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

by Richard Parry

  The sharp stabbing pain surprised her, and she looked down to see a bolt poking through her chest, barbs extended. She turned, saw a vampire behind her hold a crossbow. Reached for the line, felt another stab through her arm as a bolt passed through forearm, barbs flicking out. The vampire holding it pulled, and Liselle stumbled to her knees. By the Father, they are brazen! She rose to her feet, felt another bolt pass through her leg, and her shell cried out with the pain of it.

  Josef, my brother.

  I am here, my sister.

  She looked up, saw Josef, still atop the APC, ropes stretched out from the barbs through him to vampires all around. Through his chest, stomach, arms, legs, one through his shoulder. He looked at her, smiled, blood against his lips. Saw him turn to the vampire with the dirty suit. “You are not fast enough,” he said, coughing.

  “Seems fast enough to me,” said the vampire.

  Josef was still smiling, reached a hand to the sky. Where the sky would be, if the roof of the Garden wasn’t there. There was a crack of thunder, distant, booming, echoing across the heavens. Liselle saw the faces of the police and national guardsmen outside turning up, all looking in the same direction. Saw faces going slack with astonishment. Saw the faces of the vampires turn, uncertain, some holding hands up to shield mirrored eyes against the bright sunlight they were forbidden to walk in.

  The roof of the Garden exploded in a shower of concrete and rebar and glass, pieces big as cars and small as pebbles raining around. There, a vampire crushed under one. Another shorn in half by a spinning piece of glass. In the middle of it all, still on top of the APC, Josef: standing now, tall, strong, holding a blood red blade taller than a man. Fire, bright red flames burning off the blade.

  Not Josef. That is War, and he holds his blade Fury.

  Josef threw Fury, the blade tumbling end over end to embed itself in the suited vampire’s chest. The thing tried to scream but as it opened its mouth fire poured out, its eyes exploding into flame. Josef reached a hand out, not calling Fury to him but calling himself to Fury. He slipped through the Other Place, closing the distance in an instant, the ropes and cables falling slack to the ground where he’d been. Josef grabbed the hilt of Fury, pulled it out, and the suited vampire exploded in a shower of fire and blood.

  He pointed the sword across the room at another vampire. “You are not fast enough,” he said again. Threw the sword, again. Pulled himself to it. Again, and again, snapping back and forth across the room, red fire everywhere he hit.

  Liselle felt the savage expression on her face, teeth bared. She reached a hand to the sky, felt the barb in her arm pulled, her hand struggling to reach for the heavens.

  Scourge. How I’ve missed our work together. Oh, how she wanted to feel the grip of her sword. But her arm was held by this barb, these ropes. More vampires were grabbing the line, adding their strength to the pull, holding her back.

  There was another crack and rumble in the heavens, Scourge answering her call. She could feel the sword as it left a trail of dark smoke through the sky, feel the black burning of the blade as it fell towards the earth. Feel its unending, unquenchable hunger, because she was Famine. Liselle Vitols was a fiction, a shell given to hold purpose.

  These vampires thought they knew hunger? She would teach them hunger. The gnawing, empty belly of a baby never fed as its mother died giving birth. The deadly, creeping thirst of a traveler stuck in the desert. The agony of a body eating itself, day after day, as nothing but salted earth stood for miles around. Snow-starved victims of a plane crash, emaciated faces turning on each other with desperate fear. Men and women on a raft in the sea, drinking salt water to their death. A mother so, so hungry that she ate her dead child. Oh, she would teach them hunger.

  She was Famine, and no one tethered her to the Father’s Eden. She yanked her hand up as the roof exploded in a second place, Scourge hitting her palm with thunderous noise. Vampires were knocked to the ground, some atomized by the Father’s light cascading in. She turned black eyes on the vampire nearest her, sweeping Scourge, feeling the blade whisper through the Other Place. Nothing happened for a moment, then the vampire shrieked, clawing its belly, falling on a vampire close to it. Sinking fangs into unsuspecting flesh, hunger beyond hunger driving instinct before reason, action before alliances.

