Chapter One
Like a ghost, the framed photo of Jack Dwyer's mother seemed to stare at him from atop his bureau. He caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye and grinned, feeling foolish. On his bed lay several T-shirts and two pairs of denim shorts he had discarded. Jack ran a hand through his unruly hair and then reached up into his closet for a gray Boston Red Sox shirt he had only worn a couple of times. He wasn't a big sports fan, so he always felt like a poseur when he wore it, but he figured it was more interesting than a plain Gap T-shirt and slightly more subdued than the one with the big Batman logo on the front.
Plus the clock was ticking.
From a chair in the corner of the room, he picked up the blue jeans he had tossed there moments before and put them on. Belt, wallet, car keys, then socks and sneakers. As he sat on the bed, lacing up his sneakers, he glanced up again at the picture of his mother, Bridget. She had died when Jack was nine years old, and he wondered if that was why just looking at the photo could make him feel like a child.
He bounced up off the bed and paused briefly in front of the bureau to gently touch the corner of the frame. Though he had few strong memories of his mother, he clearly recalled her standing in his bedroom doorway so many times, trying to get him to hurry and decide what to wear to school that day. More often than not, she had had to decide for him.
It was a rare day off for Jack. Along with his older sister Courtney, he owned and managed Bridget's Irish Rose Pub, their inheritance from their mother. When he was working, the only thing he had to decide was what color his shirt was going to be, for every day he wore one embroidered with Bridget's logo on the breast.
That was simpler, and Jack liked things simple.
At the door, he paused and glanced around the room, feeling as though he had forgotten something. His gaze settled on his nightstand, and he strode quickly back to snatch up the book that lay there, Journal of the Gun Years, a western by Richard Matheson. One last time he patted his pockets to confirm the presence of his wallet and keys, then he strode out of the room.
The Dwyer siblings owned the whole building, and their apartment above the pub consisted of two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room that doubled as a guest room. Lately the "guest room" had become a semi-permanent third bedroom for Molly Hatcher, a friend of the family, though her relationship to Jack and Courtney was far more complicated than that.
Jack poked his head into what had become Molly's room, but she wasn't there.
"Mol?" he said, glancing about the hallway.
"In here."
Her voice had come from Courtney's room. Curious, Jack went across the hall and stood in the open door. Courtney lived a pretty Spartan life, and what she had she kept neat. A bed, a desk and chair, a computer, a bureau. Yet while once her room had looked so empty as to make one wonder if anyone actually lived there, in the past month it had acquired a new sort of clutter in the form of newspaper clippings and internet articles that were pinned on the walls all about the room.
Molly stood beside Courtney's desk and stared at one of the articles. She wore cutoffs that drew attention to her long legs and a light cotton shirt unbuttoned over the green tankini top she wore. Her usually unruly red hair was tied back in a ponytail and she held her hands on her hips as though what she read had made her angry.
"Hey," Jack said. "You ready?"
When she turned, a hint of that anger and frustration remained on her face. Then Molly saw him, and smiled happily.
"Are you sure jeans are the most comfortable beach wear?" she teased.
He shrugged. "I look stupid in shorts."
"You're going to look stupid in jeans. Tell me you at least own a bathing suit. I mean, I know you don't get out much, but -- "
"I haven't been to the beach in a year," Jack confirmed. "But I do own a bathing suit, thank you very much. I'm wearing it under my jeans."
"Good," she said. "Now all we need are beach towels and we can get out of here."
But they both hesitated a moment, the brightness of their conversation dimming somewhat. Jack glanced at the articles on the wall again, and Molly turned to follow his gaze.
"Courtney find something new?" he asked.
Molly studied the wall, hugging herself now. "A lot of little things. Suspicious things in Wisconsin, Louisiana, Quebec...let me see...Arizona, L.A. Mutilation murders mostly, though the Wisconsin one was some builders who found some remains while digging a foundation for a house. Yeah, I'd want my house built there now. Might be Prowler killings or they might be something else."
Jack stepped up behind her and examined the printouts and clippings, the grisly headlines, photographs of the victims alive and well and smiling.
"Chances are, most of them are human killers, and the FBI or the local cops will catch up to them," he reminded her. "But we can't go running around the country every time there's some nasty murder. We're not detectives. If a pattern shows up, or if somebody says they saw a monster, then we'll look into it. We'll fight them when we can find them. But there's only the four of us, Molly, and it's a big country."
Grim-faced, she turned to him. "What makes you think it's just this country?"
