“I thought they had … different effects,” said Rex.
“Sure, whatever,” said John. “I don’t touch the things as a general rule.”
“No complaints here,” said Sky, looking at John and raising an eyebrow.
“Not the … not the right time or place,” said Rex. “Ever. It’s never the right time or place for you to put that image in my head.”
“Sorry,” said Sky, in a voice that said she wasn’t. John gave her a tight grin before turning back to the behemoth.
“Shamshoun!” The other man took a lumbering step forward, the weight of his steps something John could feel through his feet.
This can’t end well. “Hey, pal. Are you Shamshoun?”
The other man — Shamshoun — nodded, slapping a meaty hand against his chest. “Shamshoun!” he said, pride in that massive voice.
“I’m going to take another leap of faith,” said John, taking a few steps away from Sky and Rex. “I’m going to bet you’re here to beat us to death.”
“Shamshoun,” agreed Shamshoun, giving a happy nod.
“Only one problem I can see,” said John. He continued to walk away from Sky and Rex, getting some distance for what was going to come. Times like this, I could really use pre-briefcase Val. Or Danny. Either one of the heavy hitters would be fine. “There’s three of us, and one of you.”
Shamshoun took a lumbering step towards one of the stone supports, wound back a fist, and slammed it into the pillar. Stone shattered, fragments spraying across the room, cracks ascending up the column and into the ceiling.
“He makes a good point,” said Rex. “You got this, right?”
John took a couple deep breaths, loosened up his shoulders, then slapped his chest. “Come at me, bro.”
Shamshoun started a heavy run towards John, the floor shuddering with his steps. John kept himself light on his toes, then his eyes widened as Shamshoun put on a last burst of speed. John tossed himself to the side, but still took the edge of a shoulder slam as Shamshoun thundered past. That barest hint of a hit lifted him clear off his feet, tossing him into a pillar. He fell to the ground, giving a cough. For a big guy, he can move pretty quick. John used the pillar for support, dragging himself to his feet. He touched his lips, fingers coming away red, and he spat on the ground.
Shamshoun was staring at him a big smile splitting his face. “Shamshoun!”
“Put some hip into it next time,” said John, miming a little twist of the waist. “Seriously. Do you even lift?” He saw Rex wince, the old man covering his eyes in the heartbeat of silence that followed.
The grin dropped away from Shamshoun’s face, and the man gave a roar of rage. He broke into a run towards John again. Okay, John, okay. This is the point where you don’t let him hit you again. The massive man rumbled towards John like an angry boulder — and John stepped to the side at the right time. Shamshoun’s momentum took him into the pillar John had used to drag himself upright, flecks of stone falling to the ground. John stepped behind the man, slamming his fists into the other man’s kidneys.
It felt like hitting a rock.
John pummeled the other man’s kidneys one, two, three more times before Shamshoun gave a roar, spinning around with a mean hook. John stepped under it, a smooth boxer’s move taking him in close for a decent uppercut. If you’d seen that uppercut on TV, maybe Tyson putting the swing into Holyfield, the guy at the other end would be down on the ground, taking at least a three count before he stopped seeing two of everything. John felt the blow run up his arm, the skin over one of his knuckles cracked open with the strength he’d put into the swing. It was an uppercut a man could be proud of.
Shamshoun didn’t even blink. He grabbed John’s arm at the wrist, lifting John off the ground. The big guy leered at John — Christ, he’s got bad breath — then started slamming a fist into John’s side. The good news was that John was suspended by his arm and could swing a little. The bad news was that he could only swing a little, and it was about here he thought of Carlisle.
Melissa would have had a solve for this. One of his ribs gave, something soft and wet inside tearing loose. Now Melissa wouldn’t have stood for that, she’d have … she’d have … well, she wouldn’t have fought like a boxer in a street fight, that’s for sure. Melissa Carlisle, now there was a woman who didn’t fight fair. Of course, she’d have said that nobody fought fair, that was just how life was — another hit into John’s ribs made him whimper here — and only degenerates and the mentally ill expected any of that to change.
Okay, Melissa. We’ll do it your way.
