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

by Richard Parry

  “Just watch,” said Caribbean. He pushed the glass closer to her. Carlisle noticed he seemed … drained, tired around the edges. “It won’t be long now.”

  Despite herself, Carlisle looked into the liquid. She knew it would be some parlor trick, but she had to look anyway. The smoke seemed to bunch just under the surface of the liquid, a small storm in silent motion, then cleared, the liquid reflecting the room. No. The liquid can’t reflect the room, I should be seeing the ceiling in there, if anything. She could see a room in the liquid, drawn out in shades of brown, and a man stepped into view. It was like she was looking through a peep hole and seeing—

  “Jesus fuck,” said Carlisle. It was Elliot, standing in there, picked out like she remembered him, even the gut. “Jesus fuck,” she said again.

  The image of Elliot walked closer, and his voice came out of the glass, blurred, like if it were a picture someone had colored outside the lines. She was hearing him from a long way away. “Carlisle?”

  “Elliot,” she said. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me,” he said. “It’s—”

  “What was the last thing you said to me?”

  “Hell if I know,” said Elliot. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Take a guess,” she said.

  “I think we were talking about… It’s so hard to remember, Carlisle. I think we were looking at some footage of something—” his face scrunched up as he tried to remember, and the surface of the liquid shimmered. “I can’t remember. I’d started smoking again. Can you believe that? Praise no day until it’s ended, that’s what I always say.”

  “I can believe that,” she said. “I can’t believe this, though. What is this?”

  “It’s—” he was cut off as Caribbean knocked the glass over, the rum spilling out.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” Carlisle said.

  “Just a taste,” said Caribbean. “Now we need to make a deal.”

  Carlisle looked at him, then at the splash of liquid on the bar. That … that was Elliot. But Elliot’s dead. “No deal,” she said. She pushed off from the bar, jacket already in hand, and turned towards the door.

  “Just remember,” said Caribbean’s voice behind her, “that we offered you a deal. You can still take it.”

  “Ain’t no way,” said Carlisle, “that I’m taking a deal like that.”

  “But you don’t know what the trade is,” said the voice at her back.

  She paused, her hand on the door outside to the street. “I know well enough,” she said. She reached up and brushed the tears from the corners of her eyes before she stepped out into the snow.

  • • •

  The Caribbean watched her step out into the cold and the night and the loneliness of the world, then looked down at the bar. The spilled rum sat there, empty of purpose, but not of power. Not of faith.

  He traced a finger through it. He felt the warmth of that power, a spill that had held — just for a moment — the captured soul of a man. He tugged on that faith, scooped his hand through the rum and closed his fist around it.

  Liquid leaked and dripped around his fingers, and he looked at the door where Detective Carlisle had gone. What was it that she had said?

  I’m here to have some drinks. Maybe get laid. Can you help with any of that?

  He breathed deep, opened his hand as he closed his eyes, and blew air through his fingers, spraying rum into the room. Sending it on a path after her.

  Maybe get laid.

  So lonely, hidden behind that facade. She needed, longed with a will. All that she lacked was direction.

  Can you help with any of that?

  The rum floated in the air, slipped around a table, crossed over the top of a chair, and misted under the door after her.

  “Yes, Detective,” said the Caribbean. “I can help you with that. And you will help me.”

  Bound. Her need, balanced against the soul of a dead man. He felt the ties as they found their mark. Carlisle would want him. Follow him. Do what he needed, for as long as he needed.

  So they could catch a monster, and save the world.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “What I don’t get,” said the man with bad teeth, “is why people don’t carry cash no more.”

  “Sign of the times,” said his partner, wearing a low-quality smile under a worse haircut. “They say it’s a … what do they call it?”

  “Regression,” said Bad Teeth. “That’s what they call it.”

  “Please,” said Lacie, backing away. “I don’t have … I don’t have anything.”

