“A game?”
“Yeah, a game,” said Carlisle, swallowing. She thought of John, and what he’d do. Something dumb and stupid and heroic, probably. She looked at the Eagle in her hand, thumb tracing a line against the worn grip. John wouldn’t use a gun — hell, the man couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a firearm if you put it three feet in front of his face. He’d close up his fists and go in swinging.
He’d die. Probably.
“See,” said Carlisle, “since we’re such good friends, Lou, I think we should finish this. Just you and me. With a game. You get one shot. I’ll put my gun away. You give a good run at me, take your swing. You kill me, we’re done. But if you miss … well.”
“And then?” There was something like glee in L'inglesou’s voice.
“Well, then it’ll be my turn,” said Carlisle. “What do you say, Lou?”
“I like your games,” said L'inglesou.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Carlisle. She stepped away from the elliptical trainer, a little unsteady on her feet, and put the Eagle away. The weapon caught on the holster, like it didn’t want to be silenced, but Carlisle gave it another push — not this time, you can’t help me with this fight old friend — and slipped it home. She stood on an exercise mat, empty space at least two paces in every direction, and breathed deep.
For no good reason she thought of Elliot, of his sense of duty, of his steady partnership. She allowed a small smile to land on her face as she remembered his “gut sense” — not once right in all the years they’d walked together. It felt like he was here, now, somewhere in this room. Even though she knew it was wrong, even though she knew she’d got him killed.
What was it that Elliot had told her? Praise no day until it's ended, that’s what I always say. Okay, Elliot. Okay. She closed her eyes, then said, “Today isn’t over.”
L'inglesou came at her, a shadow bound with fury. Good God damn but she’s fast. L'inglesou’s first pass left Carlisle with a red streak below her right eye, years of training — sweat on the mat, bruises on her flesh — giving her the reflexes to pull her head back in time to not lose an eye. Carlisle swayed in place after L'inglesou’s pass, the steady drip, drip, drip of her own blood falling on the floor around her.
“Close,” said Carlisle. “It’s almost like you meant it. But Lou? You’ve got to want it. You’ve got to really want it.” Carlisle flexed her fingers. “Do you know what I mean? Do you want it, Lou?”
A hiss came from her right, something in the air hinting at danger, and Carlisle let it come. This shadow that called itself L'inglesou was just another of the fallen, one of the ones that this damn world had pushed on too hard until they cracked. Carlisle had been in a hundred fights — no, more, be honest with yourself, you like it, this is where you feel really alive, you look for trouble in every corner, welcome it home like something lost — and knew the way a body would lean forward with a rush. She knew where the knife was going to be held, how the angle of it would come in to her throat, or under her ribs, or a handful of other ways to try and drink her life away. She could sense that Lou was a pro, not some burned out coke camel with a blade and not a lot of common sense. Could feel it, if she was being honest, like she felt Elliot watching her, feel that here she’d finally met her match.
The faintest hint of Elliot’s aftershave came to her — cheap, Brut or something, his ex-wife had given it to him and he’d worn it like it was Dolce & Gabbana, if you could believe that — and she smiled again. I’ll see you soon, old friend. “Carlisle,” he said, and there he was — Elliot! — standing in front of her plain as day. He took her elbow. “Carlisle, I’m real sorry about this.” He wound back his hand and slapped her clean across the face.
The shock of it made her suck in a lungful of air, Elliot’s face gone like smoke on wind, replaced with L'inglesou’s charge, all soft darkness coming to swallow her up. Carlisle screamed, her arms coming up — too late to do anything about that knife, just make her pay for it — to accept L'inglesou’s charge. Carlisle wrapped her hands around the back of L'inglesou’s head, arms bringing the other woman into a clinch as the knife entered her chest. The pain was bright and clear, shaking the edges of her fugue away. Carlisle brought her knee up once, twice, three times into L'inglesou’s face. Christ, it’s like trying to hold water. The other woman raged, but Carlisle pulled her arms together harder, putting the last of her strength into it. Her elbows locked, pressure on L'inglesou’s carotid arteries, and Carlisle brought her knee up again, and again, and again, until L'inglesou stopped moving. Carlisle dropped her opponent to the ground, then pulled the knife out of her chest. She let it tumble to the ground beside L'inglesou’s body, then drew in a shuddering breath.
“Elliot?” The name came out of Carlisle half a whisper, half a plea. “Elliot? Are you there?”
Nothing. Silence and stillness all around, not even a hint of that nasty aftershave. “Elliot? I … I don’t want you to see. Do you understand? If you’re there, don’t look.” Another wave of dizziness hit her, and she almost dropped to one knee. No. Not yet. “I’ve had to do things … I couldn’t carry the badge anymore, Elliot. I’m too dirty for it.” Carlisle slipped the Eagle free.
Whips of smoke seeped out of L'inglesou’s body, pooling on the ground around her. Carlisle stood over her opponent, leveled the weapon, and fired. She kept pulling the trigger until the Eagle clicked empty, spitting its clip to the ground at her feet.
