by Jason Starr
Praise for
THE PACK
“Guys’ night out takes on a droll new meaning.”
—The New York Times Book Review (summer pick)
“In this tightly written werewolf suspense thriller, crime writer Starr succeeds in keeping readers on the edge of their seats. The book brings werewolves to the streets of New York City and manages to seem completely believable. A great read; recommended for any paranormal suspense fan.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“An unusual, fascinating horror thriller.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Manhattan receives a lustrous varnish of black, black humor in this sly urban fantasy thriller … Starr once again shows a real gift for satiric humor and capturing the contemporary New York scene.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Pack is pure Jason Starr, and it is one of his most gripping novels yet.”
—Spinetingler Magazine
“Smoothly written and tweaked with humor, this urban fantasy supplies a seductive adventure that will appeal to wives as well as husbands.”
—Yahoo! Shine
“Brings a few new elements to the concept and—thanks mostly to Starr’s skills at character and suspense—is an engrossing and entertaining story … [an] alluring blend of supernatural and suspense.”
—Bookgasm
Praise for the novels of Jason Starr
“From the first page … you know things are going to get worse, but you can’t stop reading.”
—Newsweek
“The ultimate page-turner … brilliantly blends psychological and physical suspense.”
—Michael Connelly, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“[Starr] is a hard-knuckled writer [who] seems to have given a lot of thought to those tricky existential notions of fate and free will.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“[A] fearless, pitiless writer … [and] a prodigious talent.”
—Laura Lippman, New York Times bestselling author
“Jason Starr’s got a hip style and an ear for crackling dialogue … [with] characters so real we feel we know them.”
—Jeffery Deaver, New York Times bestselling author
“Starr [is] a terrifically taut writer.”
—The Baltimore Sun
“Irresistible and truly terrifying.”
—Joseph Finder, New York Times bestselling author
“Starr is such a polished writer that once you start reading, it’s painful to tear yourself away.”
—Time Out New York
“Demonic, demented, and truly ferocious, and a flat-out joy to read.”
—Ken Bruen
“Relentlessly clever … mesmerizing … Starr has total control of his plot … an unsettling read, but hard to put down.”
—Booklist
“Starr delivers a wild ride.”
—Publishers Weekly
Ace Books by Jason Starr
THE PACK
THE CRAVING
THE CRAVING
Jason Starr
ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2012 by Jason Starr.
Cover photograph: wolf © Gary Vestal/Stone/Getty Images;
city © Zoran Milich/Photonica/Getty Images.
Cover design by Judith Lagerman.
Text design by Laura K. Corless.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Ace trade paperback edition / June 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Starr, Jason, 1966–
The craving / Jason Starr. — Ace trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-101-58093-6
1. Werewolves—Fiction. 2. Fathers—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.T336225C73 2012
813’.54—dc23
2012001026
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
For Chynna
THE CRAVING
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
ONE
When Diane Coles heard the creaking footsteps in the hallway outside the bedroom, she knew it was one of them coming to get her. She sat up in bed and screamed so loud it hurt her ears, but this didn’t scare away the intruder. The footsteps got louder, and then the doorknob rattled and the door shook. Oh, God, this was it, the moment she’d feared since she’d left New York and moved back in with her parents in Grosse Pointe. He—well, if it was a he—was going to break in and kill her. She had no idea how many of them there were. She knew there were at least a few, including her best friend—well, former best friend—Olivia.
Still shrieking, she grabbed the nearest object, a lamp, yanking the cord out of the wall. Yeah, like a lamp would protect her. Still, she raised it above her head, ready to fling it at whoever, or whatever, came inside.
“Diane, what’s going on? What’s wrong? Diane, open this door right now … Diane.”
It took a few seconds before it registered that it wasn’t one of them after all; it was just her mother.
“Diane, can you hear me?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Diane said, aware of her pulse pounding as if she were in an all-out sprint.
