Maksimillian took a step out from behind the column, and Mohawk fired. Maksimillian turned, and spun, and ducked, the bullets missing, until Mohawk’s weapon clicked dry. He enjoyed the dance so much he could almost ignore the panicked terror that hit the commuters around him, like a light switch as soon as the first shot sounded. The remaining people on the subway platform started screaming, running anywhere but here, fear making them blind, terror making them careless. He smiled across the now empty subway platform. “Is another … point of fact, da?” He patted himself down. “Not one shot hit, and you, you are good shot. You are fast. And still. Here I am. I have question, just as you think about mine.”
Mohawk was looking from the gun to Maksimillian, back to the gun. “What?”
Panda’s eyes were wide, her mouth open slightly. She closed it with a snap around teeth that were too large to be human. “We should go.”
“Fuck, no,” said Mohawk.
“Really,” said Panda. “There’s no problem with regrouping—”
“There’s every problem with regrouping,” said Mohawk. “You know what they’re like. What she’s like.”
“No, but I’ve heard,” said Panda. She held a hand out towards Maksimillian. “But this asshole here, well, he wasn’t in the mission brief.”
“May I,” said Maksimillian, “ask my question?” They both turned to look at him, saying nothing, so he continued. “Why you make coat from their skins?”
“Why shouldn’t we?” It was Panda who answered. “Why shouldn’t we make a coat from your hide?”
“It seems … ah, this English, is hard, da?” Maksimillian thought for a moment. “Impractical. That is the word. Take so many people to make one coat, and the leather, it is weak.”
Panda blinked, looked at Mohawk, then looked back. “What?”
“It is just…” Maksimillian snapped his fingers. “A single cow for a coat. Efficient. And the leather would be strong. I see,” and here, he gestured at his eyes, “that the coats you wear flow very well. Is like that movie, with the very pretty woman. Underworld, da? You want to be like her. Is that the reason?”
“You are crazier than a Klansman at a white sale in June, aren’t you?” said Mohawk. “Won’t save you.”
We are not right. We are wrong.
Maksimillian squinted his eyes closed for a second, opened them again. “Da. I think you are right. About the crazy part. So many things go on in my head, it is hard to know what is real. But I think I know one thing. One tiny thing, so small, is almost insignificant.”
“And what’s that?” said Panda, cocking her hip, her voice almost a lazy drawl. Trying to talk some courage back into herself. Maksimillian had seen it before. It never helped. Not really.
The station was empty, distant shouts still sounding, but not drawing closer. No politsiya. No people, and not one person in particular, not a hint of green hair anywhere. Not her. Maksimillian almost relaxed, smiled. “The thing — the tiny thing — is that you are baby vampiry, da? Infants.” He rolled his shoulders. “You do not have all of the things that make you special.”
“Are you … Russian?” Mohawk frowned. “What the fuck kind of word is, ‘vampiry?’”
Maksimillian thought for a moment, then held his hand out. He wiggled it in the air so-so. “More or less. Mother Russia is old, but I remember when she was born.”
Mohawk’s smile faded, and he leaned forward, taking a deep breath of the air around Maksimillian. “You smell … alive.”
“Da.” Maksimillian smiled at the man, encouraging.
“But you say you’re centuries old.”
“Da.” Maksimillian clapped happily. “You will get there. Keep going.”
“You’re not one of us.” Panda stepped closer. “So what are you?”
“See?” said Maksimillian. “Baby vampiry.” He shrugged. “You are,” and he gestured at her face, her makeup, and then at Mohawk’s hair, “a sign of your times. The punk years, da?”
Fight.
Panda bared her teeth at him, her fangs showing pale and white. But it was Mohawk that spoke. “Yes.”
Kill.
“Then you have lived long enough for men.” Maksimillian closed his eyes for a moment—
They must all DIE.
—then looked at Mohawk. “Is time. Time for you to be … finished.”
Mohawk’s fangs were out, and he took a single step towards Maksimillian. Maksimillian read the intent of that movement, how it would have turned into another step, a fist to the face, a hand in the back of his hair, teeth to the neck. He almost wanted it, almost wanted his eternal Night to end—
They made us kill our Pack.
—and then snarled, a hand punching out. It was an overpowered swing, all rage and hate, catching Mohawk in the chest. The creature flew back across the station’s platform, the crack of crushing bone overlaid by the fragmenting sound of breaking masonry. Panda was already leaping at him, and he caught her rush with open arms. Catch each wrist, just so, and hold the teeth away. It is the teeth, Maksimillian Kotlyarov, that will be the end of you. The only thing that can really hurt. They strained against each other, her bared fangs snapping in his face, and he felt his breathing go ragged, heart bright and fierce in his chest. They were strong, these baby vampiry, stronger than he remembered, but it had been such a long time, so many years since he’d fought one. So many years since he’d felt the pain, and the fear, and the hate, and the anger. The anger, that was what he needed.
THEY MADE US KILL OUR PACK.
