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

by Richard Parry

  A snarl of anger twisted Talin’s face. “You are so sure? I have made a city fall! I have taken the Night and crafted the tools that sundered the Shield, that broke the Good Right Arm. The Reluctant Wanderer is a petty joke, and your Guide is blind and wayward. Only the Sword and Knight remain, and we both know the Knight fell long ago. I sit here, in command of the living and the dead, and you think you can break me?”

  “You waste words,” said Danny. “These names you give to our Pack hold no power under the moon and stars.” She bared her teeth, and stepped forward.

  There was the clang of metal, and the trap fell shut around her. Bars of the hated metal revealed themselves from under the torn carpet, and a lid fell from the roof, plaster falling around her. The cage, the walls hidden from view by the ruin around her, snapped into place, the bright silver burning her eyes. She felt sick and weak, and held her hand up in front of her eyes.

  “I waste nothing,” said Talin. “And here you are, bait for the rest. The mighty Sword, held in a silvered cage. You asked what your useless Everard would save you from? Yourself, of course. Your pride. Your power. Your sense of your place in the world. And once he is drained dry, I shall take it from you as well.”

  Danny lunged forward, grabbing at the bars of the cage, then screamed as her hands smoked and seared against the silver. She pulled back, then tried again. Her palms started to blacken, her strength fading as the filthy, hated metal smothered her. Danny stumbled, a hand coming against silver on the ground, and she hissed and pulled back.

  “The names I give to your precious Pack hold all the power in the world,” said Talin, standing well clear of the cage.

  “How—” Danny coughed. “How did you make this?”

  “I was able to use my servants—” and Talin spoke this word as if the people in his thrall were paid a wage, willing participants all “—for most of the gathering, the smelting. But the finer work, for that I had help.” He held a hand out, palm upward. Another man stepped out from behind a broken cupboard, his face familiar.

  Ajay Lewiss looked down on Danny. “This is for the best. You will see — we are telling a new story, and it will change the world.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Carlisle didn’t like the sound of crying. Not a baby’s, not a woman’s, and not a man’s either. Didn’t matter if you were black or white, male or female, hell whether you were Christian, Muslim, Jew — no one cried pretty. No one. That shit on movies where someone had a few delicate tears, dabbed at them with the edge of a piece of white cotton, then gave a moving speech?

  Horse shit.

  Most people crying were doing that because they were in pain. Hell, Carlisle herself—

  A smaller, weaker girl, afraid of the dark, and what came to her when the lights went out.

  —was no stranger to tears. But this, this sound carried agony, and as she made her careful, methodical way up the stairwell, she thought she knew the man who was making that sound.

  But that couldn’t be. It had to be another trick, and she was so tired. She didn’t know if she had enough strength to fight another one of those, those things, whatever they were. Not even the Eagle’s wings could carry her through this. She looked down at the weapon in her hand — no idea how it had got there, she remembered holstering it, but okay — and took a break. Just a small one, leaning her head against the cold concrete walls of the stairwell.

  It was funny, she expected the stairwell to be paneled in oak or some other excess like the rest of the place, but no, stairwells were the same the world over. You could still burn to death on nice carpet if you were rich, so best have the stairs bare, spartan, utilitarian.

  She was thankful for it. Despite the cold she was sweating, and the chill wall felt good against her face. Maybe she could rest here for a moment, just take it easy for a little while. Maybe her work was done, the steady drip, drip, drip that had accompanied her on her long climb marking out the end of her contribution.

  Maybe you can rest when you’re dead. Get up, Carlisle. Get up. Your friend, the one with all the teeth, she needs your help, so she can be a mother again and not just something her daughter’s afraid of. Your other friend, the one who’s young and scared and alone in the dark, just like you were, she needs your help. Get moving.

  She held the Eagle up to her eyes, picking out its familiar shape in the gloom. “I don’t need you yet,” she said, lips close to the metal, inhaling the scent of the weapon, all metal and oil and smoke and promise. It slipped back into the holster at her back, leaving her hands free. She pushed herself away from the wall, leaving a bloody hand print on the pale surface.

