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

by Richard Parry

  Cold is nothing. Pup!

  —snow, she bounded over the porch railing in time to snag the edge of the door just before it shut. She wrenched it open, saw the man inside had already heard her, had already turned…

  She looked down at the taser darts stuck in the front of her shirt, the barbs in her skin. Didn’t he know what would happen? He shouldn’t, he couldn’t pull the trigger, she wouldn’t be able to stop it then—

  Danny felt the hot white fire as the taser discharged, her teeth clamping together as her body locked. She tasted copper and heat, felt the harsh brush of the door frame on her shoulder as she fell against it. Her hands—

  Tooth and claw are best.

  —tore away a strip of the frame, the wood coming away in her hands, and she swatted the taser wires away. A quick step forward and she slammed the piece of wood against the man, and he stumbled back. He tried to regain his balance, his hand coming against the couch where Adalia slept, and—

  HE THREATENS PACK.

  She held the man above her. Danny couldn’t remember — didn’t know — how she’d crossed the room to reach him. She smashed her fist against his goggles, the plastic and metal fragmenting around her fist. She hit him again, and again, then threw him across the room to fall against the wall.

  He was still moving, still trying to — what, to get away? — after all of this, crawling on hands and knees towards the cold hallway. She was on him quicker than a stolen kiss, lifting him up again. Danny snarled, her fist hitting him in the head, the stomach, and she could smell the blood inside him, wanted to taste the hot wet salt that would set them both free—

  “Mom!” It was Adalia, her voice shrill with fear.

  Danny felt the wrench inside her, her heart thudding against her ribs. The room came back into focus, the flickering light from the fire casting shadows against the black and red on her arms, her shirt. She looked down at the man she held, the piteous, mewling thing that pawed, weak and dying, against her grip. The white of his clothing was so red it was almost black. Danny turned slowly to look at her daughter, took in Adalia’s horrified expression, her hands covering her mouth. Danny looked back down at the man she held as the life leaked away from him, his broken body growing still in her hands. She let him slump to the old wooden floors, the dry wood drinking at the red stain that started to spread.

  She took an unsteady step towards the couch, her hand outstretched. Adalia shrank back from her, and Danny caught a glimpse of herself in the old mirror hung against the wall. She could see her torn shirt, the blood staining her arms up to the elbows, the red dripping down from her lips, all below lambent, yellow eyes.

  It hit her then that Adalia was afraid of her. The shock hurt more than the taser, and she sank slowly against the floor, sitting half way between the body and the couch. She felt that midpoint, half way between damnation and salvation, as if there was a bitter seed inside her twisting everything she held dear. Danny gulped big lungfuls of air, and realized she was—

  The fallen have no time to weep.

  —crying, hot tears falling silent and quick down her face. She didn’t know how long she sat on the floor until she felt the scratch of warm wool around her shoulders. Danny looked up, Adalia’s face above her, as the blanket settled into place.

  Her daughter reached out a hand to her, touching her shoulder, as delicate as a butterfly’s landing. “Are you … are you okay?”

  No. Danny tried for a smile, but it caught somewhere inside her before it could reach her eyes. “I’m fine, honey.”

  “I … I’m sorry,” said Adalia.

  “Oh, sweetie. You don’t have anything to feel sorry about.” Danny pushed herself slowly to her feet, wanting to pull her daughter close, but aware — so aware — of the blood staining her arms, her chest. She didn’t realize she was caught, frozen until she felt Adalia hug her, thin arms wrapping around Danny. It felt like—

  Salvation.

  —this time.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  “Tell me,” said Val, “how you’re going to get it open.”

  “With this,” said John, hefting a brown leather bag. It was closed with a loop of worn cloth at the top, creases and scuffs all over its surface. It smelled of old oil and worn metal.

  “Tell me you didn’t steal that.” Val crossed his arms. “Look me in the eye and—”

  “Hey,” said John. He jiggled the bag, the clink of metal coming from within. “It’s me.”

