Nocturnal: A Novel

such command, such confidence. Sly’s eyes narrowed in frustration, maybe even in anger.

Rex again looked down at Firstborn. “Tell me. Tell me what you meant.”

Head craned to the side, Firstborn stared back. There was no fear in his eyes. “You aren’t the first,” he said. “The kings bring disaster upon us.”

Rex looked at the gun in his hand. He could kill this man and be done with it. He would be king, but he didn’t know how to rule. Firstborn had been in charge for how long? Decades? Centuries? Firstborn was tough and strong and smart — he wouldn’t die in some accident like Rex’s dad had.

Firstborn would always be here.

Rex set the gun on the deck’s dry, splintered wood. “I am your king, Firstborn. Say it.”

Sly grabbed Rex’s arm. “No, my king! You can’t let him live! He will try to kill you!”

Hillary walked up, her hands clasped in front of her as if she were praying. “Sly is right,” she said. “Firstborn killed the other kings. I have seen him crush babies in his bare hands when he thought no one was looking.”

Firstborn said nothing. He just kept staring.

Rex felt a new strength surging through him. All these people, they were his to command. This was his birthright. If he wanted Firstborn to follow, then Firstborn would follow.

Rex stared into the slanted green eyes. “You killed babies. I’m not a baby anymore. I am your king.”

Firstborn managed to shake his head. “It cannot be.”

His nostrils flared, then his eyes widened. Had his pupils dilated? In that instant, Rex knew what to do — he didn’t know how, but he knew. He held out his right wrist, pushed it close to Firstborn’s face. The black-furred man tried to look away, but he was pinned facedown on the deck and there was nowhere to turn.

Rex reached out with his left hand, simultaneously pinning Firstborn’s head to the deck and tightly covering the black-furred mouth. He shoved his right wrist closer.

Firstborn held his breath.

“I am your king,” Rex said. “Things will be different this time.”

Rex waited. Firstborn could avoid it no further; his nostrils flared wide as he drew in a big breath. Rex sensed a calmness spread over the pinned man.

He’s yours. Just like all the others.

A desperate, sandpaper voice whispered at his ear. “At least make it so he can’t just kill you and take power again. Remove his temptation and he’ll follow.”

Yes, that was smart. If Rex suddenly died a day from now, a month from now, the people would again fall under Firstborn’s rule. Take that away, and Firstborn would truly be his.

Rex stood. He felt like a different person. “I am the king now,” he said, turning slowly to look at each and every one of them. “I am king, and you all have to do what I say. My first command is this — if anything happens to me, if I die, then all of you will kill Firstborn. Do you understand?”

Many heads nodded, but not enough heads. Rex’s lip curled into a sneer — who did they think they were dealing with?

“I said, do you understand? You hear me talking to you?”

His words echoed off the walls. Was that really his voice? Could it really be that loud, that powerful, or was that a trick of the confined space?

Now the heads nodded, nodded and looked away from him as if they were afraid to meet his eyes. Maybe they should be afraid, at least a little.

Rex looked at Fort. “Let him up.”

Fort stood. So did Firstborn.

Off to Rex’s left, Hillary knelt on one knee. Like living dominoes, the others did the same, everyone dropping until only Rex, Sly and Firstborn stood.

Sly stared at Firstborn, then Rex, then he, too, knelt.

Some of the kneeling people were still taller than Rex, but Firstborn towered over them all.

The big creature moved closer.

Rex stepped forward to meet him. To stare into the man’s eyes, Rex had to look almost straight up.

“Kneel,” Rex said. “I am your king.”

Firstborn snarled. Sly started to rise, as did Pierre, but Rex held up a hand to stop them.

This was real, this was destiny. Rex was the chosen one. He stared up into Firstborn’s eyes. Rex feared no one. Everyone would submit to him. Everyone.

Firstborn’s snarl faded. His grayed muzzle relaxed. He tried to hold eye contact, but he could not — he looked away.

And then, Firstborn knelt.

“My king,” he said. “Welcome home.”

The cheer of the people rang off the cavern walls.

A New Day

Bryan shut the Buick’s door. He looked up at 1969 California Street. The Jessups would have answers, had to have answers. If they didn’t … well, then for their sake he hoped they knew someone who did.

Bryan walked to the rusted gate door. He pressed the buzzer. He looked through the diagonal bars to the house’s door atop the stairs. Nothing moved.

The air felt cool on his face. He reached up, felt the short, neat beard on his cheeks and chin. He’d left Robin in bed, asleep, but he had trimmed his ridiculous tangle before coming out here. He’d left her a fresh pot of coffee and a note on the dining room table: I LOVE YOU.

They’d slept through the morning and well into the afternoon. Robin must have needed sleep in a bad way, as she didn’t wake up when Bryan slid out of bed. That was good — he had to do this alone. No Robin, no Pookie. Those two might try to temper Bryan’s reactions, but he didn’t want anyone to temper anything. Playtime was over. Pookie had left a dozen voice mails, each funnier than the last. There was concern within that humor, but Bryan wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. John Smith called as well. He’d left a long-ass message that connected a lot of dots about Chief Zou and Erickson.

Bryan pressed the buzzer again. He ran his hands along the stylishly rusted gate’s half-inch-thick crisscrossing bars. The thing looked like it could hold back a charging rhino. Yeah, the Jessups knew what kind of dangers ran through this city, and they guarded against them.

Moments later, the interior door opened. Adam Jessup bounced down the stairs. His silver jewelry and black rocker outfit looked identical to the last time except now he wore a BULLET FOR MY VALENTINE concert T-shirt instead of the one that had read KILLSWITCH ENGAGE.

“Not you again,” he said with a sneer. “You ain’t getting in this time without a warrant, cop. You got a warrant?”

Who did this little fuck think he was?

In one whip-snap motion, Bryan reached through the bars, grabbed the back of Adam’s neck and yanked him forward, pinning the man’s face hard against the rusted iron.

“If warrant means will I break your fucking neck if you don’t open this door, then yeah, I got a warrant.”

Adam clawed at Bryan’s hand, so Bryan squeezed harder. Adam winced, tried to say something, but he couldn’t get a word out.

“You should open the gate now,” Bryan said. “Then the pain might go away.”

Adam’s hands flailed at the gate’s inside handle. Bryan heard a click and the door opened. He pushed Adam away — it seemed like a light push, but Adam flew back to crash into the stone steps.

Byran walked inside and closed the gate-door behind him. He saw Adam lying there, moaning, hands rubbing his throat. Bryan’s mind seemed to clear. Had he done that to Adam? He had, and for what?