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

by Richard Parry

  “You throw it,” said Val. Give the guy credit but he didn’t even pause. The way Rex saw it, that spoke of experience. Maybe crazy, but also maybe well-informed. “It hurts. Us. Things like us. A lot. Then, we go and kill the asshole in charge.”

  “How are we going to find him?” said Just James.

  “Easy,” said Val, pointing up the street from where the people were running. “We go to where all those people are coming from.”

  “I don’t like this plan,” said John.

  “It’s not much of a plan,” said Sky. “There’s not a lot to like.”

  “The good news is there’s not a lot to not like,” said Rex. He sighed. One more fight before the end, Rex. Get your shit together. “Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Carlisle didn’t look to see the change — seen it before, move it, move it — as she spun on her toes and dived over the hood of the Yukon. The denim of her jeans slipped over the metal surface, too fast for her to notice the cold of the metal. She landed on the other side of the machine from Danny, crouching low by the wheel arch. She held her sidearm with both hands in front of her, the weapon radiating its just-fired heat by her face. Carlisle shut her eyes, feeling the hammer of her heart — God she’ll hear it — in her chest. She breathed in and out, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

  It wouldn’t help, but it helped to try. Before the end, as it were.

  The creature roared, the sound loud enough to hurt, and Carlisle hunched forward. The movement was involuntary, it was baked into humans from when they’d crawled up from the primordial slime, discovering the hungry things with teeth. Do not piss yourself, Carlisle. Keep it together. The monster — not Danny anymore — would smell that, and the end would get here that much faster. Carlisle’s lips were moving silently, and she didn’t know if she was praying or crying or both. The crunch of massive feet against loose shale sounded to her right as the creature stalked around the front of the Yukon. Carlisle felt the machine rock as something massive and strong leaned against the hood, the machine creaking lower on its shocks. It chuffed, trying to find her scent, then let out a low growl.

  So. Are you going down on your feet or your knees, Detective? She thought about it, turned the idea over in her mind. It wasn’t whether she’d die that was the problem, so much as how she died. And not in some budo warrior’s distorted view of honor, but for the kid. Because, like it or not, if the kid saw her Mom — hideous monster or not — kill Carlisle, well, you couldn’t put that toothpaste back in the tube. No $400-an-hour therapy was going to weld that family back together.

  Feet it is, then.

  Carlisle wiped a shaky hand over her face, then pushed against the Yukon, rising to her feet. She turned to face the creature, her weapon held ready. God, it was a sight. Huge, muscled, with claws, and teeth. Drool hung in ropy strands from its jaws, jaws that were open to display those terrible, magnificent teeth. But it was the eyes — those sick, golden orbs — that made the breath catch in Carlisle’s chest. She’d never been this close before.

  Never will again, so make the most of it. Carlisle raised her weapon, prepared to fire. Her hand came up, whip quick, finger on the trigger, the squeeze already traveling from her brain to her hand.

  The Eagle fired, her constant companion ever ready to stand strong against the darkness that hid in the hearts of men. Carlisle was happy that it was this gun she was using, not something begged or borrowed from the battlefield. She’d known this weapon since she’d paid good money for it back on the beat, something to keep under her pillow against the terrors that woke her every night. It had helped, the strong power kept within each casing a promise ready to be made. It hadn’t let her down, hadn’t jammed, hadn’t ever stumbled in its purpose even when Carlisle might have.

  Problem was, it was connected to her. The same weak girl who’d run away from him, and here she was thirty years later, and still too weak. And not just too weak.

  She was too damn slow.

  The creature shifted sideways as she fired, the round passing through the air where it had been. Carlisle kept firing, each round punching through empty air as the thing that had been Danny stepped past the path of each shot as if it was walking around gutter balls at a bowling alley. She kept firing right up until it slapped her hand to the side with a blow that felt like it broke the bones in her hand, the gun tumbling from numbed fingers. It reached out a clawed hand, snatching her up from the ground. Carlisle felt its fingers around her middle, the grip stronger than steel, felt the crushing force and the pain that pushed air from her lungs that wanted to come out as a scream.

