We Hunt the Night: (Tales from the Supernatural Frontline) (Imperium Book 1)

by Richard Langridge

  He scoffed and folded his arms. ‘Yeah—as if.’

  ‘You totally did! Come on. Admit it.’

  ‘Yeah, well—your hair smells like strawberries!’

  She blinked, confused.

  Damn. That hadn’t come out like he meant…

  He shook his head. ‘Anyway—what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the remembrance thingy with the others?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you?’

  Touche…

  ‘Besides, I had a feeling you’d be here.’ She stepped up beside him, hooked an arm around his. They stared down at the gravestone together. ‘You know, I get the feeling she’d be pretty proud of you right now.’

  ‘You think so?’

  She nodded. ‘Uh-huh—maybe not so much the whole “zombie” thing, of course. But pretty proud, yeah.’

  He sniffed. A stiff wind blew around them, sending leaves whipping up into the air. Cherry blossoms broke out into spontaneous dance, as if to some phantom music only they could hear.

  ‘I wonder what she was trying to tell us,’ said Jake. This was something he’d thought about a lot. ‘Remember? Right before she died. It was like she was trying to warn us about something.’

  Eliza was silent a moment before finally shaking her head. ‘Let it go, Jake. Some rabbit holes just aren’t meant to be traveled down. And—if I knew your grandmother like I think I did—I have a feeling the only thing that lies at the end of that rabbit hole is more questions.’

  Jake didn’t say anything.

  The wind picked up, worrying their clothes and hair.

  Eliza nudged him. ‘Come on—let’s get out of here. It’s not good to hang around cemeteries for too long.’

  Jake nodded—ghosts.

  They walked back toward the limo, arms still interlocked, where a now-sober Moss was standing by the rear doors, looking huge under a tiny umbrella.

  ‘Eliza?’ said Jake.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘When we get back to the car, can I smell your hair?’

  There was a moment’s awkward silence. ‘You want to…’

  ‘Smell your hair, yes. Don’t make this weird.’

  She thought it over a moment, then shrugged. ‘Sure, Jake. If that’s what you need right now. Knock yourself out.’

  Jake let out a satisfied breath.

  It was good to have friends.

  *

  The remembrance ceremony finished a little after lunch, just in time for those leaving the hotel to get caught in a surprise shower that not even the weather forecasters had been able to predict.

  They returned to HQ, where Jake was pleased to see things were very much business as usual.

  He stood in his office, watching through the window as suited men and women of varying age and ethnicity worked diligently below, fingers once again tap-tapping at their consoles at lightning speeds. It really was a “well-oiled machine”. While Vogel may indeed have been a crazed lunatic hell-bent on ending the world, he had at least been right on one thing.

  Jake looked around Grandma Stella’s office—his office now, he supposed, although really nothing had changed. Same oak desk. Same expensive, leopard-print rug. That leather office chair that, when you sat on it, made you feel like you were floating on a pocket of warm air. Whatever else could have been said about his grandmother, she really did have an eye for the finer things in life—still, he thought he was going to miss it.

  He let out a breath and stepped over to the large sports-bag lying spread out on the couch—courtesy of Moss. Inside were the few items he had managed to acquire in his short time working here. A photo of his parents that Grandma Stella had kept in her desk, but that was all too perfect and well-preserved to leave behind—unlike Jake’s own photographs, that was, which had all faded and wilted over time, much, sadly, like the memories themselves. At the bottom sat a pair of legitimate x-ray goggles that Avery had put together—at Jake’s firm request, of course. Because when you’ve got a secret research and development program at your disposal, you make x-ray goggles. That’s just how it goes.

  He cast another look around. He was sad to be leaving it behind. He had a feeling it was probably for the best, though—except for Churchy, of course. Churchy they’d have to pry from his cold, dead fingers—hell, he’d smuggle him out in the sports bag if he had to.

  He bent down and clicked his fingers, beckoning the little guy over, tiny paws thumping soundlessly on the lush carpeting.

  He picked him up and pointed his face toward him. ‘Well, Churchy, my old pal—ready?’

  Churchy farted.

  Jake nodded. ‘Well—all right, then.’

  He tucked the little pug under his arm like a football, Churchy fitting there as naturally as if he were built specifically for that very purpose. He hooked the sports bag over his shoulder, turned for the door—

  ‘Going somewhere?’ said a voice from the doorway, startling him.

  It was Coleman.

  Jake stiffened. He’d been hoping to avoid bumping into anybody and having to explain exactly where it was he was going with that big bag full of what were effectively stolen goods. That, and he wasn’t any good at goodbyes. He just never knew what to say.

  ‘Oh—hi, Coleman. I was just, uh…’ He tried to think of something believable to tell him. ‘Taking Churchy to the gym?’

  Crap.

  Coleman’s forehead tightened. ‘With that big bag?’

  ‘Uh-huh—towels, mostly. Yeah, turns out he’s a sweater. Seriously, just so much sweat. Who would have thought a dog this size would be capable of producing that much sweat, am I right? It’s pretty gross.’

