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

by Richard Parry

  Sawyer Diego’s voice. “Down! Down! Down!” An explosion, dust in Rex’s eyes. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t see.

  Then, a hard rush of something that would have been loud. Jessie, and her Light Fifty. It really pulled at your hair when fired that close. Rex felt the force of the weapon, rubbed his eyes clear. Saw her on one knee in front of him. A shield against the bullets.

  Not for me, he wanted to say. But she was already up and running low. Dropped again. Fired, fired, fired.

  “Check weapons.”

  “Last mag.”

  “Two for me.”

  “Empty.”

  “I’m good,” said John Miles, and fired again. The Eagle’s muzzle barked light down the corridor.

  Jessie was back, grabbed the crazy Russian’s body. Nodded at Rex. “You good?”

  “I’m good,” said Rex, before a storm of fire came back down the tunnel. They all ducked. Hunkered behind whatever there was. Rex looked down, saw he still held the grenade launcher. Looked up the tunnel, at the bright points of light where the enemy was firing at them.

  Enemy. They weren’t enemies. They were just men, but they were in his way. In their way, stopping them from getting their friends out. Jessie had said to never use a grenade launcher in a tunnel, but sometimes you needed to break the rules. He hefted the weapon, pointed it down the tunnel, and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY

  Hurts.

  Val opened one eye to darkness, smoke. The smell of cordite and blood. Burning meat. Saw yellow eyes on the ground next to him.

  Pack mate.

  She reached a hand towards him, and he touched hers in turn. Linked fingers. She said, “I love you.”

  He said, “I love you.” Closed his eyes. Opened them. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

  “Okay,” she said, blinking yellow eyes at him. She was dying. They were both dying. He could feel it, something wrong deep inside. Something that you didn’t come back from. So much silver. So many vampires.

  Hurts.

  “I wanted to ask you five years ago,” he said. Heard footsteps coming towards them, the heavy crunch of boots on broken stone. “I wanted to ask you the day I met you.”

  “Okay,” she said, and closed her eyes. They didn’t open again.

  This isn’t a good time. It will never be a good time. It’s the only time. “Will you be my wife?” he said.

  She didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything.

  Val pushed an arm under himself, felt a terrible grating from inside his chest. Felt more of his life leave him. Where was he? How had he got here? Looked around. Saw Rex first, the old man right next to him, blood all over his shirt, eyes closed. Over there, Jessica, a hand moving weak as a moth against the ground, looking for something. Adalia, tossed against a wall like a doll, a trickle of blood coming from one ear. Melissa’s body. John, always there, always by his side, but not this time. John, lying on his back, rock and dust all over him.

  A broken Knight. A useless Right Arm. A shattered Sword, a buckled Shield. A blind Prophet, and a Guide who couldn’t see. A Warrior that was truly Lost. All to save the world. A world that wouldn’t know what they’d done. That would keep turning through the heavens, where people would get up tomorrow, go to work, live their lives, all without knowing how close it had come to ending.

  He closed his eyes again. It would be okay.

  Hurts.

  “Yeah.” He opened his eyes, licked blood from his lips. A soldier was coming closer, gun at the ready. He found Jessica first, raised his rifle like he wanted to finish her off. Val summoned up some strength, put it into his voice. “Hey. Asshole.”

  The soldier looked at him, rifle moving at the same time. Walked closer as Val beckoned him on.

  Val spat blood, got an arm under himself. “Who you with?”

  The soldier didn’t say anything.

  “No, it’s cool,” said Val, then coughed again. “I just … I wanted to know.”

  “Would it matter?” said the soldier.

  “I guess not,” said Val. “How many of you guys are left? How’d we do? You know, final score.”

  There was a pause, then a chuckle. Why couldn’t Val see? Of course. His eyes had closed again. He opened them, saw the soldier’s face. Something familiar about it. “They’re all gone,” said the soldier. “You got them all.”

  “Oh,” said Val. He closed his eyes again. It was easier to speak without looking at the end. “Except you.”

