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

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Acknowledgements

  NIGHT'S FALL

  Richard Parry

  NIGHT'S FALL copyright © 2016 Richard Parry.

  Cover design copyright © 2016 Mondegreen.

  Cover art copyright © 2016 Karl Thiart.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-473-34989-9

  No parts of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. Piracy, much as it sounds like a cool thing done at sea with a lot of, “Me hearties!” commentary, is a dick move. It gives nothing back to the people who made this book, so don’t do it. Support original works: purchase only authorized editions.

  While we’re here, what you’re holding is a work of fiction created by a professional liar. It is not done in an edgy documentary style with recovered footage. Pretty much everything in here was made up by the author so you could enjoy a story about the world being saved through action scenes and witty dialog. No people were used as templates, serial numbers filed off for anonymity: let’s be honest, John Miles couldn’t be based on anyone real. Any resemblance to humans you know (alive) or have known (dead) is coincidental.

  Find out more about Richard Parry at mondegreen.co

  Find out more about Karl Thiart at karlthiart.com

  Published by Mondegreen, New Zealand.

  For Julia, because if you want it enough you can have it.

  And for my Rae. Thank you for being strong enough for both of us.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “What I’m thinking,” said Carlisle to the barman, “is that you’re a thief.”

  The barman blinked at her. “Say what?”

  “Because I know a thief when I see one,” she said, her words slurring just a little. She leaned forward over the bar. “Serious … seriously? Twenty bucks for a shot of Jack is theft.”

  “You could drink somewhere else,” said the barman. “Free country.”

  Carlisle gave a long, lazy smile. “Free country.” Only bar in this town. If you can call it a town. She’d heard of one-horse towns, and this place was a horse short. No one else was in the bar tonight, the broken-down old jukebox spitting out the same two songs on repeat. She’d had about as much Johnny Cash as she could take. The door to the bar opened behind her, and she felt a gust of cold chase someone inside. She didn’t turn to look, still holding her glass of Jack.

  “That’s right,” said the bartender, his eyes lighting up a little as he saw a new potential customer. He started to clean a glass — Carlisle was about to say something else when a man slipped into the seat beside her.

  She knew it was a man before she turned, the way he put himself in that chair like he had sovereign land rights. Carlisle spent some time taking him in. Close cut hair, ebony skin, stacked like a Vegas deck of cards inside a suit worth north of a couple grand. Like. She kept the lazy smile on. “Well hello, sailor.”

  “I’m not really a sailor,” said the man. “But I’m impressed you guessed that I came here in a ship.”

  Carlisle let the smile fade away into a frown. His accent was strange. “Where you from?”

  “The Caribbean, originally,” he said. “More recently, Queens.” The man gave the barman a nod. “Rum and Coke. Easy on the Coke.”

  “Starting hard, or…” Carlisle let herself trail off. Something isn’t right. That old instinct came back, the cop inside her refusing to die like it should. Too much damn alcohol, that’s your problem. Thought you’d come out, get lucky, and here you are talking to a — a something. “You some kind of soldier?”

  “Not really,” said the man, lifting his rum and Coke, breathing in the aroma. He smiled, his eyes closed. “More of a problem-solver.”

  Carlisle pushed her barstool back a little. “What kinds of problems you looking to solve tonight?”

  The man laughed, something easy in it, and turned to look at Carlisle properly for what seemed like the first time. “That depends. You bring any trouble with you?”

  “Left all my problems behind,” she said, the lie coming easy. “Why else come to a shit hole like this?”

  “Hey,” said the bartender.

  “Maybe your problems are trying to catch up,” said Caribbean. “Maybe your problems are only just starting.” He gestured with a hand to the air around her. “I can see your problems. They tug at you like needy children.”

  The bartender took a look around the bar, then moved through a grimy door to the kitchen. It was old and stuck just before it was fully closed. It was funny the things you noticed, just before everything went to hell. “So look,” said Carlisle. “I’m here to have some drinks. Maybe get laid. Can you help with any of that?”

  Caribbean downed the last of his drink in a long swallow, then turned the glass over in his hand. “Detective Carlisle?”

  Fuck. “Not anymore.”

  “Detective Carlisle, we’re trying to track down some friends of yours. Do you know a—”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “No, I don’t know anyone. Not who you’re looking for. And,” she said, as the man’s eyes widened slightly, “not her either. And definitely not the next person you’re going to ask about.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Caribbean. “That’s what we call a ‘crying shame.’ Do you know why it’s called that?”

