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

by Richard Parry

  “Sure. How’s that feel?”

  “What? Christ.” Val saw that a needle was in his upper abdomen. “You’re some kind of medical stealth ninja.”

  “Age is one thing. Experience is the flip side. That should numb the area so we can sidle up to the liver, stabbing it before the patient notices.” Phillips picked up a scalpel.

  Val looked away. “Stabbing? I want to hear less about stabbing.”

  “Don’t be so squeamish. Are you a child or something?”

  Val looked back in time to see Phillips hold up another needle, and he looked away before he could see it slide home. After a moment, Phillips started write a label with neat handwriting. “I’ve always wondered about that.”

  Phillips looked up at him, his speech unclear because of the pen cap in his mouth. “Wha?”

  “You’ve got neat handwriting.” Val drummed his fingers against the bed. “You’re not a real doctor, are you?”

  Phillips removed the cap from his mouth. “You’re onto my secret, at last. Okay, we’re done. I just need to find some tape. Here, hold this.” He put a piece of gauze over the biopsy site.

  Val held the gauze as Phillips rummaged in a drawer. They both looked up as crash came from outside. They heard a woman’s raised voice saying, “You can’t go in there!”

  The door slammed open. Val and Phillips stared at the man at the door. Val took in the—

  Enemy.

  —black combat vest, helmet, and rifle. The rifle was leveled at Val’s chest.

  It must die.

  He’d jumped from the bed before a heartbeat had passed, stepping forward to grab the back of a chair as a handle. He spun in place, dropping forward into a crouch as he let the chair fly with a heave. The soldier’s gun went off—

  Useless, dead meat. It wastes its chance to live.

  —the bullets shredding the wall behind Val. If he’d still been standing—

  Prey is always slower.

  —he’d have been shot. The chair hit the soldier in the chest, splintering with the force of the impact. The man pinwheeled back from the doorway, the plaster wall caving behind him as he fell into it. Val was through the doorway and on the soldier before—

  The dead gather all around us. They are many. We have no Pack.

  —he could get to his feet. Val grabbed the front of the soldier’s vest, hauling him up and spinning him around to face the small waiting room. He crouched, using the man as a shield; bullets hit the man from the other soldiers in the waiting room, his body tugging in Val’s grip as each round hit. Val could smell the cordite, so strong he could taste it, and the sound of the guns was sharp and clear in the closed space. He risked a glance around the body, taking in the overturned reception desk and the men in the waiting room. He dropped the lifeless soldier and ducked back through into Phillips’ room.

  Strike the deer in the flank. By tooth and claw.

  “Doc! Stay down!”

  Phillips looked at him, his mouth open. “I—”

  “Down!” Val grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing him —

  Friend. Wise one. Guardian.

  —gently to the ground. He swept an arm across Phillips’ desk, scattering notes, books, and the computer to the ground. Then he grabbed the desk in both hands, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching under his shirt. Leaning back, Val turned around and—

  Strength. By rock and stone and the ground that shakes.

  —heaved the desk at the wall. It punched a hole through the wall, lodging half-in, half-out of Phillips’ office. Val took two steps towards it and — keeping his momentum up — put a foot against it, kicking it out and through the wall. Sun broke through, catching dusty motes as they drifted through the air. He turned to Phillips.

  “Doc. You’ve got to run.”

  “I … of course.” Phillips got up, and started to walk towards the door to his office.

  Val grabbed the back of his shirt. “Not that way, Doc. Through the wall.” He nodded at the hole in the building.

  “What about—”

  “I’ll get them.” Val guided him to the hole in the wall. “Just go. Get away.”

  “Where will I go?” Phillips looked lost. “What—”

  There was a scream from the waiting room, cut off by a blast of gunfire.

  Val looked at him. “There’s no time. Call the police.”

  “Of course.” Phillips started through the hole in the wall. “What about you, Valentine? What about you?”

