Something unlocked inside her and she laughed.
That was, perhaps, ill-considered. The pack stuttered to a halt, turned away from where Just James had fled, turning eyes on her. Adalia looked over at them — too many, too many, this takes too long — and reached her hand out for another thread.
One of the zombies, clothed in worn overalls — not a zombie, this one’s a man again — picked up a fallen street sign, the end of it a lump of concrete, and swung. It connected with the head of a zombie with a sound like a burst water balloon — a sound smaller than the magnitude of the action — but the man in overalls was still swinging, yelling with a voice gone hoarse. The lump of concrete at the end of the sign turned red and wet as he struck again and again. Adalia turned away, shutting her eyes tight against it, as if that would stop the noise.
Then, silence. She opened her eyes, looked over at the man in overalls, standing tall and straight against the cold air. His breath puffed out in trails of mist as he looked around at the felled bodies. He let the sign fall to the ground, held his hands up in front of his face as if seeing them for the first time. His fingers clenched, relaxed, and Adalia tried to hold her breath. What did I do?
The man looked over at her as if hearing her thought, moving with care around the limp that tugged at his steps. He was a big man, she could see that now that he wasn’t bowed down with pain and so much horrible anger and loss. Wide shoulders. A face that should have held an easy, gentle smile, and might yet again. He held a hand out to her, and this was when she realized she’d hunkered down, crouched against the side of a car.
Adalia looked at his hand, reached up and took it. His grip was gentle and strong as he helped her up before taking a quick step back. He looked down at his hands, then put them behind his back. “Ma’am.”
Well. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” she said.
“Ma’am?” His eyes met hers.
“I’m Adalia.” She held out her hand again. “Not Betty Crocker.”
He looked at her hand, then shook it. “Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. Or … I was.”
“You are again,” she said, letting go. “Marcellus?”
“You spoke to me.”
“Sort of,” she said.
“I heard your voice,” he said, stubborn. Of course he was stubborn.
“Marcellus?”
“Yeah.”
“Marcellus, I need to get across the city real quick. Can you help me?”
That easy, gentle smile she’d been hoping to see broke out like the coming of dawn. “Yeah. I can help you, if you don’t mind riding rough.”
“Rough would be too easy,” she said, “if you knew where I’d been this last week.”
“You don’t sound … you don’t sound like you sounded like before,” he said.
“That’s because,” she said, then stopped. “There’s this other place? Like a room, where it’s dark and cold and empty. When I’m there I can do things, but I can’t be myself. I can’t be who I should be. I don’t know if I’m explaining this very well.”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I know exactly what you mean.” He took a step away from her, the limp snaring his walk again. “You coming?”
“We need to find Just James,” she said.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s cool,” said a voice. They both looked over to Just James, rounding the corner of a building. “It’s totally cool that you’re making nice with a zombie.”
“Who’s this asshole?” said Marcellus.
“Zombies talk?” said Just James.
“I ain’t no zombie,” said Marcellus, taking a heavy step forward.
Adalia put a hand on Marcellus’ arm, a light touch but the man stopped. “Just James,” said Adalia, “This is Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. Marcellus, this is Just James.”
“Huh,” said Marcellus. “He coming too?”
“Yes,” said Adalia and Just James at the same time.
“That’s cool,” said Marcellus.
“I’m still stuck on the bit where zombies talk,” said Just James.
“Oh,” said Adalia. “He’s not a zombie.”
“But … the thing … what?” said Just James.
“It’s like this, kid,” said Marcellus. “Someone came and took something from me. She,” and he jerked a thumb at Adalia, “gave it back. Now we’re going to go kick seven kinds of shit out of the guy who took it. You coming?”
“You’re kind of scary,” said Just James. “That works.”
Adalia looked around the darkening city. “How are we going to get there?”
“My truck,” said Marcellus.
“A pickup’s not going to help,” said Just James. “Streets are clogged.”
“I said a truck,” said Marcellus, and set off.
∙ • ● • ∙
“Oh,” said Just James, when they reached the truck.
“Yeah,” said Marcellus, pulling himself up into the cab. It was a big Kenworth dumper, metal ram bars mounted in front of the grill. “I figure, we can just push our way there.”
Adalia let herself smile, gave a glance at the sky, and thought, I don’t need to trade anyone’s life. “Let’s go.” She piled into the cab, sitting between Just James and Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. She could feel the excitement coming off Just James in waves, something scared underneath it but hidden, buried deep — he was trying not to show her his fear. Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, on her other side, well — he had a focused feel, like a line-backer about to make his play.
Which made sense.
She felt around for Gabriel, but he wasn’t anywhere near. She felt a pang of guilt, and looked at her fingers as they picked invisible lint off her jacket. She steadied her hands, smoothed the jacket flat. He wasn’t here because of what she’d said, but he had been kind of a dick about the whole thing.
Hadn’t he?
The guilt wouldn’t go away, she needed something to take her mind off it. She looked at Just James’ feet, the Sketchers laced tight. “Not Vans?”
“What?” He looked at his feet, then up at her. “No, you see, that’s a misconception. Sketchers are the number two brand in the US today.”