John used the backswing from the blow to give him a little extra momentum, and used his free hand to jab his first and index fingers into Shamshoun’s eyes. It wasn’t the kind of strike that a boxer would use. It wasn’t even at the sort of depth of dirty that Tyson had used in The Bite Fight. No, this was a pure dick move, balls to breaches.
Melissa would have been so pleased.
There was a soft, wet sound as Shamshoun’s eyeballs ruptured, and the big man screamed, hurling John away like he was a broken toy. John felt his shoulder pop out of its socket with the throw, and he also screamed briefly — right before he hit, spine first, into the edge of a pillar. It knocked the air out of him, silencing his scream, and — if you were being honest, looking back — that was what stopped him from being beaten to death.
As he lay on the ground, looking at the jellied red coating his fingers, trying to suck even a tiny spoonful of air into his lungs, Shamshoun was roaring, turning around in his blindness, his pain, and his rage, and swinging wild hate around him. His fists landed into pillars, into the ground, even whistled through empty air in an effort to find something, anything, to make pay for what had been done to his eyes.
John looked past the big man, took in Sky and Rex in cover behind a pillar. He motioned with his palm out — stay the fuck there — and tried to draw in a shaky breath. He got a tiny drip of air, then his diaphragm unlocked and he sucked into a huge lungful, immediately coughing back out the tiny slivers of dust and stone on the ground.
Shamshoun heard the noise and turned to run for him. Right, thought John, this is how it ends. At least they won’t find me dead on a toilet like Elvis. Praise be. Shamshoun’s steps made the ground jump, John scrambling to his feet — but sweet baby Jesus his back hurt — and away from the freight train of a man who was about to run right over him.
The bottle of Evian hit Shamshoun in the side of the head. Nothing dramatic, no save-the-day move here with a Molotov explosion — just a plastic Evian bottle.
It was enough.
Shamshoun’s attention was pulled a little left of center, and his stampede took him past John. John looked over, saw Sky’s arm pulling back from the throw — thanks, babe — and he pulled himself back to his feet. Get back in the fight, John. The Master Chief wouldn’t sit on his ass while his girl drew live fire from a psycho. John took a couple quick steps over to the Evian bottle, snaring it from the ground, before jogging further away from Sky and Rex.
“Hey,” said John. His voice came out a little on the thin and reedy side, and he cleared his throat before starting again. “Hey. Dumbass.”
Shamshoun stopped his swinging around him, standing still. His face was a waste, trails of red like vile tears marking their way down from his ruined eyes. He cocked his head, listening.
“That’s right, you better listen,” said John. “I’ve coached ninety-pound weaklings who’ve got more staying power than you. It looks,” said John, wincing and holding his side, “like you need a hug.”
Shamshoun gave a sickly grin. “Shamshoun will not hurt you, little man.”
“Sure,” said John, “because you’re a glass-jawed rookie.”
“No,” said Shamshoun. His great brow furrowed with the effort of thought. He spoke each word with deliberate intent, as if he were laying bricks. “Shamshoun will hurt those who came with you. Draw you out, yes? Like a … trap.” He gave that same sickly grin aga
in, by all looks pleased with his own cleverness. Then his hand stretched out, straight as an arrow, pointing at where Sky and Rex huddled behind a pillar.
Ah, hell. John started running at the same time as Shamshoun did. He hurled the Evian bottle, which bounced off the side of Shamshoun’s head. The other man didn’t falter — guess it was too much to expect that to work twice in a row — and made it to where Sky and Rex huddled.
John tried. He really did. It’s just that he was hurt so bad, he couldn’t get there that fast. He saw the wide-eyed fear in Sky’s face, saw Rex step out in front. The old man cleared his throat, and said something that sounded like, “Son,” right before a massive fist caught him in the side of the head, smashing him to one side. John’s view of Sky was obscured by Shamshoun’s massive frame and he pushed himself harder to close the gap. Shamshoun lifted Sky up, a single hand clenched around her throat — no, no, not Sky, no — and hefted his prize with a shout of triumph.
