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

by Richard Parry

  “Makes sense,” said Carlisle. “I was watching Kendrick fight, and she was doing some moves that I thought might be non-typical for a marine biologist.”

  “Danny’s a marine biologist?” said Sky.

  “She’s a werewolf,” said Carlisle. “I think that other stuff is secondary.”

  “So … so you all shop at the same store?” said John. “Like, you know the same things?”

  “I used to be an actor,” said Val, “a very long time ago.” His mind skated around the rim of something ancient, and he—

  —walked along the edge of a stream, the wagon on the road beside him. His wife looked up from the driver’s seat, the charms braided in her hair twinkling. He smiled at her, pointing up the road at the town ahead. There would be work there where they could ply their mummer’s trade, a place to get off the road for a spell. A place to get away from the thing that followed them from the cover of the trees, something he’d never seen. Not all of it. Two nights back, he thought he’d seen two yellow eyes staring at him from beyond the edge of their campfire, but she’d called him a dreamer and a fool and kissed him quiet. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hunted, that he—

  —fell to the floor, hand on his chest, gasping for breath. John was crouched down beside him. “It’s cool,” he said. “It’s cool to not try to remember, okay?”

  “I think he should try to remember,” said Carlisle.

  “Why?” said John. “What possible reason could you have to make him go through that again?”

  “I dunno,” said Carlisle, “but maybe it’s because the last werewolf I heard speaking Russian was a psychopath named Volk.”

  No one spoke for a moment, the wind outside pushing at the glass windows around the foyer. The Black Hawk’s rotors were still moving in a lazy circle outside, not another soul in sight.

  “Oh,” said John. “I get you.”

  “Right,” said Carlisle.

  “Hold up,” said Sky. “Who is Volk?”

  “I’m with Sky,” said Rex. “Who in the what now?”

  “Real asshole,” said John.

  “A killer, through and through. A murderer. Used to stack bodies,” said Carlisle, holding her hand above the floor, “like so, but in pieces.”

  “Pieces?” said Rex. “What do you mean, pieces?”

  “See,” said John, “he would go to a place, say a bar—”

  “The Elephant Blues,” said Carlisle. She let out a tired laugh, no humor in the sound. “God. That seems like a lifetime ago.”

  “He’d go to a bar,” said John, “and he would kill everyone. Then he’d pull them apart like, I don’t know, like Lego.”

  “’Dismembered’ would be the correct term,” said Carlisle. “He pulled their arms and legs and heads right off. Then he stacked them. I don’t know why.”

  “I wanted to stop them turning,” said Val. Wait, that’s not right — it wasn’t me. He shook his head.

  “Say what?” said John.

  “I mean—” Val’s mouth worked, but no sound would come out. He could remember it, the smell of the blood, the copper salt taste on his tongue as he tore an arm from a torso, the image as vivid as a photograph. A child’s arm, the red of the blood black against the snow under his feet. “He wanted to stop them turning. God, please let it not have been me. Not me.”

  “Huh,” said Rex. He took three steps towards Val, reached down, and pulled him to his feet. “Son? You still with us?”

  But Val was drifting on another stream of memory, the small windowless cell around him—

  —black. He could see, of course, they thought this kind of thing would break him, make him do what they wanted. But it wouldn’t. He missed the taste of the night wind and the feel of the stars overhead, but not enough to break. Nikogda — never. The smell that pervaded the air around him was of silver, he could feel it wanting to burn his skin. Every surface around him was made of it, a cage of perfect, hated metal. He waited. He would find a way. He would reach out and—

  —felt a slap against his face, and Val jolted back to the present. Rex was staring at him, arm still up. “Did you … did you just slap me?”

  “Yeah,” said Rex. “Seemed the right thing to do.”

  “I’ve never been slapped by a guy before,” said Val. “That’s one less thing on my bucket list.”

  “You want another?” said Rex, cocking his arm back.

  “No,” said Val, holding up his hands in surrender. He worked his jaw. The old guy still had a mean swing. “No, I’m good.”

