Nocturnal: A Novel

Adam shook his head. “I made it, I get to wear it.” He slid it on, then looked at John. “Put on the goddamn cloak already.”

John did. He slid into the sleeves The front zipper turned out to be magnetic, a simple strip that sealed tight when he pressed it together. Inside the cloak, he found several deep pockets. He scooped up his toys and put them away.

Bryan took off his hat. He undid the mask and looked at the dangling fabric. “Adam, you got a marker? Something I can use to draw on this?”

Adam looked at him with a why would you want that expression, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached for another case, opened it, then handed over a white paint pen. “Will that do?”

John watched Bryan take the pen, look at it, and smile. It wasn’t a healthy smile.

“Time to go,” Bryan said. “John, you’re in the car with us.”

Bryan opened the back door. “Aggie, in the middle. We need to talk on the way there.”

Aggie got in, followed by Bryan. Alder climbed in the other side, leaving John the front passenger seat. John looked at his Harley and wondered again if he should just get on it and get the hell out of here. His apartment was ten minutes away. He’d spent six years afraid of his own shadow, and now Bryan wanted him to go into tunnels and shoot monsters?

John wanted to leave, but he couldn’t — not if they had Pookie.

He got in the car and shut the door.

Bryan sat in the back, drenched in shadow. He took off his hat, opened the pen, then started to draw something on the mask. “Aggie, while we drive, you tell me everything you can about what happened to you in those tunnels, about everything you saw. Adam, get us to the Civic Center station, fast.”

The Magnum’s big engine growled as the station wagon rolled out of the Walgreens parking lot.

The Crown

Blindfolded and bound, hanging from a pole like a butchered pig, Pookie bounced in time with the steps of his captors. His wrists and ankles hurt from too-tight ropes, from his own weight pulling against his bones. He lost track of how long they carried him — fifteen minutes? thirty? — through tunnels so narrow he felt dirt walls scraping against his left and right sides at the same time. At one point, they had set him down and dragged him through an area so tight Pookie felt the earth pressing into his back and face as well.

Finally, the echoing noise of a crowd and a sensation of openness told him he’d entered a much larger area. Was this where he would die? Would it be quick?

Hands lifted him to a standing position. The knots around his wrists and ankles were cut free, but those same hands — strong hands — held him so tight he couldn’t even try to escape. New ropes wrapped around his chest, his stomach, his legs. The ropes pulled him tight against a thick pole at his back, but at least he stood on his own feet again.

The blindfold came off. Pookie blinked as his eyes adjusted to the lights. He was in a wide cavern. About thirty feet up, a ledge lined the wall like the deck of a football stadium, a ledge lined with …

Mary mother of God …

People and monsters, hundreds of them, stood up there, looking down at Pookie and the others.

On his left, tied to vertical poles, he saw Rich Verde, Mr. Biz-Nass, Sean Robertson and Baldwin Metz. On his right, Jesse Sharrow, Chief Zou and then her two little girls.

Pookie pulled at his ropes, but his body didn’t budge. What was he standing on? Broken wood? He craned his neck, trying to take everything in. It looked like he was on the deck of a shipwreck. He faced the broken prow. If this was an old ship, which was impossible, the pilothouse would be somewhere behind him.

Only fifteen feet away, a mast rose up from the deck — a mast covered with human skulls. Thirty feet up, a wooden pole crossed that mast making a big T. And there, still dressed in a hospital gown, hung a crucified Jebediah Erickson. Spikes driven through torn flesh held his bloody hands to the wood, pinned his bloody feet to the mast. The old man was awake — he was obviously in great pain, but he also looked pissed as hell. He tried to shout something, but the gag in his mouth kept him from forming words. On his left and right, lights clustered each end of the T — flaming torches as well as the mismatched electric rigs you’d see on a construction site.

The crowd started to cheer. Someone walked past Pookie’s left, between him and Rich Verde. It was the boy, Rex Deprovdechuk, dressed in a red velvet cape … was he wearing a crown? He was, a crown of twisted iron and polished steel.

Jesus, deliver me from this evil.

Rex looked up to the crowd on the ledge. He spread his arms outward like a stage performer, turned left, then right, so they could all see him. The crowd screamed for him — some screams sounded human, some didn’t, but they all resonated with righteous rage.

Something sniffed at Pookie’s right ear. He tried to flinch away, but he could barely move. He turned … he was only inches from the yellow-eyed gaze of the snake-face.

“Clean,” the snake said quietly. “We don’t get that often, but things are changing.”

Out front, Rex raised both hands high, then dropped them. The audience fell silent. When he spoke, his adolescent voice echoed off the cavern’s walls and ceiling.

“For centuries they have hunted us,” the boy said. “And this one” — he pointed up at Erickson — “has killed more of us than any other. Firstborn could not deliver him to you, but I have!”

The crowd roared again. Hundreds of monstrous creatures shook their fists. They screamed, some even jumped up and down like a revival meeting.

The boy raised and dropped his hands again, cutting off the cheers, commanding everyone’s attention. His diminutive size didn’t seem to matter; he had an aura about him, the charisma of a born leader. Pookie couldn’t look away.

“Soon we will pass judgment on the monster,” Rex said. “But first, we have criminals to put on trial!”

Rex turned to look at Pookie and the others, and for the first time Pookie saw the madness in the boy’s eyes — Rex was psychotic, drunk with power, smiling a madman’s smile. If there had ever been a normal boy inside Rex Deprovdechuk’s body, that boy was gone.

Rex pointed. Pookie shuddered, thought Rex was pointing at him, but Rex was pointing to Pookie’s right.

At white-haired Jesse Sharrow, his blue uniform streaked with tunnel dirt.

“Bring him forward,” Rex said. “Let the trials begin!”

Civic Center

Aggie had changed his mind. There was a God, and whatever God was, it hated Aggie James.

The Magnum pulled into the parking lot of Trinity Place at Market and Eighth. The psycho cop on his left finished his drawing and dropped his pen on the floor. He held up his black mask, examining his handiwork.

Aggie stared at the design. What did I ever do to deserve this?

“You ain’t much of an artist,” Aggie said.

Clauser nodded. “I’m not looking for fans.”

The mask had already been disturbing enough. With the paint pen, the crazy cop had added a childish, skull- smile line drawing that glowed an electric white against the flat black fabric.

And this man, this scary-ass Bryan Clauser, was going to force Aggie back into the tunnels.

If going in meant there was a chance Aggie could get his baby back, he had to take it. He had a plan — he just had to wait for the right moment, have a giant set of balls, and hope to finally get some luck to fall his way.

The cop set the skullcap-mask in his lap. “Everyone, listen up,” he said. “The entrance to the Civic Center station is right behind us, on the sidewalk. At this hour, the station is probably closed so we shouldn’t run into