  Carlisle didn’t know how she got to the door, easing it open with whisper against carpet. She swayed, dizzy, her tired—

  Blood loss. You’re not tired, you’re about to die.

  —brain trying to keep up. She saw a room full of wreckage, charred holes punched clean through walls. Not much left, it was like a wrecking crew had been through here. She picked her way across carpet littered with bits of wallpaper and drywall, her boots crunching the flakes into white powder. The crying: that damn sound wouldn’t stop, all sobs and pain.

  She found an open door, not that it mattered here with all the holes everywhere, but it felt better, just a little easier, to walk through an open door rather than bend down around her hurt to try and fit herself through a gap. This door creaked, stuck, then gave, falling off its hinges to the carpet, the fall more thud than crash. Carlisle took in the scene, saw the broken window, no glass on the carpet — broken outward then — and the old man standing in front of it. He was holding back John Miles, who was sobbing, great wracking heaves, and John’s hands were outstretched to the window. The old man was stronger than he looked, but Carlisle figured he was holding John back more by force of will and sheer orneriness than anything else.

  John was trying to get to the window. Huh.

  Carlisle looked around, swaying again, looking for the missing person. The one person who might be able to explain this.

  Skyler Evans wasn’t here. Carlisle’s eyes went back to John, to his cries, to Rex, and to the window. Oh. Then, oh no.

  Using the door frame for support for a second — just a second, God she was so tired — Carlisle pushed herself off and into the room. She felt like a ship at sea, voyaging across that space between where she was and the impossible thing that had happened. It wasn’t that Sky was gone—

  Died. Say it, at least to yourself. She’s dead, Carlisle.

  —but that she’d taken something with her. Carlisle had seen a lot of broken men before, she’d seen them in cuffs and she’d seen them in cells. She’d arrested some, punched a few, killed more than she wanted to. She knew what broken looked like, and John Miles was broken. Sky had taken a piece of him with her, down the side of Trump Tower, and Carlisle was pretty sure it was gone for good.

  She was also pretty sure they didn’t have time for this.

  Rex looked at her, with old, sad eyes. “She … jumped.”

  “She fell!” John almost screamed it, then tried to lunge around Rex. The old man was like a stone, immobile, resolute.

  “She jumped,” said Rex, “and saved us, son. She saved us all.”

  “That’s not how it works,” said John. “I loved her. I’m supposed to jump for her.”

  “Miles.” Carlisle’s hand went out, delicate as a moth’s wing. “Miles, look at me.”

  John spun to face her, anger and fear and pain and rage and hate and loss all rolled up into his eyes. “You — what—”

  “Miles, I need you to listen to me,” said Carlisle. Her right knee started to buckle, and she forced it steady. “Miles.” His eyes were crazy, shifting from place to place, all over the room, looking everywhere but at her. “John.”

  He seemed to settle then, looking at her. His shoulders bunched under his shirt, and she got a good look at him. Roughed up plenty, burnt hair and patches of red skin. Something had gone down here too, maybe something l
ike she’d been through. Carlisle’s eyes went to the window.

  Maybe something worse.

  “John, she’s gone.” Carlisle dropped each word out as soft as she knew how. She didn’t know how very well, but they didn’t have time for her to learn.

  “No.” He shook his head.

  “She’s gone. Sky is gone.”

  “No.” John licked his lips. “Adalia. She can see the dead. She can—”

  “John,” said Carlisle. “Sky’s not coming back. They don’t come back. You know that. Not really.” Elliot hadn’t come back, just a hint of what he was. “It’s not fair on them, to be with us anymore.”

  “You’re right.” His voice shook, and he ran a hand through his hair, burnt bits of it flaking away. “Look, I’ll just wait here. Just in case.”

  “John,” said Carlisle. “Look at me.”

  He did, first at her eyes, then at the rest of her. He took in the blood, the cuts in her jacket, the pale face, the pained breathing. “What … happened?”

