Night's Fall (Night's Champion Book 2)

by Richard Parry

  Talin took another long breath in, delighting in the smell of—

  Death.

  —it. Not death, he chided the thing inside him. A new beginning.

  …Pack?

  “Of a sort,” he said to the room, the animals in their cages gone silent and still. A breeze tugged at the smoke around him, drawing it to the ground. Talin walked towards the big windows at the side of the room, the smoke dogging his heels. He threw the windows open, big frames opening against a winter sky gone gray, the hope gone with the sun.

  The smoke twined around him, then reached out towards the outside air.

  “Go,” he said to it. “Go. Find it. Destroy it.”

  In a rush, the smoke poured out the window, slipping down the side of the building, and into the waiting city below.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “I don’t know why we’re here,” said John.

  Val looked up. “It’s a bar,” he said. “They serve beer. I need a beer.”

  “You need a hospital.”

  Val sat himself down on a stool, the leather a shiny red. The air inside hissed a little as he lowered his weight into it. A familiar sound, comfortable. The stools were dotted along the front of the bar itself, brass poles at their bases anchored to the ground, islands of safety for anyone who needed a hand with the cares of the moment. “I really think I need a beer.”

  “You could barely walk getting down here.” John sat down beside him anyway.

  Val turned himself on his stool, looking around the bar. He noted the bright red, white and blue neon advertising Bud, cowgirls — for show — carrying trays of drinks around. The floor was covered in peanut shells, the wood of the bar under his fingers dark and worn. The place was seeded with rednecks, the kind that wore Stetsons inside.

  Perfect. “I’ve been thinking about that.” Val fished a few greasy notes from inside his jeans pocket and slapped them down on the bar, holding up a couple fingers to the bartender.

  “About how you need to go to the hospital?”

  “About how I can’t walk.” Val paused as the bartender brought their beers over. Val held one up. “What the hell is this?”

  The bartender paused. “It’s a beer.”

  “It’s a wheat beer.” Val put the beer back down, an almost primal level of disgust making its way to his face.

  “Yeah,” said the bartender. “Microbrewery. Does a great run in boutique—”

  Val held up a hand. “One second.” He pushed himself back from the bar, keeping his movements slow and careful. He took an exaggerated look around the bar, letting his eyes linger on the Budweiser sign. He turned back to the bartender. “The thing is, you come into a place like this to drink a regular, completely flavorless beer. Maybe it comes out warm, a little flat, doesn’t matter.”

  The bartender looked at the bottles on the bar. “You want a flat beer?”

  “I want a beer made with hops,” said Val. He looked at John. “You?”

  John shrugged. “I’m not really—”

  “He wants a beer made of hops too,” said Val.

  The bartender sighed. “I figured there’d be a wider spectrum of tastes in Chicago.”

  “It’s not that,” said Val. “You’ve got cats and dogs living together here. Cowgirls and wheat beer.”

  “Got it,” said the bartender. “How about a Miller?”

  “You can do better,” said Val.

  “Bud?”

  “Is it cold?”

  “It’s not a Miller.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Val.

  Their beers arrived, the cash disappearing in their wake. Val watched John out of the corner of his eye, then sighed. “Spit it out.”

  “It’d be rude,” said John, “because you made such a thing of getting these.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a Bud,” said John. “Tastes like Drano.”

  “It tastes,” said Val, “like nothing in particular.”

  “Kinda my point.”

  “You don’t get it,” said Val. “For the last five years, I’ve been able to taste the flavor of cereal the guy who bottled the stuff had, a thousand miles away. I’ve had the, what do you call them, the taste buds of some kind of super…” He gestured with his bottle.

  John shifted in his seat. “Dog?”

  “Sure,” said Val. “Some kind of super dog.”

  “Or a werewolf.”

  “Or one of those,” said Val. “Thing is, there’s been no respite. It’s always on. No stopping the sensory train. And now … it’s just gone.”

  “You can’t taste the beer?”

  “I can’t taste it any more than you,” said Val. He took a long pull. “And I’m betting something else is going to happen.”

  John’s brow furrowed. “I can’t wait to hear this one.”

  “I’m betting I can get drunk,” said Val, then tipped back the bottle and drained it.

  “Well, shit,” said John. “It’s ten in the morning, but what the hell.”

  Val slapped some more notes on the bar. He reached up, touching at his nose, his fingers coming away red with blood.

  “You’re going to want to get that looked at,” said John.

  “I want to get drunk first,” said Val.

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  The bar top in front of Val held four empties. He spared a glance at John, that Miles Megawatt Smile still firmly in place. “How do you do it?”

  John shrugged. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m me.”

  Val smiled at that, but couldn’t hold the expression on his face. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “You okay?”

  “Not really,” said Val. “I’m drunk at slightly past ten in the morning, and I miss my girlfriend.”

  “Well, this is weird,” said John.

  “What?”

  “I’m saying it’s weird,” said John. “You were never a maudlin drunk.”

  “Jesus,” said Val, “I was just passing time. And I’m not drunk.”

  “Could you drive?”