  “Strange way of putting it,” said the soldier. “Since I’m on your side.”

  Val opened his eyes. Looked at the soldier again. The gun he carried, blood red. The face, one that had seen many wars. Time, and time, and time again. “Oh,” he said. “Josef.”

  “Yes,” said War.

  “Would you,” said Val, “do me a favor? One last … one last thing, for the Night.”

  “What could one like me do for one like you?” said War. “You have conquered heaven and hell. You have saved the world.”

  “Not … not yet,” said Val. He touched a hand to the hole in his chest, felt the wetness there. “But maybe we’ve done … maybe we’ve done okay.”

  “The Night always does more than is asked,” said War. “It’s what made you … makes you so troublesome.”

  “Sure,” said Val. “Look, could you get them out?” He tried to point, but let his arm fall, like he had a choice about it. “Just get them out. To see the sky.”

  “Of course,” said War. “That, I can do.” He put a hand on Val’s shoulder. “Sleep now, wolf. It is enough.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-ONE

  Adalia woke up with the sun on her face and clean air in her lungs. She took a breath, almost a gasp, and sat up. Looking around, she saw Uncle John, and Jessica, and Rex. And … and Melissa.

  They were outside The Garden. What felt like a hundred miles away was a cordon, a bunch of military-looking people behind it. Helicopters buzzed overhead. Adalia couldn’t tell if they were trying to get a good set of photos for the news or if there were snipers ready to shoot them. Although probably not snipers, because it would be easier to shoot from a window or something. When that man shot JFK, he wasn’t in a helicopter.

  She shook her head. She couldn’t hear out of one of her ears. Her mom wasn’t here. Val wasn’t here. She wanted to cry. Her phone buzzed, finally getting reception again after all this time. She swiped the screen, read the email. Then she did start to cry.

  FROM: The.Maks@gmail.com

  TO: The Woman With The Green Hair

  After five thousand years you think I would learn to write words. Words of meaning. Nothing I write can undo what I have done. I met a man named Pushkin once, and he wrote this wonderful thing. I give it to you, as I gave you my heart.

  YA vas lyubil: lyubov' yeshche, byt' mozhet,

  V dushe moyey ugasla ne sovsem;

  No pust' ona vas bol'she ne trevozhit;

  YA ne khochu pechalit' vas nichem.

  YA vas lyubil bezmolvno, beznadezhno,

  To robost'yu, to revnost'yu tomim;

  YA vas lyubil tak iskrenno, tak nezhno,

  Kak day vam bog lyubimoy byt' drugim.

  Your Maks.

  She knew what the words meant. She knew all the languages of men, of heaven and hell, of angels and demons. It was the words that made her cry. She wondered that she had tears left.

  I loved you: love is still, perhaps, in my heart;

  But do not let it bother you anymore;

  I do not want to sadden you.

  I loved you silently, hopelessly, tormented by timidity, then jealousy;

  I loved you so sincerely, so tenderly;

  May God give you another to love you so.

  She closed her phone, felt her chest wrack with sobs. With the unbelievable pain of living. Death would be the kinder thing now. Death would be an end to this. If only she didn’t know where the dead went when they died.

  T
he ground started to shake, and about fifty feet away the street exploded upward in a shower of asphalt and stone and concrete and dirt. Death was in the air on those almost-invisible wings, her face a mask of terror and pain. She held no sword, had no fight left. She was running. She was climbing for the sky, and made it about two stories up before a streak of black speared her through the middle.

  Scourge. Thrown from in the hole. Kaylan fell hard on the ground, wings flapping like a broken toy.

  Liselle climbed out of the hole, dusted off her clothes. Looked at Adalia, then walked over to Kaylan’s fallen body. Tore her sword out, leveled it at her sister. “And this is how you kill Death.”

  “Hold up,” said Adalia, wobbling a little as she hobbled towards them. Kaylan’s face was lit with hope, Liselle’s was a blank mask.

  It was Liselle who spoke. “She needs to die.”

  “Yes, but no,” said Adalia. “You can’t really kill Death.”