  It’s just pain. You’re used to pain.

  She clenched her teeth against it, showing her own savage grin to the creature. It lifted her up in front of its face, and Carlisle pulled back a fist — out on your feet, Carlisle — to punch it. It shook her like a doll, and she felt something twinge in her spine. That made her scream.

  The thing paused, looking down at her, then looked around it at the road. She could almost see the wheels turning in its head, counting the bodies, then looking at the city of Chicago.

  “Yes,” said Carlisle, the sound stretched to a whisper around her bruised body. “Valentine.”

  But it wasn’t looking at Chicago. It was looking at the rising tide of people coming up the road towards them from the city. Its gaze passed through the shattered windscreen of the Yukon, to the wide-eyed passengers within. Looking at one in particular, a girl with pleading eyes. Don’t look Adalia, don’t look honey. Carlisle didn’t want Adalia to see the end. Time seemed to stretch, like it was pliable, like it was something made of rubber rather than wheels. Then the creature gave Carlisle a yellowed look before tossing her to the ground with a huff, huff sound. Carlisle felt her head knock against the side of the Yukon, and she lay in a daze. Too shocked to move.

  Too shocked to realize she was alive.

  The creature slammed its forearms into the tarmac, cracks appearing in the road’s surface, and it roared its defiance and challenge at the approaching horde. It looked back at Carlisle, then extended one clawed arm towards the city laid ahead of them, behind a clotted mass of humanity. Then it turned away from her and charged into the mob, claws and teeth unleashing red rain.

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  Carlisle didn’t know how long she’d lain there. It felt like hours, but it must have been no more than a minute. Her heart was still hammering in her chest — I’m alive! I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive — as she watched the thing that used to be Danny kill, and kill, and kill.

  Mowing. It’s like watching a mower.

  She heard the soft click of a door, the crunch of a foot on gravel. Carlisle looked up into a woman’s face, lined with old worry, set fresh today. “You okay, soldier?”

  Carlisle coughed, winced, tried to stand up, and fell back. She blinked against the hot spikes of pain in her chest, breathing short and shallow. “I’m fine.”

  The woman — Lost Warrior — snorted. “I guess it was a rookie question. What I’m really asking is, can you drive?” She held a hand out to Carlisle, ridges of callous on the palm. Carlisle looked at it for a second, then reached up. The woman’s grip was cool and firm, confident in all the ways that a girl scared of her own father wouldn’t be. Gentle, too, as she pulled Carlisle to her feet, her other hand coming around to grasp Carlisle’s elbow, holding her up against the dizziness that hit her as soon as she was standing.

  “Give me a moment,” said Carlisle, the words coming out softer than she’d hoped. Something inside was broken, crushed, but it was only pain. She could deal with it later. She coughed, covering her mouth, and the back of her hand came away wet with blood.

  The other woman’s eyes softened. Or was Carlisle imagining that? It was hard to tell, with all this damn pain rattling around inside her chest. Carlisle held up a hand. “Really. I’m fine.”

  “Which unit were you with?” The other woman tugged the bottom of her shir
t, straightening her fatigues.

  “Unit?” Carlisle let a lopsided smile onto her face. “Ma’am? I’ve never been in a war. I’m not the enlisting type.”

  “Maybe not,” said the other woman, after a moment’s consideration of Carlisle’s face. She held her hand out again. “Major Jessica Pearce. Formerly attached to the National Guard.”

  “Huh,” said Carlisle. She shook the other woman’s hand, surprised at the hope she felt. Maybe it was having another soldier on the team. Maybe it was because Jessica Pearce was another woman. Maybe it was because she was alive. “Melissa Carlisle. Formerly Detective Melissa Carlisle.”

  “Cop?” Pearce let her hand go.

  “Cop,” said Carlisle, after a long pause. Because that’s what you are, and it’s taken you this long to realize it. “Pearce? Get in the car.”

