Night's Fall (Night's Champion Book 2)

by Richard Parry

  “I’m not trying to be cryptic. I just don’t have the words. It’s like there’s this place, and you can only know what it is when you’ve seen it.”

  Are you quoting The Matrix?

  “The Matrix?”

  An old movie, she typed. I liked it. The sequels were shit. She deleted the last word. Bad.

  “I haven’t seen a movie in years,” he said. “I don’t get called to watch them.” He looked at the back of her mom’s head. “I don’t know why I was called to you, though. Can’t work it out. I’d have thought it would be one of them.”

  They have their own problems, she typed. She deleted it, then, I’m glad you came to me.

  He looked at the writing on her phone, then up at her. He gave a small smile, tentative as a new dawn. “Me too.”

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  I still don’t get it.

  “We’ve been over this. It’ll come out eventually.”

  We can work it out. Together. It’s not like we’ve got anything else to do here.

  “We could watch the snow outside. It’ll be light in a few hours. Or you could get some sleep.”

  Not sleepy. Adalia ran a hand through hair a little too long for her liking. Let’s start with something simple. Why am I the only one who can see you?

  The boy shook his head. “Other people can see me.”

  They can’t. She waved her phone at the front seat where Melissa and Mom were talking. They would freak.

  The boy looked between her mom and Melissa, then nodded. “I think so, at least for a little while.” A small smile tugged at his face. “You freaked.”

  I was in the shower! Adalia wanted to laugh, but it would have given her away. She hid a smile with her hand, then typed, Who else can see you? Stop avoiding the question.

  “Special people,” said the boy. “I don’t know the rules.”

  I’m special?

  “I guess,” he said.

  She looked away, crossed her arms.

  “Jeeze,” he said, “I didn’t mean it like that. Look, pro tip, for when you meet a boy—”

  She held up a hand, typed, You’re a boy.

  He looked at her phone, then up into her face. “I think I should go,” he said, his voice soft.

  No. I’m sorry.

  He scooted away from her on the wide back seat of the Yukon. “So the pro tip is this. If a boy ever says something to you, and it can be taken two ways, see? And one of them makes you feel sad or angry, he meant it the other way.”

  Adalia thought about that, then gave a grudging nod. Why can’t you tell me your name?

  “I could tell you,” he said.

  Then you’d have to kill me? Overused, lame, try harder.

  “Ouch,” he said. “Tough crowd. It’s not that.”

  What is it? She glared at him, then made herself relax. I’m trying to take this the other way, but your whole fortune cookie thing isn’t helping me not feel angry or sad.

  “Got it,” he said. He thought for a moment, then swallowed. “I don’t remember.”

  You don’t remember any lines not full of cheese?

  “I don’t remember,” he said, leaning forward again, “my name.”

  Oh. Adalia looked down at the small word on her phone. What do you remember?

  The boy seemed about to answer, taking a deep breath. His mouth opened, then snapped shut as the Yukon slewed, snow thrown up in big sheets around them. Her mom screamed in the front seat, hands wrenching at the wheel. Melissa was reaching over, yelling something at her, before the big machine shuddered as the back hit something. Adalia was tossed against the door, knocking her head, her phone falling from her hand. There was a crash and glass blew through the cabin, the cold of winter suddenly hungry on the inside, tearing at her face, her hair. Adalia screwed up her eyes, the spinning of the vehicle going on and on, like it would never stop, and she screamed—

  Silence. The soft tink of cooling metal. Someone groaned, then her door was wrenched open and her mom was there. “Baby? Are you okay?

  “I’m okay, Mom,” said Adalia, blinking. The boy was still sitting next to her on the back seat. “What happened?”

  “Good question, kid,” said Melissa from the front. She coughed, then raised a hand to wipe some blood from her nose. The airbags in the front looked like big marshmallows. “Last time I let you drive.”

  Her mom looked into her face, then at Melissa still belted in the front seat. “Something terrible,” she said. Adalia saw that her eyes were yellow, something feral glinting behind them.

  “Mom?”

  “I remember,” said the boy into the silence, “that not all special people are good.” Then he was gone, a wisp of memory caught by the wind and tugged away.

  Her mom blinked yellow eyes at her before licking her lips. “They’ve stolen my Valentine.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Something was tearing at the air, clawing and howling, pulling the walls of the room closer. John squinted as the air rushed around, picking up scattered papers, the curtains flailing long frantic fingers into the room. He saw Val next to the silver case, arms straining.

  It looked like he was trying not to fall in to the case. No — he was trying not to be pulled into the case.

  “Val!” John was yelling against the storm in their apartment, the sun outside the window somehow dimmer, further away. He tried to sit upright from where he’d been thrown, reaching a hand towards his friend.

  Val was still screaming. It looked like the color was being drained out of him, all the light being drawn into the silver case still on the table. John could see the edges of his own hand, see the edges of his fingers blurring as if something — essential — was being pulled into the case.

  He scrambled back. Looked at the case, looked at Val. Saw his friend screaming a long, impossible breath out.