“That’s why the cool kids wear Vans,” she said.
“I transcend cool,” said Just James. “Also, we’re poor.”
“Sorry,” said Adalia. “Sketchers aren’t exactly cheap though.”
“Depends on whether you buy or loot,” said Just James. “They fit. They look good. If life hands you lemons—”
“Make lemonade?” Adalia felt herself smiling. Her heart was fluttering, which was weird because they were just sitting in the cab of a truck talking about shoes. Except you’re not talking about shoes.
“Hell no,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “If life hands you lemons, buy a fucking gun.”
The cab smelled of sweat and tobacco, and shook like a beast alive when Marcellus fired up the engine. He shoved the Kenworth into gear, flooring it, and the truck pulled out onto the street with a roar. They slammed aside the first car in their way, a shower of metal fragments accompanying the jarring as it bounced away. Marcellus pulled the truck onto the sidewalk, the jounce of the wheels as it mounted the curb throwing Adalia against Just James.
“Sorry,” she said.
“I’m not,” he said.
She smiled again, not trying to hide it behind her hair.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The Black Hawk fought him all the way down, the machine yawing through the air. Val knew that yanking at the controls would spell certain disaster — and how do I know that? — but that’s what most of him wanted to do.
Another part stayed calm, making small movements on the controls as if trying to steady a frightened creature. But despite the other helping him fly — well. He couldn’t stop his fists clenching around the stick. When the machine thudded to the ground, listing to the left — John yelling half in fear and half in joy, no one else doing anything much else except
praying — Val yanked off his harness. “Everyone out.”
“Hey,” said John. “That was some wild flying.”
“Da. Spasibo,” said Val. “Teper' vyyti.”
“Uh,” said John.
“Get your shit together, Everard,” said Carlisle. She was pulling Sky out of her seat — Rex had already left the Black Hawk, doing a roadie run towards the entrance to Trump Tower — while John stared at him, face mostly blank.
Mostly. “V chem tvoya problema?” Val pointed out the open side door. “Poshevelivaysya!”
“Dude,” said John, “I have no idea what you are saying. Did you take a knock on the head?”
“He’s speaking Russian,” said Carlisle, black leather jacket flashing as she ducked out the door.
“YA ne govoryu po-russki,” said Val. “I’m speaking angliyskiy.”
“You need to speak your way the fuck out of this helicopter,” said Carlisle, “and get your head and ass wired correctly.” With that, she was gone, pushing Sky in front of her towards the tower.
John looked at Val, then at Carlisle’s receding back, then back at Val. “She’s got a point.” With that, he hopped out the side and jogged off, with the Miles ease that said he was totally cool with jogging from a burning Black Hawk towards a tower filled with zombies.
Val pushed open the door of the Black Hawk, the rotors still cutting the air above him as they slowed. They forced cold winter air against him, air mixed with a hint of the smoke peeling out of the top of the Black Hawk. Val gave the machine a last look — landing on Trump Tower would have been so damn cool — before he jogged after John.
∙ • ● • ∙
“What I want to know,” Carlisle was saying as Val came through the doors, “is how we’re going to get to the top.” She had her sidearm out, smoke trickling from the barrel. Two bodies were splayed backward — one dressed as a security guard, another in a suit. Concierge, maybe? Didn’t matter.
“What I want to know,” said John, “is why Val is speaking Russian.”
“What I want to know,” said Rex, “is why we don’t just wait here and let them come to us.”
“Back to the Russian part,” said John. “Val doesn’t speak Russian.”
“He does now,” said Carlisle.
“Nyet,” said Val. “YA ne govoryu po-russki.”
“Son,” said Rex, “if you just said you don’t speak Russian, you said that in Russian.”
“Oh,” said Val.
“Is ‘oh’ universal?” said John. “Like, do Russians say that shit?”
Sky took a couple of slow paces that brought her close to Val. She looked into his face. “You couldn’t fly a helicopter either, could you?”
“Nyet,” said Val. He heard it this time and wanted to slap himself.
“Stands to reason,” she said, “that you’re getting the Russian from the same place.”
“Same place?” said Carlisle.
“Like a library,” said Sky.
“Oh hey, neat,” said John. “Like the Matrix. Do you know kung fu?”
“No,” said Val. He scratched at his jaw. “I think I can wrestle.”
“Makes sense,” said Carlisle. “I was watching Kendrick fight, and she was doing some moves that I thought might be non-typical for a marine biologist.”
“Danny’s a marine biologist?” said Sky.
“She’s a werewolf,” said Carlisle. “I think that other stuff is secondary.”
“So … so you all shop at the same store?” said John. “Like, you know the same things?”
“I used to be an actor,” said Val, “a very long time ago.” His mind skated around the rim of something ancient, and he—
—walked along the edge of a stream, the wagon on the road beside him. His wife looked up from the driver’s seat, the charms braided in her hair twinkling. He smiled at her, pointing up the road a the town ahead. There would be work there where they could ply their mummer’s trade, a place to get off the road for a spell. A place to get away from the thing that followed them from the cover of the trees, something he’d never seen. Not all of it. Two nights back, he thought he’d seen two yellow eyes staring at him from beyond the edge of their campfire, but she’d called him a dreamer and a fool and kissed him quiet. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hunted, that he—
—fell to the floor, hand on his chest, gasping for breath. John was crouched down beside him. “It’s cool,” he said. “It’s cool to not try to remember, okay?”