  Val didn’t say anything, just kept looking at his friend.

  “Okay,” said John, “let me correct that. I didn’t steal this. I … borrowed it.”

  “You stole it.”

  “From the guy in Maintenance. Mauricio.”

  “Jesus,” said Val, “that’s how the poor guy makes his living. You stole his bag?”

  “No,” said John, “I borrowed it.”

  “He just let you take it?”

  “No,” said John. He shrugged, looking at the floor. “I said you’d help him move Old Mrs. Berisha’s piano later this afternoon.”

  “You said what?” Val took a step forward. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because she’s got a piano that needs moving, and you’re the man for the job.” John put the bag on the floor. “Hey. Don’t look at me. I’m the brains of this operation.”

  “I hate shit like that.” Val rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to pretend the piano’s heavy, right, but not so heavy I can’t move it.”

  “Poor baby.” John picked up the TV remote, flicking the TV on. The news was still spinning the story of the mysterious stranger who’d dived into a burning bus to pull out a kid, and how there was this other guy who’d been pulled from a Prius moments before it exploded—

  Val snatched the remote from him, clicking it off. “I hate it when you do that.”

  “You’re hating a lot of things. Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.” John raised an eyebrow at him. “You know you can be heroic without leaving our apartment building. You move that piano, you’ll get fresh baked cookies for a lifetime. It’s like the great circle of life.”

  “I hate her cookies.”

  John looked surprised. “When did you try out Old Mrs. Berisha’s famous pistachio and rum butterball cookies?”

  “Last week, when I moved her piano.” Val shrugged. “She said she couldn’t get a hold of Mauricio so I helped her out.”

  “Why’d you help her out if you hate doing it?”

  “I was trapped,” said Val, “between her and Mr. Pospisil—”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Czech guy on three.”

  “Looks about a hundred and eighty?”

  “That’s the guy,” said Val. “Anyway—”

  “How’d you get trapped?” John hefted the silver case, then laid it flat on the table.

  “I think Mr. Pospisil fancies himself a bit of Old Mrs. Berisha.” Val shrugged. “Seemed the fastest way to get out of the conversation. ‘Hell yeah, Mrs. B, I’ll shift that piano. Only can we do it now? Got to be somewhere in five.’”

  “That’s gross.”

  “Shifting the piano wasn’t gross.”

  “No,” said John, taking a hammer out of the bag. He considered it a moment before tossing it back in. “Old people. Sex.”

  “Jesus, man, I didn’t say they were having sex. I said they were talking.”

  “Strongly implied,” said John. He held up a chisel. “What do you think of this?”

  “I think you’ll hurt yourself,” said Val. He bent over to look in the brown leather bag, rummaging through the contents. “She wasn’t sure where to put it.”

  “Not surprising,” said John. “When you get to her age, you forget, you know?”

  “No, I mean, the piano,” said Val.

  “That’s what I meant,” said John. “What were you thinking of?”

  Val stared at him, flat and steady, then looked back in the bag. He pulled out a mallet, old, chipped, heavy. He hefted it, then too
k the chisel from John.

  John frowned. “Best let me.”

  “Why?”

  “You ever done this before?”

  Val looked down at the chisel and the mallet. “No, but I can’t see this being a hard thing to do.”

  “That’s why you’ll get cut,” said John. He took the mallet in his right hand, then slotted the blade of the chisel in between the lid of the silver case. “This look right?”

  “You tell me,” said Val, “since you’ve done this before.”

  “Always a critic,” said John. He hefted the mallet, then swung it hard into the chisel. The impact spun the case away off the coffee table and into the floor. John stumbled forward, the chisel carving a groove into the surface of the table.

  Val looked at the table, running a finger along the groove. “You sure you don’t want me to try?”

  “I got this,” said John, standing up. He retrieved the silver case from the floor.

  “It’s just that this table is Sky’s,” said Val.

  “I know,” said John.

