“Which leads me to the second point,” said John, working his arm in a slow circle, trying to get the twinge out of his shoulder. “When I say, ‘This is nothing to be worried about,’ I’m not talking to you, Rex.”
Rex blinked at him, then looked at Sky. Took in her pale face, wide eyes, then looked back at John. “You know? You’re right. Nothing to be worried about at all.”
“You’re so not good at this,” said Sky. “Hey. Anyone got any water?”
“No,” said John.
“Me neither,” said Rex.
“Could we get some?” Sky shrugged. “We’re in a five star. Bound to be some Evian in here.”
“Good call,” said John. “I’m the king of looting.”
“Got to be good at something,” said Rex, with a face that John figured said all looters should die.
“Wait one,” said John. He gave the corridor a quick check — empty — before pulling open the door all the way open on 21. The heavy fireproof door gave way to nice carpet if that was your thing, a cleaning cart standing against one wall maybe thirty feet away. No one in sight, nothing but crappy artwork hung on the walls. “Who puts those there anyway?”
“What?” Rex was looking over his shoulder.
“Art,” said John. “The shit they’ve got hung all over the place here. I mean, you go into any hotel, there’s artwork everywhere.”
“I used to rent a room from a couple who were into this,” said Sky, her hand finding his. “They’d go to a trade fair and grab up a contract to paint three or four hundred different paintings for the same hotel.”
“My God,” said John. He gave her hand a squeeze. “That’s not art.”
“It’s not great, but what are you going to do as an art history major?” said Sky. “The way they told it, they had to make the paintings match the decor of the hotel. So they don’t get to … exercise maximum creativity.”
“But,” said John, “if the hotel was in red and yellow, they could do a lot of Iron Man prints.”
“Son,” said Rex. “Son, there’s something wrong with the way your head works.”
“Right,” said Sky, “because Iron Man’s owned by Disney.”
“Because,” said Rex, “no one wants to wake up with Iron Man over the bed.”
“I don’t know,” said Sky. “I could stand to see a little more of Robert Downey. The real problem? Red and yellow — that wouldn’t work.”
“Tell you what,” said John. “Y’all wait here. I’ll take a quick look. Rex, hold the door.”
“Got it,” said Rex.
John crept out into the corridor, empty except for those damn art prints. He played the beam of his light around. Wall to wall luxury, carpet and dark-colored walls and light fittings that cost more than a week’s salary. Each. His breath misted out in front of him, and he shivered. Keep it cool, John. He laughed at himself. Cool? It’s freezing in here. After this, you’re taking Sky on a holiday somewhere warmer, like McMurdo Station. He reached out to touch a handle, the brass icy under his fingers. He gave it a push, and the door opened with a soft click. Of course it was a soft click, five stars shaved the rough edges off sounds as well, right? The lock wasn’t working, probably because the power was out, and that was just fine. The door opened into a luxury room, or what he reckoned a luxury room would look like if he’d ever stayed in one — drapes, tinted windows, a bed big enough to really play around in. Damn, but you could get three or four at a time in there.
The door sighed shut behind him. He started looking for a refrigerator — moneyed people wouldn’t have an appliance out in plain sight, no, that would be too easy — and found one behind some walnut paneling. Inside was an array of imported beers, a pack of nuts — who the hell puts nuts in a refrigerator? — and bottles of water.
Evian. Perfect.
John snagged a few of the bottles, then grabbed the nuts as well. Seemed a shame to leave them here. The beer could wait for after, when they had something to celebrate. He gave a last look around the room — Sky would love a stay here — and then pulled the door open to the corridor. “So I’ve got good news, and better news…” His voice trailed off.
Well, there’s something you don’t see every day. The corridor was gone, replaced by a large open area, pillars joining the floor to the ceiling. Instead of his feet moving soundless across thick pile carpet, the soles of his shoes squeaked against polished concrete. “Sky? Baby?”
His voice echoed back to him. John looked back at the door he’d just come through, found it gone, empty space behind him stretching back to a line of old windows letting in a dim light. He looked down at the bottles of water he carried. “Well, shit.”