“You can’t stay in there all day again,” Barbara Coles said. “This is ridiculous. You have to get on with your life.”
Diane remained with the lamp above her head for several seconds, then replaced it on the n
ight table. She lay down again in bed and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
“Diane, will you please open the door?” Barbara shook the door a few more times.
“I’ll be right down, Mom.”
“What?” Barbara asked.
“I said I’ll be right down.”
Diane heard Barbara let out a long, frustrated breath, and then her fading footsteps as she marched downstairs.
Diane had been lashing out at her parents since she’d moved home, and she felt bad about it. She was thirty-two years old, but lately she’d been acting like a spoiled, angry fourteen-year-old. She’d thought moving back home would make her feel safe, protected, but if anything, being isolated in a small space had increased her paranoia.
If she knew who exactly was after her, it would make things a little easier—at least she’d know whom to avoid—but it really could be anyone. Maybe it was the dark-haired guy in the black Honda that had been parked in front of her parents’ house the day before, or that older blond woman in the Delta terminal at LaGuardia who’d stared at her weirdly. Or maybe it was the very old guy, maybe ninety years old, who’d grabbed her in front of the apartment in the East Village one evening and said with a foreign accent, maybe German, “You must leave, before it’s too late.” The way the guy had looked at her with his intense dark eyes had scared the crap out of her. Before she could ask him who he was or any other questions, he ran away, with surprising speed for such an old man. Maybe he was one of them, or maybe there were others she didn’t know about, but now she was certain of one thing—she wouldn’t be able to avoid them forever.
Her parents, meanwhile, had no idea about the danger she was in, or the possible danger they were in. It would be so much easier if she were able to open up about it, get some genuine support, but she knew they wouldn’t believe her. They’d have the same reaction as the police; they’d think she was crazy, disturbed, making it all up. Besides, they were getting older—both in their midsixties—and she didn’t want to cause them any stress, especially since her father had had bypass surgery recently. So Diane had no choice but to keep all the stress to herself, and it had been taking its toll. She was losing weight and couldn’t sleep, and her thoughts were so scattered it was hard to focus on anything.
She’d considered leaving Grosse Pointe, but where else would she go? If she stayed with another friend or relative, in Michigan or some other part of the country, she’d be endangering someone else, and she didn’t have money to travel far or stay in a hotel. In New York, she’d been making decent money as a publicist for a financial services firm, but with rents the way they were, she had been barely able to save.
So, for better or worse, Diane was stuck at her parents’ house. During the nearly three weeks she’d been here she hadn’t gone outside at all. Her parents thought she was depressed—which was probably at least partly true—but as far as they knew she’d moved home because of a bad breakup with Steve, a jerk lawyer who’d dumped her with a text message, and because “the whole living-in-the-city thing just wasn’t working out.”
She shuddered as the memory nudged into her consciousness, but she refused to let her mind fully go there. Denial was her new mantra. Maybe it was a dysfunctional coping mechanism, but it had been working so far; after all, at least she wasn’t in a mental institution. She wanted to believe that if she didn’t think about what had happened in New York, the experience would eventually vanish, like a bad dream. Or, maybe if she just stayed in bed and hid her head in the darkness under her pillow, like she’d done when she was a kid on days she didn’t want to get up to go to school, they wouldn’t be able to find her and she would be safe, protected. The flashbacks—in vivid, horrifying detail—were still coming, though, but it had been only a few weeks. Maybe one day she’d wake up and it would all be gone, forgotten completely, as if it had never happened. She couldn’t wait for that day.