  Carlisle tipped her head from side to side, loosening up her shoulders, just getting the kinks out. “Because someone always ends up crying.”

  He nodded. “Do I look like the crying sort to you?”

  Carlisle laughed, and Caribbean looked startled. “No,” she said, “but you’ve made a huge mistake — and I mean, a massive, colossal fuc
k-up — if you think I’m the crying type.”

  “The name I was going to ask you about,” said Caribbean, “was Elliot.”

  Carlisle blinked at him in the silence left between the tracks changing on the jukebox. Her veins felt like they’d just started running ice instead of blood, her head clearing from the fuzz of the alcohol. She could hear the machine catch, clicking as it tried to drop another disc in. She swallowed. “What did you say?”

  “I thought that might get your attention,” said Caribbean. “What would it be worth to you if you could see him again?”

  “Elliot’s dead,” said Carlisle.

  “Is he, now?” Caribbean reached behind the bar, snagging out the bottle of rum. “I wonder about that.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Let me ask you something,” said Caribbean. “Let’s assume he’s dead. What if I said I could bring him back to life?”

  “I’d say you were crazy in the coconut,” she said.

  “Well,” said Caribbean, “that’s not an unusual reaction to get.”

  “You ask people about their dead friends often?”

  “Often enough,” he said. “It’s a growth industry, in my line of work.”

  “Right,” said Carlisle. Here’s a good one. Guy walks into a bar, asks about your dead friend Elliot… “What exactly is your line of work?”

  “I get things done,” he said. “The job title changes week to week.”

  “First you said you were a problem solver. Now you say you can raise the dead.”

  “They don’t have to be different things,” said the man. “And I don’t raise the dead. I’m more of an intermediary. The woman who stands behind me is the one who can raise the dead.”

  “Fancy trick,” said Carlisle, turning on her stool to lean back against the bar. She took in the room — no one else here, clear exits, she should just get out. This kind of crazy talk wouldn’t lead to any good.

  “I can tell,” said Caribbean, the soft touch of his accent making him easy to listen to, “that you’re having trouble believing me.”

  “You think?”

  “Here’s a little taste,” he said, reaching — slowly, Carlisle noticed — into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a few items — a small vial of clear liquid, a hand-rolled cigar, an old-style lighter. He placed these on the bar, then splashed a generous portion of rum into his glass. He emptied in the clear liquid, then raised the cigar.

  “There’s no smoking in here,” said Carlisle. “Not that I give a shit, but you know.” She pointed at the sign on the bar top, right next to the lighter. Thank you for not smoking.

  “I see it,” said Caribbean. “I don’t think they mean this kind of smoke.” He picked up the lighter, flicking it open, a long tongue of flame kissing the end of the cigar. He drew big puffs, then blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. “That feels right.” He puffed a few more times, then blew another stream of smoke over the top of his glass. Instead of the smoke flowing past, it clustered and gathered at the top of the rum. Small eddies pulled the tiny cloud about, which then seemed to be drawn into the dark liquid.

  “There’s a thing you don’t see every day,” said Carlisle. “But if you think I’m drinking that, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  “Just watch,” said Caribbean. He pushed the glass closer to her. Carlisle noticed he seemed … drained, tired around the edges. “It won’t be long now.”

  Despite herself, Carlisle looked into the liquid. She knew it would be some parlor trick, but she had to look anyway. The smoke seemed to bunch just under the surface of the liquid, a small storm in silent motion, then cleared, the liquid reflecting the room. No. The liquid can’t reflect the room, I should be seeing the ceiling in there, if anything. She could see a room in the liquid, drawn out in shades of brown, and a man stepped into view. It was like she was looking through a peep hole and seeing—

  “Jesus fuck,” said Carlisle. It was Elliot, standing in there, picked out like she remembered him, even the gut. “Jesus fuck,” she said again.

  The image of Elliot walked closer, and his voice came out of the glass, blurred, like if it were a picture someone had colored outside the lines. She was hearing him from a long way away. “Carlisle?”

  “Elliot,” she said. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me,” he said. “It’s—”

  “What was the last thing you said to me?”

  “Hell if I know,” said Elliot. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Take a guess,” she said.

  “I think we were talking about… It’s so hard to remember, Carlisle. I think we were looking at some footage of something—” his face scrunched up as he tried to remember, and the surface of the liquid shimmered. “I can’t remember. I’d started smoking again. Can you believe that? Praise no day until it’s ended, that’s what I always say.”

  “I can believe that,” she said. “I can’t believe this, though. What is this?”

