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

by Richard Parry

  “Won’t they just make more?” said Danny.

  “Depends on what Universe say,” said Volk. He looked at Adalia, like a cat that got the cream. “Is good, da?”

  “The Universe,” said Adalia, her voice getting stronger, full of spite, “does not want to look.” She looked at Danny, eyes hard. “But apparently even the Universe doesn’t get a choice.”

  “It’s just that—” said Danny.

  “Nyet,” said Volk, either to Danny or Adalia, Val wasn’t sure. “The Universe gets no choice. The Universe is.”

  “Then let me look at you,” said Adalia, standing.

  Volk’s eyes turned fearful for a second. “Nyet—”

  “I see you, Maksimillian Kotlyarov,” said Adalia. Val’s blood ran cold as her voice took on that sound of raw power, of infinite purpose. He found himself taking a step back, swallowed, and stood his ground. If she was using her gift—

  We will guard our Pack.

  —after all this time, the least he could do was stand at her side. Adalia was still speaking. “I see your life, stretching back before time. I see your fights and your hates and your petty fears. I see your need to end yourself.” Her lip curled. “I see your many lies, the trail of the dead, and I know that you speak of fixing the world with a liar’s tongue.” She staggered, then held herself upright. “I see you, Maksimillian Kotlyarov. There is something hidden … there. Something you would hide from me. There is no hiding. Not anymore.” Adalia strode towards Volk, put her hand on the side of his face, soft enough to be a lover’s touch. Volk screamed, but couldn’t move. “There. There it is. I see…” she stumbled back, her hand over her mouth.

  Danny was there, catching Adalia. Val looked between them, not sure what to do. Comfort Adalia? Help Danny? Hit Volk?

  He really wanted to hit Volk, so that was probably the wrong call.

  Not all wrong things are wrong.

  Maybe not. He cleared his throat. “I feel kind of like a fifth wheel,” he said, “so I’m just going to ask the dumb question. What’s he hiding? Is it going to kill us all?”

  “No,” said Adalia, her voice a whisper.

  “Great,” said Val. “What is it then?”

  “This is why I don’t want to see,” said Adalia. “You … you don’t understand. It’s never something good, what I see. It’s never good. It’s always bad.”

  Danny was holding her, whispering to Adalia, and to Val it was like years were flushed away, Adalia just a little girl wanting her mother. He looked at Volk. “I tell you what.” Volk was pale, but looked at Val. “Why don’t you tell me, or I throw you out the window?”

  “Were it so easy,” said Volk.

  “I think it’ll be easy,” said Val. He gritted his teeth, the anger—

  He has hurt our cub.

  —just barely in check. “I think it’ll be really easy.”

  “Is last secret,” said Volk, with a faint smile. “Is how you can be stronger than vampiry. When the Night is angry, is no limit to strength. Remember how they killed our Pack.”

  “Don’t,” said Val, his teeth wanting to tear flesh, “change the subject.”

  “Please,” said Adalia. “Please don’t kill him.”

  Val turned to her. He wanted to say why not or he’s caused so much pain or even he deserves it like no other, if only you knew what he’d done but of course she knew what he’d done. She’d seen it. He felt his anger ebb, felt his fingers uncurl. “Why not?”

  “Love,” she said.

  • • •

  The glade was much as Val remembered it, soft light dappling through the trees, a cool breeze touching his skin to dampen the heat of the day. Except last time he’d come here, he’d had to kill himself to get in. The glade still looked the same, but it felt different. It felt more like home now, like he was welcome. Like he hadn’t forced his way in.

  The creature paced under the trees, restless. Massive, clawed, fangs. Yellow eyes blinked from the shade. Val’s body back in the cab, winding its way through Manhattan to the Bronx, while his — spirit? soul? — stood here. Danny and Adalia were in the cab with his body, Volk — or Maks, as Adalia called him — still at the Renaissance. Still alive.

  You are learning much. You needed death to enter here before.

  “I’m a quick study,” said Val. “Look, shit’s got complicated. I wanted to … talk.”

  He is the betrayer. He has always been the betrayer.

