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

by Richard Parry

  “You’re a werewolf.”

  “Fuck off.” No one said anything. Val looked at them all. “No really. Fuck off, I’m not in the mood.”

  Danny reached out a hand to him. “Let’s get you that steak. Then we can talk.”

  Val grabbed her hand like a drowning man reaching for a rope. “Right. Thanks.” They moved to the kitchen.

  “Smooth, Miles, smooth.” Carlisle frowned. “You could have been a bit more delicate.”

  “This? From you? I wasn’t swabbing him with bleach.”

  “No.” Carlisle sat on the couch next to him. “How are we going to convince him?”

  “If he doesn’t believe, I’m not sure there is any convincing him. Come on. I could do some steak too.”

  • • •

  “So.” Val chewed while he talked. “All y’all think I’m a werewolf.”

  “Yep.” John sipped his coffee. They sat around the small kitchen table. A paint brush still sat in the middle, a reminder that Adalia wasn’t with them.

  “You know werewolves aren’t real?”

  “Yep.” John sipped again.

  “I don’t bark at the moon.”

  “Full moon’s not for a couple days. Give it time.” Danny nodded at his plate. “I don’t know many people who eat steak for breakfast.”

  “I do.” John waved his cup. “Lots of bodybuilders do.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Sorry.”

  Carlisle shifted in her chair, wincing. “I tell you what, Everard. You tell me about how I take one lousy bullet, and I’m still feeling like I’ve been kicked in the proverbial balls. You get shot five, six times and you’re sitting pretty, eating your third steak.”

  “It’s good steak.”

  “It could be pumpkin pie for all I care. Those weren’t flesh wounds.”

  Val nodded. “Let’s say I take this as true. I mean, I’ve been going through some weird shit lately.”

  “Like what?”

  “Aside from the burning my hand thing yesterday with the waffle iron?”

  “Aside from that, yes.”

  “I’m talking to myself.”

  “Lots of people do that.”

  “No, I mean, I’m really talking to myself. Like, I’m getting instructions or something. But it’s really me.”

  “Okay. Usually only serial killers do that.”

  Danny leaned forward. “Now you’re not helping.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Also,” said Val around a mouthful of steak, “I’m pretty sure I killed more than ten people yesterday.”

  The table sat quiet between them. John tried first. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t. Considering the circumstances.” Carlisle reached for the coffee, pouring another hit. “Is it too early for Scotch in the coffee?”

  “I’m saying it because you should know, Melissa.” Val gestured at her with his fork. “You said something to me, that I didn’t look like a murderer to you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, what do you think now?”

  “I still don’t think you look like a murderer. Heck if I know what you are. But you’re on our team.” Carlisle sipped her coffee again. “Christ, Miles. I thought you said you could make coffee.”

  “I can.”

  “This is worse than the shit at the precinct.”

  Val put his knife and fork down. “Look, I don’t care. All I want to know is, how can we use it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, yesterday a little girl got taken because of me.” Val stopped for a minute. “I’m sure of it. The ‘biopsy.’” He gave air quotes around the words. “The hospital. It’s all been a bit too right-place, right-time for it to be coincidence. So. They want me for something. Can we use that? To get Adalia back?”

  “Maybe.” Carlisle looked out over her coffee cup. “They need to let us know what they want first.”

  “You can’t go.” John looked at them each in turn. “Come on. There’s no chance that’s a two-way ticket. These guys have left a trail of bodies worse than an airline crash behind them. One more? It’s not going to make a difference.”

  Danny didn’t say anything. Val reached over and put his hand over hers. “It doesn’t matter. It’s my fault.”

  “It’s hardly your fault.”

  “Semantics. I’m responsible.”

  John watched as Danny put her other hand over the top of Val’s. “No, John’s right. You can’t go.”

  “She’s your daughter.”

  “I—”

  “Whatever.” Carlisle cut across them both. “It doesn’t matter yet. We don’t know what they want. If they call — if, mind — then play along. Tell them what they need to hear. Set up a meeting. We can decide what to do after that.”

  “Won’t we have decided?” John wiped a finger through the grease on his plate and licked it clean. “I mean, if we set up a meeting.”

  “They’ll think so, sure.” Carlisle nodded. “But what we’ve done is set up a place and time we’ll know where they are. That gives us a bit of an advantage.”

  Val leaned forward. “It’s not your daughter, though.” He looked at Danny. “What do you want?”

  “I want my little girl back. I want her home.” Danny looked between Val and Carlisle. “We’ll do what Melissa says. If they call. Then we can get them.”

  John nodded. “That’s the spirit. A bit of payback is probably in order.”

  Val nodded. “I can be faster next time. They won’t get away.”

  Carlisle held up her hands. “Whoa. Relax. This isn’t some John Wayne shit here.”

  “Right.” Val nodded again. “Sorry. It’s just…” He looked at Danny.

  “I know.” Carlisle leaned forward. “They owe me one too. Vince — my partner — is still missing. No one’s returning my calls. They killed a lot of my friends at the station.”