  Bad Teeth lifted Lacie’s purse up in front of her face, shaking it upside down. A cascade of incidentals fell, some lipstick, her phone, a make-up case, her taser. Lacie watched the taser fall to the grass, just outside of arm’s reach. It may as well have been at the end of a football field. She felt so alone, so frightened. Her mouth was dry, her heart hammering. If her taser had been near to hand instead of in her bag… “There’s nothing here,” said Bad Teeth. “And you know what that means, don’t you, pretty thing?”

  “It’s a recession,” said Worse Haircut.

  Bad Teeth paused, then shot a glance at Worse Haircut. “What?”

  “It’s a recession,” said the other man. “I think that’s what it’s called.”

  “Who gives a fuck what it’s called?” said Bad Teeth. “Call it Tinkerbell if you want.”

  “Tinkerbell’s a tiny little woman,” said Worse Haircut. “Not a sign of the times at all.”

  Lacie stared at the two men with wide eyes. This … this isn’t happening. Not like this. She’d thought she could just cut through Fuller Park on her way to Bridgeport — save some goddamn time — and these two had stepped out as she’d been walking. Like they’d been hiding in shadows that weren’t even there. She hadn’t been talking on her phone. It wasn’t even late—

  “What you think, pretty lady?” Bad Teeth leaned in closer with a leer, the alcohol sharp on his breath. “You think it’s a recession? Leaves honest men like us out of work.”

  Her eyes darted between the two men. “I don’t—”

  “Don’t lie!” Bad Teeth’s hand slapped her hard across the face. She rocked back, the heel on her Guess Odells twisting. She landed, her head hitting something so hard her teeth ached. Lacie was stunned, her arms moving weakly as she tried to move, to just get away…

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said a voice. It sounded like Worse Haircut, but he was so far away.

  “She made me,” said Bad Teeth. “You saw.”

  “I saw,” said Worse Haircut. “It’s still a recession.”

  “Jesus, will you give it a rest with the … you got a problem, buddy?” It sounded like Bad Teeth had turned away. Lacie struggled to make her eyes focus, picked out a man-sized shape, that’s all it was, just a shape really, but hope hit her hard. She tried to focus, tried not to throw up.

  “No,” said the newcomer. Lacie blinked, and when she opened her eyes the man was at her side. “Miss? Are you okay?”

  “Hey,” said Worse Haircut. “That one’s ours.”

  The newcomer didn’t look away, his eyes concerned. “My name’s Val,” he said. “You’ll be all right.”

  “They…” Lacie coughed. “I just want to get home.” Her words tasted like metal in her mouth, her teeth like hard stones. She felt like being sick, and reached a hand up to the back of her head. It came away sticky and red. “One of them—”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Val. He leaned in close. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Lacie looked up into his face. She didn’t know why, but he seemed… safe. “Yes.”

  She was rewarded with a smile, generous and warm, before she fell backwards into black.

  • • •

  “Hey,” said one of the men at his back. “Asshole. I’m talking to you.” Val heard them close in, felt the—

  Fear and blood.

  —smile that was more snarl come onto his face. He stood,
quick and easy, turning to face them. “I hear you,” he said.

  That stopped them. None of the usual posturing they’d expect. No what’s your problem or let’s dance the man dance bullshit. Bad Teeth looked at Worse Haircut, then pulled some tatters of bravado closer to him. “You hear us,” he said. “You get that? He said he hears us.”

  “Yeah,” said Worse Haircut. “Next he’ll be—”

  “There won’t be a next,” said Val.

  He could see them shuffling, indecisive, but warming to the task. This was more like it, a bit of hidden threat in someone’s words. It’s what they needed to—

  Kill.

  —get their blood up. Two minutes ago they’d been about to beat some poor woman senseless, maybe worse, for a handful of dollars and a bad pair of heels. Now they were seeing a man, sure just the one man, not a whole group, but the threat profile was all different. It took a shift in thinking, and these guys did not look like mental athletes. Val stood with his arms at his side, thinking about relaxing his hands. Just breathe, he said to himself. It doesn’t always have to get bad.

  “That sounded like a threat,” said Bad Teeth.