  Liselle grabbed at a tether, tearing it from her arm, black blood and smoke falling from her arm. The room around her felt dim, vampires bright sparks of hunger as they leapt and gouged each other. She let the crossbow bolt drop to the ground, swung Scourge about her, the blade hissing and biting as it cut her free. She held it up before her face, closed her eyes. Leaned forward to kiss the blade, then let it go. It fell, dissolving into smoke. That smoke flooded about the room, finding its way into vampires, through their mouths, their eyes, their noses. They screamed, and more clawed and bit at each other.

  As they bit each other, they would cough, and choke. Because Kaylan had forbidden them to feed on each other. A safeguard, to keep her empire strong. But hunger, hunger was greater than rules, and it drove madness before it. As they fed on each other, their skin darkened, veins standing out black against their skin. Their eyes would swell, lips bloating, before their bodies ruptured from the inside, dark slime exploding out.

  Liselle walked through the chaos, careful, slow, methodical. Her feet were surrounded by Scourge’s black smoke. It seeped from vampire to vampire, hated spawn to hated spawn. War swung his Fury, the red fire mingling with the black smoke with terrible purpose. War, and Famine, together.

  As it was meant to be.

  • • •

  She didn’t know how much time passed, but there were no vampires standing anymore. War leaned against Fury, and Famine held Scourge over one shoulder.

  “That felt good,” said War.

  Famine nodded, tasting victory. “They are so petty. So tiny.”

  War looked outside, towards the police and national guard, standing their unsteady ground. “I should speak with them. Warn them.”

  “Your children will not listen,” said Famine. “They are not really your children. They do not know you.”

  “Then I will teach them,” said War. He hefted Fury, striding out into the Father’s light. Famine watched him walk, men and women pointing weapons at him. Guns were trained on him the entire time he walked towards their line.

  War stopped before he reached their barricades, saying something to them. Gesturing, arms wide. Perhaps telling them that their time was close, or that they should leave. She sighed. It didn’t matter. They were all for reaping.

  Ah, there it was. The moment where it started to fall apart for them. They weren’t listening, of course, weapons still pointed, the discipline of the line still holding. One of the helicopters buzzing overhead cast a shadow. War looked up, and in that moment he was shot. One round turned into a hundred, and his body jerked and stuttered. There was a flash of lightning, stretching from War’s body to the heavens, then another, and another, the light and sound massive. Arcs of lightning reached for vehicles, turning them to molten slag. Reached for people, turning bodies into pillars of fire. The helicopter overhead was caught in the bolts from above, liquid metal remains falling in a shower on those who remained alive below.

  Famine turned her eyes to the heavens. War was strong, the second strongest of them in these times. You could fire a weapon into a mountain, chip off some rock, perhaps cause an avalanche. But the mountain would remain.

  It didn’t matter to her. War was gone for the moment, but so were his ‘children.’ He had to learn that he had no children. He could never have children. Humans weren’t for him, couldn’t be his family, couldn’t be sheltered by him. It didn’t matter what a kind man with a gentle voice had said on Golgotha as the life was taken from him. The Riders were made for one purpose: to bring about the end of all things.

  Humans weren’t for them.

  Josef learned it just now. Kaylan and Maynor already knew it. To be a Rider was to know destructi
on above all. She was happy to see it now, so clearly, with Scourge in her hand and murder in her heart. Humans were chaff, leaves on the wind, dirt in the eddies of an otherwise clear stream.

  Humans weren’t for any of them.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-THREE

  The gentle clack and rumble of train cars was well behind him, like many of his problems. The future, and only the future, lay ahead of Maksimillian Kotlyarov.

  The tunnel was dark, light fixtures infrequently placed. Even when he encountered one, the bulbs were missing, or smashed, as if the light hurt, or was a reminder of the day. And the day was a thing that the vampir couldn’t tolerate, would erase if they could. It was lucky, da, that the sun was so very far away. Safe from their hands and their schemes. Not like—

  They made us kill our Pack.

  —the people that were close, people that meant something, down here. Like the woman with the green hair. He shook his head. He couldn’t get distracted by—

  Pack mate.

  —feelings, not when he was near to finishing it. He let his teeth show in the dark. Being close, of course, meant that they were close to him, to Maksimillian Kotlyarov. Close to justice, and revenge, and a return of the Night.

  We were ever made to walk alone.