  “Something,” said Carlisle. “I can’t do this myself. Val needs you.”

  John barked a short, bitter laugh. “He doesn’t need me. He’s a fucking werewolf. He’s got strength, and an invincible girlfriend, and a step-daughter who sees the dead. I’m just a washed up personal trainer trying to hustle my next gig.” There was real bitterness there, a self-loathing she’d never seen before.

  “Oh, John,” said Carlisle, reaching out a hand to touch his face. She wondered at the motion, so unlike her, blamed it on the loss of blood. “That’s why they need us so much.”

  “Son,” said Rex. He’d been so quiet Carlisle had forgotten he was there. “Son, I don’t know about werewolves, or the dead, but I know what love is. That girl of yours loved you more than life. Do you see? Actually more than life. She wanted you to … I don’t know. That’s between you. But she didn’t want you to jump after her.”

  “She didn’t?” said John.

  “Probably not,” said Rex. “I’m not an expert on the female mind, but I’m pretty sure she would have left more clues.”

  Carlisle let her hand fall from John’s face. “I’m a worn out ex-cop who can’t walk.”

  “I’m a retired firefighter whose wife died of cancer,” said Rex.

  John looked at them both, then at the window. “Right,” he said.

  “Son,” said Rex. “Son, we’re having a moment here. Now’s where you share.”

  Carlisle looked at John, at the pain in his eyes. She said, “You’re John Miles.”

  “I’m John Miles,” said John. He shook his head, eyes darting to the window. “It isn’t enough.”

  Carlisle stumbled, head feeling light as a feather, empty as air. “We need to get moving.”

  “You need to sit down,” said Rex. “You look like hell.”

  “Huh,” said Carlisle. “Plenty of time for sitting. After.”

  “After what?” Rex reached out to take her arm, and she shook him off.

  “After.” Carlisle looked at John. “So, Miles. It’s been a long day. Going to get a little longer. That girlfriend of yours—”

  “Sky,” said John. “Her name is — was — Sky.”

  “—saw something in you, Lord only knows what,” said Carlisle. “I think you’re a degenerate. But we need you. Do you hear me?” She jerked her head towards the open window. “She gave you a chance. For us. For all of us.”

  “She was everything that mattered,” said John.

  “Really?” Carlisle swayed, and this time she accepted Rex’s hands on her arm. The man was like stone, all muscle and hard edges under that craggy exterior. “What about Val?”

  “Like I said. Val can look after himself.” John looked around. “Say. Wasn’t he with you?”

  “Now you’re cooking,” said Carlisle. “Good question, Miles. What about Danny?”

  “Werewolf,” said John. “She’s got it.”

  “She’s alone,” said Carlisle. “What about Adalia?”

  “Kid’s clear,” said John. “No problem here.”

  “She needs an uncle,” said Carlisle. If only you’d had one, Carlisle, if only someone else had been there… “She needs us.”

  “She needs you,” said John. His eyes were clearing though, something coming back into them. The pain was there, and so was the anger, but something else. Purpose.

  “We need you,” said Carlisle. Then, in a smaller voice, “I can’t … I’m too little.” She licked her lips, feeling dizzy. “I can’t do this alone. Please.”

  She watched John, his eyes, that moment where he knew. She could see it, see the straightening of his shoulders. His hand reached out to her face, and she shied away, breaking from Rex’s grip. John looked at her for a moment before letting his hand fall. “What happened to you, Melissa?”

  “Call me Carlisle.”

  He nodded at that, then straightened himself up, wiped his eyes. Cleared his throat, straightened his shirt, and brushed his hair straight — or straight as it could be. “Carlisle, huh?”

  “Just Carlisle,” she said, feeling the Eagle at her back. Always at her back.

  “Well, Melissa,” said John, “I guess I have a hard story. My girlfriend just jumped out a window, and I’ll be honest, I’m having trouble wrapping my head around that. But having a sob story and being John Miles isn’t enough.”

  “It’s got to be,” said Rex. “Son, it’s got to be.”

