barrel of Carlisle’s sidearm as it moved into her peripheral vision.

  “We go together,” said Adalia.

  “Together,” said Carlisle. Adalia could see her friend had made it close to the door. The Yukon sat, black and heavy, outside. Out of reach. “Thing is—”

  The creature roared, taking a savage lunge at the boy. One of its claws passed through the space where he stood, and Adalia heard a sound like the scream of angels for the tiniest sliver of a moment before he flickered, guttering out like a candle snuffed on the wind. It turned lambent eyes at them, taking a step forward.

  “No!” Carlisle’s voice was heavy with — Dread? Panic? — and Adalia saw what was coming. Carlisle gave her one last look, and Adalia could see the decision in her eyes. Draw it off. Be the shield. Her friend’s hand tightened on the sidearm’s grip, and Adalia wanted to scream, but there wasn’t time. The gun roared, the strength of the blast pushing air and heat and light past Adalia’s head. Adalia could hear Carlisle shouting something — Here! It’s me you want! Not her! — each word covered by a shot, and she felt the passing of the bullets as Carlisle fired again and again at the creature, the rounds hitting it square in the chest. It held a massive clawed hand up in front of its face, then shook its head as Carlisle’s weapon clicked empty.

  Adalia swallowed, turning her head between Carlisle and the creature. She could see Carlisle’s face white with terrible purpose, and her friend opened her mouth to speak.

  “No,” said Adalia, and lunged at her friend. Carlisle was caught flat footed, the weight of Ajay held in front of her catching her off guard. Adalia put all she could into it, her small frame canted at an angle as she put both hands against Carlisle and pushed her out and through the door to stumble back into the car park.