He screamed at the thing, felt a burst of strength that came with the rage, and smashed his forehead into the bridge of her nose. It wasn’t enough to do anything but distract, but distraction was enough. Her strength eased up for a moment and he managed to unbalance her. A moment later, he slammed her into the ground, the concrete of the platform cracking underneath Panda with the force of the throw. She was clawing about, fingers cutting into the pavement, furrows through the stone, but his grip was—
Stronger than rock. As eternal as the Night.
—firm, a knee in her chest, and he arched back, slowly, so slowly, against the massive strength she had. The strength given to her by the deaths of many. But he was stronger, stronger now with all his hate and rage and the memory of blood in his mouth as he killed his family and the terror of being alone. He snarled, felt a pop as her shoulder dislocated, and the thing beneath him screamed. Maksimillian kept pulling, harder, and harder, wanting to make the screaming stop, as his Pack’s screaming had stopped, pulled until her arm pulled free from her torso in a spray of dark wet. It smelled—
Ancient. Rotted. Bad meat.
—like a thing dead already, and he threw the arm away. The creature beneath him was mewling, and he hit it in the face, and then again, and again, until there was nothing left of Panda, nothing left at all to remind him what she used to be, someone else’s Pack.
He stood up, blood and viscera coating his arms, his chest. He looked around the platform, felt the snarl that wasn’t a smile on his face, turned his yellow eyes towards Mohawk. The man was already standing, pulling his broken torso back into some semblance of shape.
“You … killed her.”
“How can you kill a thing already dead?” said Maksimillian, his voice thick. He stalked towards Mohawk, then paused. Mohawk’s passage had crushed a bench, leaving splinters of wood and metal, and Maksimillian reached down for a piece of wood. “Nyet. But she is not dead.”
“She looks pretty fucking dead to me!” Mohawk reached out a hand, the end falling loosely down as the broken elbow failed to support it. “Look what you did to her!”
Maksimillian moved back towards Panda’s body, the blood, the smell of death, and held up his stake of wood. He drove it—
Through the heart.
—into her chest, and the body gave one last convulsion. It would have screamed again if there had been enough working parts to make a noise, but it just slumped back down in a wet slop of its own remains.
“Now,” said Maksimillian, “the creature is dead.”
“What … what are you?” said Mohawk. He was trying to back away, eyes looking for an exit. The station was full of ways out, but none of them fast, except for the subway’s tunnels.
What am I? Maksimillian could feel the rumbling of another train coming, and smiled. “I am Maksimillian Kotlyarov.”
“That’s a name, a fucking name, not a thing,” said the creature. “What are you?” Then it looked around, turned, and sprinted towards the station’s tracks. Even normal hearing could pick out the sound of the train coming, and the thing thought it could use the train as a distraction.
Maksimillian reached down, picked up a piece of broken stone about the size of a fist. He lined up the throw, thinking about how it would be if The Bambino threw. Babe Ruth was one of the first five members of the Baseball Hall of Fame, known for his pitch and his swing, and Maksimillian would do him proud.
The creature had almost made the tracks, the train coming into the station in a blast of light and noise. Maksimillian could see from the way the creature moved, from the way he’d watched a thousand thousand people run away, that it was about to jump, to leap the track in front of the train, use the machine as a barrier. Maksimillian wound his arm back and threw.
The chunk of stone flew straight and true, catching Mohawk in the back just as he was about to jump. It wasn’t much, but it put him off-balance, and the man stumbled, rather than jumped, in front of the train. He didn’t even scream as the train rolled over the top of him, and Maksimillian knew there’d be nothing but fragments of clothing and teeth left. Hard to identify a body from a size 10 shoe.
He picked up another piece of wood anyway. Being thorough, that was important.
He nodded to himself, looked at the bloody mess that had been Panda, and then walked towards the train. People were screaming, more people now, people who’d just arrived on that train, the driver no doubt in shock at having run someone over. Other people would come, there would be questions, and Maksimillian needed to be far away from here before that happened.
Time enough to finish the job first. He kept walking, then realized he hadn’t answered Mohawk’s last question. He looked around, at the panic, the fear, and smiled.
We are the Night.
“I am Maksimillian Kotlyarov, and I am the Night.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWELVE
John Miles (01:01): Melissa
(01:01) Melissa
(01:01) Yo, Melissa. It’s John.
Carlisle (01:02): I cn seee tht.
(01:02): What time
John Miles (01:02): It’s like one in the morning.
(01:02): That’s not important. I need help.
Carlisle (01:03): Yr rigt. I kill yo.
(01:03) you.
John Miles (01:03): I met this girl.
Carlisle (01:04): I’m turnng my ph of.
John Miles (01:04): Melissa?
[Message can’t be sent]
(01:04): Melissa?
[Message can’t be sent]
• • •
John Miles (01:05): Hey Val
[Message can’t be sent]
(01:05): Val
[Message can’t be sent]
(01:05): Val
[Message can’t be sent]
(01:06): Val
[Message can’t be sent]
• • •
Danny (01:07): Don’t even ask.
John Miles (01:07): It’s a big problem.
Danny (01:08): Melissa told me. You’re on a date. I’m turning my phone off.