“I think he should try to remember,” said Carlisle.
“Why?” said John. “What possible reason could you have to make him go through that again?”
“I dunno,” said Carlisle, “but maybe it’s because the last werewolf I heard speaking Russian was a psychopath named Volk.”
No one spoke for a moment, the wind outside pushing at the glass windows around the foyer. The Black Hawk’s rotors were still moving in a lazy circle outside, not another soul in sight.
“Oh,” said John. “I get you.”
“Right,” said Carlisle.
“Hold up,” said Sky. “Who is Volk?”
“I’m with Sky,” said Rex. “Who in the what now?”
“Real asshole,” said John.
“A killer, through and through. A murderer. Used to stack bodies,” said Carlisle, holding her hand above the floor, “like so, but in pieces.”
“Pieces?” said Rex. “What do you mean, pieces?”
“See,” said John, “he would go to a place, say a bar—”
“The Elephant Blues,” said Carlisle. She let out a tired laugh, no humor in the sound. “God. That seems like a lifetime ago.”
“He’d go to a bar,” said John, “and he would kill everyone. Then he’d pull them apart like, I don’t know, like Lego.”
“’Dismembered’ would be the correct term,” said Carlisle. “He pulled their arms and legs and heads right off. Then he stacked them. I don’t know why.”
“I wanted to stop them turning,” said Val. Wait, that’s not right — it wasn’t me. He shook his head.
“Say what?” said John.
“I mean—” Val’s mouth worked, but no sound would come out. He could remember it, the smell of the blood, the copper salt taste on his tongue as he tore an arm from a torso, the image as vivid as a photograph. A child’s arm, the red of the blood black against the snow under his feet. “He wanted to stop them turning. God, please let it not have been me. Not me.”
“Huh,” said Rex. He took three steps towards Val, reached down, and pulled him to his feet. “Son? You still with us?”
But Val was drifting on another stream of memory, the small windowless cell around him—
—black. He could see, of course, they thought this kind of thing would break him, make him do what they wanted. But it wouldn’t. He missed the taste of the night wind and the feel of the stars overhead, but not enough to break. Nikogda — never. The smell that pervaded the air around him was of silver, he could feel it wanting to burn his skin. Every surface around him was made of it, a cage of perfect, hated metal. He waited. He would find a way. He would reach out and—
—felt a slap against his face, and Val jolted back to the present. Rex was staring at him, arm still up. “Did you … did you just slap me?”
“Yeah,” said Rex. “Seemed the right thing to do.”
“I’ve never been slapped by a guy before,” said Val. “That’s one less thing on my bucket list.”
“You want another?” said Rex, cocking his arm back.
“No,” said Val, holding up his hands in surrender. He worked his jaw. The old guy still had a mean swing. “No, I’m good.”
“You with us?” Rex lowered his arm. “You really with us?”
“Until the end,” said Val.
“Good,” said Rex. “I don’t want to have to keep slapping you silly.” He turned away.
Sky approached Val. “Are you?” she said.
“Am I what?”<
br />
“Really with us?” she said. “You seem to … you seem to be this other guy, too. This Volk. I don’t know him, but I know you don’t speak Russian or fly helicopters.”
“The helicopters were Volk,” said Val. “When I got them, the … well, the military guards around them? I had to talk to them. To make them believe. I was acting. Through another. An … older one, I think.”
“There’s more?” Sky searched his face. “How do you know so much about this Volk? How do you know where he stops and someone else begins?”
“He had gone mad, sick inside. We had to kill him. Didn’t we?” Val looked at Carlisle, then at John.
“Kendrick killed him,” said Carlisle, “because he was rabid. Right?”
“I know everything about him. I know where he was born. I know the wolf that bit him. I know the wife he killed, the son who starved in the snow, the village who damned him and turned him out. I know the people who caged him.” Val looked at Sky. “I know where he stops and someone else begins because he was my brother, blood of my blood, Pack of my Pack. He was my maker. He was my father.”
“Huh,” said Sky. “That makes no sense at all.”
“It’s kind of hard to explain,” said Val.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Rex. “Which stairwell you want?”
“What?” said Val.
“Well, we got to get up to the king asshole, right?” said Rex. “Doesn’t matter if you were in a gulag or an actor or, really, a fairy—”
“I wasn’t a fairy,” said Val. “They’re too small.”
“Sure,” said Rex. “What I’m saying is, we need to go up.”
“We go together,” said Val.
“No,” said Rex. “We pick a different stair well. Go in teams. If there’s a blockage, or we get… uh…”
“Killed,” said Sky.
“Okay,” said Rex, “let’s go there. If we get killed, then there’s another team.”
Night's Fall (Night's Champion Book 2) Page 29