  “I get that,” said Val, “but … well, I figure that having an emotional bond with Adalia might help with that.”

  The creature looked out at him, lambent eyes staring. It said nothing.

  “You don’t think so?”

  He is the betrayer. He has always been the betrayer.

  “Well, shit,” said Val. “You’re stuck on repeat.”

  We must always protect Pack. What hurts our heart doesn’t always kill us.

  “Feels like it sometimes,” said Val.

  Feels like it sometimes.

  Val started to pace, leaves crunching underfoot. “When we made our deal,” said Val, “we thought—”

  Our deal has no value.

  “You what now?”

  Our deal is a thing of fancy. We do what is right. It paused. What is right has changed.

  “Sure,” said Val. “So what do you think we’re doing?”

  Our deal was to make the whole world our Pack, as if that would solve all problems. What is right is to save the world.

  “Before our deal?” said Val.

  What was right was to save our Pack.

  “You’re very confusing,” said Val. “But I like to think I helped change your mind.”

  We are the Night.

  “Also very repetitive,” said Val. “Now we know that saving the world is the right thing to do, how do we save our family?” He frowned. “How do we save Adalia from the hurts of the body and the mind?”

  It looked out at him, saying nothing again.

  “Throw me a bone here,” said Val.

  You ask me questions as if I’m not a part of you. You ask me questions as if you don’t know the answers.

  “I ask you questions,” said Val, “because, after all of this, I trust you.”

  You trust the Night.

  It was Val’s turn to say nothing, just staring at the creature.

  Little human, it said after a moment, but there was a hint of fondness there. It turned back and forth. We must keep the betrayer close. He has killed his own Pack before.

  “So we work with him.” Val shrugged. “Then what?”

  The Night is the Night.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR

  “When you said, ‘We’ve got bombs,’ I was wondering where you were going with that,” said Rex. “Because I was sure we didn’t have any stashed away.”

  Jessie shrugged, face impassive below her aviators. Her hands were relaxed on the wheel, which was something when you were driving a Hummer. It was even more of a thing when you’d just been in a firefight. Rex was shaking like a leaf and he hadn’t fired a shot. Jessie spared him a glance. “We do have bombs. We just don’t have them at our operations facility.”

  “The warehouse.”

  “The operations facility, right,” she said. “Ginger’s got them.”

  “Is Ginger a cat or a dog?” said Rex. “It’s hard to tell, the name could go either way. I used to have a neighbor, she had a cat named Ginger. It really confused me because the cat was black.”

  Jessie cast a glance his way. “Ginger is a six-foot-four Colombian.”

  Rex thought about that for a bit. “Colombian.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like the black cat?”

  “Ginger dyes his hair,” said Jessie. “It’s not the worst nickname I’ve ever heard of.”

  “What is pretty bad,” said Carlisle, “is how I’m in the back seat again. I thought we took turns at this shit.”

  “I’m in the back seat too,” said Charlie, from the middle sea
t beside her. Sam tousled his hair. Rex turned to look at the kid. Yep, ordinary kid. Hadn’t exploded into flames when they’d walked outside, so the bloodsuckers hadn’t turned him into a vampire or whatever else they could do. Locusts. Jeremy had said they could turn into locusts, like that would be a thing you’d ever want to do. Mind you, sucking the blood from people to leave them to wander the earth as one of the eternal damned was probably a thing Rex wouldn’t want either.

  “I’m curious,” said Rex. “What kind of Colombian arms merchant has a warehouse in Brooklyn?”

  “A successful one,” said Jessie. “He can pay more for rent than we can.”

  “Killing people pays well?” said Sam.

  “It’s more that selling weapons pays well,” said Carlisle. She looked down at Charlie, as if choosing her next words with care. “Killing people doesn’t have a supply-demand problem. It’s a commodity business.” Rex approved — corporate robospeak was more likely to be meaningless to the kid.

  “Whereas,” said Jessie, “getting access to military-grade equipment is difficult. Especially if you’re Colombian. Although Ginger is a US Citizen.”

  “Is that why he dyed his hair?” said Rex. “To fit in?”