  “You with us?” Rex lowered his arm. “You really with us?”

  “Until the end,” said Val.

  “Good,” said Rex. “I don’t want to have to keep slapping you silly.” He turned away.

  Sky approached Val. “Are you?” she said.

  “Am I what?”

  “Really with us?” she said. “You seem to … you seem to be this other guy, too. This Volk. I don’t know him, but I know you don’t speak Russian or fly helicopters.”

  “The helicopters were Volk,” said Val. “When I got them, the … well, the military guards around them? I had to talk to them. To make them believe. I was acting. Through another. An … older one, I think.”

  “There’s more?” Sky searched his face. “How do you know so much about this Volk? How do you know where he stops and someone else begins?”

  “He had gone mad, sick inside. We had to kill him. Didn’t we?” Val looked at Carlisle, then at John.

  “Kendrick killed him,” said Carlisle, “because he was rabid. Right?”

  “I know everything about him. I know where he was born. I know the wolf that bit him. I know the wife he killed, the son who starved in the snow, the village who damned him and turned him out. I know the people who caged him.” Val looked at Sky. “I know where he stops and someone else begins because he was my brother, blood of my blood, Pack of my Pack. He was my maker. He was my father.”

  “Huh,” said Sky. “That makes no sense at all.”

  “It’s kind of hard to explain,” said Val.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Rex. “Which stairwell you want?”

  “What?” said Val.

  “Well, we got to get up to the king asshole, right?” said Rex. “Doesn’t matter if you were in a gulag or an actor or, really, a fairy—”

  “I wasn’t a fairy,” said Val. “They’re too small.”

  “Sure,” said Rex. “What I’m saying is, we need to go up.”

  “We go together,” said Val.

  “No,” said Rex. “We pick a different stair well. Go in teams. If there’s a blockage, or we get… uh…”

  “Killed,” said Sky.

  “Okay,” said Rex, “let’s go there. If we get killed, then there’s another team.”

  “We stand a better chance together,” said Val.

  “Son,” said Rex, “son, you need to get with the program. It doesn’t matter if we’re together. There are thousands of them. And our big gun went in the top.”

  “He’s right,” said Carlisle. “I can do—” and she counted on her fingers “—maybe five at a time. Miles might account for one or two—”

  “Hey,” said John.

  “—and no offense, but Sky doesn’t look like a fighter, and Everard, and I’m saying this as a friend, Everard, you look like shit. Like you’re about to die anyway.”

  “More or less true,” admitted Val.

  “I can help,” said Rex.

  “If your pacemaker doesn’t give out, you’ll be fine,” said Carlisle. “I’m just saying it how it is.”

  “That was kind of my point,” said Rex, “except I was trying to approach it from the side. A little more, what’s the word, obliquely.”

  “We don’t have the time for trigonometry,” said Carlisle. She checked her weapon.

  “Can’t Danny … can’t Danny look after herself?” said Sky.

  “Yes,” said Carlisle, “but if you remember, she’s got herself ag
ainst the devil.”

  “Which is, at best, an even fight,” said Rex, nodding. “So she’ll need our help. We need to get to the top. Some of us. Alive.” He looked back at Val. “Which stairwell you want?”

  It was easy after that. Carlisle and Val — someone’s got to look after the invalid, Carlisle had said — went left, Rex and John and Sky — no way she’s not on my team, John had said — went right. And they began to climb.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  The cold touched Danny’s skin, icy fingers trailing goosebumps over her exposed arms. She didn’t feel an urge to shiver — there are some benefits to being a hound of the Night, right sister? — but it was weird. Here she was, top floors of Trump Tower Chicago — she and Val had wanted to stay at a place like this when they had a little more money, a little more time, and fewer people wanting to kill them — and it was cold.

  Sure, it was no Verkhoyansk, but it was still damn cold.

  Ice collected against the walls, and her breath streamed out against the air. It wasn’t a lack of power. Sure, there weren’t any lights on, but there was no way AC could go this low.