Jack nodded. "A big world out there, exactly. We can't be the only people who know the Prowlers exist. There must be others out there who are fighting them."
"We should find those people, then," Molly said, her eyes searching his.
"You're probably right." Jack glanced away a moment, then he studied her curiously. "There's only so much we can do. We have lives to lead. Responsibilities. You're going away to Yale in less than two weeks, Molly. It isn't like you can take off on some hunting trip to Arizona after that."
For a long moment she stared at him and Jack wanted to turn away from the intensity of her gaze, but would not. Molly hated the Prowlers as much as he did, probably more. They had discovered the monsters' existence several months before, when a pack had come to Boston, and Artie Carroll had been one of the first to die.
Jack's best friend.
Molly's boyfriend.
Jack and Molly had always been close, but Artie's death created a new intimacy for them, both in their need to grieve together, and, after the discovery of the Prowlers' existence, in their need to destroy the creatures. Over the ensuing months they had done both, and during that time Molly had left the home of her brutal, alcoholic mother and moved in with the Dwyers.
It simplified things and complicated them all at once. Molly started to work in the pub, they focused their efforts on tracking news stories that might lead them to new Prowlers, and they tried to pretend that their intimacy was not on the verge of becoming something more than friendship. Not that it was a bad thing, these feelings they clearly had for each other, the single kiss they had shared in Vermont a month earlier when they had almost died.
It would have been nice, but Artie had been dead only a few months and Molly was obviously still haunted by his memory.
Jack, on the other hand, was haunted by his ghost.
Shortly after Artie's murder, the ghost had appeared to Jack in the pub after hours, and had touched him somehow, pried open a place in his mind that would allow Jack to see other spirits as well. Lost souls. A spirit world Artie called the Ghostlands. Among those lost and wandering phantoms were many of the victims of the Prowlers. With their help, Jack and Molly had survived, had destroyed a lot of monsters. Molly knew about the Ghostlands, but at Artie's request Jack had never told her that her dead boyfriend's ghost still hung around. He thought she suspected, but she didn't know.
Complicated.
The silence between them lingered too long.
"Yeah," Molly said at last, her voice a hush. "Two weeks and I'll be gone. Then you can have your living room back."
Jack didn't know what to say to that. He clutched the book in his hand and shifted uncomfortably, gave her a little half-smile without knowing what it was for.
"We should go," Molly said at last.
"I'll get the towels," Jack replied. "You've got the radio?"
"In my room. I'll grab it."
They met up again moments later at the door that led down into the restaurant. It was not quite nine o'clock in the morning, two hours before they would open for the lunch crowd. The kitchen staff would begin arriving any minute, and the waiters in less than an hour, but for the moment, Courtney Dwyer was the only other person in the place.
When Jack and Molly went down the stairs, Courtney was sitting at one of the round tables in the restaurant section of the pub. The place was all dark wood and brass rails and Chieftains on the sound system overhead, a quintessential Irish pub, but a little bigger, a little brighter, a little cleaner. Boston magazine had singled them out twice in the past three years, which was good for business.
"Everything under control?" Jack asked as they walked over to the table.
Courtney glanced up at them, a strand of her chestnut hair falling across the freckled bridge of her nose. She blew at it, but then had to brush it back with her hands. She wore a dark green shirt with the pub's logo across the breast, khaki pants, and white tennis shoes. It was a more casual look than she usually wore on the job, but Jack thought it suited her. When his sister dressed more stylishly, it seemed to drain some of the humor out of her.
"I think we're good," she replied. "They cleaned up pretty well last night. Kitchen's stocked, I've already done the ordering. I'm just trying to get next week's schedule out of the way."
Jack laughed. "So what you're saying is, we're not needed at all."
A sly grin spread across Courtney's face. "I won't even notice you're gone."
"I'm deeply wounded," Jack replied, holding a hand over his heart.
Courtney began to rise from the table. She was twenty-nine years old, but with the light spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the mischief that sparkled in her blue eyes, she looked younger. At least until she stood and had to put some of her weight on the lion's-head cane she had inherited from their grandfather. She was young and smart and vivacious, but the accident that had killed their mother had left Courtney reliant upon that cane for the rest of her life, and Jack often wondered if people could see past that.
"Get going already," she told them. "When you come back you can remind me what a beach looks like."
"We'll be back by five or so if you end up needing help on the dinner shift," Jack said.
With a wild grin, Courtney lifted her cane and held it like a baseball bat. "Do I have to chase you two out of here?"