  “You’ve got friends here, Melissa.” Val nodded at them all around the table. “Good friends.”

  John turned on the megawatt smile. “You know what they say. Friends help you move. Good friends help you move bodies.”

  That’s when Val’s phone rang.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Elsie looked at Sam across the table. The grandfather clock ticked, a sound she usually wasn’t aware of. Usually. The burner phone sat between them on the desk, the clean black plastic a contrast to what she was about to use it for. She’d had to do hard things before, but kidnapping — she stopped her thoughts in their tracks. Get a hold of yourself. This wasn’t a kidnapping; she was saving a life. And if the science could be leveraged, exploited in the same way so many promising medicines were today, it would make more money for the company by saving more lives.

  When that happened, all this would be a distant memory, a forgotten bout of teething pain. Birkita was worth any price and this would be transitory. Change and growth were always hard; her success secret was that she was not afraid to pay the full cost of change. When the boat man came, she paid in full, and enjoyed the trip. It’s what made her better than most people, wealthier, and ultimately, more successful. Biomne was in the Fortune 100, a stock darling.

  So why wasn’t she smiling?

  Elsie tapped the small square of paper in front of her with her glasses. It was bright pink, the Post-it staring up at her. A single number — no name — was written in precise numerals on it. Sam’s handwriting, of course. Like the rest of his work, it was neat, meticulous, even the small details important. It didn’t need a name — she knew who she was going to be calling.

  “Would you like me to make the call?” Sam broke the silence. Despite his worth, he was still a man, and fell into the trap of needing to fill silence with action. Sometimes, silence was action.

  “No.” Elsie put her glasses on. “I’m not looking forward to this.”

  “I’m … I’m happy to do it.”

  “I wouldn’t think o
f asking you to. It’s my daughter.”

  “We’ve shared the risk this far.”

  “Even so.” Elsie pushed a button on the phone, the tone carrying over the sound of the clock — thank God. “This is his number?” She didn’t really need to ask; if she was being honest, she was stalling.

  “Yes.” Sam sat still in his chair. A lesser man would have offered to leave.

  Elsie tapped out the numbers written on the paper in front of her, fingers only touching the buttons on the phone. A sign of stress was to use force, to punch buttons or rush through the numbers. The ceremony of dialing was one she used to still her thoughts before these sorts of difficult calls. Hitting the phone didn’t solve anything except make other people in the room with you concerned that you weren’t capable of doing the job.

  Not that Sam would think that. Even still. She turned the phone onto speaker.

  The call connected on the second ring. “Caller ID blocked. Nice.” The man’s voice sounded confident. Strange. She thought he’d be less at ease.

  “Mr. Everard?”

  “What do you think? You dialed the number. Did you want a pizza?”

  “How droll.” A smile tugged at the corner of Elsie’s mouth. In other circumstances, a man this punchy would be useful on her staff. This wasn’t other circumstances. “Pizza is not on the menu, however.”

  “Great. Who is this?”

  “Names aren’t important.”

  “Look lady — you’re right. I’m not really interested in who you are. But I’m super interested in what you are.” She heard the emphasis in his voice.

  “Perhaps I’m being rude. You may call me Elsie.” Everard’s manner was making her punchy herself, her usual caution falling by the wayside. Sam’s breath hissed across the table. He was right to be concerned, but it wasn’t his risk.

  “Hi. Look. Elsie. It’s been great talking, but I’m expecting a super important call. Unless you’re that call, I’m going to need to hang up. No offense.”

  “None taken.” Elsie paused. “Mr. Everard, I have a young lady named Adalia in my care.”

  There was a pause, no sound coming down the line for a moment. “In your care? Can I speak to her?”

  “No.” Elsie pushed the scrap of paper around the desk in front of her. “I don’t think that would be appropriate. But I think she misses her mother. We have her at one of my … facilities. I’d like to return her to Ms. Kendrick as soon as possible. If you’d be willing.”

  “Sure. Drop her around. We’ll be here all day.”

  “Ah. It’s not quite that straightforward, I’m afraid.”

  “I figured.” Everard paused again. “So do we have to pick her up, or what?”

  Damn the man’s pluck. How was she losing control of this conversation? “I think it would be best if you came to collect her, yes. But we’ll need something from you.”

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “Listening? I hope that you’re going to do more than listen.”

  “Sure. You’ve got some kid, you want something. We’ll see where this goes.”

  “It’s not just ‘some kid,’ Mr. Everard. Don’t be coy.” Elsie smiled at the phone. The man was overplaying his hand. “This is Ms. Kendrick’s daughter. Her only daughter. As a mother, I understand what that means.”

  There was some kind of noise on the other end of the line, something muffled, and then a door closing. “Sorry about that. What was that?”

  “I said, as a mother, I understand your children are the most important thing in the world.”

  “I don’t think you get it. She’s not my kid. Why do I care?”

  Elsie leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. “Mr. Everard, we know a great deal about you. I’m not a hundred percent sure why you might care, but I do know that you ran through eight city blocks after her, chasing men with guns, who were shooting at you. That shows an … unusual level of commitment.”