  It’s times like this that John Miles knew his destiny. He knew that he wasn’t fated to be the major act in the stage play of life. He wasn’t going to save the world — that shit was for other people with more time and a better give-a-fuck meter. He wasn’t the quarterback.

  Hell, he’d been a quarterback, but that was a completely different thing. That was a thing with girls and beer after the game. Right here and now, Val was the quarterback, and Val was dying. Val, who carried something inside him bigger and stronger than anything John had ever seen — that Val — was being pulled apart, being pulled into a metal case that had arrived in their apartment sometime last night.

  John Miles knew his destiny, and his destiny was to close that fucking case.

  He stood up, moving towards the case. The air in the room was savage and wild, and he felt like he was being drawn towards the case, but almost accidentally. Like it wasn’t him that the case wanted, but it’d take everything it could get. His feet slid on the floor, the carpet catching against the bottom of his shoes. He sank into a crouch, took another crab step closer.

  Looked up at Val. Saw the gray of his face, the shape of something—

  An animal, claws and teeth, with yellow eyes wide with rage and fear.

  —being torn loose. It was ghostly, the edges indistinct, and it reached back towards Val with imploring claws as it scrabbled frantically for purchase. John had seen that thing a couple times before, and each time it had been solid, taking over the body of his friend.

  Not this time. This time it was being pulled away like an old tooth—

  Fuck that. Close the case, asshole.

  John took one more step, reached out—

  Don’t think about it. Just grab the edge of the case, flip the lid closed, grab a beer, and go home.

  —and forced the lid closed, the clasps snicking into the silence of the room. The edge of the metal felt hot and cold at the same time against his hand.

  Silence?

  John looked over at Val, saw his friend’s eyes rolled back in their sockets, watched has he toppled over onto the ground. The room was calm, the curtains settling back into their old
habit of falling straight down. Sun pushed its way back into the room, the light warm and welcome.

  Raising the hand he’d used to close the case up before his eyes, John saw the burns on his fingers, the skin blistered and red. That’s gonna hurt. He looked down at Val, then ran his other hand through his hair.

  The case sat on the table, the wood underneath it blackened with heat. John coughed, then said, “Well, that could have gone better.”

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  “Here.” John held out a steaming mug. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?” Val was propped up on the sofa, his skin still—

  Gray.

  —bleached, colorless.

  “It’s coffee.”

  Val looked at the mug, then at John, and then at the otherwise empty apartment. “Who made it?”

  John looked at the mug, then at Val. “Who do you think made it?”

  “I think you made it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “No one else here,” said Val. He took the cup, sniffed it. “Also, it smells like pickled ass.”

  “Doesn’t look like your brain is hurt,” said John. “Your manners could use some work.”

  “I feel terrible.”

  “You look worse,” said John. He rubbed the burns on his fingers, then stopped when that made it hurt more. “I mean that in a nice way.”

  “What happened?”

  John shrugged. “Hell if I know. Above my pay grade.”

  Val sipped at his coffee, then winced. “This is terrible.”

  “You can make your own damn coffee next time you’re almost killed by a suitcase,” said John. “What’s terrible is that a suitcase—”

  “Briefcase.”

  “What?”

  “Briefcase,” said Val. “Suitcase is bigger. Has clothes ‘n’ shit inside it.”

  “Are you serious?” John looked at Val, then stood up. He gestured at the room around them. “There was a storm in here. A storm, with wind.”

  Val seemed to sober a little. “I remember.”

  “How often you see wind inside, Val?” John walked towards the window, looked outside. The world was much the same as he remembered — humans doing things that humans do — and the light was warm against his face. “I don’t mean when you leave the window open, or—”

  “I know what you mean.” Val’s voice was tired.

  “I don’t think you do.” John turned around, holding up his burnt and blistered hand. “You ever see shit like this coming from a briefcase?”

  What little color remained in Val’s face left, and he tried to stand. The coffee spilled, black joining the blue of his jeans. “Ah, shit.” He put the cup aside, then looked up. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “No,” said John.

  “No?”

  “No,” said John. “You don’t get to say sorry.”

  Val blinked up at him. “You’ve lost me.”

  “You’re like some kind of really smart dumb guy,” said John. He rubbed his hands together, felt the tension in his shoulders wind up a notch. “It’s not often I have to explain stuff to you.”

  “Unless it’s about women,” said Val. He paused, then: “To be fair, I’m not sure I should be listening to you about women.”

  “I don’t think this is one of those times,” said John.

  “One of what times?”

  “Where you get to make jokes,” said John. He lowered his voice a little. “This isn’t going to be a situation where it’s all going to be okay, and we can go out for beers and burgers after the game.”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” said Val. “I feel great.”

  “You look like shit,” said John. “We’ve been over this already. And you said you felt like shit too.”

  “No, I’m saying it wrong,” said Val. “I feel like shit, but it’s great.”

  John blinked, then pulled over a char, lowering himself into it. “Did you get hit on the head?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You need to break this one down for me,” said John. “I’m not following where you’re going. I want to, God as my witness, but I feel like this conversation has taken a turn towards Vegas.”

  “I feel like shit,” said Val, a grin splitting his face, “and I haven’t felt like shit for five years.”