  Okay. Maybe it does have to get bad. Val shrugged. “Doesn’t have to be,” he said. “Life’s really what you make of it.”

  “A philanthropist,” said Bad Teeth.

  “I think it’s a philosopher,” said Worse Haircut. “That’s what you call it when—”

  “No one cares,” said Bad Teeth. He was clenching his fists at his side. He wasn’t trying to relax, and something inside Val—

  It wants to die. Let us kill it.

  —wanted what was coming next. He held up a hand, a careful distance from touching Bad Teeth. There was a hidden language in this dance; a hand held a certain way said give me a minute and held another way said I’ll slap you silly. He was aiming for the middle ground of hold up. “I’m not a philosopher,” he said.

  “See,” said Worse Haircut. “Philosopher, like I said—”

  “What I am,” said Val, continuing like the other man hadn’t even spoken, “is someone who’s trying to help.”

  “No one wants your help,” said Worse Haircut. “No one—”

  “What kind of help?” said Bad Teeth.

  Val’s teeth glinted in a smile. “The worst kind,” he said. The light was fading from the sky, all the color leaking out as night — my old friend — walked closer. The air felt cool and heavy, a blanket held before the coming storm. “Or the best. It depends on your … your point of view.”

  “This isn’t the first time,” said Bad Teeth, “that you’ve tried to help, is it?” He seemed uncertain, his hands no longer clenched. There was doubt in the way he held his shoulders, the way his mouth turned down at the side. “We’re … we’re not the first.”

  “He’s not helping us,” said Worse Haircut. “He’s helping her.” The man pointed at the woman on the grass behind them.

  “No he’s not,” said Bad Teeth. “Are you?”

  “No,” said Val. There might be a chance. “I’m here for all of you, one way or another.”

  “Well fuck you, pal,” said Worse Haircut. There was a gun in his hand, a small revolver.

  Val looked at it and laughed.

  Worse Haircut looked at Val, then at the gun. “What are you laughing for?”

  “Sorry,” said Val. “It’s nothing.”

  Bad Teeth was backing away. “I’m done,” he said. “I’m out.”

  Worse Haircut ignored him. “I asked you a question,” he said, stepping forward. “What’s so funny?”

  “That gun,” said Val. “It’s more of a … it’s really not your size, is it?”

  “Punch a hole in you,” said Worse Haircut. “Kill any philosopher.”

  Val let his face go serious, felt the—

  Kill them.

  —adrenaline rise. He looked at Bad Teeth. “You better go. Your friend here is going to start something that neither of us can stop. Doesn’t matter if he’s got a kid’s cap gun or not.”

  Bad Teeth turned and walked away into the falling dusk. Worse Haircut didn’t even turn to watch him go, the sound of the other man’s passage fading out. “More for me,” was all he said. His eyes flicked to the woman behind Val, and he licked his lips. “All for me.”

  “I’d like—” said Val, as the gun went off. He felt the bullet hit him in the chest, the sharp stab of it coming a second after the sunburst flare of the weapon firing. Something uncoiled inside him—

  KILL THEM ALL.

  —with the fury of an awakening volcano, and he stepped forward faster than thought. He lifted the other man off the ground as if he weighed less than a wasted thought, heard — felt — the light and burn of the pistol firing again and again. His free hand pulled back, slammed forward through the Worse Haircut’s chest, grabbing at the—

  Flesh. Meat.

  —warm wet interior. The other man tried to scream, but no sound came out through a rib cage torn and shredded. The light faded from his eyes like a snuffed candle, and Val dropped the broken body at his feet. He paced left and right, then looked into the darkness to where Bad Teeth had left. He could smell where the other man had gone, the path laid out in scent like a bright arrow. Smell the blood all around him, on his hands. He licked it, the sticky sweetness filling his mind. Val closed his eyes, breathing fast. He could—

  Hunt. KILL.

  —follow the other man, track him down.

  “No,” he said into the falling night. “No. We gave him a chance and he took it. We made a deal.”

  There is only the hunt.