  Val flexed his hands in front of him. He could see the feet of the dead man in the corridor outside Phillips’ office. He looked at the hole in the wall, and the sunlight streaming in. A smile lit up his face. “You know? I don’t think it’s cancer, doc. I think I’ll be fine.”

  He waited until Phillips was clear, then turned back to the doorway. He took in the crack in the wall opposite. This would need to be done quickly; Val didn’t want to get shot. Not today, not ever, and not—

  Burning.

  —by anything that fired silver bullets. He backed up as far as he could against the exterior wall of the building, facing the door into the corridor, then got into a sprinters’ crouch. He took two deep breaths, then launched himself, his legs pumping.

  On his first step, the noise from outside the room seemed to fade away. He could hear a gun firing, but it seemed to come from a long distance away. On his second step, he could only hear the sound of his heart and the puff of his breath. On the third step, he was in the corridor, and he risked a glance into the waiting room. He saw the flaming blossom of a rifle firing, felt the scorpion’s kiss of the bullet as it tagged his leg. Then he was through, the wall tearing apart as he fell into the room behind it. His eyes scanned quickly, taking in the basin, the stalls — it was a toilet. His leg felt like it was on fire, the blood flowing freely from the nick in his calf, but there was no time for that now.

  Val reached for the door handle, then paused, looking up into the mirror hanging over the basin. Lambent golden eyes stared back at him, no white surrounding the iris. What the hell?

  Bullet holes popped chunks of wood and plaster into the room as they stitched a line across the wall. He dropped to the ground, hands over his head. The rain of bullets seemed to go on forever. Val yelled, the noise tearing out of him as he pulled himself across the tiled floor.

  Be still.

  He paused, looking around him on the floor. Val saw the pipe from the sink leading into the ground. It had a straight metal section, connecting from the floor to the S-bend below the sink. Two large rings joined the straight section. Val grabbed the first of these rings with one hand and twisted. It released easily, spinning freely. A few drops of water came out as he unclamped it, then he unlocked the second ring.

  The firing had stopped. Val got to his feet, pushing himself up by the fingertips of one hand. He hefted the drain pipe; Val could see his reflection, warped in the curved stainless steel surface. He made no noise as he came to stand by the door. It would open inward, giving him some visible cover from the men outside. Val could hear their—

  The prey stumbles about, making enough noise for a whole herd.

  —footsteps as they walked towards the door. The steps were slow, almost methodical in their approach. The handle on the door turned slowly, creaking a little. The door opened. Val could hear the breathing of the man on the other side, rough and ragged, the heart—

  Wet, salty. Bloody.

  —pounding a fevered pulse. He saw the tip of the rifle as it came into view around the edge of the door. Val reached out, grabbing the rifle and yanking it into the room. The man came with it; Val held the muzzle away as the man’s reaction fire blasted into the room. He kicked with one leg, slamming the door shut, and then swung up and under the man’s chin with the pipe. The man dropped to the ground, boneless. Val tossed the rifle aside, the stench of the—

  We must not touch it.

  —silver filling his nose. A few more rounds punched through the wood of the door. He
waited a few moments then stepped in front of the door. The handle started to turn again. Val took a step back, then launched a kick into the door. It splintered against the frame and pulled free, weakened by the holes from the bullets. He threw the pipe through the gap he’d made, catching one man in the chest. Dropping his shoulder, he rammed through the gap.

  There were three of them, the one he’d hit with the pipe still recovering. The other two opened fire —

  Move.

  —but he stepped forward, bringing himself behind the man he’d hit with the pipe. How did I know how to step like that? But there was no time to think as the guns tracked his movements, but slowly, so slowly.

  Faster.

  His punch hit the man in the spine, and he heard a crack. The man started to fall—

  Through the gap.

  —and he’d moved on already, hands brushing the barrel of the rifle aside as he came face to face with another soldier. He dragged the man forward, delivering a head butt into his helmet. The man’s visor cracked as he stumbled back, grip slackening on the rifle—

  Make him toothless.