Let’s do an inventory. He broke the seal on the nuts, tossing a few in his mouth. You’re either going crazy or crazy shit is happening. You’ve got a couple bottles of water and some fine hotel nuts. You have no idea where your girlfriend is. Actually, you have no idea where you are either. And let’s add Rex to the list, cranky old bastard he may be, but he’d be more useful if he were here.
“Where are we?” Sky’s voice carried across the room to him, echoing across the hard surfaces. John looked around, saw her coming towards him from roughly where the stairwell would have been, Rex hard on her heels. The old man was trying to pull her back, but she shrugged him off.
“Baby?” said John. “Baby, don’t come over here.”
“You disappeared,” she said. “I heard you, but I couldn’t see you.”
Rex took a couple of steps after her, and the sound of a door clicking shut followed him. Both his steps and Sky’s slowed, and they looked behind them at the empty room — no door — before Rex cleared his throat. “This some kind of elaborate mouse trap?”
“Dunno,” said John, holding out the packet of nuts to the other two. “Try some. They’re good.”
“How can you eat at a time like this?” said Sky.
“I’ll take some,” said Rex, walking forward and grabbing a handful.
“Water?” John offered Sky a bottle. She glared at him, but took it anyway.
“Shamshoun!” The word thundered across the room, more a roar than a shout. The three of them turned to see a huge, muscle-bound man. Shirtless, skin taut across a frame packed with power. Sweat glistened against that skin, steaming in the cold air.
John stopped chewing. “Huh.”
“You know this guy?” said Rex.
“Nope,” said John. “I know a hundred like him though.” He raised his voice. “Hey, buddy. What you weigh? 300? 400 pounds?”
“Shamshoun!” bellowed the other man — again.
“Does he know any other words?” said Sky.
“Probably not,” said John. He tapped the side of his head. “It’s the ‘roids.”
“I thought they had … different effects,” said Rex.
“Sure, whatever,” said John. “I don’t touch the things as a general rule.”
“No complaints here,” said Sky, looking at John and raising an eyebrow.
“Not the … not the right time or place,” said Rex. “Ever. It’s never the right time or place for you to put that image in my head.”
“Sorry,” said Sky, in a voice that said she wasn’t. John gave her a tight grin before turning back to the behemoth.
“Shamshoun!” The other man took a lumbering step forward, the weight of his steps something John could feel through his feet.
This can’t end well. “Hey, pal. Are you Shamshoun?”
The other man — Shamshoun — nodded, slapping a meaty hand against his chest. “Shamshoun!” he said, pride in that massive voice.
“I’m going to take another leap of faith,” said John, taking a few steps away from Sky and Rex. “I’m going to bet you’re here to beat us to death.”
“Shamshoun,” agreed Shamshoun, giving a happy nod.
“Only one problem I can see,” said John. He continued to walk away from Sky and Rex, getting some distance for what was going to come. Times like this,
I could really use pre-briefcase Val. Or Danny. Either one of the heavy hitters would be fine. “There’s three of us, and one of you.”
Shamshoun took a lumbering step towards one of the stone supports, wound back a fist, and slammed it into the pillar. Stone shattered, fragments spraying across the room, cracks ascending up the column and into the ceiling.
“He makes a good point,” said Rex. “You got this, right?”
John took a couple deep breaths, loosened up his shoulders, then slapped his chest. “Come at me, bro.”
Shamshoun started a heavy run towards John, the floor shuddering with his steps. John kept himself light on his toes, then his eyes widened as Shamshoun put on a last burst of speed. John tossed himself to the side, but still took the edge of a shoulder slam as Shamshoun thundered past. That barest hint of a hit lifted him clear off his feet, tossing him into a pillar. He fell to the ground, giving a cough. For a big guy, he can move pretty quick. John used the pillar for support, dragging himself to his feet. He touched his lips, fingers coming away red, and he spat on the ground.
Shamshoun was staring at him a big smile splitting his face. “Shamshoun!”
