"All these folks are victims of the Prowlers. You got vengeance for me and some others in Boston. They're hoping you'll do the same here, Artie explained."
Jack glanced quickly over his shoulder. The ghosts had moved out into the street now, standing in the rain as a few errant rays of sun broke through and speared the pavement around them. Most of them hung their heads as though ashamed.
"I don't get it, though," Jack whispered. "One of them tried to get me to turn around. Now this bunch won't even look at me."
Artie did not respond at first. Jack had to look in the rearview mirror to make sure he was still there. Then those black, bottomless-pit eyes met his gaze, and he shuddered and returned his attention to the road.
"Artie?" Jack prodded.
"They're feeling a little guilty," Artie finally revealed.
Jack furrowed his brow. "Why?"
"They think you're gonna die."
Prowlers Series
by Christopher Golden
Prowlers
Laws of Nature
Predator and Prey ( coming soon)
Available from Pocket Books
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET PULSE published by
Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 2001 by Christopher Golden
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue
of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-7434-2814-5
First Pocket Pulse printing August 2001
POCKET PULSE and colophon are trademarks of
Simon & Schuster, Inc.
For my amigo,
Steve Bissette
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, my love and gratitude to Connie and my boys, Nicholas and Daniel. Thanks, as always, to my agent, Lori Perkins, and to Lisa Clancy and Micol Ostow at Pocket Books. Extra special thanks to Tom Sniegoski and Rick Hautala.
PROLOGUE
Alarmed by the rumble of an approaching engine, a murder of crows took flight from the heavy trees that hung on either side of the Post Road. Against the early morning sky, the flurry of black wings that momentarily blotted out the sunlight seemed particularly ominous. Then they were gone, resettling in the sprawl of maples and elms on the far side of Henry Lemoine's property, and the sky was bright and blue again.
Phil Garraty shivered as the shadow of the birds passed above him, but barely noticed his own reaction. Truth be told, he liked seeing the birds. Crows, the odd hawk or three, even sparrows and such, were a welcome sight. Though Buckton, Vermont was about as rural as a town could get and stil have cable television, they didn't have much by way of wildlife. He saw the occasional deer or rabbit, even a fox now and then, but no more than that, and with nowhere the frequency he'd been told was normal for towns in the area.
Some of the families in Buckton stil hunted, and most of the tourists they got were hunters who'd found their way into town by mistake. Phil figured that was the explanation. Somehow, the animals must have developed a kind of sixth sense about areas where there was a lot of hunting.
In the ancient postal van he'd been driving for seventeen years as Buckton's only mail carrier, he bumped along Route 31 with early U2 blaring out of the speakers from the CD player he'd rigged under the dash. The narrow two-lane road led south out of town toward Rutland. Nobody in town cal ed it anything but the Post Road, and Phil Garraty liked that; made it feel like it was his road.
It was just after nine in the morning and he was beginning the last leg of his rounds. He had started north of town at six A.M., made a circuit of the farm and dairy roads up that way, then delivered the bulk of each day's mail in the square mile that made up the downtown area of Buckton before heading south. Only a hundred-and-twenty-seven homes to deliver to, al told, with a dozen on the southern end of the Post Road and the last few on Route 219, which intersected with it a mile south of town and ran east to west. Lot of traffic passed on 219, but al of it headed somewhere else.
That was the way people in Buckton liked it.
Dave Lanphear and his boys at Public Works hadn't been out to trim the trees on the sides of the road, and as Phil drove the van toward the junction with 219, the foliage grew thicker on both sides, spread out in a canopy above the pavement. From ful sunlight, the road ahead plunged into profound shadow, branches swaying with the breeze. He took off his sunglasses and tossed them on the seat beside him. Suddenly, out of the warmth, he found the wind that blew through the van to be surprisingly chil y.
The plaintive wail of "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" surged from the speakers and Phil sang along. The van trundled along at about thirty-five miles per hour as he approached the junction.
Though locals used the Post Road more frequently than 219, the east-west road had more traffic and a higher speed limit, so Phil was forced to brake for the stop sign. Just two stops on the other side of the junction, then he would double back for the four homes he delivered to on 219.
Sunlight flickered through the branches above, and Phil squinted against the brightness as the van rattled to a ful stop. A car flew by on Route 219, doing at least sixty, and he sighed as it disappeared around a curve. He accelerated, and the van's engine grumbled as it picked up speed again, crossing 219 and continuing along down the Post Road.
He'd barely gotten it up to twenty-five before something dropped out of the trees above him. The windshield splintered and sagged inward, a mass of spiderweb cracks. Phil shouted in shock and momentary fear, then jammed his foot on the brake. The van shuddered to a stop and the engine quit with an exhausted whimper.
There wasn't much by way of a hood on the van, but the thing on the windshield held on just the same. He spied it through the many facets of the ruined windshield, and found that he could not breathe. Movement in the woods off to his left drew his attention, and Phil glanced over to see several huge, bestial figures slipping through the shadows beneath the trees. As one, they trotted into the road toward the van.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Phil Garraty whispered to himself. "It's true."