  “You’re like no cop I’ve ever seen.” Carlisle felt considered, measured, weighed. A small smile held a moment at Pearce’s lips. “Car it is. Okay, soldier.”

  Carlisle put her hands behind her back, stretching — oh, girl, take it slow — then stood up strong and true, shoving the pain to a corner of her mind. She tugged at her own jacket, straightening it like a uniform. Her hand found its way to the driver’s door of the Yukon, held the handle briefly, and then she let it drop.

  You can’t forget your old friends, Carlisle.

  She walked around the side of the Yukon, seeing it — the soft glint of familiar metal, grip up, made to be held by her hand — in among the bodies strewn around. She picked up the Eagle, feeling its familiar weight — old partner — and hugged it to her chest, before stowing it in the holster at her back. She walked to the back of the Yukon, pulling open the door to find her bag.

  It was there, crumpled and old, just like her. Inside, worn clothes, a book — The Old Man and the Sea — on top of a bag containing her toiletries. She’d never read it, never enough time, but Danny had said she should. Carlisle tapped the cover of the book, then pushed it aside, reaching down into the bottom of the bag, her hand feeling the touch of cotton, leather, and denim as she felt through the contents. There. Her fingers touched metal, cool and heavy.

  She pulled them out one by one, metal clips to feed the Eagle. Painted by a nervous hand months ago, color coded, then hidden. Red clips, full of silver promise.

  Carlisle slammed the back of the Yukon closed, walking to the front of the car. A stray zombie ran at her, and she shot it, the motion habituated. The Eagle ran dry, and she flicked the empty clip away. She slid one of the new red clips into the grip of the weapon, re-holstered it, then yanked the driver’s door open.

  The machine roared to life, eager to be away. Carlisle looked to Ajay, sitting beside her, then her eyes found Adalia’s in the rear view mirror. “You okay, kid?”

  “No,” said Adalia. The kid looked at Pearce, beside her, then back to Carlisle. Her eyes seemed hollow. “Yes.”

  Carlisle slipped the Yukon into gear, then dropped the hammer. Wheels scrabbled and the machine surged forward, the big engine wanting to be away.

  “Where are we going?” said Pearce.

  “Chicago,” said Carlisle.

  “After that thing?” Pearce leaned back in her seat. “You trust it?”

  Carlisle laughed, then winced with the pain, gripping the wheel tighter. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” said Carlisle. “She’s in love.”

  Ajay looked at her, then laid a cautious hand on her arm. She felt a feeling like butterflies, which was unexpected given the circumstances. “You’re beginning to learn what it means to be the Shield,” he said.

  Carlisle slowed the machine as they started to hit the wake of Danny’s passage, bodies falling under the Yukon’s wheels. “I’ve only got one challenge,” she said. She had to raise her voice over the rush of air through the shattered windscreen.

  “What’s that?” Pearce was all business, her voice steady even with the noise around them. The woman was used to commanding, yet was sitting this one out. Why?

  “Keeping up,” said Carlisle. The creature was ahead of them, driven by rage down the freeway towards Chicago. Danny was loping ahead on back legs, forelimbs swinging like rams as she battered their way clear ahead.

  Towards Valentine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “This is why,” Talin said, “I did not kill you before.”

  Assembled in front of him, some shivering in the cold of the room, were his best lieutenants. They stood beside him as he’d clawed his way up from poverty and across the world to stand here, in the city of the two rivers. They’d seen everything with him, and bore witness to his strength.

  They had also seen his weakness.

  Prey.

  Talin clenched his teeth. Not now. He pushed the Night back and down, but it struggled against him, straining against the bonds that held it. So strong! Stronger than he’d ever hoped, this power. There was plenty there to do what was … needed.

  “You will have seen my armies cleansing warriors from the outskirts of our city,” he said, his voice husky. “They couldn’t stand against the Night. But now, another comes — another, like me.” He laughed. “And yet so unlike me. She is weak with kindness, hindered by the need to protect. Her Night is confused, and that will be her undoing. She broke her own Shield.”