Molly clapped a hand on Jack's back and propelled him toward the door. "Nope," she said. "We're going. The world might crack in two if Jack has a little fun, but we'll risk the apocalypse."
As Jack held the door for Molly, ready with keys in hand to lock it behind them, Courtney called to them from inside.
"Thanks for the warning. You two have fun on your date!"
Jack gaped at her. He saw Molly stiffen a little beside him. For a moment, he fumbled for the words, then yelled back to his sister.
"It's not a date, Courtney. We're just going to the beach."
Courtney stood in the middle of the restaurant, leaning on her cane, her smile insinuating that she knew better. "Whatever you say."
Jack considered protesting again, but didn't want to make too much of it. He locked the doors and then he and Molly walked over to the lot where his old Jeep was parked, Courtney's words hanging awkwardly between them.
The Mustang's engine purred as Dallas guided it up and down the streets of Newton, Massachusetts. On the CD player was a bootleg live recording of the Clash he had taped himself in an earlier era. He'd burned the CD himself, but the quality was crap given the source. Dallas didn't mind the hiss and pop at all.
Seven years had passed since the last time he had been by to visit Valerie and it was going to take him a few minutes to get his bearings. Up in this part of Newton, all the streets pretty much looked the same; huge old Colonials and Victorians were set back from the tree-shaded road. The homes were kept up perfectly, BMWs and Benzes in the driveways, trophy wives walking the dogs or landscaping the gardens for pleasure rather than necessity.
A redhead in a half-tee jogged by with her retriever on a leash and smiled at Dallas as he passed in the restored, blue '67 convertible. He shot her a pleasant grin but kept his attention on the road, looking up and down the streets he passed for Valerie's house.
He sniffed the air as he drove.
His foot tapped the brake and Dallas gazed down one side street. The trees were old and leaned in over the pavement, creating a tunnel of leaves, the road below dappled by shafts of sunlight that slipped through the canopy overhead. Five houses down was a hundred-and-fifty-year-old Victorian painted a sort of rust color, its shutters and trim the hue of brick.
Dallas turned the volume down a couple of decibels and took the right onto Ashtree Lane. He slowed in front of the house, then pulled into the driveway behind a little red MG. There was a recent model Honda next to it. Past the cars he could see the carriage house that was attached to the main structure. Valerie had gutted the place and put a swimming pool inside, but externally the house looked just as it had when it was built. She had owned it once before, in the twenties, and when she bought it again she restored it completely.
Keys jangling in his hand, he popped the trunk and grabbed the single, large suitcase he had brought with him. He whistled as he went up the walk and the stone steps and knocked on the door. A minute passed and he was about to knock again when he caught the scent of Valerie inside, moving toward the door.
It opened, and Dallas grinned. She stood there in a white cotton tank undershirt and matching French-cut panties. Her black hair was cut short and was such a just-rolled-out-of-bed mess that she looked almost punk. Valerie's face was lined and angular, her nose straight and thin, her lips perfect. She smiled at Dallas as though she might like to have him for dinner.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked.
Dallas shook his too-long blond hair back and hefted his suitcase in his hand. "Visiting."
"You have just totally made my week," she said, then punctuated the sentence with a feline yawn and stretch. "Get in here," she said with a toss of her head.
Valerie shut the door behind him. The second Dallas put his suitcase down she threw her arms around him and gave him a quick, sweet kiss before laying her head on his chest. Dallas kissed her forehead and ran his hands over her well-muscled back.
"So what are you really doing here?" Valerie asked.
"Got a local gig," he replied. "In Boston. But I couldn't swing back up this way and not see you."
She drew back and stared up at him, one eyebrow arched. "Cheaper than a hotel."
"There's that," he confessed.
Valerie knew better, of course, well enough that Dallas did not even have to argue the point. They went back a very long way, had shared a great deal. Decades might go by without their speaking, but when they saw each other it always seemed as if only a week had passed.
"Val?"
Dallas looked up at the voice. He had scented the human in the house the second he stepped inside. While he and Valerie were talking, the guy had come softly down the stairs and now stood just across the foyer. He was young, twenty-two maybe, with a severe cut to his dark hair and the kind of strong jaw and facial structure that you usually only saw in old war movies. The guy wore beige cotton pants and buttoned up his shirt as he stared expectantly at them.
"What the hell is going on here?" he demanded.
After the first glance, Dallas did not look at him again. "Still bringing home strays, I see."
Valerie tried to stifle a naughty giggle. "You're awful."