Something landed on the roof of the van - a heavy thing with claws that clacked against the metal.
"I don't have it!" he cried out, the scream searing his throat.
Silence, as they al paused and gazed at him. And then the quiet was broken by snarls, breaking glass, and rending metal.
CHAPTER 1
The swinging door that separated the dining room from the kitchen of Bridget's Irisk Rose Pub was a portal between two worlds. In the restaurant proper, fans whirled lazily above brass and wood, and the Celtic-rooted melodies of the Chieftains were pumped into the room along with the air-conditioning. Only the steady chatter of the clientele and the bustle of the wait-staff disturbed the tranquility of the scene.
When Mol y Hatcher, empty tray in hand, pushed through the door into the kitchen, it was like diving into chaos. The cooks in the back shouted pleasant obscenities at one another, dishes were clattered, and orders were shouted out. Somehow, the chaos managed to find a kind of focus whenever Tim Dunphy was on duty.
Tim was twenty-three, a powerful y built guy from South Boston who had little patience for fooling around. Mol y had a feeling it was more the respect for Tim's ability to kick the hel out of any one of them rather than his prowes
s as a chef that made the other cooks obey him. Either way, he ran a tight ship. Loud, yes, and wild, but somehow the orders in his kitchen were fil ed and rarely wrong.
Mol y stood with her back to the wal to let another waitress slide by her. A computer screen to the left showed that order number 0417 was up, and it was one of hers. She slipped her tray onto the counter and scanned the various dishes that were arrayed on the warming racks before her. Swiftly, she gathered the four dishes that comprised her order and turned to go.
"What, you don't even say 'hi' anymore?"
Tray balanced precariously on one hand and hip, Mol y turned to grin at Tim on the other side of the counter.
"Hi, Tim," she replied, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I didn't want to interrupt. You guys are so busy."
"Never too busy for you, Miss Hatcher," he flirted.
Mol y rol ed her eyes, but she knew he would not take it harshly. Though she did not real y know how to handle his advances, that didn't mean she didn't like them. Not at al .
Tim was a mess - greasy face, bandanna tied over his head to keep his hair from fal ing into the food; never mind the odd bump on the bridge of his nose, where it had been broken at least once. A fighter, no doubt. Growing up in Southie, he'd probably not had a chance to be anything else. And with her wild red hair and green eyes, Mol y knew she was Tim's type.
He'd made no secret of that fact. Truth be told, despite his rough edges, she thought he was sort of sweet.
But it was too soon. Way too soon. After what she'd been through . . . after Artie . . .
"So, y'know," Tim began, "I was thinkin' maybe we could - "
"Leave the girl alone, Timothy Dunphy."
Mol y turned, startled - though not enough to unbalance her tray - and saw Tim's sister Kiera shaking a finger at him. Kiera was also a waitress at the pub, and she and Mol y had struck up a friendship.
"Mind your own damn business, Kiera," Tim snapped, eyes narrowing.
"I make it my business. Why don't you just do your job?"
Her brother bristled. "You oughta learn to keep your mouth shut."
"I kicked your ass when you were twelve, boy, and I'd be happy to do it again."
Tim shot her the finger, then grinned broadly at Mol y and disappeared back into the kitchen. A second later one of the other cooks slipped several plates of food onto the warming racks.
"Don't let him bother you," Kiera said, a smirk on her face.
"He's not," Mol y insisted. "But I'm happy to provide you guys with something else to fight about."
"And we appreciate it," Kiera confirmed, eyes lighting up with mischief. "We truly do."
Mol y shook her head in amusement, then carried her tray out of the shouting and clattering that was the kitchen and into the much more serene environment of the restaurant. The other difference, of course, was temperature. The kitchen was insufferably hot, with so many stoves and ovens going at once. The restaurant and bar area whistled along at a cool seventy-three degrees, according to the thermostat.
As she slipped around a recently hired waiter named Paul and waved at Wendy, the hostess up by the front door, Mol y found her thoughts again drifting back to Artie. For most of high school, the two of them had been inseparable. Then, in April, her sweet, funny guy had been murdered. Surreal as it had seemed then, it was even more so now. For Artie had not been kil ed by a drive-by gangbanger or convenience-store robber. He had been butchered by a race of monsters that had been around before the first man walked the earth.
Monsters. After al she had seen, she stil had a hard time wrapping her mind around that word. But there was no other way to describe them. They weren't were-wolves, though there were similarities. Unlike the werewolves of mythology, the Prowlers had no human core whose basic moral structure might restrict their actions, though some of them lived peaceful y, even benevolently, among humanity.
The rest were just savages, beasts who stalked the human race like lions on the veldt or hunted in packs along the fringes of civilization. Except sometimes they didn't stay on the fringes. A bold pack of Prowlers hunting in the city had kil ed Artie and Kate Nordling, one of Mol y's best friends, as wel as a bunch of other people. The authorities had final y caught up with them, and Mol y and her friend Jack Dwyer had taken down their leader while the police dealt with the others.