  “Well,” said Val, “it’s possible she’ll be pissed that you cut a—”

  “I know,” said John. He sighed, looking over at Val. “You want this open or not?”

  “Pretty sure it was you who wanted it open.” Val shrugged. “Do what you need to do.”

  John put the case on the ground, clasp facing up, and put the blade of the chisel in between the lid. He hefted the mallet, then slammed it down again. The chisel spun away with a metallic ping, and John dropped the mallet on the ground. “Son of a bitch,” he said, putting his finger in his mouth.

  Val looked on with crossed arms. “You getting anywhere?”

  “I think I cut myself,” said John.

  Val sighed. “Okay. Hand it over.”

  John looked sullen, but lifted the silver case and handed it over. “Here.”

  Retrieving the mallet and chisel, Val put the blade of the chisel in the lid. He hefted the mallet and—

  Crack the Earth.

  —slammed it down onto the chisel. There was a snap and the case lid clicked open a few hairs. Val hefted the mallet again and—

  Shatter the stone.

  —smashed it into the chisel. The mallet head cracked, spinning off across the room, the chisel shattering. Val looked at the case. “Huh.”

  “You get it open?” John leaned over.

  “Kinda,” said Val. “Wait one sec.” He lifted the case off the ground, the lid creaking, and put it on the table.

  “Careful,” said John.

  Val paused. “What for?”

  “Could be a bomb.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Kind of,” said John. “Okay if I go wait in the hall?”

  “No,” said Val. He wriggled his fingers in the gap in the lid, then braced himself and pulled. He felt his muscles bunching, arms shaking a little with the effort. The case gave a metallic groan, the lid coming open a few more inches.

  “Keep going,” said John. “Almost got it.”

  Val put the case down. “You want to do this?”

  “You’re doing good,” said John. “Pro job.”

  Val wriggled his fingers into the gap in the case again. He pulled again, the metal creaking before it pulled open in his hands with a shriek of metal. The case fell from his hands, dancing across the top of the table before it fell onto the ground.

  They both looked over the edge of the table. Val reached down, snaring the case. He lifted it onto the table, then flicked it open.

  “Well,” said John, “I was not expecting that.” The case was empty.

  That’s when Val started screaming.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  “We can’t keep it,” said Carlisle. “No way.”

  “It’s got a TV in the back seat,” said Adalia. “It’s got a heater that works.”

  “It’s got a tracking device in it,” said Carlisle.

  “How do you know?” said Danny. She kicked snow off her boots, rubbing her bare arms more from habit than from the cold. She and Adalia had made the short drive without speaking, her daughter’s teenage silence filling the cabin. “It’s pretty nice to drive.”

  “I know,” said Carlisle, “because that’s what I’d do.” She looked cold, tired — old, she’s getting old — her leather jacket doing nothing to keep the freezing wind at bay. They’d met up here at a turning bay they’d agreed on, perched against the side of the mountain. The snow swirled around them. Danny could see down into the valley below, the lights of a tiny town she’d started to hope might become home twinkling in the night. Guess we won’t be sticking around. Not anymore.

  “But,” said Adalia, her head sticking out through the window, woolen hat on crooked, “it’s got a TV.”

  “No one’s after us,” said Danny. “No one’s here.”

  “To be fair,” said Carlisle, “we’ve only just got here. I said a tracking device, not a device that predicts the future.”

  “Right,” said Danny.

  “Because,” said Carlisle, “if we could get one of those we’d be happy. Predicting the future would be neat.”

  “I get it,” said Danny. “They haven’t caught us yet.”

  “Right,” said Carlisle, “because no one has a device to predict the future with.”

  Danny pushed her foot through the snow, watching the two trucks at the side of the road. Their truck — a big old Dodge they’d picked up six or more months ago from the cash she had left — looked like the dented rust bucket it was. Next to it sat the GMC Yukon the men who’d come to their cabin had been driving. It was shiny as a new penny, the black standing strong against the white of the snow. “These guys look like they got some money.”