John Miles (01:08): Danny?
[Message can’t be sent]
• • •
John Miles (01:09): Hey Adalia
(01:09): Don’t turn your phone off.
Adalia (01:10): I don’t tink it turns off Uncle J
John Miles (01:11): Has Melissa spoken to you
Adalia (01:11): Melissa? Y would?
John Miles (01:12): No reason
(01:12) I need some help.
Adalia (01:12): R U n a fite
John Miles (01:12): No
Adalia (01:13): R U n jail
John Miles (01:13): No
Adalia (01:14): iz it bout a 3:o)
John Miles (01:14): …
(01:14): What the fuck is 3:o)
Adalia (01:14): girl
John Miles (01:15): Not specifically
Adalia (01:15): I’m turniN on DND
John Miles (01:15): Wait
(01:17): I think the devil herself is here
(01:18): Adalia?
(01:19): Adalia?
Adalia (01:20): We’re almost ther
John Miles (01:20): We?
Adalia (01:21): Melissa’s w me
John Miles (01:21): But how
Adalia (01:21): sumtimz seein the futR iz fun
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN
Liselle pulled the sheet off and felt the light of the moon wash over her bare skin. The floor to ceiling windows of her apartment — which continued here, into her bedroom — gave an impressive view. It wasn’t the view of the ground she wanted, but of the sky. The Father’s works still made her marvel, and that’s why she didn’t want the world to end. Not yet. There was so much beauty.
Her feet made no noise as she left her bed, leaving the man there — so much beauty — sleeping. Her apartment was large by the standards of this city, with a view — for those who cared — of the park that sat in the center of it. Moonbeams hung in the air, the light almost blue. Liselle moved into the space she’d reserved as a living room. She never used it, never even had people here, until now. She looked around the room, the expensive furnishings, the comfortable couches and chairs, the rare art, and frowned.
She hated it. Hated it all, these tiny trinkets. Funny how all it took to see the baubles for what they were was just breakfast.
Liselle paused. No, that was wrong. It wasn’t just breakfast any more than she hated these things. She saw these things for what they were: trappings laid about so she could try and ignore … the rest.
The endless loneliness. By the Father, but she’d been so alone for so very, very long.
Her living room was attached to the kitchen; a balcony bared itself to the sky through large bi-folding doors of glass. The main entrance to her apartment was in this room, and it sat ajar, the darkness of the corridor outside an open invitation.
She sighed. This was going to happen sooner or later. Liselle reached down to the low glass table in the center of the lounge, opened the wooden case that held her cigarettes, and picked one out. The smooth smoke of the Davidoff curled into her lungs as she lit it, a long tongue of flame banishing the blue of moonbeams for a moment.
Liselle breathed out, clicked off the lighter, and crossed her arms across her chest. “I didn’t say you could come here.”
A shape, just a smudge of shadow, detached itself from the wall, resolving into a woman. She was so pale, so porcelain perfect. Long black hair fell like dark water around her face. But it was the eyes that caught most people’s attention. Those eyes that could see into the souls of men. “You didn’t say I couldn’t, either.”
“Kaylan,” said Liselle, “that’s because I said I didn’t want to see you again. I’ve kept up my side of that.”
Kaylan shrugged. “Now I know. I won’t come back.”
“Thank you,” said Liselle. She gestured with her hand at the box on the table. “Cigarette?”
Kaylan walked forward, picking out one of the Davidoffs and helping herself to the lighter. She inhaled the smoke, her eyes closed with pleasure. “You still keep good things, Liselle.”
“Yes,” said Liselle. Not if you like these things why do you want it all to end or I should strike you down where you stand. Just yes.
It didn’t matter — Kaylan heard what she meant. “Sister, we shouldn’t fight. We were made for this.”
“This is an old argument,” said Liselle. “We’re not goin
g to resolve it here, while you stand dressed in the skin of men, and I stand naked before the Father.”
“You noticed.” Kaylan fingered the collar of the long coat she wore, the soft leather whispering around her. “I quite like it. It’s so … nouveau chic.”
“They are his children!” Liselle waved her cigarette at the window, at the world that waited beyond. “You dress yourself in the skins of his children, Kaylan. You don’t think he’ll notice?”
“Of course he’ll notice,” said Kaylan. She turned to look at some of Liselle’s art. “He’s got big plans, remember?”
“The first and the last,” said Liselle. “Kaylan Gleicher and Maynor Coen, trying to bring an end to the world. I don’t think that was his plan.”
“Do you presume to know?” Kaylan looked back at her. “It seems quite clear to me. He made four of us to do a job, and you and that dreary, boring Josef Hackett aren’t doing your part.” She thought for a moment. “That’s not fair. Josef is doing his part. Conflict is everywhere.”
“You reap what he sows,” said Liselle. “But he’s not doing it for you.”
“I know,” said Kaylan. “He’s still put out that we didn’t ask him to join the club.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” said Liselle. “You know as I do that as long as hate lives in the hearts of men, there will always be War. How did he put it? ‘Job for life.’”
The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy Page 84