  “I could drive,” said Val, “but not legally. Doesn’t mean I’m drunk.” He wiped at his nose, his hand coming away sticky with blood.

  John sat in silence for a moment. “She’s coming back,” he said eventually.

  Val dabbed at his nose with a napkin. “Sure,” he said, meaning, I think she’s gone.

  John pushed a mostly empty bottle around in front of him. “I think—”

  “Your friend okay?” The bartender was back, something packaged up to look like concern in his eyes. He pointed at the napkin.

  John flicked him a glance. “Not a good time.”

  “It’s just that he’s bleeding—”

  “Look,” said John, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but fuck off.” Val saw he had the Megawatt Smile out. A smile like that could mask all manner of insults and make you feel good about getting them.

  Still. The bartender wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not. “Uh—”

  “It’s fine,” said John. “He gets these nosebleeds.”

  “Really?”

  “Had ‘em all his life,” said John. “Comes with migraines or some shit. Hell if I know. I look like a doctor?”

  “No,” said the bartender.

  “What,” said John, “I look too stupid to be a doctor?”

  “I … I’m going to help someone else,” said the bartender, and stalked off.

  “Thanks,” said Val.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” said John. “We need to talk.”

  “We are talking.”

  “We’re drinking beer and your nose won’t stop bleeding.”

  “It’s stopped now,” said Val.

  There was a raised voice from the front of the bar, the sound of anger mingled with surprise. Val saw John look towards the front, concern briefly touching his face, before his friend leaned in a little closer. “Do you think,” he said, “that your bleed
ing nose is the worst thing that’s happened today?”

  “I think it’s, what do you call it, collateral damage.” Val took another sip of his beer, but the taste of it had gone stale. A little too flavorless. Hell.

  “How you figure?” There was another shout from the front, John looking away again. “Hang on a second.” He moved to stand.

  “No, wait,” said Val, putting a hand on his arm. “You want me to kill people?”

  “No, it’s—”

  “I get this, what do you call it, this curse—”

  “Gift,” said John. “It’s a gift.”

  “Oh fuck off,” said Val. “I kill people, John.”

  “Two things,” said John. “First is, I’m going to cut you some slack here because you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Second thing is,” said John, “you don’t kill people. Hell, if anything, you save people.”

  “What?” Val blinked. “You’ll have to unpack that for me.”

  “It kills people,” said John. “Not you. You’re like some kind of Boy Scout, heading off and doing stupid shit.”

  “We’re the same,” said Val. “It’s a part of me.”

  “Hold the phone,” said John. He got up from his stool. “There’s something going on at the front. While I’m gone, I’ve got some homework for you. If you’re the same, how is it that you go out and do your hero thing on every night that ends in Y?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” said Val.

  “No, really,” said John. “Can’t you hear it?”

  Val paused, realized he was half way off his stool. He felt caught, snagged against the edge of an unfamiliar feeling. Or was it familiar? Wanting to help, but being too powerless to get involved. “I—”

  “I’ll be right back,” said John, pushing himself off his stool and walking towards the front of the bar. Val watched him go, turning his stool around in place, his feet skipping along the edge of the footrest. His balance skipped a beat and he almost came off. He felt a flash of embarrassment, chased away by happiness. A few hours ago, he wouldn’t have been able to trip himself up if he’d tried. Something else—

  A part of the Night.

  —would have stepped forward, reached out through his arms and legs and his very thoughts to stop him falling. It was the same thing that left a body count in his wake, orphaned children beyond counting. Beyond remembering, except he couldn’t forget either, not anymore.

  There’s good news, though. He picked his beer up off the bar. It’s all gone. You’re free.

  A crash from the front pulled him out of his thoughts, and he was off the stool before he’d even thought about it. Something inside him—

  Danger.

  —tried to pull him forward, a feeling like a small hand on his arm, no stronger than a child’s tug. He took a tentative step towards the front of the bar, a press of people there jockeying for position, trying to see what was going on. He picked out the back of John’s head, that confident Miles swagger taking him through the press of people with ease. Val swallowed, took another step forward—

  A shot rang out, and the press of bodies changed, a surge in the other direction. There were screams, shouts of alarm, and Val could see John there, standing his ground, one of the bar girls pushed behind him. He had a hand out in a just hold the fuck on gesture. Val followed the direction of his arm, trying to see through the people scattering and saw a man. Homeless, by the look of it, his clothes … no, not homeless. He was dressed okay, casual denim and a hoodie emblazoned with Tits Free Zone on the front, but what made him look homeless was his eyes. Val had seen it before, something wild and lost, people who had just kind of checked out and left another thing behind instead of themselves. Something cracked by life’s relentless pressure.

  This guy had that look. Cracked, broken. The broken man held a gun, and his arm was swinging it around like some kind of hose with the water turned up too high, thrashing at the end of his shoulder without control. The gun went off, and there was a spray of red followed by a thud as a man was shot in the back, tumbling down against the edge of a table. The arm swung again, another shot, this one a miss. Val took another halting step forward, watching the broken man’s arm swing again. Another shot, and a woman’s body tumbled as the side of her face was torn away in a shower of gore. The smell of blood hung heavy on the air, but people were getting out of the way, hiding now, ducked down below tables, under chairs, one man disappearing through the doorway to the ladies’ room.