  “We made a goddamn deal!” He shouted the words at the empty park around him. His eyes fell on the woman’s body on the ground, felt—

  There is only the hunt.

  “No,” said Val. “No.” He clenched his teeth, his fists, squeezed his eyes shut until the voice inside quietened. He felt his breath ease, let himself relax a fraction. When he opened his eyes, the evening was the same as it ever was. He bent over in a smooth motion and grabbed the man from the ground, slinging him over his shoulder. Not much he could do about the blood, but she didn’t need to see the body when she came around.

  When he got back to her, he picked up her purse, a few things from the ground. He found — thank Christ — her phone, jabbed in 9-1-1 with a thumb, leaving red marks on the screen. He waited until the call connected.

  “9-1-1. What is your emergency?” The woman on the end of the line had that crisp way of talking that he’d grown used to. He’d done this a hundred, a thousand times before.

  “Yeah,” he said into the phone. “I’d like to report a murder.”

  “Sir?” The voice sounded more alert. “Are you hurt?”

  Val looked at the holes in his shirt, the skin already smooth and clean underneath. “No,” he said, then dropped the phone next to the woman. They’d track it, find it, and he shouldn’t be here for that. The emergency operator’s voice was still talking, made tiny by the speaker, as he walked off into the embrace of night.

  • • •

  Lacie was coming around, her head pounding. She hadn’t had a hangover like this since forever, and maybe she shouldn’t have had that last drink—

  Memory slammed back into her and she jerked herself up with a cry. You didn’t have a last drink. The park sat quiet around her. The two men who’d threatened her were gone. Her purse sat to her side. She held her head with one hand, wanting to throw up almost more than she wanted to run. Lacie took a breath, then another, and looked up. The night stabbed at irregular points by the beams of flashlights. She could hear voices shouting to each other as they moved towards her.

  An officer found her, his flashlight feeling like a stab right in the back of her head. She really wanted to throw up, but started crying instead. “Found one,” the officer said. He crouched down. “Ma’am? Are you okay? Can you tell me what happened?”

  Lacie looked past him into the night. She was about to speak when—
/>   Can you keep a secret? She remembered the warm smile when everything else had seemed so cold.

  “I—” She stammered to a halt. “What happened?”

  The officer looked around the park. “You’ve been attacked,” he said. “We’ve heard that there’s been a murder.”

  “I’m not dead,” she said. Her thoughts were lazy and slow, running around like milling sheep. “I’m okay.”

  “Not you,” said the officer. “There’s a … we found a man.” He swallowed, his head tipping towards the trees. “That way. What do you remember?”

  Can you keep a secret?

  Yes.

  “I don’t remember anything,” she said. “I didn’t see anything at all.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  When Rex had pulled left onto Wabash, he hadn’t been expecting to die.

  He’d been thinking about that family — from Arizona, was it? — who’d stopped right in the middle of an intersection. They’d got out of their truck, spent some time dancing on the roof of the Chevy. Been arrested, some such, didn’t matter anymore, but Rex had figured it was a shame — the mother, if that’s what she was, had a tight body. It was a crime to stop that kind of natural entertainment. He’d glanced up at the Sears, thinking about that tight body, ignored the red, and jammed his foot down on the peddle. His Prius made its sensible, economic way right into the path of a bus. The little car had been picked up, tossed like a toy across the intersection. He’d felt the impact not once, but twice, then a third time, as his car had hit against other cars, the road, God knows what else. There was broken glass flying around inside his car, and his airbag punched him hard in the face.

  It seemed hours later that he came around. He could see a slice of the world through the narrow opening in the front of the Prius, the roof tamped down like a piece of tin foil. He could smell smoke, and over the sound of his radio — This Kiss playing still through the ruins of the cabin — someone was screaming.

  Rex coughed, then tried to claw himself free of the seatbelt. There was something wrong with his arms, they wouldn’t — probably broken, some part of his mind said, and get up another part said — work right. The smoke was getting pretty bad. He could hear movement outside of the car, voices.