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

by Richard Parry

  Sam didn’t do the usual allow me or I’ll get one of my lackeys to get it. He just nodded, and gave a small smile. “I’d like that.”

  They found a table — its availability helped along by the presence of Hulk and Gigantor — drinks arriving straight away. The table was round and small, tucked along the back wall of the bar. Hulk and Gigantor — whose names turned out to be Ben and Ernesto — turned their backs to them, watching the crowd. Giving them some space. Or, if you were the paranoid type, making sure no one heard something that would need to be … cleaned up.

  “Excuse the presence of Ben and Ernesto,” said Sam. “They’re not for you.”

  Danny’s eyes flicked between the muscle and Sam, the muscle and Sam. “They’re not?”

  “Ms. Kendrick,” said Sam, “last time we saw each other, you jumped out of a research building many floors up. A fall that would certainly kill a normal … person. At the time, you were … a little larger, if memory serves. I very much doubt that either Ben or Ernesto would be much use against you.”

  “Then what are they for?” Danny leaned closer. “Who are they for?”

  Sam’s eyes, nothing involuntary in the look at all, moved to Ben, then to Ernesto, and finally back to Danny. He sighed. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have agreed to come.”

  “Then why did you?” Danny leaned forward an inch, maybe two. “Sam, we’ve been hunting something—”

  “How is Charlie?” said Carlisle.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

  “Charlie. Your kid.” Carlisle played with the straw the fool bartender had put in her gin, then tossed it on the table. It was blue plastic, in her experience useless for stirring and drinking both. “He’s got to be ten years old.”

  “Eight,” said Sam, who looked like he wanted to say something. The man swallowed, then said, “He’s fine. Detective? Why did you come?”

  “You were in town. We were in town. Seemed a good reason to catch up — on old times,” said Carlisle. “Remember that time when we all went out and played pool for hours?”

  About fifty emotions went across Sam’s face, then he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I remember. Pool. Except I didn’t know the rules — I’d never played. Still don’t, really. Know the rules, that is.”

  Carlisle pushed her glass away. “I can teach you,” she said. She looked at Danny. “We can teach you.”

  Danny said nothing. She knew they’d never played pool with Sam Barnes. She started making slow circles on the table with her beer bottle, the knurled bottom making a grinding sound against the wood.

  “I don’t think … I don’t think I can play anymore, Detective.” Sam shrugged, then stood. “Well, it’s been a pleasure.”

  “Sure it has,” said Carlisle.

  Sam looked to Danny, looked to her like he wanted to shake her hand or hug her or run away or all three. “Ms. Kendrick.”

  “Sam?” said Danny. Her voice was soft. “Sam, you take care of yourself, okay?”

  He gave a harsh laugh, something nasty in it. “That’s all I do these days.” He shuffled towards the back, Ben and Ernesto flanking him.

  “That was weird,” said Danny, after a moment.

  “Not really,” said Carlisle. She lifted up Sam’s glass, the whiskey hardly touched. She flicked aside the coaster, finding the paper she’d seen him slip under it. Creased, worn like it had been folded and refolded many times.

  “What’s that?” Danny picked the paper up, unfolding it with care. She smoothed it out on the table between them. The text on it was to the point.

  Know that we have your son Charles. Know that he will come to no harm if you do as we say. We are keeping him safe, and safe he will remain as long as you do as we ask. If you speak to law enforcement, he will die. If you talk to this world’s media, he will die. If you seek help of any kind, he will die.

  We are not without gratitude. Do as we ask, and you both shall know wealth and power everlasting. This will be handed to Charles on his twentieth birthday. Until then, he shall remain our ward, learning our ways. He will be your successor in all things. What you sow, he will reap.

  Carlisle’s eyes met Danny’s over the table top. “You know what this means?”

  Danny’s lips pulled back from her teeth, baring them in what was definitely not a smile. “We’ve found them.”

  “I’m glad,” said Carlisle, “because otherwise I’d have felt bad about what was about to happen to Ben and Ernesto.”