  He moved on quiet feet, soft steps making no sound. Not to his ears, and the ears of the Night—

  We hunt.

  —were the best ears ever made. Maksimillian Kotlyarov knew this to be true. He was bringing them all a surprise. Speaking of surprises, there was something unexpected ahead: a heartbeat. Steady, almost confident in its regular rhythm. He could hear it above the excited rush of blood in his own ears, above the gentle soft trickle of water from somewhere far away. It was a big heart, used to doing big tasks, but big hearts didn’t mean generous hearts. Maksimillian had a very big heart, and he—

  They made us kill our Pack.

  —had the darkest heart he knew. Oh, he was no savior, no hero. That was a job for other men and women who preferred doing the right thing to doing the thing that was necessary. So: this heart he was hearing, it could be good or bad, gentle or hard, sweet or sinister. It was unlikely it was good, gentle, or sweet, as such things had no place in a nest of vampiry. Such things only had a place in the sun.

  Maksimillian rounded a bend and saw a single man standing. The owner of the heart, leaning against a wall like he owned it. Like he had paid good rubles for this nasty hole in the earth. The man was wearing a tweed jacket, a jaunty cap on his head, a long beard that would be copper in the daylight, and a smile. A huge sword rested against the wall opposite the man. Maksimillian knew that smile, and knew the sword also. The sword was something to be very, very careful of. If it was in the light of the sun, it would be white, not like bones, or even white paint, but white like the heart of the heavens. If the stories were true — and why wouldn’t they be? — the sword was made for Christ. This man wasn’t Christ though. If the stories were true — and again, why not believe? — Christ was good, and gentle, and sweet. This man wasn’t. This man was Maynor Coen, and the sword was Stroke.

  “Ah, Maksimillian.” Maynor touched the brim of his hat in the darkness. “I was hoping I would see you before the end.”

  “It is,” said Maksimillian, “your lucky day, da?” He thought for a moment. “I think it is mine too. I have always wanted to kill you.”

  Maynor tsk’d. “Maksimillian, you can’t kill me.”

  Maksimillian laughed. “Is easy. I take heart, da? And tear from your chest.” He made a reaching, wrenching motion. “Just so.”

  “Assuming for a moment you can, I’ll come back,” said Maynor. “You just can’t keep a good man down.”

  “What about a bad man?” said Maksimillian. “As we are both bad, bad men. Speaking to each other, here in the belly of the world. Where all,” and he gestured to the walls around them, as if they would agree, “is darkness and hate.”

  “All four Swords have been drawn, Maks,” said Maynor. “Do you mind if I call you Maks? Or would you prefer Volk?”

  Maksimillian shrugged. The woman with the green hair—

  Pack mate.

  —had called him Maks, and it felt right. Better than Volk, who was always a deceiver. Maks was someone who could, in the right light, be a friend. Or if that was too much of a stretch, he could not be your enemy, at least for today, da? “Maynor,” he said, “you may call me Maks. Do you mind if I, in turn, call you something shorter? Perhaps evil, slime, scum, a crawling roach, something that should be scraped from the bottom of a boot—”

  “Maynor’s fine,” said Maynor, his smile dimming for a moment.

  “I feel like,” said Maks, “we haven’t spent the time to get to know each other. You think I am some lone wolf, da? A man with no plan.”

  “I think you’re the end of a very bad mistake,” said Maynor. “You carry a weapon that was stolen from me and mine.”

  “Da,” agreed Maks.

  “I’m here to take it back,” said Maynor. “And by ‘take it back,’ I mean I’m here to kill you. And you, Maks, won’t come back.”

  Maks held up a hand. “May I tell a story? One that perhaps may shed some light on why two bad men like us are here.”

  “I’m all ears,” said Maynor. He made a show of checking his watch — expensive, with many dials.

  “Is class, da?” said Maks. “At school. There is many people in class. Boys and girls, and of course I am there. The man with no plan, as you say.”

  “I did say, yeah.”

  “Who is teaching class but Pestilence? One of the finest Horsepersons to ever ride.” Maks smiled, hoping Maynor could see his expression. Jokes needed the correct delivery. “And Pestilence, he is teaching important lesson. About cleverness, and having a plan. And in class is poor Maksimillian Kotlyarov, young, inexperienced, and with no plan.”