  She found herself wishing Val was here. She’d seen the bird go down trailing fire and smoke, but she’d been watching his eyes as they fell. He’d been looking at her like he’d let her down.

  How could you have left that man? She rubbed her arms and shivered anyway, more from habit and something to do than from any real need.

  Pack mate.

  “Yeah,” she said to the empty room, “pack mate.”

  “He will be your undoing.” The voice was from behind her and she spun, whippet-quick, to see an empty corridor stretching away. The voice had been heavy, thick as molasses, smooth as cream. It had been beautiful.

  “Who’s there?” Danny pitched her voice, her shoulders squaring, ready for the attack that didn’t come.

  “Your future,” said the voice, behind her again. She spun, caught the edge of a door slipping closed with a soft click.

  She took five quick strides to the door — locked — and tore the handle from the frame. She pushed it open, scanning the room. Empty. Danny ducked inside, heeled the door closed behind her, and sniffed the air. There was a hint of cinnamon and apples, and a memory of breakfast waffles came to her unbidden.

  This is a trap.

  “No shit,” said Danny. “Stay quiet for a second. I got this.” The room was large, opulent, big windows and drapes and all sorts of things rich people could afford to love. No way she could have dropped enough dimes for a room like this on her bartender’s salary. Everything was coated in a layer of ice, the carpet crunching under her feet. The drapes were frozen stiff. She paced to a door, kicked it open — bathroom, empty, nice collection of soaps though — before moving on. The bedroom area was clean, she even dropped low to look under the bed. “I thought you were some kind of mighty hunter. So hunt this fucking thing.”

  On this day, we are the hunted.

  She wanted to shiver, pushed it down, looked around the room again. Put her back to the bed, faced a room covered in the excess of the wealthy, coated in ice. Where did he go? Because it was definitely a he, not an it, a honeyed voice pure with the promise of fulfillment, full of—

  You are falling into the trap.

  “Okay,” said Danny, shaking her head like a dog. “Let’s try this a different way. What do you want?”

  “You.” She felt the breath on her neck as the word was spoken right next to her ear and she spun into the punch, her hand connecting with flesh, lifting —

  Adalia. Her baby girl — no no no, not Adalia, why is she here, not her — had been behind her. Adalia’s broken body slammed against the wall, a shimmer of ice falling loose as she crumpled to the floor, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, eyes glassy as the life dimmed from them.

  Danny screamed — “NO!” — and dropped to the floor next to her daughter. “Baby? Baby, it’s me. Talk to me. You’ll be okay. You’ll be fine.” She was stroking Adalia’s hair, her hands shaking, but Adalia didn’t respond, her head lolling on a broken neck. “Baby? Please. Please, no.”

  The pain hit her in the back, claws of pure fire drawing down her spine and she screamed again, her back arching as she tried to turn around. She caught the edge of a shadow ducking away as she swung, connecting with nothing but air. It didn’t matter, all that mattered was Adalia, her Adalia, her daughter whom she’d killed—

  The floor was empty. Adalia’s body was gone. The only record was an outline of broken ice where her body had been. Had it been real? She’d been able to smell the shampoo she’d used, feel the texture of her hair, a texture she’d never forget.

  It is as real as you make it.

  Danny rose on shaky legs, wiped the tears from her eyes. She cleared her throat, then reached a tentative hand to her back. The cuts were deep, and she winced as her fingers found the edges of the wound. Silver. The hated metal meant the wound wasn’t healing, not like it should, not fast enough.

  What is this? She wanted to scream at the thing that lived inside her, that forced her to be something she never wanted. I need some help.

  It is Choler.

  “Is that … is that a thing, or a person?” Danny looked around the room, dropping into a fighter’s stance, hands up. She could jump right out this hotel, fall a hundred floors to the street below and walk it off. She couldn’t take hits from silver and live.

  It is Choler.

