Black Knight

by Christopher Pike

  And of course I miss Lara and Jimmy. God do I miss them . . .

  I close my eyes and drift. When I open them, there’s a hint of light in the sky and the narrow stream of lava has reached the wall. I doubt it will have much effect on it.

  A figure climbs over the hill and waves to me.

  I wish I could wave back but I can’t move.

  He walks to where I lie and kneels by my side, brushing my sticky hair from my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I showered.

  I smile. “You woke up on your own.”

  Marc nods. “I was lucky.”

  “That’s because you’re a lucky guy. I knew it the first night I dreamed about you.”

  He smiles. “If I knew you were watching I would have behaved better.”

  “No, it was fun. You had everything planned.”

  His smile fades. “What happened?”

  “Kyle and I had a final showdown. He betrayed us all in the end, the bastard. Luckily, I was able to kill him.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Happy. Sad. That’s life, I guess, and death.”

  Marc’s eyes water and he tries to blink away the tears but I see them. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.

  “Hold me. Hold me in your arms.”

  He leans over and picks me up and presses his head to my head. “I wish you could do this with me.”

  “You’ll feel more confident when you press your bracelet to the wall. You have to do it—the pictures in the cave made that clear. It’s the final step in winning the Field. You’ll instantly remember the experiences of every witch who fought on this island and was victorious here. You’ll even get acquainted with that friend I told you about, Cleo.”

  “She sounds like a special woman.”

  “Like you, she only changed into a witch when she came here. Her mentor was the one who helped her.”

  “Her mentor was your inspiration?” Marc asks.

  “In a way. But the more I got to know you, I knew it had to be you. Don’t ask me to explain. The Council will be lucky to have you.” I add, “Just don’t let anyone boss you around.”

  His face darkens. “But won’t you be there when we’re in witch world? You told me when a person dies in the real world, it’s not such a big deal.”

  I wish I had the strength to reach up and touch his cheek.

  “I don’t know where here is but it’s not the real world,” I say.

  “So you don’t know if we’ll meet again?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t,” I say past a painful lump in my throat. A shudder goes through my body. I want to try—I should be crying. But a part of me feels everything has worked out for the best, the way it was supposed to. Even if that best means I am about to die.

  Still, another part of me does not want to let go—not to life, not to Marc. It’s sad it’s taken me so long to realize how I truly feel about him. Jimmy will always be my first love, it’s true, but Marc will be my last.

  My words are hard on Marc and he holds me tighter.

  “It’s time,” I whisper.

  His tears flow freely now. “Did I ever tell you that I love you?”

  “Once or twice but you can tell me again.”

  “I love you, Jessie. I’ll love you forever.”

  I smile. “I love you more.”

  He kisses me. I feel his lips touch mine.

  Then I feel myself floating upward, like people talk about when they have a near-death experience. But I also feel like I’m levitating up the side of the wall so I’m not sure if my body is making the trip or if it’s just my spirit.

  Once I reach the top, I stand at the edge and look out over the island. I see Marc down below, pressing his bracelet to the wall, standing as still as a statue, and it’s like I can see the whole of the Field at once.

  A long time seems to go by.

  I stand and wait, although I know not what for.

  Then I hear a sound and I am no longer alone.

  A woman clears her throat behind me. “Having fun yet?”

  I whirl. “Who are you?” I ask.

  “You don’t recognize me?”

  “You look familiar. Sort of like my mom.”

  “I’m not your mother, Jessie.”

  Then I recognize her.

  I’m looking at an older version of myself.

  I gasp. “So it isn’t over?”

  “Not by a long shot. It’s just begun.” She offers her hand and I take it. “Where would you like to go first? Or maybe I should say when?”

  “Can we go back to when Columbus discovered America?”

  “Columbus didn’t discover America. The Vikings did.”

  “I know that. Wherever he came ashore—whenever—I’d like to go back and greet him. If that’s okay?”

  The woman smiles and leads me over the top of the wall.

  “I remember asking that same question,” she says.

  EPILOGUE

  THE MEMORIAL SERVICE WAS FOR close friends and family so Marc decided to sit at the back. He hoped no one would notice him and ask a bunch of questions. He wouldn’t have come except he felt compelled. It seemed already his intuition was guiding his steps.

  Jessica Ralle’s father stood and gave a long talk about how special his daughter was and how he would miss her. Jessica’s mother was going to speak after him but got choked up and was unable to talk. But a string of friends spoke next: Alexis, Herme, Debra. James went last and his talk was the only one Marc could relate to.

  “Jessie hated funerals,” he began. “She often told me she wasn’t going to show up at her own. And now that she’s gone and we have no body to bury, I’m sure she would laugh and say, ‘See, I got my last wish.’ Many people might have thought her sense of humor strange and it was, because she was a strange girl. I mean that in a good way. When we first met, I knew she wasn’t like anyone I had ever met before. It took me a little time to realize just how wonderful she was but she gave me that time and for that I’ll always be grateful. Our relationship started with a few bumps but Jessie always had faith in us. She had faith in love itself. I know that might sound corny but it sums up her approach to life. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for someone she cared about. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for someone she had just met. Even though we may never know the circumstances surrounding her death, I suspect she died so that others could live. Like a wise man once said, there can be no greater love.”

