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

by Richard Parry

  The one closest to her looked her up and down, nothing nice at all in it. He had a plaid shirt, some relic of twenty years ago, stains down the front. He did the glance — eyes down, eyes up, smile in the eyes — before speaking. “Well look what we’ve got here,” he said. “Guys, we’ve—”

  “No,” said Carlisle. “This isn’t going to be that kind of night.”

  Plaid started to get up, anger pulling at his face. It looked at home there. “Now listen here, missy,” he said.

  “No,” said Carlisle again. “You’ll listen to me.” The cop came back into her tone, comfortable and natural. “These men are wanting to hire you. Easy money, they said.”

  Caribbean stepped forward, started to open his mouth.

  “No,” said Carlisle. “I haven’t finished. Easy money, like I said, all you got to do is find some people living in a cabin. Not many tourists around here, you think you know where they are and what to look for. But what you don’t know,” said Carlisle, “is what happened to the last group of heroes who tried to bag ‘em. You think maybe a cabin full of chicks is easy, you’ll just roll up and stuff them in a bag for your new, rich friend here.”

  The jukebox started playing then, the same damn Johnny Cash song kicking on that was playing last night. Plaid was standing now, his jowls shaking as he spoke. “Looks like you just came to give us an advance.”

  “No,” said Carlisle. “The problem with you people is you don’t listen. I’ve come to give you an escape.” She walked closer to them, trailing her fingers over a table top as she approached the group. She spoke again, looking at the group of men, but hoping Caribbean was listening. He has to. “She doesn’t like killing them. She can’t stop once she starts.”

  Plaid looked confused, but he was the kind of man that didn’t let a little thing like that slow him down. He stepped forward, reaching a hand out towards Carlisle’s arm. She watched the hand come, let the man step into kissing distance. Carlisle felt the hand close on her arm and almost let herself smile, closing her eyes and letting her breath out. She could feel it as Plaid’s hand applied pressure, implied possession, as the man leaned away from her, his voice sounding like he’d turned to face the other men, heard him say, “Boys, I think we’ve—”

  Her eyes snapped open as her hand whipped around in a haito strike, the blade formed by the top edge of her hand hitting the soft tissue in the man’s neck. Plaid’s voice was cut off and he gagged, sagging a little and turning to face her. His hand softened just enough on Carlisle’s arm; she dropped her shoulder, breaking free of the grip, then rose up, using her momentum to slam a palm heel under the man’s chin. He lifted up, head whipping back, then toppled out on the ground like a falling tree, glasses and bottles on the tables around her shaking and jumping.

  Carlisle held her pose for a couple of heartbeats, then lowered her hand back to her side. “I said,” she said, eyes on Plaid’s four friends, “that this wasn’t going to be that kind of night. Could be a different kind of night if you want it to be. Your call.” She saw anger building in the group, a man with a Michelin jacket putting an uncertain hand on the belly that stuck out over his waistband. A friend of his with a cap that said Welcome to Miami pulled the hat off, slicked back his already slick hair, then put it back on. The third took a pull from his beer — does he actually have a shirt that advertises Miller? — while the last man reached under his vest and pulled out a small revolver. It looked like a 38 Special — she’d know the shape of the Smith & Wesson from any angle. She’d had one for years.

  “If you point that gun at me,” she said, “you’re going home in a bag.”

  38 Special looked down at the gun in his hand, then back up to Carlisle. He thought about it, then raised the gun, slow and deliberate, and pointed it at Carlisle.

  She frowned. “That wasn’t the best call you’ve made tonight.”

  The man looked at her, then at the gun in his hand as he tipped it slightly before pointing it back at her. “What?”

  “See,” she said, “you think you’ve got a gun pointed at me, and you’re in charge.”

  “That’s right,” said 38 Special, looking at her over the barrel. “I’ve got the gun.”

  “You’ve got the gun,” Carlisle agreed, nodding. “It’d work better for you if the safety was off.”

  “You think I’m going to fall for that?”