"I just know you," Dallas replied. "You always keep a house pet or two around."
The boy toy with the military jaw had heard enough. He marched across the hardwood floor. "Hey, pretty boy, maybe you oughta let go of her now," he snapped. "Val, who the hell is this guy?"
Valerie ignored him. Instead, she gazed up at Dallas and rolled her eyes. "His name's Paul," she said in a stage whisper. "He's grown a little attached."
"What...what the hell is with you, Val?" Paul stammered, unsure now.
"They always do with you, sweetheart. You're irresistible."
"Flatterer."
"Truthsayer," Dallas replied, shooting her a wounded expression.
"Look, I don't know what this is supposed to be, but I am about through with it," Paul said, his anger returning full force. "I'm talking to you, man." He tapped Dallas hard on the shoulder. "Hey!"
Dallas made a face. "He's really gonna cramp our style."
Valerie took a step back from him, glanced at Paul, then back at Dallas. "No he's not."
"Damn it, Val, do not talk about me like I'm not here! I swear to God you don't want to cross me."
Dallas couldn't help laughing at that one. Valerie held up a hand to cover her own grin, but her face reddened. He loved that little girl quality about her.
"He's funny, I'll give him that," Dallas told her. "Is he traceable?"
"Not really," she replied.
With a nod, Dallas turned toward the fuming man again. Paul puffed up his chest, fists balled in rage, but he had the scent of fear on him, too. Apparently he was bright enough to have realized that there was something going on here other than losing his girlfriend.
"Hi, Paul!" Dallas said brightly.
The guy blinked, startled.
"What're you, an actor?"
Confused, Paul glanced at Valerie and then nodded.
"What is it with you and actors?" Dallas asked her.
"Maybe I just need a little drama in my life."
Dallas sighed. That had always been the issue with Valerie. He was methodical, finding order in things, and she was always the chaos girl. He shrugged and looked at Paul again. The guy had deflated somewhat, thrown completely off track by this new turn in the conversation.
"I've got a new role for you," Dallas told him. "You get to be bait."
Then Dallas began to change, skin tearing and flaking away as the thick coat of fur sprouted from within, muscles swelled, bones popped and realigned. His snout stretched and he bared his gleaming fangs in an amused, savage grin that Paul would undoubtedly see as a snarl.
Paul began to scream.
Valerie only laughed and watched as Dallas lunged at him, claws slashing down, blood spraying the hardwood.
Ogunquit, Maine, was an hour and a half from Boston but worth the drive. Jack had not been to the little seaside village in several years, but it had not changed very much. There were plenty of clothing stores and gift shops in the tiny downtown area, but Ogunquit had none of the crass, jaded atmosphere of Hampton and Salisbury to the south or Old Orchard Beach to the north.
As far as Jack was concerned, the only unpleasant thing about Ogunquit was trying to find parking at the beach. Eventually he had solved the problem by parking in the dirt and gravel lot behind the Betty Doon motel near the center of town and hoping the Jeep wouldn't get towed. He and Molly had walked down to the beach from there.
It was a unique beach, accessible only by a small bridge that crossed a river that ran parallel to the shore and then curved out into the ocean, so that the beach area was shaped like an enormous letter J. The riverside was calm, and there were a lot of families with small children there, a rainbow of umbrellas scattered across the sand.
Jack and Molly had settled on the other side, where the surf was high and the water was almost always cold. The beach was crowded, but they had managed to find a decent spot.
That had been four hours ago.
Now he lay on his stomach on a towel in the shade of the umbrella and enjoyed the heat and the almost tropical breeze. Voices shouted nearby, children screeching as they splashed. Where the tide had receded and left the sand damp, teenagers played Frisbee and fathers flew kites with their children.
Jack had not been so relaxed in what seemed like forever. He was dimly aware of his book still clutched in one hand. Molly lay on her towel only a few feet away. With his eyes slitted open he could see her propped up on her side, facing him, watching the people on the beach, a bottle of cold spring water in her hand. Molly seemed pensive.
"Surrender," Jack said, his voice raspy from lack of use.
She glanced over, obviously surprised to hear from him. "What?"
"Surrender," he repeated. "How often do we get to do something like this? Just relax and do nothing at all? But at the moment your mind is somewhere else. I've gotta say, that seems pretty criminal to me."
A lopsided grin spread across her features. "Sorry. I'll try to reach the nirvana that you're in."
"You'd love it here," Jack told her, his smile a mirror of hers. "So you going to tell me what's on your mind?"