Sitting at the edge of her bed, leaning over and kneading her scalp with her fingers obsessively, she’d never felt so out of control. She wondered if this was what insanity felt like. She didn’t think she was insane, but wasn’t that part of the definition of insanity? Didn’t all insane people think they were sane? She was definitely acting insane—staying in bed all day, neglecting her appearance and hygiene, starving herself, virtually paralyzed by extreme paranoia. She had to admit, when she analyzed her behavior this way, as an outsider would, she didn’t seem like a portrait of sanity. While she thought she had a very good reason to be behaving the way she was, if she was insane how could she trust her thoughts? Maybe nothing had happened to her in New York—maybe it seemed like a nightmare because it had been an actual nightmare, or some kind of hallucination. It was true she’d been under a lot of stress lately and had never really adjusted to life in the city. Maybe the breakup with Steve had been the thing that had put her over the edge.
As she continued to rock back and forth, kneading her scalp with her fingertips, she whispered repeatedly, “New York never happened, New York never happened, New York never happened…”
Gradually, she started to believe that there was at least some chance that she’d made it all up, had had some kind of psychotic break, which gave her more hope than she’d had in days. Insanity was a good thing. Insanity could be cured. Insanity would mean that she could get through this. If she just pushed herself, if she stopped being the victim, she could snap herself out of this before it was too late and it took over completely.
She went downstairs, apologized to her parents, and ate all the food her mother put in front of her, even asking for seconds. Already she felt energized, convinced she could get through this.
Practically beaming, Barbara said, “I’m so happy you’re finally eating.”
“You and Dad are right,” Diane said. “I can’t live my life like this anymore. I need some things at the drugstore. Can I borrow your car?”
“Of course you can, sweetie.”
Upstairs, Diane showered—unlike her other showers over the past few weeks, she managed to not see glimpses of that scene from Psycho—and then she put on clean clothes. She felt good. This felt good. If she could just get to CVS and back without having an attack of paranoia, it would be a great start, something to build on. She needed to prove to herself that the danger wasn’t real.
The fear didn’t set in until she was about to leave the house. At the front door she was so dizzy she almost lost her balance and had to grab on to the molding on the wall near the front door so she wouldn’t fall down.
Her father was nearby and said, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Diane said, recovering quickly. “Just tripped on my heels.”
She was wearing clogs, with maybe one-inch heels, so this didn’t really make sense.
“Maybe I should come with you,” Robert Coles said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Diane said, “it’s a five-minute drive, maybe less. I’ll see you soon.”
Barbara came over and said, “Drive carefully.”
“Don’t worry,” Diane said. “I will.”
Diane went outside. It was a perfect November day—bright and sunny, about fifty degrees. Most leaves were gone from the trees and there was the smell of mulch in the crisp, cool air. She was enjoying being outdoors for the first time in days so much that she didn’t get nervous and paranoid again until she was inside her mom’s Ford Fusion. She felt like she was being watched. She looked around quickly in every direction, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there somewhere. Her heart was racing and she felt extremely dizzy, as if she’d just gotten off a merry-go-round. Her father was probably right—she probably shouldn’t be driving a car right now—but she wanted to prove to herself that she could get through this, that this horrible paralyzing fear she’d been experiencing wasn’t permanent.
She repeated out loud: “New York never happened, New York never happened, New York never happened, New York never happened….” and she felt better—well, at least she didn’t feel like she
was going to pass out anymore.
She started the engine and backed out of the driveway onto the quiet, suburban street. Driving away, looking in the rearview mirror, she thought a black SUV, looked like a Lexus, was following her, but then the SUV turned down a side street.
In CVS, Diane hurried to get the things she needed, avoiding making eye contact with anyone. At the checkout line, someone bumped into her from behind and she turned around suddenly, maybe even cocking a fist, and said “Hey.”
Then she saw that the person who had bumped her was an elderly woman with a cane, about eighty years old. The old woman could’ve been one of them, but it wasn’t likely.
“Oh, sorry,” Diane said. Then she closed her eyes and said, “New York never happened, New York never happened, New York never happened.”
When she opened her eyes she saw that the girl working at the checkout counter was looking at her like … well, like she was a crazy person, but this was a good thing. Diane wanted to be crazy. If she was crazy, that meant she was safe.