Carlisle ran a trembling hand through her hair, then looked back at the door. Walked towards it, steps uneven, found the stairs — God knows if they were the same stairs she’d come in through, she was too tired to think about it — and began to climb, the steady drip, drip, drip of her own blood keeping her company.
Elliot stood in the darkness over L'inglesou’s body, and watched his old friend go. “Carlisle,” he said, “you’re the only one who’s ever been good enough to carry the badge. You know what it really means.” He reached down to touch one of the red clips lying on the ground. “Praise no day until it's ended, Carlisle. Praise no road until you’ve crossed it. Praise no wife until they’re buried. And praise no Shield until you’ve stood behind it.” He flickered out, leaving silence behind him.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The truck rumbled and bounced up to the front of Trump Tower, the engine shaking the cabin. Adalia turned to Just James, saw the wideness of his eyes, and then turned to Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “Thank you for the ride.”
“That’s okay,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. He patted the big steering wheel in front of him. “I think the truck is due for a refit now. Boys in the garage, well, I can’t see them thinking this is ‘wear and tear.’”
“Tell them,” said Adalia, “that you were saving the world.”
“Tell them,” said Just James, “that you had to ride out of a zombie apocalypse. It’ll sit better with your target audience.”
“I like the kid,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “He gets it.”
“He spends all his time playing video games,” said Adalia, smiling. She looked outside the cabin, the smile dying on her lips. Gabriel stood in the cold Chicago air, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. “Anyway,” she said, trailing off. “I think we should go.”
“Let’s kick some butt,” said Just James. “Hey, you go first though, okay?”
“Hey,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “That’s not very manly.”
“I’ll give you my Man Card right now,” said Just James. “In case you didn’t notice, she’s a … she’s a sorceress.”
“You’re just a tall glass of water, ain’t you?” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, looking around Adalia at Just James.
“You coming in?” said Just James.
“Hell no,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “The devil’s in there.”
“At least I’m going in,” said Just James, pushing open the door of the cabin with his foot. He had to give it a kick to unstick it, the frame jammed up from the j
ourney to get here. “Your door needs fixing.”
“Your mouth needs fixing,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky.
Adalia put a gentle hand on Marcellus Samuel Kentucky’s arm. “Thank you,” she said.
“Ain’t no thing,” he said. “Just a little ride across the city, you know?”
“Not that,” said Adalia, rolling her eyes at Just James.
“Right,” he said, giving her that easy, gentle smile. “I’m coming in anyway, you know.”
“No,” she said.
“It’s not like you can stop me,” he said. “You’re a slip of a girl.”
Adalia lowered her eyes, then looked back at Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” he said, something soft in his voice.
“I name your daughters for you. They are Candice, named after your aunt, who was always gentle with you when you were small. She gave you lemonade when the weather turned hot and the sun was merciless. And Betty, sweet Betty, who is shy and quiet and loves you with all of her heart. She watches you with big eyes as you move around the home you’ve made. She waits for her father — her real father — to come home, so she can grow up and build the good memories of you. I give you these names, so you will never forget them. Candice and Betty. Do you hear me?” Adalia ran out of breath, shaking with the effort of holding — something — heavy inside her.
“I hear you,” he said. “But … I can … I can help. I owe you.”
“We made a trade,” she said, following Just James out into the cold air. “You don’t owe me anything.” She looked over at Gabriel, who had his arms crossed, expression closed. “Marcellus Samuel Kentucky? If you go home to Candice and Betty, you are helping. Do you understand?”
“No,” he said.
“That’s okay,” said Adalia. “Tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, you might. If you make it home. If you don’t step into this building where the devil lives.”
“Hey,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “Donald Trump’s a lot of things, but…” The joke died as he was telling it, and he gripped the steering wheel. “It doesn’t feel right leaving you here.”
“It’s cool,” said Just James. “I’m here.”
“God save us all,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, and reached over the cab to pull the door shut. The Kenworth roared, then shuddered as it pulled away, jouncing back onto the street. There was a sound of crumpling metal as the machine slammed through another car, and then it was free, picking up speed as it roared away.
“You realize,” said Just James, his shoulders sagging as if he’d just realized something, “that he was our heavy hitter.”
“My Mom’s a heavy hitter,” said Adalia, “and she’s inside.”
“Good point,” said Just James. His face softened a little as he watched her hug her elbows to her side. He looked around. “Where is he?”
“Over there,” she said, pointing at Gabriel with her chin.
“Can he hear me?”
“How can I not,” said Gabriel, “when you are so very loud?”
“Yes,” said Adalia. “He can hear you.”
“Okay, cool,” said Just James. “Gabriel. Gabriel? I don’t even know if the mic’s on, right, but here’s the thing. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me—”
“I know you well enough,” said Gabriel.
“—but I think that if you’re a dead kid about my age you’ll understand how special Adalia is and how we need to team up so she gets out of this alive and that really I don’t know what’s going on but I want to help.” His words came faster and faster until they ran out completely. After a moment, he added, “I think … I think I need to do something important. For her. For you.”
Gabriel blinked. “I don’t know you at all,” he said. He smiled, eyes widening with wonder. “And I think that’s a good thing.”