  “I know, right?” Danny frowned. “Still. I’m surprised at how easy this has been.”

  “It’s not been easy,” said Carlisle. “We had to get that clown Miles a job, remember? Interviews, dressing nice, trying not to talk. It was tough.”

  Danny smiled at her. “Right. Well.” She stood up, smoothing the front of her jacket. “Time to get to work.” Her eyes had found a reedy man towards the front of the bar. Danny nodded at him. “That one, I think.”

  “How can you tell?” Carlisle adjusted the back of her jacket, feeling the comforting weight of the Eagle at her spine. The sidearm still had her back. It always had her back.

  “He’s looking for someone,” said Danny. “Like, really looking. And he’s … unhealthy. I don’t know. It’s been a long, long time. And … Melissa? It wasn’t even me. I don’t know if I’m remembering this right.”

  Carlisle looked over at the man. Danny was right, the man was unhealthy. If she’d seen him elsewhere, she’d have thought he was in dire need of a burger and fries, probably supersize, washed down with a jumbo fat Coke, no ice. The guy was thin, like he didn’t make eating a habit. His complexion was washed out, leaving him pale, reedy. What really got her humming was the look in his eyes, a kind of fanaticism she hadn’t seen except that one time she’d had to face down a guy with a bomb strapped to his chest, another to a little kid he’d held in front of him like a shield.

  That had been a bad day.

  The reedy man saw them. Or really, if Carlisle was being honest, he saw Danny. Completely ignored Carlisle, eyes skipping right over the top of her like she was just a piece of furniture. Carlisle could almost see the wheels moving in the guy’s head as he sized up Danny, whether to come on over and start some shit or walk the fuck away. If she was being honest with herself, Carlisle was hoping for walk the fuck away. Danny and Everard had talked about what these freaks were, what they could do.

  If Carlisle hadn’t been on the ride with them so long, she’d have called them crazy. She swallowed, looked up at Danny, and said, “I think you’re remembering it right. Go kick his ass.”

  Danny rolled her shoulders and strode forward. The reedy man took one look at her and made a break for the door at the front of the bar. Which was more or less expected. They’d prepared a contingency for that.

  The reedy man didn’t run, more like he flowed around people. They’d look away, or lean forward, or spill their drink, or a dozen other things at just the right time to let him move right towards the bar’s main door. Right towards Valentine Everard.

  As far as contingencies go, he wasn’t a bad one to have. Everard was brushing the water from his coat. The reedy man looked around him, back towards the rear exit where Carlisle and Danny were, then to the front, blocked by Everard. Caught.

  He bared teeth at them, teeth that were just too damn long, then grabbed a passing waitress. She had a moment to say something — it might have been hey or watch it, asshole — before the reedy man sank those teeth into the flesh at her neck. There was a bright spray of red as he sucked at the waitress, the life leaving her like water down a drain. Just like that, she was gone. Color bloomed in the reedy man’s face, a flush of power as the waitress’s blood gave him vigor.

  The screams hit like a wave, people panicking as they surged away from the reedy man. Bouncing off walls, off each other, surging for any exit. Carlisle watched as they streamed around Everard, not moving him at all — he was like a rock.

  “Come,” said the reed
y man, hard voice carrying as he turned to Everard. “Come and die.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR

  When Sam Barnes hit the alley behind the bar, he was moving at a jog. Ben had a hand — large, meaty, controlling — on his arm. Ben’s other hand was on Sam’s shoulder, steering him like he was a supermarket cart. Ernesto was up front, leading like a snowplow. He shoved aside anything that got in their way aside: people, doors, furniture. It made the short trip outside feel like a couple of rounds in a bumper car.

  The speed of their journey wasn’t the surprising part. Sam had been herded by these guys, or others like them, before. What was surprising was how quickly they stopped.