  —as Val tore it from his hands, throwing it into the remaining soldier. The thrown weapon knocked the other soldier’s rifle aside and it spun away. He turned back on the man he’d head butted, twisting him around and lifting him above his head. The man screamed—

  Finish the hunt.

  —before Val dropped into a one-kneed crouch, bringing the man’s back down on his raised knee with a crack. Val was off again and moving, his shoulder coming up and into the stomach of the final man. He could feel a rib give as the soldier’s rifle fired — so loud! — next to his ear. The soldier fell back to the ground and Val was on him, his fists slamming down into the helmet, knocking it again and again into the ground.

  Val could feel his heart pound. He got up, looking around him. The sound of sirens called in the distance. Time to go, Val — he walked through the waiting room, eyes taking in the bodies scattered about, then he stopped, leaning down. A young girl was half underneath a chair, blood soaking through her shirt. He thought it had a Disney Cinderella on it, but he couldn’t really tell. Not anymore. He could hear her heartbeat, fluttering. She looked at him with big blue eyes.

  Weak.

  He pulled the chair off the girl. One of her arms was stretched out towards a woman’s body, face down on the floor. He brushed a strand of hair from the girl’s eyes. “Hey, sweetie.”

  Her eyes were wide as she tried to gulp for air. “Is it over?”

  She is not Pack. We must go.

  He started to stand.

  We must go.

  “I will not go!” He fought it, kneeling back down next to her. “It’s over. I promise.”

  The girl tried to move, then stopped. “Who were you talking to?”

  He shook his head. “No one.”

  “I talk to myself too sometimes.” Her eyes looked up at him. “It’s my birthday.”

  “Thats…” Val’s voice cracked. “I’m Val.”

  She is not Pack!

  He tried again. “How old are you? Today, I mean. It’s your birthday.”

  “Six.” She coughed. “My name’s Amy. I couldn’t have my party because I’m sick. Mommy said so.”

  “That’s too bad, Amy. Did you get any presents?”

  She tried to nod, reaching around on the floor. She held up a mangled My Little Pony. “Her name’s Prancer. I think she’s broken.”

  “That’s a lovely name.” Val stroked the girl’s head. The sirens were louder. “We’ll get Prancer fixed up, don’t worry. She’ll be better in no time. Did you have cake?”

  “Not yet. Mommy said,” and she coughed again, “that I would have cake this afternoon. She and Daddy would sing me, ‘Happy Birthday.’”

  Val nodded. “No one’s sung you, ‘Happy Birthday?’”

  “No.”

  “Would you like me to—”

  This will not leave a memory that lives in the sun. It will burn forever inside you, and you will never be rid of it. We must leave.

  “—sing you, ‘Happy birthday?’ I’m not sure … I’m not sure I remember the words, but I can try if you like.”

  She nodded. Val sank onto his haunches and started to sing. His voice was flat and untrained, cracked in all the wrong places. Val could hear her heartbeat begin to stumble, and his voice broke a little. He’d heard a second verse somewhere, someone had thrown in at an party for him, and he started in on that, trying to keep singing.

  Until the end, at least.

  Her pulse fluttered to a stop, her dead eyes starring at the roof. He picked up the My Little Pony — Prancer, she said her name was — and held it up in front of his face. Val reached forward and closed Amy’s eyes, then got to his feet. He walked out, his steps slow, leaving nothing behind.

  Except for a biopsy sample, forgotten on Barnaby Phillips’ floor.

  And two tear drops, staining the dust by Amy’s body.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The room was unlike any hospital room Elsie knew of. The bed had no metal or plastic; it was a four-poster wooden bed, complete with a tester. The tester had colorful designs painted on it so that a person lying in the bed could see them when looking up towards the ceiling. The designs were of fairies, and dragons, and a princess against a night sky. The curtains around the bed were a thin gauze. They served two purposes — first, to provide some privacy for the bed’s occupant, and secondly, to provide some sort of defense against disease.