  “No,” said Carlisle. She licked her lips, then let them part in a fierce, tight smile.

  “Fuck this,” said 38 Special, and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. Carlisle shrugged. “Safety’s on.” She pointed. “It’s the little thing there on the side,” she said. “Just above your thumb.”

  The man looked at the gun, then clicked the safety switch. “Now,” he said, “we’re—”

  Carlisle stepped forward with her left leg, letting her right foot catch the base of a chair next to her. She kicked the chair across the space between them, letting her momentum take her a little to the left. The chair spun through the air, then collided with the man’s arm. The revolver fired, the bullet spitting past her, shattering something made of glass behind her. 38 Special went down, the chair hitting him in the bridge of the nose. A touch of cold licked at her back — he shot out a window — as she pushed herself into a dash towards the three standing men.

  Michelin took a swing at her as she got close, so slow it was almost comical. She stepped under his arm — got to get him in the way, give me something to work with — giving him a gentle push and spinning him around so his back faced her. Carlisle stamped down hard on the back of one of the man’s knees, grabbing the back of his hair at the same time. He fell backward like a falling anvil, and she stepped to the side and slammed a fist into his face as he fell past her. He didn’t get up.

  Something behind her — some fragment of sound — drew her back around, and she saw man with the Miami cap had grabbed a pool cue. He waved it at her. “Bitch!”

  Carlisle looked past him, took in Caribbean. The man was standing in his impeccable suit, arms folded. The two men at his side watched. She shrugged, raising an eyebrow at him. He unfolded his arms, held a hand out, palm up towards Miami, a gesture that said go ahead.

  Weird. She could solve that later. One case at a time, Carlisle. She took four quick steps towards Miami, then leaned back as the man swung the cue towards her head. She didn’t slow herself, stepping inside his reach and grabbing the hands that held the wood. They locked together, shoulder to shoulder, and Carlisle let him see her smile. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Bitch!” said the man again, and tried to wrestle the cue from her. She let herself be tugged around, then planted her feet and swung the cue back around between them, using it like a lever. There was a crack as the man’s wrist snapped, and he screamed. She took two steps away, still holding the cue, then swung it back around into the side of the man’s head. He dropped like a stone, a tooth spinning across the room. It clattered against the jukebox, which skipped and started to change tracks. Probably more Johnny Cash.

  She opened her hand, the cue balanced on her palm, and looked over at Caribbean. She saw a small smile playing at the man’s mouth. A sound caught her attention again, and she saw 38 Special starting to rise. The gun was in his hand and pointed in her direction. Carlisle closed her fingers around the cue, planted her free hand on the side of a table, and rolled over the top. The cue came with her, she tucked it under her body as she rolled and the side of it knocked against her hip then — goddamn — her face as she rolled. She heard the gun fire, a bullet hitting somewhere above her as she moved. Her feet came down over the edge of the table, the cue in her hand, and she spun across the distance between the two of them. Another shot went off, tugging at the sleeve of her jacket. Carlisle reached 38 Special, his eyes were wide with fear. The gun was still in his hand — no way he can miss at this range. She saw it in his eyes, the moment before he made the decision to kill her, and she brought the cue down against the side of his h
ead in a two-handed strike. It splintered against his skull and the man hit the ground, the gun firing blind. Carlisle felt her heart hammering in her chest, her ears ringing from the shot.

  She let the broken cue go, then turned around, the movement slow and deliberate. Okay Carlisle. You’re still alive. This time. She worked to bring her breathing under control. “Okay,” she said after a few lungfuls of air, “now I’ve finished with them, I’ve got time to deal with you three.”

  Caribbean had a half-smile pulling at his mouth, but the two men with him looked at her hard. Caribbean thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know if the things we want are at odds with the things you want.”

  “I think,” said Carlisle, “that if you want to send a group of assholes against me and mine, we’re poles apart.” She stepped forward, her foot crunching against some broken glass on the ground. “I think,” she said again, “it’s a problem we should work out, right here. Right now.”