  The alley was dark, and the rain made it even harder to see. It took Sam’s eyes a moment to adjust to the light cast by the single naked bulb above the exit. There were two people waiting in the alley, standing next to Sam’s black limo like they owned it. Of his driver there was no sign, just the limo, engine on, idling with the quiet grumble that came with owning a Maybach. The doors were shut, windows tinted for privacy, and Sam wished, oh how he wished he was safely inside that, a few blocks or miles or cities between himself and what was probably going on in the bar behind him.

  “Move.” It was Ernesto, of course. The man wasn’t eloquent; no matter how hard Sam tried, the man never opened up. Frugal with English, like it was a precious resource that could run out if you over-used it.

  “Son,” said one of the people waiting in the alley, squaring up against Ernesto. “Son, it’s not going to be that kind of day for you.”

  Sam’s eyes were adjusting, feeding him the details. The two people were as different as chalk and cheese. The one who’d just spoken was an older man, maybe complaining about his upcoming sixtieth birthday, but with shoulders and arms that spoke of the ability to tear coins in half. The other was a woman, a compact slenderness that came with being a gymnast. He was wearing comfortable clothes, an inexpensive jacket and slacks that came off the rack at Gap. She was wearing fatigues, but good ones like she’d found Bergdorf’s army surplus outlet. A cap sat on her head, her hair pulled into an efficient ponytail out the back.

  The screaming hit Sam then, the noise coming from the bar behind them. He closed his eyes, swallowed once, and then opened them again. “Would you please move? We have to go.”

  “You’ll go all right,” said the older man, a kind of certainty in his voice that you felt when holding a rock. “But not with these guys.”

  Ernesto laughed. “Little man,” he said, slapping a fist the size of a ham into the palm of the other. “I will bust you open like a piñata.”

  “Sure,” said the older man again, “that’s one way. The other way is we all take a nice ride in this car together. Sounds like something bad is happening behind you, and I think we’d all like to miss what’s going on in there.”

  Ernesto had passed his two-word, or two-sentence, or whatever-it-was rule. He stepped forward, reaching for the older man. The woman, who hadn’t moved a micron until this moment, stepped in, all efficient moves and hard angles. Her hand shot out, grabbed Ernesto’s wrist, and twisted. Ernesto’s entire frame spun through the air around the pivot of his wrist, and he hit the ground like a dropped safe. He didn’t even groan; he was out cold.

  “Hey,” said the older man. “I had that.”

  “You talk too much,” said the woman.

  Sam saw that Ben’s mouth was open, his eyes moving between Ernesto on the ground and the man and woman arguing in front of them. Ben let go of Sam, reaching into his jacket for the weapon he carried.

  It would take less than a second for the weapon to clear the holster. Sam had counted off the one Mississippi in his head before, never making two Mississippi. Before the gun saw the dim light of the alley, the older man was in front of him, hand on Ben’s elbow, other hand companionably inside his jacket.

  “Son,” said the man, “let’s not do something we’d both regret.”

  Sam watched as Ben struggled to pull his arm free, muscles straining against the fabric of his jacket.

  “Son,” said the man again, this time through clenched teeth, “what we have here is a failure to communicate. I’m real sorry about this.” And with that, he brought his knee up into Ben’s groin. As Ben grunted, falling forward, the old man slammed his forehead into the bridge of Ben’s nose. There was a crunch, and Ben went down.

  Sam looked between the two of them. “I don’t carry much cash,” he said. He knew it was a dumb thing to say, but his lips were working without his brain in any kind of control. “I mean. Money.”

  “In the car, Barnes,” said the woman.

  “What Jessie means,” said the man, “is that we’d take it as a personal favor if we could escort you out of here.” He nodded towards the bar, the screams having faded away. “I don’t think anything good is happening in there. Do you? Besides. We’ve got an old friend you need to meet.”

  This is … this is actually surreal. Sam looked between the two of them, then at the limo. He closed his mouth before speaking — hadn’t even realized it was hanging open. “An old friend?”

  “Sure,” said the man. “Now get in the car, like the lady asked.”

  The woman — Jessie — was holding one of the doors open. He walked over, feeling like this was some kind of dream, and slid into the black leather comfort of the Maybach. Jessie swung herself in beside him, pulling the door closed as the older man got in the driver’s seat up front.