“Put some hip into it next time,” said John, miming a little twist of the waist. “Seriously. Do you even lift?” He saw Rex wince, the old man covering his eyes in the heartbeat of silence that followed.
The grin dropped away from Shamshoun’s face, and the man gave a roar of rage. He broke into a run towards John again. Okay, John, okay. This is the point where you don’t let him hit you again. The massive man rumbled towards John like an angry boulder — and John stepped to the side at the right time. Shamshoun’s momentum took him into the pillar John had used to drag himself upright, flecks of stone falling to the ground. John stepped behind the man, slamming his fists into the other man’s kidneys.
It felt like hitting a rock.
John pummeled the other man’s kidneys one, two, three more times before Shamshoun gave a roar, spinning around with a mean hook. John stepped under it, a smooth boxer’s move taking him in close for a decent uppercut. If you’d seen that uppercut on TV, maybe Tyson putting the swing into Holyfield, the guy at the other end would be down on the ground, taking at least a three count before he stopped seeing two of everything. John felt the blow run up his arm, the skin over one of his knuckles cracked open with the strength he’d put into the swing. It was an uppercut a man could be proud of.
Shamshoun didn’t even blink. He grabbed John’s arm at the wrist, lifting John off the ground. The big guy leered at John — Christ, he’s got bad breath — then started slamming a fist into John’s side. The good news was that John was suspended by his arm and could swing a little. The bad news was that he could only swing a little, and it was about here he thought of Carlisle.
Melissa would have had a solve for this. One of his ribs gave, something soft and wet inside tearing loose. Now Melissa wouldn’t have stood for that, she’d have … she’d have … well, she wouldn’t have fought like a boxer in a street fight, that’s for sure. Melissa Carlisle, now there was a woman who didn’t fight fair. Of course, she’d have said that nobody fought fair, that was just how life was — another hit into John’s ribs made him whimper here — and only degenerates and the mentally ill expected any of that to change.
Okay, Melissa. We’ll do it your way.
John used the backswing from the blow to give him a little extra momentum, and used his free hand to jab his first and index fingers into Shamshoun’s eyes. It wasn’t the kind of strike that a boxer would use. It wasn’t even at the sort of depth of dirty that Tyson had used in The Bite Fight. No, this was a pure dick move, balls to breaches.
Melissa would have been so pleased.
There was a soft, wet sound as Shamshoun’s eyeballs ruptured, and the big man screamed, hurling John away like he was a broken toy. John felt his shoulder pop out of its socket with the throw, and he also screamed briefly — right before he hit, spine first, into the edge of a pillar. It knocked the air out of him, silencing his scream, and — if you were being honest, looking back — that was what stopped him from being beaten to death.
As he lay on the ground, looking at the jellied red coating his fingers, trying to suck even a tiny spoonful of air into his lungs, Shamshoun was roaring, turning around in his blindness, his pain, and his rage, and swinging wild hate around him. His fists landed into pillars, into the ground, even whistled through empty air in an effort to find something, anything, to make pay for what had been done to his eyes.
John looked past the big man, took in Sky and Rex in cover behind a pillar. He motioned with his palm out — stay the fuck there — and tried to draw in a shaky breath. He got a tiny drip of air, then his diaphragm unlocked and he sucked into a huge lungful, immediately coughing back out the tiny slivers of dust and stone on the ground.
Shamshoun heard the noise and turned to run for him. Right, thought John, this is how it ends. At least they won’t find me dead on a toilet like Elvis. Praise be. Shamshoun’s steps made the ground jump, John scrambling to his feet — but sweet baby Jesus his back hurt — and away from the freight train of a man who was about to run right over him.
The bottle of Evian hit Shamshoun in the side of the head. Nothing dramatic, no save-the-day move here with a Molotov explosion — just a plastic Evian bottle.
It was enough.
Shamshoun’s attention was pulled a little left of center, and his stampede took him past John. John looked over, saw Sky’s arm pulling back from the throw — thanks, babe — and he pulled himself back to his feet. Get back in the fight, John. The Master Chief wouldn’t sit on his ass while his girl drew live fire from a psycho. John took a couple quick steps over to the Evian bottle, snaring it from the ground, before jogging further away from Sky and Rex.