  Talin walked on legs that felt new and strong to stand before Lyron. He looked the man in the eye, seeing the fear there. Good. Fear is good. He didn’t want blind obedience, not from these. He needed his own warriors, warriors with thought, who would not toss themselves like waves to break upon the rocks of another’s Night. He would reforge them into something stronger. Something better.

  Something more like Talin himself. He let a hungry smile grow on his face. “Lyron. It is time. Do you choose to become all you were meant to be?”

  Lyron looked him in the eye, the fear still there, but something else — hunger, desire for power. Good. “My lord. Yes.”

  Talin took the quick steps necessary to get to the table, equipment nestled there for just this moment. He had prepared five sets of equipment for five perfect soldiers. He let his hands rest, as if in a gentle caress, against the first vial of blood. A mixture of snake, ox, and — harder to get than he’d expected — bear. A salting of sulfur had gone in alongside ash. All ingredients to drive the change he needed. He picked up a knife made from bone, a single long sliver of white, almost transparent along its edge. It had been rendered from the leg of a horse; it felt light in the hands. Lifting his other hand from the vial, he picked up the pack of playing cards stolen from a high roller at the peak of his run. Las Vegas, the city conjured from the sands of the desert and the lost dreams of the hopeful, was another city imbued with power. They were ripe for the harvest, if you knew how to look.

  He tossed the cards behind him, letting them fall where they would. He listened for the plastic flutter as they tumbled through the air, the sound almost like rain as they hit the cold stone of the floor. He snared the first vial of blood, then turned around to face his lieutenants, noting that all the cards had landed face down. He pointed with the tip of the knife at Lyron. The other man swallowed, then his face hardened. As if he was getting ready to die—

  Why does he fear what is to come? Pack should not fear pack.

  It is because, said Talin to the thing inside, he will die. Lyron was pulling his jacket off, letting it fall behind him. His sweater, then shirt, joined the jacket, forming a small pile of clothing on the ground. Talin still held the knife out point first at Lyron, his arm never wavering.

  We must not hurt pack.

  Such strength! He almost dropped the knife, a tremor running through his arm. Talin gritted his teeth against it. He had fought with the witch Raeni and bested her. He would best this thing of Night as well. We are making him better than he is. We are shaping him into something stronger.

  The wind does not die to become stronger. The wind grows as it fights against the land. This is how s
trength is made.

  Talin’s eyes widened a fraction. It had never spoken to him like this before. Normally it was snatches of sound, bits and pieces of nonsense spoken like a drooling shaman or an idiot child. But this, it was almost making sense. And he didn’t have time for it. You will do as I say. You are mine.

  There was no response this time, but Talin felt something watching him, something immense. Something terrible. Good. He needed all the terrible things of this world to do what he wanted to do, to be what he wanted to become. His arm was once again firm, the point of the bone knife leveled at Lyron. He held out the vial in his other hand.

  Lyron stepped forward until the tip of the bone knife touched his sternum. He reached forward, taking the flask from Talin. “It will be done.” He opened his mouth, lifting the flask, and drank. The man’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He lowered the flask, then tossed it aside. It landed with the crack of breaking glass. Lyron looked at him. “I have—”

  Talin thrust the knife forward, the bone entering Lyron’s chest. He pushed it until it was buried up to the leather-wrapped hilt, then gave it a savage twist. The blade ripped and tore inside Lyron, and the handle snapped from the blade, leaving the bone embedded inside the man. Lyron tried to scream, but only blood came from his mouth in a savage wet gush. It splattered against Talin, and he reveled in the hot wetness of it.

  “Choose,” said Talin, gesturing at the cards on the ground. “Choose, Lyron, and Become.”

  Lyron stumbled to his knees, the strength leaving him; Talin could feel Baron Samdi draw near. Lyron’s face had turned ashen, his lips blue, as he scrabbled against the ground for a playing card. He managed to grip the edges of one briefly before it snapped away from him, sticky red fingerprints marring the back of it. Talin watched as Lyron cast about him for another card, his movements becoming weaker still. The man toppled to land face forward on the ground, his breath a gurgle.