Where the water meets the sky.
“Oh,” she said. “That way.” She started her trudge across the city, thinking about her family. The Knight, his Good Right Arm, the Sword, and the Shield. Weird names, right? The Universe clearly didn’t keep with the times. Those kinds of names were … well, no one would actually choose to name a baby the Sword, would they?
How was she going to get across the city in time? She pushed angry fists into the pockets of her jacket, hunching her shoulders as she strode forward. The air was so cold — it felt like a dead thing trying to hold her down.
The Reluctant Wanderer had taken them thousands of miles in a single night. She could almost see how it was done, a weight on the scales that allowed them to tip a certain way. If someone wanted to be that weight, that payment to the balance, she could make it across the city in a single step. It would feel like turning the corner and she’d be there. She’d be in time to save them all.
They thought they were saving the world, but they’d all be dead if she couldn’t get there in time.
A pack of zombies rounded a corner. Great, because I need this right now. At the head of the group was a man dressed in overalls, worn with use, some kind of maintenance worker from the guts of the city. He saw her, howled, and ran towards her.
Use his soul. Buy your passage. Pay the tithe.
“No!” said Adalia, and raised her middle finger at the sky. “People are not coin. They aren’t to be bought and sold.”
Then die.
“I don’t think so,” she said. The group was approaching fast, close enough now that she could see loops of drool hanging from the mouth of the maintenance worker. He was screaming, gibbering, ranting, climbing over cars rather than going around them in his frenzied attempt to get to her, to taste her flesh, to end her life.
“Hey!” said a voice, and Adalia looked across the street. Straight into the eyes of Just James.
Oh, no.
He was jumping up and down, waving at the zombies, trying to draw their attention. She could see it so clearly, like it was painted in black against the sky. He was trying to save her.
As if she needed saving, right? Melissa would have called it a rookie mistake. She could see the strings that held these people against their wills, taught thrumming lines stretching high into the heavens and low into the Earth. She’d been around the Night long enough to see how the inner construct moved. Like a clockwork.
Unlike Just James, who couldn’t see anything but a girl alone with zombies rushing for her. Just James, who was about to die.
She made a noise, at least half of it exasperation, the rest a plain old sigh. The horde had turned, the noise drawing them like cats at the end of a laser pointer. Just James’ face flashed a moment of panic, or fear, or both, before he screamed at her to run, Adalia, RUN! before he turned tail himself and rabbited.
Was this what it was like when Melissa looked at Uncle John, rolled her eyes, and said Men?
Adalia reached into the air with a hand, grabbing at the threads against the sky. They felt like soft wool against her fingers, elastic with a hint of coarseness at the same time. This one was tethered to the mind of a man named Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, which was the coolest name she’d heard in a long time. Definitely better than the Knight, or the Sword, or the Shield, or the Good Right Arm.
Marcellus Samuel Kentucky was the one wearing the overalls, and he’d been repairing a drain when his mind was taken from him. He had a wife and two kids he never saw, working a couple shifts back to back. He liked football. No, he loved football, Adalia could see that in the strumming of the thread against her hand. Loved it more than his wife and two girls, because the game didn’t ask when it could have new clothes or an iPhone or when he was going to take out the trash, because God he just needed a little peace and couldn’t they see that? She saw that Marcellus Samuel Kentucky had wanted to play a little ball himself, had some luck with college football on a scholarship before a bad tackle took his left knee and most of his pride.
She pulled the threads close to her lips and breathed against them, took in their smell, felt their texture, and understood. She took a tiny step to the side, into the place that made her head hurt to think about — don’t think don’t think just do — and became. She spoke from the starless void, her voice taken from her in exchange for something older, ancient, with terrible purpose.
Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. I want to make a trade.
A trade?
Yes. Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, I will give you back to yourself. In return, you will give me your love of football.
I love football. I love that damn game.
I know. I can see it. And it’s killing you. It’s the cord that binds you, that he uses against you.
Who? Who uses it? What are you talking about?
Talin Moray. He is the man who takes away your will. He offers no trade. Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, he is a thief. He steals from the very Universe.
And you’re different? You’re just another Betty Crocker, come down here to tell me what’s what. This thief? He’s given me power.
He’s taken away your will.
He’s taken away the pain in my leg.
Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, I tell you this once. The pain in your leg is a lesson. It is a memory that makes you a better man, if you have the wit to listen. You couldn’t have married her if you were on the road. You couldn’t have had two beautiful girls if you were away from home. You would have died of hepatitis from a shared needle. The Universe — we kept you alive, we kept you safe, and you threw the gift back at us. And she showed him, the story of his would-have-been-life. She showed him where he fell in love with his wife, and then pointed to the moment where it would have broken her heart when he slept with someone else. She showed the places in his soul where his daughters lived, the empty void that would be left without them. Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, this is the terrible beauty of your life. It is what you stand to lose if you take another step.
Why should I believe you?
Why should you not? It’s up to you. Here is my trade. I will give you back the pain in your leg, and take your love of football. That is all.
But … but I get to keep them? With their needs and wants? They never leave me alone.