  He swallowed.

  JUST STOP TALKING GODDAMNIT.

  Coleman stared. ‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded over his shoulder at the couch. ‘Take a seat, Jake.’

  Jake took a seat, still, despite recent events, apparently incapable of dealing with any form of confrontation. So that was a shame.

  Coleman stared at him, at his bag, back at him again. ‘You’re running away.’

  Jake blinked. He wondered why it was everybody in this damn place seemed able to see right through him. Who was he, Hollow Man? ‘No, I’m not.’

  Coleman raised an eyebrow. He waited.

  Jake sighed. ‘Okay, yes, I am—but come on, Coleman, are you surprised? I mean, really? This whole thing—me being appointed branch head, Grandma Stella’s “death”; it was all just a sham. I have no business leading a company of any type—especially one where the stakes are this high. I’m a pizza delivery guy—that’s it. And besides, even if I did stay, chances are it wouldn’t be long before I screwed it up, and then I’d have to leave anyway. Better to get out ahead of the curve, right?’

  Coleman just stared. For a wonder, he wasn’t even frowning. ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good. Because we have a Breach. Time to mount up.’

  Jake blinked. ‘But… didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m leaving, Coleman.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘I’m not?’ He felt himself frowning. So the tables had turned. ‘But isn’t this what you wanted? Me gone, so you could take your rightful place? The circle of life, Simba and Mufasa and all that?’

  ‘Maybe—once upon a time. But the truth is, it would be a sham. Because there’s someone within this company who is a far better fit for the job than I am.’

  Jake nodded. ‘Eliza—I knew it.’ Goddamn Eliza and her amazing hair. Always interfering…

  Coleman shook his head. ‘You, Jake.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘That’s right. Back when Vogel and his followers were about to unleash Armageddon, when everybody else had given up and thrown in the towel—myself included—you never did. You stepped up, Jake. You showed courage and initiative, even under the gravest of circumstances. And you never gave up.’

  Jake thought it over. It hadn’t really occurred to him until just then, but he supposed looking back now he had been pretty brave. T
hat, and he fell out of a vent—which, while admittedly not exactly “brave”, shouldn’t go without recognition, either, because it really hurt.

  Coleman tilted his head. ‘I mean, true, you did it all in your own strange, particular way—but you got the job done. And that’s what counts.’

  Jake cast him a sideways glance. ‘I think you were fine with “courage and initiative”—but thanks.’ He looked toward the window again, where he could just see the Door, now all clean and shiny once again. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m fit to lead an entire company. What if I mess up again? Somebody could get killed—I mean, hell, just look at what happened to Moss.’

  Coleman thought it over. ‘True—but you’ll never know until you try, will you?’

  ‘But I—’

  Coleman stood, the conversation apparently now over. He adjusted his suit jacket a moment before pointing a finger at him. ‘See you topside in five.’ He made to leave, then turned back again. ‘Oh, and Jake?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Don’t forget your gun.’ And with that, he spun on his heels and left.

  Jake sat there, feeling suddenly pulled in what felt like a thousand different directions, Churchy still clamped tightly under his arm.

  A moment ago, he’d been on his way out the door, a fire under his heels, his mind made up. Who the hell did Coleman think he was, coming in here and making Jake all conflicted like that? Jake was a man. When he made up his mind on something, that was that.

  He got up and abruptly made for the door, sports bag swinging by his side, Churchy farting wildly under his arm as though in the middle of his very own trombone solo—

  ‘Jake?’

  He almost ran straight into her—farting dog included. ‘Oh. Eliza—hey!’

  She stepped past the frame toward him; a short girl with raven-black hair, who smelled in no small way like strawberries and, occasionally, coconut—two of what were quickly becoming Jake’s favorite things. ‘Did you get the word? There’ve been reports of activity downtown. It’s go time.’

  He blinked. ‘Uh, sure.’ He noted suddenly how close they were. Once again he found he could smell the honey-like tang of her breath, intermingled this time with a hint of what he thought today to be oranges. Nice.

  He shook his head. ‘I mean, actually, I was just—’

  She took another tiny step toward him.

  They were really close, now. Were he to stick his tongue out, he would lick her right across the eyeball—and was that her gun pressing into his hip, he felt? He sure hoped so.

  She looked up at him, her green eyes big and bright and glistening. They were like little emeralds. ‘Yes, Jake?’

  He swallowed. ‘I’ll, uh… I’ll meet you in the car.’

  She smiled. ‘Sure thing.’

  And with that, she left.

  Jake stared after her, watching her go, noting in great detail the way her hips swayed, rocking like a kayak caught in a swirl, or a car whose suspension had given way.

  So maybe he’d stay, after all—for a little while longer, anyway.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Richard Langridge is a novelist, musician, and notorious lover of cheese. He currently lives in the United Kingdom with his fiancée, Victoria, and their son, Harry. He once rescued a litter of puppies from a burning building and is prone to telling outrageous lies. He also likes to refer to himself in third person. He does not know why.