  “I’d guess,” said Carlisle. “Not a lot of brains, but money, sure.”

  “How much you reckon one of these costs?” Danny looked up at the sky, the clouds—

  Ice and wind.

  —racing across the dark sky as if they were running from something. “Round figures.”

  “Fifty large,” said Carlisle. “More or less.”

  “They had another one down at the bar?”

  “Yeah,” said Carlisle. “Where you going with this?”

  “You think they might have helicopter money?”

  “I don’t know anyone crazy enough to fly in this weather,” said Carlisle.

  “Great,” said Danny. “Adalia? Time to go sweetie.”

  “I like this one better,” said Adalia. “Our truck sucks.”

  “Our truck doesn’t have devil-worshiping Satanists tracking it,” said Carlisle. “C’mon kid. Out.”

  Adalia hopped out of the Yukon with a glower and a slam of the door, trudging through the snow to the old Dodge. She put a gloved hand up on the handle, then turned around. “Why doesn’t one of you ride in the middle?”

  “Because we’re not fourteen,” said Danny. “I need to drive. Carlisle needs to shoot.”

  “No way,” said Carlisle.

  “What?” Danny blinked into the gentle flakes falling around them.

  “You’re not driving,” said Carlisle.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a psycho behind the wheel,” said Carlisle. She held out her sidearm. “Here.”

  “I can’t shoot that well,” said Danny. She tipped her head sideways. “Arm wrestle for it?”

  “Fuck it all,” said Carlisle, throwing Danny the keys. She trudged towards the Dodge, then spoke to Adalia. “Don’t say I didn’t try, kid.”

  “I heard you,” said Adalia. She opened the door, getting in to the cab. “Try harder next time.”

  “I got to put up with this from her,” said Carlisle. “Not from you. Get in.” The door closed behind them. Danny could still hear Carlisle talking, starting a story about one long stakeout she’d had in a car in the snow. Danny turned her attention away, looked back out at the road, then at the GMC. She walked towards it, yanking the door open, then grabbed the keys. Danny
turned and tossed the keys out over the edge of the road, watching them tumble end over end before being lost from view. Danny brushed her hands on her pants then walked over to the Dodge.

  “Where to?” said Carlisle. Adalia sat between them, playing with her phone.

  “I don’t know,” said Danny. “North, maybe.”

  “I think we should go south,” said Carlisle.

  “No,” said Danny.

  The desert misses the rain.

  “Because,” said Carlisle, “Everard and that clown Miles are south. Miles ain’t good for much, but Everard—”

  “No,” said Danny.

  The night misses the moon.

  Carlisle breathed out a sigh in the cab. “It’s just that—”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “Right, because—”

  “No, Melissa.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” said Carlisle. “There’s not being ready, then there’s being stupid.”

  They challenge us. “What did you say to me?” Danny could feel her hands clenching the steering wheel.

  “You heard me,” said Carlisle, “and if you think being the big bad wolf is going to help you here, I will slap you until the silly stops coming out.”

  Danny’s teeth clenched. “Don’t. Push. Me.”

  “Or what?” said Carlisle. “You’ll throw me down the side of the mountain after those keys? I thought—”

  “Mom wouldn’t—” said Adalia.

  “Not now, kid,” said Carlisle. “You were tired of this thing making all the decisions for you. You want to run from your boyfriend who calls you every single day just hoping for the sound of your voice? Fine. Seven kinds of stupid, but fine. But I tell you, there is some shit going down here we don’t have a label for, and we need to get the band back together.”

  They CHALLENGE us. “I. Can’t.” Danny was staring straight ahead, the steering wheel creaking in her grip.

  “Course you can,” said Carlisle, staring out the windscreen. “You just don’t want to.”

  “I can’t!” Danny yelled it at the windscreen, the steering wheel coming free in her hands with a shriek of metal. She knew her teeth were bared, tried to close her mouth. Danny felt Adalia shrink away from her on the seat.