  “She has taken so many,” said Liselle. “She means to end the world.”

  “I think we’re on that,” said Adalia. She looked over her shoulder, at where Uncle John lay, next to Jessica, and Rex. And … and Melissa. She turned back to Liselle. “He needs you. They all need you.”

  Liselle looked doubtful. Shoulders strong, sword held rock-steady in one hand. “If I leave here—”

  “It’s just Death,” said Adalia. “She can’t do anything that’s not going to happen anyway. Go on.”

  Liselle nodded and walked away. Walked towards the man she loved. Adalia watched her go, then turned to Kaylan. “So.”

  “Thank you,” said Kaylan. “I’ll give you—”

  “Shut up,” said Adalia, thinking, Melissa. “Just shut up.”

  “I can bring her back,” said Kaylan. “I can bring back your friend. You only have to—”

  “I said shut up!” said Adalia. Thunder crackled and boomed far above. Her teeth were clenched. She held up her phone. “Do you know what he said to me?”

  “I—”

  “I SAID SHUT UP!” screamed Adalia. The world fell silent, the horns of Manhattan quiet, the helicopters above making no noise. Men and women behind the cordon fell silent. There was no noise. The air was still, as still as it had been the moment before the world began. Adalia wiped tears from her face, leaned down. “He loved me.”

  Death looked at her, but said nothing.

  “Jeremy said you were broken,” said Adalia. “What did he mean?”

  Kaylan started to get to her feet in this little bubble of the world they shared, just the two of them. Outside the bubble, everything was still. “Dragomir was flawed.”

  “Jeremy was your first. He made the rest. And you say he was flawed?”

  “Because,” said Kaylan, “he saw the things I saw. Each person dies. Each one. And they do terrible things! They cheat, and steal, and hate. They deserve to die. It’s time, time for all of them. It’s what I was made for.”

  “Oh,” said Adalia. “Is that all?”

  Kaylan blinked at her. “What?”

  “Death isn’t beautiful,” said Adalia. “Death is terrible. It’s what comes before Death that is beautiful. I want to show you.”

  “What can you possibly show me that I haven’t seen?” said Kaylan.

  “You’ve seen it,” said Just James. “You weren’t looking.” He looked like he always had, hands stuffed into his pockets. He gave Adalia a shy smile. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she said back, and stopped, because otherwise she’d start crying again.

  “It’s cool,” said Just James. “It was my choice.”

  “It’s not okay,” said Adalia. “But she needs to see.”

  “I know,” he said. The buildings behind Just James were visible through him, like he wasn’t all the way solid. Which, of course, he wasn’t. He was a dead boy who’d died for her five years ago so the world would live. And she’d dragged him back from his rest because she needed his help again. “But still.”

  “But still?” said Adalia.

  Just James leaned close, kissed her on the lips. She tasted the memory of him, the beautiful wonder of this boy. She closed her eyes and leaned into him. Held him, while he held her back for what felt like a year and not long enough at the same time.

  “Who’s the kid?” said Emily Lindle. She had a hand on her hip, and was staring at Kaylan like you’d look at a roach in your cereal.

  “Just James,” said Just James. He reached out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Don’t touch me,” said Emily Lindle. She walked to stand next to Death, shimmering slightly in the air. “You the bitch we had to die to stop?”

  “You died for money,” said Kaylan.

  “I died for Ginger,” said Emily Lindle, “because he pulled me out of an internment camp. I owed my life and soul and everything I ever was after that moment to him.”

  “Me too,” said Bryn Vincent, stepping out of the air. “I mean, I wasn’t in an internment camp. Who says ‘internment’ anyway, Lindle?”

  “Shut it,” said Emily Lindle.

  “Sure,” said Bryn Vincent. “My friend, that big ol’ ginger-haired bastard. That’s why I died.”

  “Am I late?” said Abigail Finch.

  “You’re right on time,” said Thomas Mallory. He clapped Abigail Finch on the shoulder.