John was ten paces away, could have been five if he hadn’t been so busted up. Close enough to see the fear in Sky’s eyes, close enough to hear Shamshoun’s laugh. Too far to be useful. Too damn far. John shouted something, he couldn’t have said what, and then Shamshoun stiffened, a tick-tick-tick sound in the air, before he toppled to the ground like a falling tree. Sky tumbled free of his hand.
John slowed dropped to his knees beside Sky. Her neck was already discolored, but she was breathing — alive! — and held her taser in front of her with both hands, knuckles white. John started to laugh and cry at the same time, and fell to his knees beside her. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The world fell back into place around them, concrete floors sinking beneath a layer of rich carpet, old stone pillars melding together into the muted colors of hotel walls. Shamshoun’s unconscious body stayed where it was at their feet.
“Huh,” said John.
“Huh,” said Rex, coming to stand over them. He held a hand out. Sky waved him away; John took it, pulling himself upright. “Now there’s something you don’t see everyday.”
“True story,” said John. “Say—”
Shamshoun’s body started to flicker red, wisps of smoke pouring out. With a whoosh, it burst into flame, turning to ash within seconds. All that was left was a charred outline on the carpet. Now that is a thing insurance companies will have kittens about.
A ghostly laugh echoed down the corridor, gentle, almost friendly. “You have felled my brother, and now his power is mine.”
“Wait, what?” said John. “This is starting to feel like a really bad Dark Souls boss fight.”
“A what?” said Rex.
“It’s a game,” said Sky. “You play this hero who enters a dungeon and fights—”
“Hang about,” said Rex, holding up a hand. “You’re talking about a … a video game?”
“Yeah,” said John. “It’s a pretty good one, but—”
“I will swallow your soul in the eternal fire,” said the voice, softer, almost on the edge of hearing. It sounded warm, the flicker of heat and flame around the edges of it.
“Ah, shit,” said Rex.
“You know this guy?” said John.
“No,” said Rex. “I figure he’s probably a big fucker made of flames though. You know. ‘Eternal fire.’”
“Like a balrog?” said Sky.
“Sure,” said Rex, his blank face showing he had no idea what Sky was talking about.
“Come,” said the voice, “and see.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
“Everard,” said Carlisle, “I want you to know I don’t think this is your fault.”
Val looked across at her. “Thanks.”
“It’s because,” she said, “I know you’re a little bit stupid and a tiny bit on the heroic side, but you’re basically not an asshole.”
“Is that … what?” said Val.
Carlisle allowed herself a smile. “Tell me the plan.”
“Okay,” said Val. “What we’re going to do—”
Silence. Carlisle turned around in the stairwell. Val was gone. Snapped up into thin air, lost faster than a cab in New York City. Carlisle reached behind her, fingers resting on the familiar grip of the Eagle. She pulled it from its holster, the soft leather giving up its gift with an easy slip of sound.
“So,” said Carlisle to the empty stairwell. “How’s it going to be?”
“Come play,” said a voice — a woman’s voice, clear and strong. From the door on her right. Carlisle pushed it open into a luxury corridor just like all the rest. There was no lighting, and she played the beam of her flashlight across carpet, walls, and there — a sign. Fitness Center.
She pushed the door open, leading with her sidearm. Racks of fitness equipment stood in the gloom, elliptical trainers standing like skeletal soldiers in the gloom. Plenty of places to hide.
“You’re here,” said the voice. It didn’t come from a particular direction, like it was in the air around her, or the ground at her feet. “I’ve been so lonely.”
“I’m going to say it,” said Carlisle. “Someone’s got to. You’re creepy.”
“Creepy?” The voice sounded hurt. “Is that the way to talk to your only friend?”
“No,” said Carlisle. “But you’re not my only friend. Hell, I don’t even know your name.” She allowed the door to close behind her, edging her feet out into the room. The Eagle glinted in the gloom, as if it were eager to lead her further into the dark.
“Oh,” said the voice. “There’s no one else here. And it would be so bad to die alone. That’s what being friendless is, isn’t it?”
“Lady,” said Carlisle, “you crazy.” Like all crazy shit, it has an ounce of truth though doesn’t it, Carlisle?