But there were more out there. No one knew how many, but it was clear that they existed, scattershot, al over the world, in ones and twos and packs of various sizes. Mol y shuddered at the thought of what might happen someday if they were al brought together. Their knowledge of the Prowlers had put both her and Jack on edge, made them suspicious of everything and everyone.
Jack. He was the other reason she did not know how to react to Tim Dunphy's flirting. Al through the horrors back in April, Jack had been at Mol y's side. He had been Artie's best friend since the two of them were very young, and he was the one who had first discovered the truth about the Prowlers. For her safety, Jack and his older sister Courtney, who owned the pub with him, had invited Mol y to live with them and work there.
For safety, she had agreed. Once she was there, even after the crisis was over, Mol y was not about to go home to her drunken, abusive mother and their filthy apartment in Dorchester.
She only had six weeks left to go now before she started classes at Yale in the fal . Not a lot of time, and she wanted to spend it with Jack and Courtney.
She had to wonder if she didn't real y just want to spend that time with Jack. Even wondering fil ed her with horrible guilt. Just a few months earlier her boyfriend had been murdered, and now she felt . . . something, at least, for his best friend. But she could not help it. Jack was her best friend, now. No one had ever known her so wel . Not even Artie.
Which didn't help al eviate her guilt at al .
"Miss?"
Mol y blinked, stopped too quickly and only just managed to keep from letting the dinner tray topple from its perch atop her fingers. She frowned as she glanced at the woman in the booth who had cal ed out to her. Then realization dawned, and Mol y offered an apologetic, self-deprecating grin. The order she was carrying belonged to the three women at that table.
"I'm sorry," she said earnestly as she slipped the plates one by one onto the table. "Just a little preoccupied, I guess."
"No harm done," a diminutive blond piped up from across the booth. "As long as we al get what we ordered. I'm starved."
The other women chuckled, and Mol y joined in.
As she slid the last of the dishes onto the table, she happened to glance over at the bar area. A smal cluster of locals sat at one end, eyes glued to whatever sporting event was on the TV bolted to the wal behind the bar. A few empty stools down from them, however, there sat a man, alone.
Staring at her.
With a quick intake of breath that whistled through her teeth, Mol y turned her attention back to her customers. She forced a smile, al the while feeling the stranger's eyes boring into her from behind.
"Can I get you ladies anything else?" she asked.
One of them asked for an iced tea, but the others practical y ignored Mol y as they dug into their dinners. When she turned around, her gaze ticked involuntarily back to the bar again. The man wore blue jeans and black boots, and a stylishly tight powder-blue T-shirt stretched over a broad, muscular chest. One of his biceps bore a tattoo she could not make out at this distance. His hair was too long and his chin bore several days stubble.
He would have been strikingly handsome if he didn't look so mean, if his eyes didn't burn as he stared at her with a hunger that was almost . . . predatory.
Oh my God, Mol y thought, heart skipping a beat. A horrible thought occurred to her.
Panicked, she glanced anxiously around the pub until she spotted Jack talking to the hostess up front. She dangled the large, round tray at her side as she made a beeline across the restaurant for him. When Courtney was not around, Jack was in charge. But even if his older sister had been t
here, Mol y would have gone to Jack instead.
When he saw her striding toward him, Jack's conversation faltered.
"Mol y, what is it?" he asked.
Her gaze flicked toward Wendy, who instantly got the message and returned to the tal desk the hostess used to take reservations and assign seating.
Mol y purposely positioned herself in the line of sight between Jack and the man - the predator - at the bar. "Don't look right away," she warned him. "There's a man sitting by himself up at the bar who looks a little like a TV star or something. He's staring at me."
A smal smile twitched at the corners of Jack's mouth. "Can you blame him?"
She grimaced. "Not in a good way, Jack. I get a vibe off him. I can't help wondering if he's . . . hunting."
Her friend's face blanched and his eyes narrowed. He was five foot ten and, though muscular, not physical y intimidating. But Jack was stronger than he looked, and when his body tensed, she could feel the coiled power of a much larger man. Jack was not someone to under-estimate. Not at al .
As Mol y watched, Jack glanced past her shoulder. She saw no reaction in his features before he gazed at her again.
"Wish Bil was back from his break," Jack said, voice low and grave. "He'd be able to tel ."
Mol y hesitated a moment, then gave a tiny shrug. "What do we do?"
Jack nodded slowly. Then, without a word, he set off across the restaurant on a direct course for the bar.
The world around him shuddered and seemed to disappear as Jack strode the wood floor of Bridget's Irisk Rose Pub. The voices were gone and the other patrons ceased to exist, until al that remained were the guy at the bar and the music that lingered in the air.
Adrenaline rushed through him, and Jack nearly quivered with it. His alarms were going off, and he did his best to tone them down. Mol y was right. The guy looked out of place in here, like a model or an actor. Too perfect. And cruel, too. That was what disturbed Jack most of al . A powerful-looking guy, out of place, al by himself, and staring at Mol y as though he were the hunter and she the prey.
Laws of Nature -2 Page 1