He thinks I’m special? Adalia started to reach out a hand, to Just James or Gabriel she couldn’t rightly have said, then let her hand fall. “I don’t know what’s going on either.”
“I do,” said Gabriel. “I don’t know if he knows what it means to help here.”
“Just James,” said Adalia. “Do you … do you know what’s at stake here?”
“I just said I didn’t know what’s going on,” said Just James, looking up at Trump Tower. “But I do know that that building’s seen better days. Those windows are totally smashed. It looks a lot better in photos on the Internet.” He scuffed one foot across the top of the other. “We need to give everything. To make it right.”
“If we go in that building,” said Adalia, “someone will die.”
“One of us?” said Just James. She could see it in his eyes, the understanding of what was to come.
“I don’t know who the Sacrifice is,” Adalia lied, “except that it’s not me, and it’s not Gabriel.”
“Why not you?”
“Because,” said Adalia, knowing it was unhelpful, but made the truth easier to hold in her heart. “That’s not the way it works.”
“Well,” said Just James, “the way I see it is this. Standing out in the street gives us about an eighty percent chance of dying of cold if we stick around. Maybe ninety percent if the zombies come and eat our brains.”
“They don’t eat brains,” said Gabriel. “They — never mind,” he said, sighing in exasperation.
“And,” said Just James, “as long as you don’t die, I’m okay with that.”
“What if it’s you?” said Adalia. Her voice grew small. “I don’t want it to be you.”
“Then this Universe of yours will owe you one,” said Just James, standing tall — really tall, in a way she’d not seen before. Like he had a purpose and a will, like he knew where his road went all of a sudden. “C’mon.”
“Wait,” said Adalia. “What if it’s not us?”
“What do you mean?” said Just James.
“She means,” said Gabriel, rolling his eyes, “that just because we go in there doesn’t mean it’s one of us that dies. You, I mean. I’m already dead. I mean, it could be Adalia’s mom, or Uncle John, or Melissa Carlisle, or Valentine Everard, or Skyler Evans, or Rex Aubrey. The Shield can’t stop it. The Sword can’t break it. The Good Right Arm won’t be able to lift it, and the Knight can’t fight it. Do you understand?”
Just James looked right at the spot where Gabriel stood, then turned to Adalia. “I understand,” he said, “that everyone you love would die for you. Do you know? Do you see? You’re becoming something more beautiful.” He shrugged his thin shoulders inside his jacket. “Let’s go.”
More beautiful? “But—” Adalia swallowed. “No one should die because of me.”
“I agree,” said Just James, “but things are a bit shit right now. We might need to—” and he wiggled his hands “—compromise here.”
“Heck of a compromise,” said Gabriel.
“I don’t know a lot—” said Just James.
“No kidding,” said Gabriel.
“—but I know that the world ends today if we don’t do this.” Just James held out his hand to Adalia. “Meet me half way, and let’s go save the princess.”
“Save the princess?” But Adalia was already taking a small step forward.
“Figure of speech,” said Just James.
“Video games,” said Gabriel.
Adalia took Just James’ hand in hers. It was smooth and warm. She looked down at her feet, then walked with him into where the wind touched the earth, where the dark was strongest, where the Leader of the Damned sat in the space between thoughts. But she didn’t fear the fading of the sun. The living and the dead walked with her, and she would end the devil’s reign.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The floor was soft under her bare feet, warm and comforting like—
You have never been in any place like this.
—the Grand Hotel in Monte Carlo. She had stayed there, with him, for a spell or two. It had been when t
hey met, and of course it wasn’t called the Grand Hotel — that’s what they’d called it, laughing as they enjoyed a week away from the rest of the world.
This is a place where your thoughts go to die.
Danny brushed a red lock away from her face, ducking under the gauzy fabric that guarded the entranceway. The room smelled of lavender, sun streaming in the open bay windows. The sounds of a street far below came in with the fresh air, muted and gentle. And he was there.
Choler tells false tales with your own mind.
Choler sat on the bed — as handsome as he had ever been. He’d stripped himself to the waist, the heat of the day starting to cause sweat to prick against his golden skin. Danny smiled at him. “Where have you been all my life?”
“Waiting for you,” he said, putting aside his book — had he just been holding a book? But of course he had. She hadn’t seen it, the drapes around the bed hiding the minor details from view. “Come to me.”
“I’m already—”
You are lost.
“—here..?” Danny’s footsteps slowed, and for a moment she saw cold walls and broken windows in a room for the rich, before the sunlight returned in a blaze of white, so brilliant, so clean. She swayed. “I’m sorry, Choler. The day — I’m feeling a little dizzy.”
“Of course, my love,” he said, getting up from the bed. That young, fit body he wore hadn’t aged a day since—
You never met him before this day dawned.
—they had met all those years before. She hoped she didn’t disappoint him — she knew carrying a child had given her marks on her skin that she was proud to wear.
“What are those, Mommy?” Little Adalia pointed at the stretch marks on her skin.
“They are my tiger stripes,” she said, laughing. “I earned these.”
“How did you get them?”
“The best way,” said Danny.
Adalia frowned. “Will I get them?”
Night's Fall (Night's Champion Book 2) Page 32