  “Six-foot-four doesn’t fit in anywhere,” said Carlisle. “I can’t see the red hair helping.”

  The Hummer rumbled along while they sat in companionable silence, before Charlie said, “Do these TVs work?”

  “No,” said Carlisle.

  “Sure they do,” said Rex, giving her a hard stare. “And Melissa—”

  “You introduce me as Melissa to one more person,” said Carlisle, “I’ll…” she looked down at Charlie. “I’ll have a further series of conversations with you.”

  “Is your name Melissa?” said Charlie.

  “It was, once.” Carlisle looked out the window.

  “And it still is,” said Rex. “You can call her what you like. And to show there’s no hard feelings, Melissa—”

  “God dammit—”

  “—will show you how to use the TVs. Won’t you, Melissa?”

  Carlisle gave him a murderous look. “Sure.” She gritted her teeth. “Love to.”

  Rex turned back front, smiling. He closed his eyes. “Let me know when we get there.”

  • • •

  Ginger’s warehouse wasn’t too much different from theirs. Sure, the outside was a junkyard, piled with old car carcasses, huge bins full of wire or other components, and over there a line of rusting whiteware (brownware?) stretching off into the distance. But Rex could tell that was just window-dressing for the main event. The warehouse itself was a big-framed structure at the back, huge doors closed against the overcurious eye that might have made it far back enough to get a look inside. Inside it was just like theirs: big spaces, couches and chairs mixing with each other, a few televisions, a small kitchen area.

  The kitchen area was a little less refined than home.

  Home. Is that really what their place was? From where they planned to take back the world?

  Felt like it. Home.

  This place was Ginger’s home — you could tell. A half dozen fit-looking people — four men, two women — sat around a table, cards in front of them. They’d been laughing when Jessie had led the way inside. Jessie’s smile widened under her aviators, and then one of the men — a huge, olive-skinned man with bright red hair — stood up, ambled over, and scooped her up in a bear hug. Rex winced at that, but Jessie just laughed, and said, “Put me down. Seriously.”

  “Major,” he said.

  “Not anymore,” she said.

  Ginger — it couldn’t be anyone else — nodded. “Rumor’s true, then?”

  “Not a rumor if you’ve got paperwork behind it,” she said. “Discharged.”

  “Still a Major,” said Ginger. “Still got a team.” He nodded at them, then his eyes widened as Sam entered with Charlie. He cast Jessie a look. “You trying to recruit them young?”

  “Not in charge of this lot,” said Jessie. “Just following orders.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you’re in charge,” said Ginger, ambling towards the kitchen area. “You’re always following some asshole’s orders. Beer?”

  “Could use one,” agreed Jessie. She looked at the other five seated around the table. “Diego. Vincent. Mallory. Nice to see you. Who are your friends?”

  “They’re not friends,” said one of the men. “Friends don’t cheat at cards.”

  “Mallory, you’re just sore because you haven’t won a game in three weeks,” said one of the women. She crossed to Jessie, shook hands. “Emily Lindle.”

  “Jessica Pearce,” said Jessie. She worked through the introductions — by the end of it Rex wasn’t sure what his own name was, but he’d picked up that Ginger’s troop were all ex-military. No ranks were exchanged, probably didn’t need to if you knew the steps to the dance. Emily Lindle. Thomas Mallory. Bryn “call me Brindle” Vincent. Abigail Finch. Sawyer Diego, a hell of a name if anyone had asked Rex, but no one had, so he kept that one to himself.

  “Major,” said Ginger, “I got your note. What you want doesn’t really make a lot of sense.”

  “In what way?” said Jessie.

  “It’s a lot of explosive,” he said. “A lot.”

  “Is there trouble sourcing the material?” she said.

  “No,” said Ginger. “Got you covered there. Shipping it’s another thing, but we can work through that. It’s just … I wanted to make sure there wasn’t a rounding error. Decimal point in the wrong place, that kind of thing.” He shrugged. “It’s like you want to blow up Manhattan.”

  “Naw,” she said. “Just a piece of it.” She saw his look. “It won’t come back on you.”