You get to keep them. You are a king in a kingdom you’ve forgotten.
A king? Oh, I see it — and here, something inside him broke with the beauty of it — I … I’ll take your trade.
Adalia held the thread in her hand, reaching back into the void. She found it there, the loose end of Marcellus’ pain and hurt and anger and sense of failing at everything — and gave it back to him. In return, she took the bright, shiny thing that held his love of a game he could never play, gave it back up to the Universe. Put it into the starless void, and felt something right itself. The scales balanced a little bit, no more than a whisker, but she felt it. She had given this man something he couldn’t feel through the burden of his everyday life. She’d given him back the love of his wife and his two girls.
Something unlocked inside her and she laughed.
That was, perhaps, ill-considered. The pack stuttered to a halt, turned away from where Just James had fled, turning eyes on her. Adalia looked over at them — too many, too many, this takes too long — and reached her hand out for another thread.
One of the zombies, clothed in worn overalls — not a zombie, this one’s a man again — picked up a fallen street sign, the end of it a lump of concrete, and swung. It connected with the head of a zombie with a sound like a burst water balloon — a sound smaller than the magnitude of the action — but the man in overalls was still swinging, yelling with a voice gone hoarse. The lump of concrete at the end of the sign turned red and wet as he struck again and again. Adalia turned away, shutting her eyes tight against it, as if that would stop the noise.
Then, silence. She opened her eyes, looked over at the man in overalls, standing tall and straight against the cold air. His breath puffed o
ut in trails of mist as he looked around at the felled bodies. He let the sign fall to the ground, held his hands up in front of his face as if seeing them for the first time. His fingers clenched, relaxed, and Adalia tried to hold her breath. What did I do?
The man looked over at her as if hearing her thought, moving with care around the limp that tugged at his steps. He was a big man, she could see that now that he wasn’t bowed down with pain and so much horrible anger and loss. Wide shoulders. A face that should have held an easy, gentle smile, and might yet again. He held a hand out to her, and this was when she realized she’d hunkered down, crouched against the side of a car.
Adalia looked at his hand, reached up and took it. His grip was gentle and strong as he helped her up before taking a quick step back. He looked down at his hands, then put them behind his back. “Ma’am.”
Well. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” she said.
“Ma’am?” His eyes met hers.
“I’m Adalia.” She held out her hand again. “Not Betty Crocker.”
He looked at her hand, then shook it. “Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. Or … I was.”
“You are again,” she said, letting go. “Marcellus?”
“You spoke to me.”
“Sort of,” she said.
“I heard your voice,” he said, stubborn. Of course he was stubborn.
“Marcellus?”
“Yeah.”
“Marcellus, I need to get across the city real quick. Can you help me?”
That easy, gentle smile she’d been hoping to see broke out like the coming of dawn. “Yeah. I can help you, if you don’t mind riding rough.”
“Rough would be too easy,” she said, “if you knew where I’d been this last week.”
“You don’t sound … you don’t sound like you sounded like before,” he said.
“That’s because,” she said, then stopped. “There’s this other place? Like a room, where it’s dark and cold and empty. When I’m there I can do things, but I can’t be myself. I can’t be who I should be. I don’t know if I’m explaining this very well.”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I know exactly what you mean.” He took a step away from her, the limp snaring his walk again. “You coming?”
“We need to find Just James,” she said.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s cool,” said a voice. They both looked over to Just James, rounding the corner of a building. “It’s totally cool that you’re making nice with a zombie.”
“Who’s this asshole?” said Marcellus.
“Zombies talk?” said Just James.
“I ain’t no zombie,” said Marcellus, taking a heavy step forward.
Adalia put a hand on Marcellus’ arm, a light touch but the man stopped. “Just James,” said Adalia, “This is Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. Marcellus, this is Just James.”
“Huh,” said Marcellus. “He coming too?”
“Yes,” said Adalia and Just James at the same time.
“That’s cool,” said Marcellus.
“I’m still stuck on the bit where zombies talk,” said Just James.
“Oh,” said Adalia. “He’s not a zombie.”
“But … the thing … what?” said Just James.
“It’s like this, kid,” said Marcellus. “Someone came and took something from me. She,” and he jerked a thumb at Adalia, “gave it back. Now we’re going to go kick seven kinds of shit out of the guy who took it. You coming?”
“You’re kind of scary,” said Just James. “That works.”
Adalia looked around the darkening city. “How are we going to get there?”
“My truck,” said Marcellus.
“A pickup’s not going to help,” said Just James. “Streets are clogged.”
“I said a truck,” said Marcellus, and set off.
• • •
“Oh,” said Just James, when they reached the truck.
“Yeah,” said Marcellus, pulling himself up into the cab. It was a big Kenworth dumper, metal ram bars mounted in front of the grill. “I figure, we can just push our way there.”
Adalia let herself smile, gave a glance at the sky, and thought, I don’t need to trade anyone’s life. “Let’s go.” She piled into the cab, sitting between Just James and Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. She could feel the excitement coming off Just James in waves, something scared underneath it but hidden, buried deep — he was trying not to show her his fear. Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, on her other side, well — he had a focused feel, like a line-backer about to make his play.