  “Why did you leave, Danny?” Val stepped in from the corridor, pushing the door closed behind him. His face was a mess of burnt tissue, caked in blood. The crash. “We could have really done something.”

  “Saved the world?” She started to walk to him, her feet wanting to stand still and run at the same time.

  “Made a family,” he said. “But you left. You left me, left us, and now look what’s happened. Don’t you see? We’re all going to die because you walked away.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” she said. “I—”

  “Adalia will be dead by the morning,” said Val. “Talin will see to it. He’ll fix us though, so we can be together. You want to be together, don’t you?”

  Danny walked closer to him, this man that she loved. “Yes,” she whispered.

  Val reached out a hand to her, and she took it. He pulled her close, and she breathed in the smell of him, closed her eyes for a moment, then pushed herself back to look into his face.

  That broken, ravaged face. One eye was gone, and she found herself raising a hand towards it, then dropping it away. She gave a rueful smile. “You’re not real,” said Danny.

  “What?” said Val.

  “You’re not real,” said Danny. “You know how I know?”

  “I’m real,” said Val. “I’m standing here. I am as real as the dawn.”

  Danny looked into Val’s face —ravaged by a fire he could no longer heal from. A fire that only left its mark because they had not been a pack. She’d left. Walked out, because she was confused.

  Uncertain.

  As uncertain as she was now. If she could just turn back time — put the toothpaste back into the tube — then this would never have happened. This wouldn’t be real.

  This is not pack. This does not speak to us in the way we know.

  The what now?

  She looked at Val’s face again, at the hurt in his eyes, at the need that lay there. She looked at her hands, trembling, but not from the cold. What had the Night just said? It was important, but she couldn’t hold it in her head, it was so hard—

  Hear. Taste. Smell. LISTEN.

  Ah. There it was. She slammed a fist into Val’s face, sending him staggering back, crashing through the door and into the corridor beyond. She clenched her fists as she stood over him. “You’re not real,” she said, “because you don’t swear enough to be my Valentine.”

  “We can make it real,” said Val, from the floor. He worked his jaw, pulled a tooth loose. “We can be together. Forever.” This last was spoken in perfect, honeyed tone
s, and she felt the yearning inside her, for just a taste of that perfection.

  It will never be real. He is not our pack mate.

  “Lover?” said Danny. “I’m going to beat the stupid right out of you.” And she stepped forward —

  —into an empty corridor, covered in ice.

  “We will be together,” said Choler, his perfect voice making her groin pulse with every beat of her heart. And she wanted this togetherness, she wanted it so bad. The certainty she had felt drained away, leaving her shaking and weak.

  It is Choler.

  The voice inside her head was fainter now, on the edge of hearing. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know which way to go. She hung her head, then screamed again as a silver claw raked against her back. Danny fell to one knee in an empty corridor, bleeding hot red onto the frozen carpet. “Tell me what to do,” she said. “Tell me.” The voice in her head was silent, or … pushed away. She was alone.

  “Come to me,” said Choler.

  Danny stood, then started her slow walk down the corridor.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  “It’s cool,” said John. “This is nothing to be worried about.”

  “Son,” said Rex. He waved his flashlight around. “Son, you need to work that one out for me a little. We’re in a hotel filled with zombies, going to fight a werewolf — if you can believe it — with nothing but our wits.” He gestured at the darkened stairwell they were in, the dim green of EXIT signs their only guide. “Also, it’s cold, and dark.”

  “Point of order,” said John. “Two points, really.”

  “Shoot,” said Rex. The old timer was breathing a little hard, but who wasn’t? John wasn’t feeling great after climbing twenty flights, and they’d barely scraped their way up a quarter of Trump Tower.

  “First,” said John, “I don’t think we’ve seen anything but two zombies. Down in the lobby.”

  “I’ll admit,” said Rex, “that is a little weird.”

  “Where do you suppose they all are?” said Sky. She bent over on a landing, resting her hands on her knees, taking a breather. Her flashlight was resting beside her, the white beam picking out motes of dust in the air.