  Adalia stepped back from all of them as they started to form a circle around Kaylan. She felt a hand on her shoulder, so faint she thought she might have imagined it, but looked anyway because it was that kind of time and place. There was a woman she didn’t know. “Oh,” said Adalia. “I’m sorry. I … I didn’t call you.”

  “No,” said the woman. “He was my Valentine first, you know?”

  “Oh,” said Adalia, looking at her shoes. “Rebekah. You must be Rebekah.”

  “Yes,” said Rebekah. She walked towards Kaylan. “We all died for someone else, Kaylan. We didn’t die for you. We didn’t lie, or cheat, or steal, or stab each other. We died to make the world more beautiful. Because death isn’t beautiful, but the people we leave behind are.” She looked over a shoulder at Adalia. “Tell him I loved him. Tell him I still love him. Tell him—”

  “He’s gone,” said Adalia. “Val’s gone, Rebekah.”

  A smile touched her lips. “Then why isn’t he here?”

  “Da,” said a voice, and Adalia whirled. He was there. Her … and it made her start crying again to admit it, but her Maks. “No. No tears for Maksimillian Kotlyarov. Only vodka.”

  “Only vodka,” she agreed, and cried anyway. She felt his fingers on her cheek, her chin, and then his lips against hers, and then he was gone. Adalia crumpled to the ground, alone, alone, alone again. There was no one left. The dead had come, and taken Death. Taken Kaylan to where the dead go when they die. To show her what a life worth living was for.

  • • •

  When she stopped rocking back and forth, the first thing she saw was a pair of Louboutins. Adalia looked up, saw Liselle’s hand stretched out towards her. She took the hand, let Liselle help her to her feet. “Thanks.”

  “Oh,” said Liselle. “You don’t have to thank anyone.”

  “If … Liselle. If I hadn’t—”

  “Hush,” said Liselle. “We’ve asked so much from you. But I’ve one more thing I’d like to ask. You were right. All my life, I’ve held something in reserve. And it’s … it’s held me back.” She held out her sword, the black blade Scourge. “I would like to make a trade.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-TWO

  “Hey, Sam,” said Adalia. “Sam, it’s me. Adalia.”

  The voice on the other end of the phone seemed surprised. “Uh, hey, Adalia. Uh, hey.”

  “Hey,” said Adalia, phone pressed to her ear. God, she hated talking on the phone. Of all the things the device could do, with its apps and messages and Yelp reviews and pictures to share and social media feeds, actually making phone calls seemed redundant. Also, she’d said hey already. You can do this. “Sam? We saved th
e world again.”

  There was a pause on the line. “Yeah,” said Sam. “I figured you had. Because there were storms, and lightning in Manhattan, and the streets blew up. Charlie … well, Charlie thought it was fun.”

  “He’s spent some quality time with a bunch of vampires,” said Adalia. “Give him a little while to find his feet. Sam? When I was about his age, I spent some quality time with a sociopath who ran a drug company. I turned out okay.” She scuffed a toe against the sidewalk.

  “Pharmaceutical company. We prefer ‘pharmaceutical’ as a term,” he said. “Otherwise it sounds like we’re making heroin for children.”

  “Fair enough,” said Adalia. The light was bright, just the way she liked it. The streets were busy, about a hundred people running around looking frantic. A bunch of police had tried to take a statement. A bunch of soldiers had pushed them around. No one had taken her phone from her yet. “Look, I need a favor.”

  “Anything,” said Sam. “Seriously? Anything. You … Charlie’s home, Adalia.” There was a pause. “Where’s … where’s your mom? Where’s Mr. Everard?”

  “They’re … not here,” said Adalia, and tried to sound casual about it, like it was expected, or normal, just a thing. Like she could accept it. Except she couldn’t, especially not what had happened to Melissa. She hoped Sam wouldn’t ask about her. “They’re … gone.”

  “Maybe they’re home too,” he said, but he said it with soft words, and they both knew that it was the truth and a lie at the same time. “What favor?”

  “Okay,” said Adalia. “I’ve got a list.”

  “A list?” said Sam. “You came prepared.”