  “This isn’t really your style, Detective,” he said to her. The two men at his side hadn’t moved. “I know you—”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  “I know you graduated with good marks. Not top marks, but good enough to land you the job you wanted. I know your father is dead.”

  “So you read the papers.” Carlisle took another step forward, aware of the Eagle still snug against her back. She wanted to reach for it, feel the comfortable weight in her hand, but there was something here that made her pause. It wasn’t just that she didn’t want to kill a man who hadn’t pulled a weapon on her, no matter what it might prevent. There was something about him that was … different. You’ve seen a lot of assholes in your time, and this guy just doesn’t have his asshole dial turned all the way to 11. “Lucky you.”

  “I’ve spoken with him.” Caribbean dropped the four words into the sound of Johnny Cash. “He is a man of indifferent quality.”

  Carlisle swallowed, something pulling at her guts. “You what?”

  “We spoke,” said Caribbean, “about you.”

  She didn’t realize she’d pulled it out before she saw the gun in her hand, leveled at him. Carlisle could see the barrel shaking slightly, her fingers white with tension. “Say that again. I fucking dare you. No. I double dare you.”

  The men at Caribbean’s side started to move, but Caribbean held a hand up. “Can we start again? I feel like we’ve … I’d like to start again.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Carlisle held her weapon in front of her like a shield. “I mean, aside from the question I just asked.”

  “Please.”

  “Let’s say you meet a girl in a bar. Do you ask her about her dead partner, then maybe talk about her dead Dad, or do you take her out for a few drinks first?” Carlisle could feel the sweat cooling on her face, and she wiped it away with her hand. “Because if this is your usual style, I can’t see you getting laid all that much.”

  Caribbean blinked at her, then laughed. “Raeni knew you were different.”

  “Who’s Raeni?”

  “You would call her … my boss,” said Caribbean. “Can we sit and talk about this? You can keep pointing your gun at me, if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

  “You don’t look concerned.” Carlisle shrugged. “I don’t see there’s much to talk about. I want you to get back in your truck and drive the hell on out of here.”

  “I’m not concerned,” said Caribbean, “because I know where the dead go once they die.”

  Carlisle looked at him, her head tipped to one side as she thought about it. Talks to dead people. Looks good in a suit. Could go either way. “Sure, what the hell,” she said. “Let’s talk.” She used her free arm to sweep the glasses and plates on a table aside, heard them crash as they hit the ground. She sat in a chair facing Caribbean, the gun held in her lap, then gestured with her free hand to the seat opposite her. “Have a seat.”

  Caribbean nodded at the other two men before stepping away from them and sitting in the chair. “My name’s Ajay.”

  “What’s the J stand for?” said Carlisle. “I mean, the A … you look like an Adam.”

  “Not ‘AJ,’” said Ajay. “Ajay. One word, four letters. Fourteen points in Scrabble. Ajay Lewiss.” He was smiling at her, something easy in it that made her want to grind herself against him.

  Carlisle looked away, licking her lips and watching as one of the two men behind Ajay took a call on a phone. She let her eyes flick back to him. “You play a lot of Scrabble?”

  “No,” he said. He seemed to think about something. “What is it you want from your life, Detective Carlisle?”

  “Champagne and happiness,” she said. “One drives the other.”

  “I want to live in a world where we’re not hunted like dogs,” said Ajay. “That’s the story of my people. My family. Do you understand family?”

  “You’ve talked to my Dad. You tell me.” Carlisle watched the man on the phone behind Ajay, her eyes moving to the second man. He was working his way slow and steady around to her side. “Say. Ajay?”

  “Yeah.” Ajay leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

  “These two guys work for you?”

  “We come from the same place,” he said.

  “That a yes or a no?”

  “The question doesn’t mean anything here,” he said. “You haven’t asked about your father.”