A tinkle of laughter came from down an aisle of rowing machines, lying still and quiet. Carlisle turned to follow the noise, the beam of her flashlight playing out ahead of her. Nothing.
“I’m not crazy,” said the voice. “I’m L'inglesou.”
“Well, Lou,” said Carlisle, “good to know you.”
“Not ‘Lou,’” said L'inglesou. “L'inglesou.”
“You say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to,” said Carlisle. “Tell me, Lou. Where are you hiding?”
There was a hiss from next to the squat rack, and a shadow slipped out almost faster than the eye could track. The Eagle barked twice, rounds snapping through the air, biting nothing. Carlisle saw the glint of something metal, pain in her shoulder blooming a heartbeat later. She sucked air in through her teeth and spared a look down. A red line, leaking blood — my blood — was cut through the leather arm of her jacket. Looked like it had been done with something sharp, like razor sharp. Lou’s not fucking around.
“Not good enough, my pretty girl,” said L'inglesou. “Isn’t that what he said, in the dark? Alone, like you are now. Frail. Small. Just a scared, little girl.”
Something sick and hollow grew in Carlisle’s gut. “What did you say?”
The shadow whispered between two treadmills, and Carlisle let the Eagle have its say, bright flashes in the gloom. The shots caught nothing but exercise equipment, fragments of metal and plastic falling in the dark.
“Come closer,” said L'inglesou. “Come and play. It can be our little secret.”
Carlisle felt a line of hot agony cross her spine and she cried out, turning around. The Eagle fired, a frantic cadence to the shots, and Carlisle wondered if here — right here, right now — was where it’d all catch up with her. She’d been faking it, all these years. Wearing the mask of a stronger girl, then a stronger woman, hiding the girl in the dark who cried herself all the way to the next dawn. Maybe the Eagle couldn’t save her.
“What does it feel like,” said L'inglesou, “to know that you’ll feel his weight on you again? He waits for you at the Cliffs of the Damned. Waits, and hungers. He remembers the taste of your … everything.”
Her flashlight. It had fallen to the ground, and she scrambled after it. Carlisle held it up in front of her like a
beacon, playing it around the room. The beam was shaky, light darting across the equipment, pushing back the gloom there, and then there. Nothing, until … a patch of red. The smallest drop, no more than a paper cut’s worth, but blood nonetheless. Carlisle looked down at the Eagle, gripping it tighter. “What does it feel like,” she said, hating the scared little girl that was causing her words to tremble in fear, “to know that you’re going to get pistol-whipped by a scared little girl?” Not your best line, Carlisle. Keep talking. Push it back. He’s not here. “You want to play? Come fucking get some.”
She was starting to get a feel for what to look for, the hint of raven’s wings moving in the gloom. There, something skittered in the dark towards her, and the Eagle roared, pushing strength into her hand with each shot. She couldn’t be sure of having hit anything, but felt new pain in the arm that held the flashlight, causing her to drop it to the ground. Carlisle pulled her arm close to her body, feeling the hot welling of blood pulsing against her chest with every beat of her heart. Nicked something important there, Carlisle. You don’t have much time.
Something hissed in the gloom before L'inglesou spoke again. “That hurt.”
“Yeah?” said Carlisle. She ejected her clip, the empty red cartridge clattering and dancing through the beam of her light on the ground. She pushed a fresh clip into the weapon. “Plenty more where that came from.”
“It’s not very sportsmanlike,” said L'inglesou. “Didn’t anyone tell you to play fair? You can’t be telling anyone about us. You can’t tell anyone at all.”
“Sportsmanlike?” said Carlisle. “You sound like that clown Miles.”
“Do you like John Miles?” L'inglesou’s voice came from behind her now, and Carlisle spun about. Nothing.
“I think he’s a degenerate,” said Carlisle.
“You shouldn’t talk about people behind their backs,” said L'inglesou. “Daddy will know if you tell.”
“Thing is,” said Carlisle, “I told him he was a degenerate. This morning, I think. Tell you what, Lou—” and here, Carlisle leaned against an elliptical trainer as a wave of dizziness hit her “—why don’t we play a game?”
Night's Fall (Night's Champion Book 2) Page 31