  That was it, that was all he had to say. Marc was surprised at James’s brevity but appreciated it as well. He knew he couldn’t have described her better.

  On the way out of the church, Marc made a beeline for his car but heard someone call his name before he could make his escape. Since there was only one person at the memorial who could have recognized him, he was not surprised to see James walking his way. But he was shocked to see him holding Jessica’s daughter, Lara. Marc had known about Lara, of course, although Jessica had told him little about her except to say she was “special.”

  At the time Marc had assumed she was saying what all moms said about their kids, but one look at Lara and Marc felt a wave of something so unique, there hadn’t been a word invented to describe it. Whoever the kid was, she was going to have an amazing future.

  James offered his hand. “It’s Marc, isn’t it?”

  Marc nodded. “Jessie always called you Jimmy.”

  James smiled. “She never got used to witch world. She kept saying she only felt at home in the real world. I’m not sure why when her powers worked so much better here than there.”

  Marc gestured. “I’m no different. This world is interesting but it’s not home.”

  “Trust me, it grows on you over time.”

  “Is it true you spend every day here?”

  James kissed the to
p of his daughter’s head. “Lara and I both. We’re the odd couple when it comes to witches.”

  Marc was surprised. “I’m sorry, I heard about your sacrifice and how you ended up on this side of the curtain. But Jessie never told me that your daughter had been killed in the real world.”

  “She wasn’t. She was never born there.” James paused and looked around the parking lot to make sure they had privacy. “But my son was. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to speak to you.”

  Marc hesitated. “Go on.”

  “I know you don’t know me and that I’m in no position to ask a favor of you, but I was wondering if you could check on him from time to time. Jessie took care of him before we lost her but his mother’s grandparents have him now. He lives in Apple Valley and his name is Huck Kelter.”

  Marc frowned. “How come Jessie’s father and mother don’t have him?”

  “Jessie wasn’t his mom. And his own mother is dead.”

  “I see,” Marc said, although he wasn’t sure he did. “If Jessie cared about him so much, he must have been important. I promise to check on him for you.”

  James studied him. “You’re not just saying that. You really mean it.”

  “You seem surprised.”

  James shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m just used to people not caring about Huck. It’s an old story with me, I won’t bore you with all the details.”

  A silence settled between them. Marc was surprised he didn’t feel more uncomfortable. James’s grief was clearly overwhelming, although he was doing his best to hide it. He kept rubbing his nose against the top of Lara’s head, which made the child giggle. Marc loved the sound of her voice, but wasn’t sure why. There was just something magical about it.

  He could sense magic these days. Ever since he had put his green bracelet to the black wall as the victor of the Field. He could sense many things he never could before. Sometimes he felt as if his life had just begun. It was sad Jessie wasn’t around to share it with him. Even if they could only be friends. . . .

  “I should probably let you go,” James said finally.

  Marc glanced at his watch. “Have you had lunch yet? I’m feeling kind of empty. Would you like to meet somewhere and talk?”

  “Talk about what?”

  Marc shrugged. “You know.”

  James glanced in the direction of the scattering family and friends and pulled his daughter close to his chest. “I’d like that. Where would you like to meet?”

  “How about that deli where you spied on the two of us?”

  “She told you about that?”

  “Yes.”

  James chuckled. “You going to head straight there?”

  “I was going to Malibu to drop off a piece of jewelry that belongs to an actress. But I can always do that later. Yeah, I can head straight there.” Marc paused and stuck his finger near Lara. It felt pretty cool when she grabbed it. “But only if you bring this little angel with you.”

  “I don’t go anywhere without her,” James said as he turned in the direction of his car. But he stopped and glanced back at Marc. “Do you mind telling me one thing? Before we eat?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you think we’ll see her again?” James asked.

  “No one’s seen her in over a month.”

  “I know. Tell me what you think.”

  Marc considered. “She’s not gone.”

  Read on for a glimpse at Christopher Pike’s #1 bestselling Thirst series!

  I am a vampire, and that is the truth. But the modern meaning of the word vampire, the stories that have been told about creatures such as I, are not precisely true. I do not turn to ash in the sun, nor do I cringe when I see a crucifix. I wear a tiny gold cross now around my neck, but only because I like it. I cannot command a pack of wolves to attack or fly through the air. Nor can I make another of my kind simply by having him drink my blood. Wolves do like me, though, as do most predators, and I can jump so high that one might imagine I can fly. As to blood—ah, blood, the whole subject fascinates me. I do like that as well, warm and dripping, when I am thirsty. And I am often thirsty.