  John sat very still. “Since—”

  “Since then,” said Val. “I think it’s gone.”

  “I think you should stop smiling about it,” said John.

  “Why?” Val tried to stand again, then gave up. “You haven’t had to live with a bloodthirsty killer in your head for five years. You don’t wake up and not know who you killed.”

  “Ignoring your whole superhero savior thing for a moment,” said John, “I don’t think that’s why you should stop smiling.”

  “What, you want me to keep killing?” Val’s voice cracked, and he paused. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

  “No, you’re good,” said John. “Just … can you just shut up for a second? Christ! I got to get words out of my head. It’s not my wheelhouse, right? More of an action guy. And you’re not helping.” John rubbed his good hand through his hair, closed his eyes for a second, then looked at Val, waiting.

  “I … okay,” said Val. He leaned back, then held out a hand. “Do your thing.”

  “This isn’t happy fun times,” said John. “This is serious fucking unhappy times. Something just sucked a fucking werewolf soul out through your eyes into a briefcase in our lounge, right next to the sofa we picked up from the dollar store. You look like shit, and you’re too weak to stand. You’re all happy and saying, ‘John, it’s a cure,’ but you’re forgetting something.” John licked his lips. “I said I’m sorry because I made you open the fucking case, okay? It’s my fault.”

  “No—”

  John held up a hand. “I haven’t given you back the talking stick yet.” He cleared his throat. “I said I’m sorry because I think I’ve killed you.”

  Val blinked. “You’ve got my attention.”

  “Thought that might do it,” said John.

  “I get that you think you’ve killed me,” said Val, rubbing at his nose, “but I don’t see why.”

  “Because of that.” John pointed at the hand Val had used to rub his nose.

  Val almost laughed. “I got a running nose for the first time in five…” His words trailed off as he saw the streak of blood on the back of his hand.

  “Yeah,” said John. “You remember you’ve got a virus inside you, right? You’ve got a virus that turned someone to jelly in like a minute.”

  Val looked down at his hand again then touched a finger to his nose. “Ah.”

  “’Ah,’” said John. “See? I went and did something stupid, and now I’ve killed my best friend.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Another black Yukon pushed its way through the snow towards them. The lights were on, strong and bright, but the noise of the storm hid the engine noise. It looked like a large, black whale nosing through the depths towards them.

  Danny shifted at her side. “Let me—”

  Carlisle held out a hand. The twinge in her gut was back, this time making her hopeful. “It’s okay.”

  “I can—”

  “Seriously,” said Carlisle, “it’s okay.” She held up a small device, showed the screen to her friend. “See this?”

  “Looks like a really cheap and shitty phone,” said Danny.

  “What it is, is a tracker,” said Carlisle. The black Yukon had pulled to a stop on the road beside them. The lights stayed on. The tinted windows blacked out the interior, making the inhabitants invisible. “And it’s tracking that.” She waved at the other Yukon through the window.

  “You know who’s in that?”

  “More or less,” said Carlisle. “Give me five.”

  “Five what?”

  Carlisle sighed and didn’t answer. Instead, she brushed snow off herself — their own Yukon’s windows were trashed. She spared a glance in
the back seat where Danny held Adalia. “Kid.”

  “Yeah?” Adalia looked cold, but angry.

  Good. If she was angry she’d be unlikely to be hypothermic. “Don’t let your Mom get out of the car.”

  “Like I can—”

  “Kid?”

  A sullen pause. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t let her get out. We’re in a delicate phase right now, and she could fuck it all up.” Carlisle grabbed the door handle and yanked, the air biting and gnawing at her heels as she stepped out. She could hear Danny start to ask what the hell did she mean and Carlisle don’t you go— before she shut the door with a satisfying thump. She let her feet shuffle her through the snow to the other Yukon, pulling her collar up against the driving snow. The leather didn’t do shit, but it made her feel better.

  A window cracked open in the other vehicle, the interior dark. She caught a glimpse of white teeth in a black face, and a part of her started to relax as another part tensed right back up. Ajay’s familiar voice reached out to her. “Detective?”

  Carlisle kicked snow off her foot — now there’s a song that will never end — before putting it back down. “Could use a ride.”

  “What did you do to my car?”

  “It’s a truck,” said Carlisle, “and I didn’t do anything to it.”

  “What happened to my truck?” Ajay’s voice had a smile hidden in it somewhere.

  “I think the term we’d use is that, ‘The vehicle failed to take the corner.’ I’ve always hated that kind of language though, like the car decided to not turn.” Carlisle hugged herself. “Could really use a ride.”

  “Okay, Detective Carlisle,” he said. “Get your things. It just so happens, we’re going your way.”

  “Which way is that?”

  “Chicago,” said Ajay. “Get in the car.”

  Carlisle sniffed at the air, then walked back to their battered machine. It’s a truck, she thought, but a smile tugged at her face anyway, hurried there by the feeling in her gut. She knocked on the door, and Danny pushed it open.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’re going to Chicago,” said Carlisle, “and you have to promise me something.”

  Danny’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”