  Another pause, but shorter this time. “Fair enough. Let’s agree I have an interest in Adalia.”

  “I’m glad we agree on something. Perhaps we can work towards more mutual agreements.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Mr. Everard, do you understand the gift you can give the world?” It was always good to deliver a solid teaser, to hint that there could be a greater win than just personal gain at stake. There wasn’t, of course. At least, not for Valentine Everard. His fate was both certain and unfortunate.

  “My good looks?”

  “I’m thinking something longer term.”

  “You’re referring to my recent feats of manly valor.”

  “Something like that. Mr. Everard — may I call you Valentine?”

  “You can call me whatever you like. Valentine’s not the worst thing people have called me.”

  “Quite. Valentine, you were exposed to a very rare, very special virus.”

  One heart beat. Two heart beats. Three. “A virus?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure I follow. I’m just an IT guy.”

  “You graduated with a PhD in computer science from MIT.”

  “Like I said, I’m just an IT guy. I don’t understand what’s good about a virus. They’re never good.”

  Elsie chewed that over. Never good. There was truth, and then there was truth. “I acquired a … sample from abroad. It was imported here recently, but the carrier fell outside my control.”

  “He escaped.”

  “Ah. You’ve met Volk?”

  “I think so. We didn’t talk much.”

  The hospital. Of course. “We believe that in Volk’s escape attempt, he managed to infect you. There was a significant impact at a local bar where you might have been drinking.”

  One beat. Two. “The Elephant Blues?”

  “The Elephant Blues.” Elsie thought for a moment. “My adviser has suggested that in Volk’s … state, that he might have infected you.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Volk is a serial killer, Valentine.”

  One beat. Two. Three. Four. Five. “Mr. Everard?” She normally let a silence linger, but she thought the line had gone dead.

  “I’m here.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard you. I’m not sure I understand. How did you get … no, that’s the wrong question. How the hell did you let a serial killer escape? That’s a … that’s cost a … People are dead.”

  Excellent. The man was finally flustered. “Volk was being detained in another country. We extradited him. He has exceptional value, value that was not well understood by his jailers.”

  “Because he has the virus.”

  “Yes. He has the virus. And now you have the virus.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Valentine, I have received a video showing you being shot with an assault rifle.” Elsie paused. How should she put this? “Our subcontractors try to keep detailed records of their activities.”

  “I hope you guys don’t get audited by the IRS.”

  “I don’t think the IRS is of great concern at this moment.” The smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She wished she didn’t like Everard. It made a hard thing harder, in the end. “Do you know of many people being shot by an assault rifle and talking on the phone the next day?”

  “Can I be honest with you, Elsie?”

  “I’d prefer it if we could be completely honest.”

  “I’ve been around a bit, known a bunch of people. Drank a lot of booze. A lot, and I’m not just telling you that like it’s some alcohol hero story. I meet people drinking, crazy people, clever people, even met an actuary once. That guy … well, that guy was more depressed than me. But never once have I known anyone who’s been shot. Not with a BB gun, not with an assault rifle.”

  “Except you.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  Was the man deliberately trying to rile her? “I said I preferred it if we could be honest.”

  “We are being honest. I don
’t recall. Elsie, I don’t know what you think this virus can do. I don’t know what you want it for. But I don’t think it’s what you think it is.”

  “My situation is bleak, I’m afraid. Without the virus … well, I’ve exhausted my options.” Time to get this back on track. “I need the virus, Valentine.”

  “What do you think it does?”

  “I think it transforms humans. Makes us stronger, smarter. Healthier.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah?” Elsie stared down at the phone.

  “Ah. You’re sick.”

  “I’m not sick.” Elsie tapped the square of paper. “But I need the virus nonetheless. The virus can be used to cure disease. Extend the human lifespan. Make us healthy, strong, slim, the dream of humanity.”

  “You want to market it as a weight loss drug?”

  “That’s one possibility. It’s not without its merits.” Elsie looked at Sam. “But I have a team of capable people who can bring this thing under control. In a few short years, strains of the virus will be out in the market in pill form. That is your value, Mr. Everard. You get to turn your … condition into an asset. You’ll cure diabetes and cancer overnight.”

  “You want the money.”

  Let him think that. It was as good a story as any. “I want the virus, Valentine. And for that, I need you.”

  “The truth at last. So you’ve already got my biopsy, I’m guessing.”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, that was unsuccessful.”

  One beat. Why was he pausing here? Two. It was unexpected. Three. “Unsuccessful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know a little girl named Amy?”

  “No. Valentine, I really must insist that we bring you in. We haven’t been able to identify the cofactor. There’s something special about you, something different that—”

  “How do I know that you’ll return Adalia to me?”

  “I thought we were being completely honest.”

  One beat. Two. “How do I know that you’ll return Adalia to … to Ms. Kendrick?”

  Excellent. He understood the situation. “Valentine, you don’t know. You can’t know. But please understand, as a mother, I have no desire to hurt Adalia. But I will if I must, you must believe this.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Consider it an act of trust.”