  They needed to be very careful about contaminants. At this late stage, anything could act as a tipping point. Gauze wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

  The bed itself was large, a genuine king-size bed. The bed’s single occupant shared space alongside a collection of toys, stuffed animals mostly. Buried in there somewhere was a remote for the TV set against the wall, a large panel that could be seen clearly even through the gauze. Elsie was sure that a computer of some type lay in there too, so that the bed’s occupant could stay in touch with friends. Skype was a poor cousin to human contact, but human contact couldn’t be tolerated.

  The risk was too great. At this late stage, everything was a risk.

  Elsie looked down at the bright yellow sleeves of her hazmat suit. They’d been painted — perhaps by one of the staff, who’d become so attached of late — with rainbows. She thought she could see the head of a Care Bear peeking out next to her glove, but it was hard to tell. The suit’s bulky material didn’t allow her to pull and tug it as easily as if it were a shirtsleeve. The radio of the suit let her hear everything in the room — the slow sounds of sleepy breathing, the muted tones of the television turned down low.

  Last time she’d had to wear a hazmat suit regularly, Elsie had been a junior member of an exploratory team. They’d been researching a new virus. She’d taken the clothing seriously. Three men had died conducting that research, the seals of their suits not correctly fastened. Elsie knew the benefits of a correctly fastened suit; she had taken meticulous care with her own suit before walking into the room.

  Elsie didn’t need protecting. Cancer wasn’t contagious.

  It was — of course — so she didn’t infect the bed’s single occupant. She wished she could wipe her eyes. The suit air made her eyes tear up. It made seeing a little more difficult. She didn’t remember her last suit doing this, but she was younger then. A younger body was more tolerant, more capable. Still, that younger self wouldn’t have had the resources to try to achieve what she was working towards. It must be possible. It had to be possible. She had invested so much.

  So much was at stake.

  She walked closer to the bed, careful to set her feet down gently. A level-A hazmat suit had steel toes, heavy cumbersome things not built for quiet places. Then again, the sound of the respirator was audible outside the suit; she just wanted to keep avoid any sudden noises. Unexpected noise could be startling, and — well. At this late stage, everything was a risk.

 
A squeak sounded by her foot. She’d stepped on a small toy, a stuffed animal of some kind. It had a noisemaker inside it, the air causing the squeak. It looked like a mouse, but picking it up with the hazmat suit on would be difficult. The cylinder strapped to her back only gave her about a half hour in here, but it was heavy all the same.

  The bed’s occupant stirred at the noise, a thin arm moving upwards in a waking stretch. She didn’t appear to be startled, so she’d probably been aware of Elsie on some level already. It was Elsie’s usual time to get here; she wasn’t unexpected.

  “Hello, love.” Elsie knew her voice would sound a little harsher, a little less familiar through the radio. It couldn’t be helped.

  “Mommy.” The girl sat up carefully, toys tumbling aside as she moved. Her skin had a sallow, waxy look to it. She’d lost so much weight her eyes were sunken in her small face. None of that seemed to dim her enthusiasm. “You came!”

  “Yes.” A smile tugged Elsie’s mouth. “I’ll always be here, Birkita. Every day.”

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  “Birkita? It’s your name.”

  “I want to be called something glamorous. Like Brigitte. I was reading about her today.”

  “Brigitte Bardot?”

  “Yes. Or Raquel.”

  “Brigitte sounds a little like Birkita.”

  “It’s totally different!” Birkita’s skinny arms thumped against the mattress. “Sheesh.”

  Elsie looked at her daughter for a few moments. “It was what your father wanted to call you, you know.”

  “Brigitte?”

  “No. Birkita.”

  “Oh.” Birkita thought about that for a moment. “What did you want to call me?”

  Elsie walked the hazmat suit over to a chair by the bed. The chair was large and sturdy; she’d needed something appropriate for her visits that wouldn’t break with the extra weight and still be comfortable. She sat down. “I wanted to call you Scarlett. Red is my favorite color.”

  “I could handle Scarlett.” Birkita searched amongst the toys on the bed, surfacing with a laptop. “I’ll update my screen name. My friends can call me Scarlett. Why did Daddy want to name me Birkita?”