  My name, at present, is Alisa Perne—just two words, something to last for a couple of decades. I am no more attached to them than to the sound of the wind. My hair is blond and silklike, my eyes like sapphires that have stared long at a volcanic fissure. My stature is slight by modern standards, five two in sandals, but my arms and legs are muscled, although not unattractively so. Before I speak I appear to be only eighteen years of age, but something in my voice—the coolness of my expressions, the echo of endless experience—makes people think I am much older. But even I seldom think about when I was born, long before the pyramids were erected beneath the pale moon. I was there, in that desert in those days, even though I am not originally from that part of the world.

  Do I need blood to survive? Am I immortal? After all this time, I still don’t know. I drink blood because I crave it. But I can eat normal food as well, and digest it. I need food as much as any other man or woman. I am a living, breathing creature. My heart beats—I can hear it now, like thunder in my ears. My hearing is very sensitive, as is my sight. I can hear a dry leaf break off a branch a mile away, and I can clearly see the craters on the moon without a telescope. Both senses have grown more acute as I get older.

  My immune system is impregnable, my regenera­tive system miraculous, if you believe in miracles—which I don’t. I can be stabbed in the arm with a knife and heal within minutes without scarring. But if I were to be stabbed in the heart, say with the currently fashionable wooden stake, then maybe I would die. It is difficult for even a vampire’s flesh to heal around an implanted blade. But it is not something I have experimented with.

  But who would stab me? Who would get the chance? I have the strength of five men, the reflexes of the mother of all cats. There is not a system of physical attack and defense of which I am not a master. A dozen black belts could corner me in a dark alley, and I could make a dress fit for a vampire out of the sashes that hold their fighting jackets closed. And I do love to fight, it is true, almost as much as I love to kill. Yet I kill less and less as the years go by because the need is not there, and the ramifications of murder in modern society are complex and a waste of my precious but endless time. Some loves have to be given up, others have to be forgotten. Strange as it may sound, if you think of me as a monster, but I can love most passionately. I do not think of myself as evil.

  Why am I talking about all this? Who am I talking to? I send out these words, these thoughts, simply because it is time. Time for what, I do not know, and it does not matter because it is what I want and that is always reason enough for me. My wants—how few they are, and yet how deep they burn. I will not tell you, at present, who I am talking to.

  The moment is pregnant with mystery, even for me. I stand outside the door of Detective Michael Riley’s office. The hour is late; he is in his private office in the back, the light down low—I know this without see­ing. The good Mr. Riley called me three hours ago to tell me I had to come to his office to have a little talk about some things I might find of interest. There was a note of threat in his voice, and more. I can sense emotions, although I cannot read minds. I am curious as I stand in this cramped and stale hallway. I am also annoyed, and that doesn’t bode well for Mr. Riley. I knock lightly on the door to his outer office and open it before he can respond.

  “Hello,” I say. I do not sound dangerous—I am, after all, supposed to be a teenager. I stand beside the secretary’s unhappy desk, imagining that her last few paychecks have been promised to her as “practically in the mail.” Mr. Riley is at his desk, inside his office, and stands as he notices me. He has on a rumpled brown sport coat, and in a glance I see the weighty bulge of a revolver beneath his left breast. Mr. Riley thinks I am dangerous, I note, and my curiosity goes up a notch. But I’m not afraid he k
nows what I really am, or he would not have chosen to meet with me at all, even in broad daylight.

  “Alisa Perne?” he says. His tone is uneasy.

  “Yes.”

  He gestures from twenty feet away. “Please come in and have a seat.”

  I enter his office but do not take the offered chair in front of his desk, but rather, one against the right wall. I want a straight line to him if he tries to pull a gun on me. If he does try, he will die, and maybe painfully.

  He looks at me, trying to size me up, and it is difficult for him because I just sit here. He, however, is a montage of many impressions. His coat is not only wrinkled but stained—greasy burgers eaten hastily. I note it all. His eyes are red rimmed, from a drug as much as fatigue. I hypothesize his poison to be speed—medicine to nourish long hours beating the pavement. After me? Surely. There is also a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, a prey finally caught. I smile privately at the thought, yet a thread of uneasiness enters me as well. The office is stuffy, slightly chilly. I have never liked the cold, although I could survive an Arctic winter night naked to the bone.

  “I guess you wonder why I wanted to talk to you so urgently,” he says.

  I nod. My legs are uncrossed, my white slacks hanging loose. One hand rests in my lap, the other plays with my hair. Left-handed, right-handed—I am neither, and both.

  “May I call you Alisa?” he asks.

  “You may call me what you wish, Mr. Riley.”

  My voice startles him, just a little, and it is the effect I want. I could have pitched it like any modern teenager, but I have allowed my past to enter, the power of it. I want to keep Mr. Riley nervous, for nervous people say much that they later regret.

  “Call me Mike,” he says. “Did you have trouble finding the place?”

  “No.”

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee? A soda?”