Which made sense.
She felt around for Gabriel, but he wasn’t anywhere near. She felt a pang of guilt, and looked at her fingers as they picked invisible lint off her jacket. She steadied her hands, smoothed the jacket flat. He wasn’t here because of what she’d said, but he had been kind of a dick about the whole thing.
Hadn’t he?
The guilt wouldn’t go away, she needed something to take her mind off it. She looked at Just James’ feet, the Sketchers laced tight. “Not Vans?”
“What?” He looked at his feet, then up at her. “No, you see, that’s a misconception. Sketchers are the number two brand in the US today.”
“That’s why the cool kids wear Vans,” she said.
“I transcend cool,” said Just James. “Also, we’re poor.”
“Sorry,” said Adalia. “Sketchers aren’t exactly cheap though.”
“Depends on whether you buy or loot,” said Just James. “They fit. They look good. If life hands you lemons—”
“Make lemonade?” Adalia felt herself smiling. Her heart was fluttering, which was weird because they were just sitting in the cab of a truck talking about shoes. Except you’re not talking about shoes.
“Hell no,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “If life hands you lemons, buy a fucking gun.”
The cab smelled of sweat and tobacco, and shook like a beast alive when Marcellus fired up the engine. He shoved the Kenworth into gear, flooring it, and the truck pulled out onto the street with a roar. They slammed aside the first car in their way, a shower of metal fragments accompanying the jarring as it bounced away. Marcellus pulled the truck onto the sidewalk, the jounce of the wheels as it mounted the curb throwing Adalia against Just James.
“Sorry,” she said.
“I’m not,” he said.
She smiled again, not trying to hide it behind her hair.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
The Black Hawk fought him all the way down, the machine yawing through the air. Val knew that yanking at the controls would spell certain disaster — and how do I know that? — but that’s what most of him wanted to do.
Another part stayed calm, making small movements on the controls as if trying to steady a frightened creature. But despite the other helping him fly — well. He couldn’t stop his fists clenching around the stick. When the machine thudded to the ground, listing to the left — John yelling half in fear and half in joy, no one else doing anything much else except praying — Val yanked off his harness. “Everyone out.”
“Hey,” said John. “That was some wild flying.”
“Da. Spasibo,” said Val. “Teper' vyyti.”
“Uh,” said John.
“Get your shit together, Everard,” said Carlisle. She was pulling Sky out of her seat — Rex had already left the Black Hawk, doing a roadie run towards the entrance to Trump Tower — while John stared at him, face mostly blank.
Mostly. “V chem tvoya problema?” Val pointed out the open side door. “Poshevelivaysya!”
“Dude,” said John, “I have no idea what you are saying. Did you take a knock on the head?”
“He’s speaking Russian,” said Carlisle, black leather jacket flashing as she ducked out the door.
“YA ne govoryu po-russki,” said Val. “I’m speaking angliyskiy.”
“You need to speak your way the fuck out of this helicopter,” said Carlisle, “and get your head and ass wired corre
ctly.” With that, she was gone, pushing Sky in front of her towards the tower.
John looked at Val, then at Carlisle’s receding back, then back at Val. “She’s got a point.” With that, he hopped out the side and jogged off, with the Miles ease that said he was totally cool with jogging from a burning Black Hawk towards a tower filled with zombies.
Val pushed open the door of the Black Hawk, the rotors still cutting the air above him as they slowed. They forced cold winter air against him, air mixed with a hint of the smoke peeling out of the top of the Black Hawk. Val gave the machine a last look — landing on Trump Tower would have been so damn cool — before he jogged after John.
• • •
“What I want to know,” Carlisle was saying as Val came through the doors, “is how we’re going to get to the top.” She had her sidearm out, smoke trickling from the barrel. Two bodies were splayed backward — one dressed as a security guard, another in a suit. Concierge, maybe? Didn’t matter.
“What I want to know,” said John, “is why Val is speaking Russian.”
“What I want to know,” said Rex, “is why we don’t just wait here and let them come to us.”
“Back to the Russian part,” said John. “Val doesn’t speak Russian.”
“He does now,” said Carlisle.
“Nyet,” said Val. “YA ne govoryu po-russki.”
“Son,” said Rex, “if you just said you don’t speak Russian, you said that in Russian.”
“Oh,” said Val.
“Is ‘oh’ universal?” said John. “Like, do Russians say that shit?”
Sky took a couple of slow paces that brought her close to Val. She looked into his face. “You couldn’t fly a helicopter either, could you?”
“Nyet,” said Val. He heard it this time and wanted to slap himself.
“Stands to reason,” she said, “that you’re getting the Russian from the same place.”
“Same place?” said Carlisle.
“Like a library,” said Sky.
“Oh hey, neat,” said John. “Like the Matrix. Do you know kung fu?”
“No,” said Val. He scratched at his jaw. “I think I can wrestle.”
The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy Page 65