  The man on the phone rung off, then nodded to the other off to Carlisle’s side. She could feel the taste of the room change then, the other man reaching behind him, his hand coming out with something small and black, and Ajay was starting to rise, trying to say something, turning to face the man with the phone, his hands up—

  Carlisle stood in a smooth motion, her chair skidding out behind her. She shot the man to her side three times — one in the head, two in the chest — then turned the weapon on the man with the phone. He was trying to bring something to bear on her, and she fired three more shots, his body tugging and pulling as the rounds hit. His body fell to the ground, the soft tink of her last spent cartridge leaving her sidearm and falling in a trail of smoke. Her eyes found the object one of the men had held, a small taser, not civilian-grade. She fed a fresh magazine into her weapon, turned the Eagle back on Ajay. That same twinge in her gut made her pause, stopped her finger from pulling the trigger. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t finish this right now.”

  “He said,” said Ajay, “to tell you that he’s sorry.”

  Carlisle narrowed her eyes. “Who?”

  “Your father,” said Ajay, “said to tell you that he’s sorry. That if he hadn’t placed his hands upon you, you wouldn’t have run. He said to me that he did it because you—”

  “Stop. Stop talking.”

  “He did it because you have your mother’s eyes. He wishes you’d never seen the heart of the Night. He says it was his hands that pushed your first stumbling feet down this path.”

  Carlisle stood in the middle of the room, the fallen men around her and Ajay. She clenched her hand around her sidearm, hand shaking with it, until she screamed out loud, a cry of rage and pain. She pulled the gun to the side and squeezed the trigger again and again, the shots hammering out against the sound of Johnny Cash until the weapon clicked empty. She leaned over then, one hand on the table next to her, gun held to her side.

  Ajay started to move towards her, his arm reaching out. “Are you—”

  Carlisle yanked herself upright, hand palm-out towards Ajay. “Don’t you touch me. Don’t you fucking come near me.”

  “But … Detective.” Ajay looked lost. “He said—”

  “Shut up!” She screamed the words at him. She took a half-step forward, her breathing ragged. “You want to live through the night?”

  “I want to live through the night.” Ajay’s face softened. “Even though I know where the dead go when they die.”

  “Then you promise me, Ajay Lewiss. You promise me one thing.”

  “If it’s in my power.”

 
“You promise me,” said Carlisle, her voice shaking, “that you don’t talk to … to him anymore. I don’t know how you do it. Hell, I don’t care. I don’t know how you talk to a man dead and cold thirty years now, but if you do, I swear to God—”

  “I will make a promise,” said Ajay, his arms wide. “You do not need to make a vow to God.”

  Carlisle rubbed at her face, felt her hand come away wet with tears. She brushed her hand against her jacket, angry at herself. “I’m not.”

  Ajay looked puzzled. “You’re not what?”

  She looked at him, then turned to the door, her feet taking her across the room, around broken glass and spent cartridges. She reached the door, the cold and the wind creeping in through the broken window, then turned back to look at Ajay. “I’m not sorry. If he hadn’t given me that push, I wouldn’t have met the best family I’ve ever known. I swear to God, Ajay Lewiss, right here and right now, that if you hurt my family I will fucking end you. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you.” He was starting to say something else but she lost the end of it as she stepped out into the cold and the night, the door banging shut behind her.

  You should have just shot him, Carlisle. You should have just put a bullet in him and been done with it. She let her feet take her a little further along, then she looked back at the door of the bar. Ajay hadn’t followed her out.

  She wished it had gone differently tonight. She hadn’t felt that Ajay was lying to her, he thought he was doing something right. She pushed back on the feeling. You’re not a cop anymore, Carlisle. You haven’t been a cop for five years.

  Still. She hated herself for it, but that twinge was still there in her gut. Carlisle wished he’d bought her a drink.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “What is this shit?” John picked up the bun in front of him.

  “It’s brioche style,” said Val. “I made it this morning.”

  “It’s—”

  “It’s divine,” said Sky. She had an arm looped through John’s, the toweling of her robe crisp and white in the morning light. She leaned forward, nipping a bit of John’s brioche.