  “Are you … are you seriously planning an operation in the city?” Ginger blinked. “Seems a little bold, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “Better if you know less,” said Jessie, “if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I don’t,” said Ginger. “Probably can’t extend you credit on this one though.”

  “Wouldn’t even dream of asking,” said Jessie. She jerked a thumb over at Sam. “He’s paying.”

  Ginger made a big show of looking him up and down. “He doesn’t look like he’s carrying a briefcase of hundred dollar bills.”

  “In the truck,” said Jessie.

  “It’s more than a briefcase,” said Sam. “Say, Ginger.”

  “Yo.”

  “Can you sell me something else?” Sam shrugged. “Everyone seems to have a gun, and where we’re going, I figure I need one.”

  “Tell you what,” said Ginger. “For the amount you’re paying, I will put in a gun — with enough bullets to keep you happy for an entire weekend — in for free.” He said this like it was a big deal. Probably was, for an arms dealer.

  “What kind of gun?” said Sam.

  “The kind you’re likely to enjoy.” Ginger squinted at Sam. “You got one you prefer?”

  “I don’t know anything about guns,” said Sam.

  “AR-15,” said Lindle. At least, Rex hoped it was Lindle, otherwise he’d gotten very confused. “Semi-auto, good at a distance, solves many problems.”

  “No, no, no,” said Brindle. “Semi-auto, that’s good for a pro, but I figure a new guy wants to put more bullets into the air, better chance of solving a single problem. Or multiple.”

  “I agree,” said Finch. “Looks like you need an M4. Same basic gun as the AR-15. Shorter. Pull the trigger until you want the bullets to stop, at which point you release the trigger.”

  “Hey,” said Rex, speaking for what felt like the first time in an hour, “and I don’t mean to be rude here, but, uh, you need to use words. No one understands what you just said.”

  “I understand,” said Carlisle.

  “Me too,” said Jessie.

  “What I mean,” said Rex, “is that unless you are in the trade, that’s just alphabet soup.”

  Ginger laughed. “He has a point.” He nodded
at Sam. “Here’s the deal. One of those guns fires once for each pull of the trigger. Other one keeps firing for as long as you hold the trigger.”

  “That’s the difference?” said Sam.

  “Well—” started Lindle.

  “That’s the difference,” said Ginger, glaring at her.

  “I’ll take the one that keeps firing,” said Sam.

  “Great,” said Ginger. “What are you hunting, anyway?”

  “Big game,” said Jessie. “About that.”

  Ginger raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be asking for a discount. We’re friends. We ain’t that kind of friends.”

  “More of a bonus potential,” said Jessie.

  “I’m listening,” said Ginger.

  “We could use more help,” said Jessie.

  “She means,” said Carlisle, “that we need more people to help us blow something up. And while we’re doing that, we’re expecting a bunch of other people to try and kill us all in a miserable hail of gunfire. We’d like to not die, and so, by hiring some extra help, we’re hoping to alter the statistical chances more in our favor.”

  “You’re not really selling it,” said Lindle.

  Mallory stretched. “Usual rates?”

  “Usual rates,” agreed Jessie.

  “What’s the target?” said Brindle.

  “Got to know if you’re in or out,” said Jessie. “You understand.”

  “I understand,” said Ginger. “Anyone want to make a little cash, stick around. Everyone else, take a walk for a half hour.” No one moved. Ginger made a go ahead motion with his hands. “The floor is yours.”

  Jessie crossed her arms. “It’s tricky to explain,” she said.

  Rex cleared his throat. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “What we’ve got is a bunch of vampires living under Madison Square Garden. They all want to end the world. Earlier today we rescued that kid—” and here, he jabbed a finger in Charlie’s direction “—from them, because that guy—” and he jabbed a finger at Sam “—is his father and owns the world’s largest drug company. They wanted to make the kid a vampire and put him in charge in a couple years. They own everything, control everything. They’ve been hunting our friends for years, and their families before that, because our friends are werewolves, and werewolves are about all that’s kept the world together. We’re going down under The Garden, pack it with explosives, and blow them all into orbit.”