  “Hello, Sam,” said a new voice. Sam’s eyes adjusted — tonight’s theme was poor lighting — and he saw a young woman, green hair, lip piercing. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  “Hi,” said Sam. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s been a rough night. Who are you?”

  The wall near the exit to the bar exploded in a shower of bricks, Danny Kendrick flying through. She bounced off the outside of the Maybach, the car rocking with the force of it. Sam caught sight of her yellow eyes through the tinted windows, heard her yell at them in a voice no human throat should have made. “GET. MOVING.” And then she ran back inside.

  Sam swallowed, looked at the girl with green hair, then back out the window of the Maybach. “Was she … was she grinning?”

  Jessie slapped the glass between her and the older guy. “Rex? It’s time to go.”

  The older man — Rex — had that very same thought, at the very same time. The Maybach was roaring, peeling out of the alley in a wreath of tire smoke.

  Sam’s heart was pounding, and he kept looking out the back window for pursuit. They had a few moments. But they’ll be coming. They always come.

  “It’s okay,” said the young woman. “They’ll be busy for a while. My Mom’s on it. And Val.”

  Sam blinked. “Adalia?”

  Adalia smiled at him. “Yes, Sam Barnes. And I would like to make a trade.”

  • • •

  “No trades,” said Sam. “No … do you realize what you’ve done?” And then he sat in silence, his fist held clenched at his mouth, knuckles white.

  The Maybach moved through the city — after the initial frenzied escape — quiet and smooth as any limo should. The car only started to look out of place as they hit the Bronx, the gentrification of the city giving way to decaying buildings, brownstones more black and gray than anything else. Sam hadn’t been up this way since he was a kid. It hadn’t improved with time. It was always people’s eyes that had stayed with him. They stared out from faces lacking hope as the luxury of the car slipped past them in the lightening predawn.

  He cleared his throat. “Why are we here?”

  Adalia had been watching him. “It’s safe,” she said.

  He barked a short laugh. “Not for me. I come down here dressed the way I am, in this car, I take one step outside and I’m rolled for my wallet, watch, and probably shoes as well.”

  “Oh,” said Adalia, “that. That’s not what I’m talking about.” She turned away from him to look out the window. Sam noticed that Jessie
sat close to the younger woman, some part of her attention never far from Adalia.

  Sam rolled her words over in his head for a while. “What are you talking about?”

  “Them,” she said. “You know. The ones who have Charlie.” She said it like she knew Charlie, not Charles or your son or you remember that kid you had, just a simple Charlie. Like, like, hell, like she’d sat down and played Lego with him, building a starship or race car or one of the other six impossible things Charlie could imagine up before breakfast on any given morning.

  He leaned forward, and almost in sync Jessie leaned forward too. She eyeballed him. “Watch it there, chief.”

  Adalia placed a hand on Jessie’s arm. “It’s okay, Jessica. He’s just scared.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” said Jessie. “Scared men do stupid things.” She raised her voice. “Isn’t that right, Rex?”

  “Don’t pull me into this,” said Rex, from the front. “Don’t—”

  “Have you seen him?” said Sam. He knew the words tumbled out of him in a rush like he was four years old, but he could feel the desperation in him, a kind of bubble that was almost ready to pop. “Have you talked to him?”

  Adalia watched him for a few moments. “Not in the way you mean,” she said.

  Sam could taste the bitterness of his words. “Then you’ve doomed him,” he said. “He’s going to die. You’ve got to let me go. You’ve got to let me…” He ran down then, feeling the futility of it. He was trapped here in this car with these psychos and because of them, his little Charlie was going to be killed.

  She crooked an eyebrow at him, then turned her head towards Rex. “Stop the car.”

  “Say what?” said Rex. “We’re almost—”

  “Stop the car,” She said again. The Maybach’s speed dropped to zero, halting at the side of the road. Crumbling buildings watched from either side, the lighting giving them faces of judgment. Adalia looked at Sam, then opened the door for him. “Go.”