“Hey,” said John. His voice came out a little on the thin and reedy side, and he cleared his throat before starting again. “Hey. Dumbass.”
Shamshoun stopped his swinging around him, standing still. His face was a waste, trails of red like vile tears marking their way down from his ruined eyes. He cocked his head, listening.
“That’s right, you better listen,” said John. “I’ve coached ninety-pound weaklings who’ve got more staying power than you. It looks,” said John, wincing and holding his side, “like you need a hug.”
Shamshoun gave a sickly grin. “Shamshoun will not hurt you, little man.”
“Sure,” said John, “because you’re a glass-jawed rookie.”
“No,” said Shamshoun. His great brow furrowed with the effort of thought. He spoke each word with deliberate intent, as if he were laying bricks. “Shamshoun will hurt those who came with you. Draw you out, yes? Like a … trap.” He gave that same sickly grin again, by all looks pleased with his own cleverness. Then his hand stretched out, straight as an arrow, pointing at where Sky and Rex huddled behind a pillar.
Ah, hell. John started running at the same time as Shamshoun did. He hurled the Evian bottle, which bounced off the side of Shamshoun’s head. The other man didn’t falter — guess it was too much to expect that to work twice in a row — and made it to where Sky and Rex huddled.
John tried. He really did. It’s just that he was hurt so bad, he couldn’t get there that fast. He saw the wide-eyed fear in Sky’s face, saw Rex step out in front. The old man cleared his throat, and said something that sounded like, “Son,” right before a massive fist caught him in the side of the head, smashing him to one side. John’s view of Sky was obscured by Shamshoun’s massive frame and he pushed himself harder to close the gap. Shamshoun lifted Sky up, a single hand clenched around her throat — no, no, not Sky, no — and hefted his prize with a shout of triumph.
John was ten paces away, could have been five if he hadn’t been so busted up. Close enough to see the fear in Sky’s eyes, close enough to hear Shamshoun’s laugh. Too far to be useful. Too damn far. John shouted something, he couldn’t have said what, and then Shamshoun stiffened, a tick-tick-tic
k sound in the air, before he toppled to the ground like a falling tree. Sky tumbled free of his hand.
John slowed dropped to his knees beside Sky. Her neck was already discolored, but she was breathing — alive! — and held her taser in front of her with both hands, knuckles white. John started to laugh and cry at the same time, and fell to his knees beside her. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The world fell back into place around them, concrete floors sinking beneath a layer of rich carpet, old stone pillars melding together into the muted colors of hotel walls. Shamshoun’s unconscious body stayed where it was at their feet.
“Huh,” said John.
“Huh,” said Rex, coming to stand over them. He held a hand out. Sky waved him away; John took it, pulling himself upright. “Now there’s something you don’t see everyday.”
“True story,” said John. “Say—”
Shamshoun’s body started to flicker red, wisps of smoke pouring out. With a whoosh, it burst into flame, turning to ash within seconds. All that was left was a charred outline on the carpet. Now that is a thing insurance companies will have kittens about.
A ghostly laugh echoed down the corridor, gentle, almost friendly. “You have felled my brother, and now his power is mine.”
“Wait, what?” said John. “This is starting to feel like a really bad Dark Souls boss fight.”
“A what?” said Rex.
“It’s a game,” said Sky. “You play this hero who enters a dungeon and fights—”
“Hang about,” said Rex, holding up a hand. “You’re talking about a … a video game?”
“Yeah,” said John. “It’s a pretty good one, but—”
“I will swallow your soul in the eternal fire,” said the voice, softer, almost on the edge of hearing. It sounded warm, the flicker of heat and flame around the edges of it.
“Ah, shit,” said Rex.
“You know this guy?” said John.
“No,” said Rex. “I figure he’s probably a big fucker made of flames though. You know. ‘Eternal fire.’”
The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy Page 67