  “No,” said John. “You misunderstand.” He cracked his knuckles, took a look at Carlisle’s posture — guarded, she’d skittered like a beaten dog when he’d reached a hand towards her. “We’ve got a problem here.” His eyes tracked hers, holding her locked in place tighter than Rex’s grip. “The problem is too many people that I give a damn about are getting a bad serve. Bad, you understand, doesn’t even begin to tell the story. Not the one that matters.”

  “So—” started Rex.

  “Old man,” said John, “I’m on a roll. Back up.”

  “Sure,” said Rex, the faintest hint of something that could — just maybe — have been a smile on his lips.

  “Being John Miles isn’t enough,” said John Miles. “I’m not just John Miles.” He flexed, that impressive frame that Carlisle couldn’t help admire — despite it being attached to Miles — looking like it wanted to get back in the fight. “I’m John fucking Miles,” he said.

  Carlisle almost laughed. That’s it, she thought. That’s what we need. John fucking Miles — I’ve called him that myself more than once. She turned, ready to walk to the roof, ready to get her friends, and her strength finally—

  I have seen dragons circle against the fingers of the sun, warring in the space between the moon and earth. Their fire burned the air, and their scales fell like rain. All were weaker than you.

  —gave out. She tripped on nothing much at all and fell, and fell, falling for a thousand years until she hit the carpet far, far below.

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  “Of course I don’t know,” said a familiar voice. “I have no idea. I lift weights for a job. I make people less fat, or stronger, or just make them feel better that they’re fucking trying. I don’t know shit about blood loss.”

  “Son,” said a different, but still familiar, voice. “Son, just keep climbing.”

  “Didn’t you,” said the first voice — Miles? Is that John fucking Miles? Still talking? —with a bit of tension around the edges, “work as a fire fighter?”

  “Sure did.”

  “They do first aid?” Definitely tension in John’s voice. Like he was working hard, puffing a little, except John never puffed, so he was working hard and trying not to show it. That sounded about right. Sensations started to come back to her, the sway of motion, the feeling of something being stuck in her gut. She was — Goddammit — upside down or something.

  “They do first aid,” said the second voice. That gravelly sound was Rex, had to be, if only her head wasn’t so light and hurt all at the same time.

&nbs
p; “Then you need to get on board with the first aid facts,” said John. “Don’t ask me if she’s lost too much blood, or if she’ll survive. What I know is we couldn’t leave her there, because zombies, right?”

  “We’re taking her upstairs to certain death,” said Rex. His voice kept moving, like he was walking behind, or in front, or around her. Or, like they were climbing a stairwell and kept turning the damn corners.

  Those assholes, thought Carlisle, are taking me up to meet Doc fucking Doom in his killer castle, and I’m unconscious.

  “It’s not certain,” said John. “It’s—”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m going to die,” said Rex. Carlisle wished she had the strength to open her eyes.

  “You’re old, of course you’re going to die,” said John. “It’s Melissa I’m not so sure about.” That was it, that was the last straw. If there was one human on the face of the Earth who knew exactly how to say what she didn’t want said, it was that clown John Miles.

  “Call me Carlisle,” she croaked. “Please God, Miles, God, just call me Carlisle.”

  The sensation of something stuck in her gut gave a little jog, and she almost retched. “You’re awake,” said John.

  “You’re saying things out loud,” said Carlisle, voice slurring, “at the same time as they go through your head. You don’t always need to say the obvious.” She was draped over someone’s shoulder, she was sure of it now, and based on where the voices were coming from, she was being carried by John and Rex was bringing up the rear. If only she had the strength to open her eyes.

  She felt herself being hauled upright, feet on the ground, and she almost passed out again. She cracked open an eye, took in that Miles Megawatt Smile — a little dimmer, a little darker, just a little fucking broken after today — and couldn’t help but smile herself. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he said. Then, again, “Hey. Look, sorry. I had to … I know you don’t like me … I know you didn’t want to be touched, but I couldn’t leave you there.”