"College."
"Ah," Jack said with a tiny, sage nod. "A lot of new responsibilities. Big changes. Not that I have any idea what I'm talking about. I'm just repeating what I've heard."
"Do you ever regret not going?"
He rolled over on his side. "Never thought about it much, to be honest. I know, that's weird, right? Maybe I should. But I guess I always figured I shouldn't lose any sleep over something that was so out of my control. The pub's a lot of work."
"Courtney would have managed," Molly reasoned. "Hired more staff. I'm sure she would have done whatever it took to make it happen if you had wanted to go."
"I guess," Jack allowed. "But maybe I really didn't want to go. She's the only family I've got, you know? She always stuck by me so I did the same for her. Plus, it was my mother's place." He paused and studied her. "You're lucky, y'know? Okay, it sucks that you don't have any financial support from family, but you can go as far as that brain'll take you. Nothing holding you back."
"You think of the pub as having held you back?"
Jack shook his head. "No. Of course not. It just narrowed my options, that's all. It was my decision. I just had to figure out what my real priorities were. You know what I mean?"
"I think I do," she said, and a thin smile appeared on her face. "You make it sound so easy."
Jack frowned and studied her. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"
"Me? No," Molly replied, dismissing the question out of hand.
Though he wanted only the best for her, Jack could not help being a bit disappointed. The truth was, he wanted her to have second thoughts.
Again, Molly seemed to drift off, lost in thought. She tipped her water bottle up and took a long swig. A radio played an ancient Eagles song a couple of encampments away.
"Want to go in for another swim?" Molly asked.
"Maybe in a little bit." He closed his eyes and lay his head down again, enjoying the breeze and the shouts and the comfort of the heat and sand. Which was when Molly poured the cold water all over his back. Jack let out a shout as he leaped up.
"You're evil!"
"Well, come and get me, then!" she said, and took off down the sand toward the water.
Jack gave chase, and though he fully intended to get her back for the shock of that cold water, he was happy to see that she had shaken loose whatever thoughts had been bothering her.
Molly ran into the water, hurdling waves as it grew deeper, and then dove right in, unmindful of the cold temperature of the ocean. Jack followed, his momentum nearly causing him to trip, but he took a few last long steps and then plunged into the water after her. Molly was maybe six feet away, and he lunged at her. She shrieked almost giddily and tried to dodge him, but was not fast enough. Jack grabbed her by the shoulder, put his other hand on top of her head, and dunked her into the Atlantic even as they were both battered by a high wave.
He barely kept his footing, but he lost hold of her. As he glanced around to search for her again, something tugged on his legs and he went under, sputtering and choking on salt water. Jack scrambled to get his feet beneath him again, and when he stood up, he saw Molly close by. Her grin was even wider as she pushed her wet hair away from her face. The bathing suit clung damply to her in a way that made him want to look again and yet made him feel as though he ought to look away, all at the same time.
Molly tensed as though she had seen that reaction on his face. Her smile faltered and the energy seemed to go out of her.
"Can I ask you a question?" she asked.
"Yeah."
Molly ran both hands through her water-darkened hair, straightening it out. "Is this a date?"
Jack blinked, his mouth slightly parted. He started to speak, then stopped, unsure how to reply. Her eyes searched his for an answer. After a few seconds of fumbling, he slid down into the water and allowed himself to float as he regarded her.
"Do...I mean, do you want it to be?" he asked at last.
"I'm not sure," she said, slipping down into the water just as he had, swimming just a bit to keep afloat. "We never talked about what happened in Vermont, when we...I mean, I think I do, want it to be. But wanting that makes me feel like I'm betraying something."
"Betraying Artie," Jack said.
She nodded.
"I can't help you with that," he went on. Though there were so many things he wished he could say, that he ought to say, for Molly's sake. "Maybe if we had time, that would change things. But I don't want to confuse you, or myself, and you're going away in a couple of weeks."
For a second he thought she was going to argue. Wanted her to argue. But then Molly just started to swim, no longer meeting his gaze.
"Where do you want to have dinner?" she asked.
But Jack did not answer. His attention was riveted on a spot just past her, where a thirtyish man with a toddler on his shoulders waded into the waves. And where the ghost of Artie Carroll, in jeans and a torn sweatshirt, hung above the ocean and beckoned to Jack.
"Artie," Jack whispered.
Molly flinched at the name, then turned to see exactly what Jack was staring at.
Copyright © 2001 by Christopher Golden