  When not writing about nonsense, you can usually find him over at his blog, richardlangridgeauthor.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Unless you’ve been living under a rock your entire life, you’re probably already aware that bringing a book to fruition is never a one-man job. There are cover designers, editors, proofreaders and beta readers—to name but a few—all of whom play a vital role in the birthing process, and thus, without them, creating a book simply wouldn’t be possible.

  And so, in keeping with tradition, I’d like to thank them now.

  Firstly, to Charli Vince, who has once again gone above and beyond with the cover work for this book. I mean, seriously, just look at it.That shit is amazing. You rock.

  Thanks again to my good bud and fellow author Sam Cox, for once again lending this book his expert eye, even if you do have a better beard than me you magnificent bastard.

  To my parents, even though they played no part in the writing process whatsoever. And to you, Mum, especially, for grunting me out of your grow-place all those many years ago. You did good, girl. You did good.

  To my delectable Victoria—part lover, full time mother, and occasional carer, whenever I’m in one of my funny moods. Thanks for putting up with me. Man hath knoweth no greater slumber than that which lies between your ample bosom.

  And lastly, to my son, Harry, who will hopefully never read the above paragraph.

  BUT WAIT—THERE’S MORE!

  Read on for an exclusive sneak peek of the next book in the Imperium series: Dead of Night, coming 2018!

  ARRIVALS

  In the end, what it all came down to was biology—this Jake concluded as he chased the twelve-foot sex-demon through the empty terminal.

  It was something he’d thought about a lot during the drive over here. Most people, they see a car pulled over on the shoulder with its lights blinking, they simply drive on, aware of a possible trap. It was survival instinct at its most basic, mother nature helping guide mankind toward the top of the food chain through the miracle of evolution and common sense.

  Then, on the flipside, there were those “other” people, the ones who went out of their way to stop and check on the car with the lights and the peculiar lack of people inside it, the same ones who see a burning building, and instead of doing the only sane thing there is to do and fleeing as fast and as far away as possible, they mosey on over to it for a closer look instead. It was the registering the danger, but choosing to go ahead anyway.

  Why these people did these things, Jake did not know. All he knew was that he was one of them, and the knowledge of this made him sad.

  They stepped through into arrivals, Jake holding the tranquilizer gun rigidly out in front of him like it was made of snakes.

  He’d only ever been to JFK International once before, but he didn’t recall it ever looking like this.

  The place was trashed. There were chairs pulled out of the floor and turned upside down. Display stands tipped over onto their sides, their contents spilling out onto the floor like the eviscerated inner pieces of some half-glass, half-plastic abomination. Bags and other personal belongings lay all spread around and forgotten, their owners having apparently decided to ditch them the second things started getting hairy—not a bad decision, if you asked Jake. Still, the terminal’s emptiness left him feeling weird. He just hoped there weren’t any ghosts, too.

  ‘But, it just doesn’t make sense…’ he said.

  From beside him, Eliza grunted. ‘Oh, come on, Jake. You’re being dramatic.’

  Eliza was one of the Human Defense League’s senior field agents; a short, delicate-looking thing, with hair the color of raven’s feathers. Her petite form today lay hidden under a two-piece business suit that was equally as dark, like she was either on her way to or from a funeral. It was something she always wore, and under normal circumstances Jake would have poked fun at her, but today he couldn’t, because he was wearing one too.

  ‘For real, Eliza? Not once?’

  She blinked. ‘Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just not normal, Eliza—seriously? Not one time? Not even by accid
ent?’

  ‘I really don’t think this is the time to be having this conversation, Jake.’ She rolled her eyes, clearly not grasping the seriousness of the situation. To their left, slivers of sunshine radiated through the giant glass wall, spilling golden light across the polished linoleum flooring ahead of them.

  ‘But you’ve really never seen Ghostbusters?’ he went on.

  ‘Why is that such a big deal to you?’

  ‘People do not just not-see Ghostbusters, Eliza. You know who doesn’t see Ghostbusters?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Blind people—and even then, not by choice. Seriously, Eliza. It’s unnatural. Am I right, Moss?’ He turned to the man standing behind them with the enormous gun pressed to his waist. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Skin as dark as an overripe banana destined for the trash.

  Moss nodded. ‘I watch it at least once a year. It is tradition.’

  ‘See? Even Moss watches it.’

  ‘I still don’t see how any of this is relevant to our current situation,’ said Eliza.

  Jake let out a breath.

  Girls.

  They continued on, heading now into baggage claim, their shoes squeaking loudly, following the trail of detritus the sex-demon had left—

  He saw it as he rounded the corner. Some small shape, lying half-on, half-off a set of chairs directly across the space from them.

  It was some middle-aged guy. Short, close cropped hair. Vaguely Mexican-looking. He wore a blue shirt and dark pants, and Jake knew without having to go check the guy was TSA.

  For a moment, Jake thought he was dead. It was the way he was lying; all haphazardly, like a crash-test dummy whose owner, in their rush to flee the terminal, had promptly forgotten about him.

  Then his leg twitched, and suddenly they were running to him, shoes slapping loudly on the polished floor.