  “It’s—” he was cut off as Caribbean knocked the glass over, the rum spilling out.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” Carlisle said.

  “Just a taste,” said Caribbean. “Now we need to make a deal.”

  Carlisle looked at him, then at the splash of liquid on the bar. That … that was Elliot. But Elliot’s dead. “No deal,” she said. She pushed off from the bar, jacket already in hand, and turned towards the door.

  “Just remember,” said Caribbean’s voice behind her, “that we offered you a deal. You can still take it.”

  “Ain’t no way,” said Carlisle, “that I’m taking a deal like that.”

  “But you don’t know what the trade is,” said the voice at her back.

  She paused, her hand on the door outside to the street. “I know well enough,” she said. She reached up and brushed the tears from the corners of her eyes before she stepped out into the snow.

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  The Caribbean watched her step out into the cold and the night and the loneliness of the world, then looked down at the bar. The spilled rum sat there, empty of purpose, but not of power. Not of faith.

  He traced a finger through it. He felt the warmth of that power, a spill that had held — just for a moment — the captured soul of a man. He tugged on that faith, scooped his hand through the rum and closed his fist around it.

  Liquid leaked and dripped around his fingers, and he looked at the door where Detective Carlisle had gone. What was it that she had said?

  I’m here to have some drinks. Maybe get laid. Can you help with any of that?

  He breathed deep, opened his hand as he closed his eyes, and blew air through his fingers, spraying rum into the room. Sending it on a path after her.

  Maybe get laid.

  So lonely, hidden behind that facade. She needed, longed with a will. All that she lacked was direction.

  Can you help with any of that?

  The rum floated in the air, slipped around a table, crossed over the top of a chair, and misted under the door after her.

  “Yes, Detective,” said the Caribbean. “I can help you with that. And you will help me.”

  Bound. Her need, balanced against the soul of a dead man. He felt the ties as they found their mark. Carlisle would want him. Follow him. Do what he needed, for as long as he needed.

  So they could catch a monster, and save the world.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “What I don’t get,” said the man with bad teeth, “is why people don’t carry cash no more.”

  “Sign of the times,” said his partner, wearing a low-quality smile under a worse haircut. “They say it’s a … what do they call it?”

  “Regression,” said Bad Teeth. “That’s what they call it.”

  “Please,” said Lacie, backing away. “I don’t have … I don’t have anything.”

  Bad Teeth lifted Lacie’s purse up in front of her face, shaking it upside down. A cascade of incidentals fell, some lipstick, her phone, a make-up case
, her taser. Lacie watched the taser fall to the grass, just outside of arm’s reach. It may as well have been at the end of a football field. She felt so alone, so frightened. Her mouth was dry, her heart hammering. If her taser had been near to hand instead of in her bag… “There’s nothing here,” said Bad Teeth. “And you know what that means, don’t you, pretty thing?”

  “It’s a recession,” said Worse Haircut.

  Bad Teeth paused, then shot a glance at Worse Haircut. “What?”

  “It’s a recession,” said the other man. “I think that’s what it’s called.”

  “Who gives a fuck what it’s called?” said Bad Teeth. “Call it Tinkerbell if you want.”

  “Tinkerbell’s a tiny little woman,” said Worse Haircut. “Not a sign of the times at all.”

  Lacie stared at the two men with wide eyes. This … this isn’t happening. Not like this. She’d thought she could just cut through Fuller Park on her way to Bridgeport — save some goddamn time — and these two had stepped out as she’d been walking. Like they’d been hiding in shadows that weren’t even there. She hadn’t been talking on her phone. It wasn’t even late—

  “What you think, pretty lady?” Bad Teeth leaned in closer with a leer, the alcohol sharp on his breath. “You think it’s a recession? Leaves honest men like us out of work.”

  Her eyes darted between the two men. “I don’t—”

  “Don’t lie!” Bad Teeth’s hand slapped her hard across the face. She rocked back, the heel on her Guess Odells twisting. She landed, her head hitting something so hard her teeth ached. Lacie was stunned, her arms moving weakly as she tried to move, to just get away…

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said a voice. It sounded like Worse Haircut, but he was so far away.

  “She made me,” said Bad Teeth. “You saw.”

  “I saw,” said Worse Haircut. “It’s still a recession.”

  “Jesus, will you give it a rest with the … you got a problem, buddy?” It sounded like Bad Teeth had turned away. Lacie struggled to make her eyes focus, picked out a man-sized shape, that’s all it was, just a shape really, but hope hit her hard. She tried to focus, tried not to throw up.