  Silence settled for a moment, fragile and tentative. A cough, a whisper to shut the fuck up Jesus shut the fuck up following it. The broken man’s eyes tracked around the room, the gun held at the end of his arm like a forgotten thing. His gaze turned, catching here on a piece of broken glass, there on a barstool tumbled over, until it found—

  NO.

  —John, still standing up. He wasn’t alone, the bar girl still held behind him, but there was no one else to stand against what was to come. The broken man’s gun arm pulled itself around to point the gun at John, the movements jerky like he had Parkinson’s — hell who knows, he might, just add it to the list — before holding steady, still, a rock in a storm of crazy. Pointed right at John.

  Val saw it then, the light come on in the broken man’s eyes, the childish glee as his hand tensed around the gun. Val saw as John turned away, his arms coming up around the bar girl, tugging her close to shield her with his body, his eyes squeezing shut and waiting for the hammer to fall against a round in the chamber.

  The chair spun across the room, smashing against the broken man, the gun going off but the shot going wild. Val looked down at his hand, the hand that had thrown the chair without a thought. John’s eyes opened, surprised on his face, and he looked up at Val. Val ignored him, stepping forward to the front of the bar. The broken man was trying to stand, tugging his gun arm free of the chair.

  Val stood over him, and the man stopped moving, his eyes wide and wild. “Stop it.”

  The broken man giggled, a scattered sound full of rough edges. “Must find. Must kill.”

  “Kill who?” Val leaned down. “Find what?”

  The broken man giggled again, then pulled the weapon free. Val caught the man’s wrist, thumb against the other man’s hand, twisting it around so the barrel pointed at the broken man.

  “Set you free,” said the broken man. “Set me free.”

  “Free from—” said Val, but the broken man pulled the trigger of the gun, shooting himself. The bullet hit him in the chest, and red started to well from the front of his hoodie. The writing on the front became indistinct as blood colored it over, the letters vanishing one by one. Val felt the life draining from the man as he held his wrist. At the end, the man’s eyes cleared and he looked up at Val.

  “Where am I?”

  “What?”

  The broken man looked down at himself. “I’ve been shot.”

  “You—” said Val, wanting to say you shot yourself. Instead he said, “Yeah.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  Val nodded. “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Okay,” said the man. “Can you get a message to Louis?”

  “Who is Louis?”

  “He’s the man I was going to marry,” said the broken man, as the light faded from his eyes.

  “Well, shit,” said John, standing behind Val. “That was unexpected.”

  “Yeah,” said Val.

  “Guy was crazy,” said John.

  “No,” said Val. “I don’t think so.”

  “He came in here and started shooting,” said John. “He shot himself and didn’t remember doing it.”

  “Right,” said Val. “That’s not crazy.”

  “You’ll need to help me with that,” said John. He reached an arm out, and Val took it, standing up. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “I know someone else who does things without remembering them,” said Val. “Terrible things. Or used to.”

  “That’s
different,” said John.

  “How so?”

  “Uh,” said John.

  “Do you want to phone a friend?” Val looked around the bar, then caught the eye of the bar girl who John had stood in front of. “Hey.”

  She took a cautious step forward. “Yes?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marlie,” she said.

  “Marlie, I need you to call 911. Get an ambulance.”

  Marlie blinked at him. “Why? He’s dead.” She almost spat the last word.

  “It’s not for him,” said Val. He jerked a thumb at the man who’d fallen against the edge of a table, blood still pooling around him. “That guy.”

  “Oh,” said Marlie. “Right.” She stood there, staring at the blood.

  “Marlie,” said Val.

  “Yeah?”

  “Now,” said Val. “Because if you don’t, he will die.”

  Marlie gave a short, nervous nod, then scurried away. Val watched her go, then cocked his head. “You hear that?”

  John nodded, both of them looking to the front of the bar. There was the sound of screaming outside, a horn followed by the screech of tires. A crash of something large and metal against stone. Gun shots, the distance making them sound like pop, pop, pop.

  Val shrugged. “Want to go take a look?”

  “No,” said John.

  “Me neither,” said Val. He—

  The day brings terrors.

  —shrugged. Hell with it. They stepped through the front door of the bar and into the broken world beyond.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Where are we going?

  The boy looked up from where he sat on the edge of the box between the front seats, his feet on the transmission tunnel. It hurt Adalia’s head to look at him, because he shouldn’t have fit there. There wasn’t enough room, not for a boy to sit there in among all of them, but there he was. Impossible. Perfect.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Chicago.”

  You don’t know, or Chicago? Her fingers moved faster on her phone, practice with this way of talking giving her speed. There’s a big difference.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “because I’ve never been to Chicago.” His long lashes curled a little at the end, and Adalia wanted to reach out and touch him. “I guess my mom’s there.”