  “I like where this is going,” said Maynor, reaching for Stroke.

  “One moment,” said Maks, holding up a hand. Maynor paused. “I have not finished story, da? Call it dying wish.”

  “Fine,” said Maynor, leaning back.

  “Thank you,” said Maks. “Pestilence says to all boys and girls, and of course young Maksimillian, ‘Please stand up if you think you are young, and stupid, and have no plan.’ After a moment, Maksimillian stands up. And Pestilence nods, and says, ‘Maksimillian, are you saying you are young, and foolish, and have no plan?’” Maks smiled wider. “And young Maksimillian said, ‘No, friend. I just did not want to see you standing there by yourself.’”

  Maynor blinked in the darkness once, then roared, reaching for his sword. Maks knew how this fight would go. First, Maynor would swing at him with Stroke, the mighty weapon cutting through the tunnel’s wall on its way to him. The weapon would blaze with bright light, causing blindness. It would go for Maksimillian’s heart, seeking to cut out the weapon he carried, to erase the mistake. And then Maks would die.

  That wouldn’t do at all.

  Maks wasn’t ready to die. Yeshche nyet. Certainly not now, when he was so close. So he moved faster, faster than Maynor, fast enough to reach Stroke a whisker of time after Maynor. Maynor’s hands were on the sword, but Maks’s hands were on Maynor’s. Maks and Maynor were shoulder to shoulder. Maynor was yelling, making all kinds of noises, and struggling against Maks’s grip. But—

  THEY MADE US KILL OUR PACK.

  —anger made Maks strong, stronger than the vampiry, stronger than this Vsadnik, and he bared his own teeth. Maynor caught a glimpse of those teeth in the dark, a panicked expression crossing his face. Maks held Maynor still as stone, hard as iron, Stroke’s blade trembling as they matched will to will, strength to strength.

  Maynor seemed to focus for a moment, Stroke blazing bright for a moment, white smoke pouring from the blade, filling the air around them. Maks grinned, and breathed in the smoke. Best for this enemy of his—

  Smallpox. Boils breaking through the skin. Polio, terrible weakness stealing a man’s ability
to even draw breath. The Black Death, migrating up from what was now Asia, killing through pustules, and gangrene, and pain. Diseases born by a terrible mind, all designed to kill, but kill in the worst way: alone. Those infected would be separated, to live out their few remaining days in pain and blindness and despair as their bodies rotted around them.

  —to see that the Night did not age. It couldn’t be poisoned. It didn’t get brittle with time.

  And it most certainly did not get sick.

  “I like,” said Maks, teeth gritted, “that you tried.” And he turned, hard and fast, pulling Stroke from Maynor. Felt the terrible weight of the blade, a weight that the Night wasn’t meant to carry. So heavy, that sword. But the Night was strong, strongest when—

  THEY.

  MADE.

  US.

  KILL.

  OUR.

  PACK.

  —it was angry, the red rage rising to destroy all. Maksimillian felt that rage, that anger built through thousands of years. Thousands of years of not-death, living past everyone. Held Stroke, his muscles bunching with the effort. Held Stroke above his head, and cut down, one perfect cut starting at Maynor’s shoulder and exiting through the opposite hip. The weapon flared, white fire blasting out from Maynor’s body, and Pestilence fell.

  Stroke’s blade was buried in the floor. Maksimillian panted, wanting to—

  We will kill them all.

  —rend something, tear something else, to pull limbs from bodies.

  The sky will open.

  The sky will open? Recollection, a memory almost forgotten came to Maks’s mind, and he threw himself back down the tunnel. Just in time, as the tunnel filled with lightning, strike after strike coursing through the walls. A stray arc hit Maks, the fire of it burning him, his skin shredding off one side, and he screamed with the exquisite, beautiful, pure pain of it.

  Darkness.

  • • •

  Darkness.

  Maks sat up, his face, side, both feeling like they were on fire. Not that they were burning, that had already happened, but burns were a funny thing. Not funny as in, ha ha Maksimillian, that is a fine joke, but funny as in they were a thing you did not want or need. They would heal, given time, and food.