Prowlers: Wild Things Read online

  Jack found that he liked that. He liked it a lot.

  But he did not allow that pleasure to show, did not crack the tiniest smile.

  "He wants peace, Lao. Live and let live. Same as you do," Bill explained. "Nobody who comes to the Lotus has anything to fear from Jack, or from me. Come on, old friend. We're not here to start any trouble."

  A car passed by with pop music turned up loud, somehow out of place here. A short way up the street, a girl stepped out from the darkness of a recessed doorway and strode toward the car as it pulled to a stop. She wore a white shirt tied at the waist to bare her belly and a plaid skirt that would have looked like a school uniform if it had not been so short. She bent to speak softly to the man in the car and then walked around to climb into the passenger's side.

  The distraction caught Jack's attention for mere seconds. When he glanced back at Lao he realized that both the doorman and Bill were staring at him.

  "Is he brave or stupid?" Lao asked.

  Bill chuckled softly. "A little of both sometimes."

  Jack frowned, not liking this turn in the conversation.

  "You turned your back on me, boy. I might have had your life just now," Lao told him.

  "Not if you wanted to survive the night," Jack replied curtly, remembering too late Bill's admonition to keep silent.

  But Lao only smiled and nodded and stepped aside. "Go in, Guillaume. Remember this, though. If there is a mess, you will be the one to clean it up."

  "Agreed."

  With that, Bill led Jack further inside. The door closed behind them and Lao locked it with a metallic clank. The music grew louder the moment they began to descend the stairs and as they entered the club, the swirl of colored light seemed to mute and diffuse everything so that at first Jack could not see well at all. Slowly his eyes began to adjust.

  As they moved through the establishment, Jack found himself disappointed. Down the center of the club was a long oval bar that appeared to be constructed entirely of stainless steel. On one side was a small dance floor upon which several dozen gyrated slowly to techno-punk — or whatever the music was that pumped from the speakers. On the other side, tables and booths where clubgoers sat and drank, perhaps ate something off the traditional Chinese menu.

  Jack had expected something else entirely. He had read stories and heard things about some of the wilder clubs in Manhattan, and even a few illegal after hours things in Boston, where people played bondage games, hurt each other for pleasure, or sat and watched perverse floor shows. He had no idea what he had thought the Lotus would be like, but this was not it.

  The clientele was mostly, but not exclusively Asian. And though there was a kind of grinding, insinuating flavor to the place, as Bill led him around tables and past the bar, Jack at first thought that there was nothing really extraordinary about it.

  Then his eyes adjusted further and the music seemed to grow louder and the lights blurred into one red haze glittering off the eyes of the clientele in the Lotus Club. As he passed, one by one, they sniffed the air and turned to gaze at him. Some of them reacted physically, crouching just slightly as though on guard. Jack felt the hairs on the back of his head prickle and his breathing slowed. He could practically feel all their eyes on him, all those predators.

  And he the prey.

  Then he remembered what Lao had said, and he knew that the roles of predator and prey could easily be reversed, and he felt better. Most of the customers in the Lotus were not even people, but Prowlers, members of an ancient race of shape shifting monsters who could look human, but who would never be human. Their numbers were comparatively few now, and the great packs of olden times dissipated far and wide, hunting the fringes of human society, many Prowlers hunting alone.

  But Bill was proof that there were also those who had given up the old ways, whose only interest was surviving the spread of humanity, living peacefully within that society as best they could. Even for those, however, there was an urge to gather. Perhaps there was no pack for them now, not really, but they felt a desire to draw together, to be amongst their own for a time.

  The Lotus Club was the place where they could do precisely that. Jack knew from his friendship with Bill that there were Prowlers who were not savage killers, but he had never imagined there could be so many of them existing beneath the notice of their human counterparts. So many of the Prowlers in the club were Asian that he had to wonder if the Lotus was the only such place in Boston. And what of the other cities in America . . . and around the world? The implications of that line of thought were staggering to him.

  Bill led the way to a booth in the rear corner of the club, far from the bar and partially shielded from the swirling lights of the dance floor. A thin black man with a white streak in his hair glanced up at them from the booth as they approached. He clutched a tumbler of whiskey and ice in one hand and rapped the table in time with the music with the other. He wore a dark silk shirt without any visible adornment on his clothes or body. And yet there was something about him, the way the bartender and waiters looked his way and the fact that there was no one seated at the adjacent tables, that spoke volumes about the man's power.

  At the edge of the booth, Bill paused and Jack followed his lead. They stood there as the thin man studied them, a slim smile on his face.

  "Hello, Guillaume."

  "Winter," Bill replied.

  The Prowler's dark gaze swung toward Jack. "Why do I think you're Jack Dwyer?"

  You already know I am, Jack wanted to say. He could sense it. Someone had told Winter he was there, or the man had seen him before somehow, but it was not a guess. Winter knew who he was. But this time Jack remembered Bill's admonition and kept silent.

  "Sit," Winter told them. Though he gave them an enigmatic smile, the word was not an invitation. The skin at the edges of the man's eyes crinkled slightly with that smile. Winter sat back in the booth, leather sighing as he moved, and he regarded them.

  "Thank you for coming," Bill said. "I would not have asked you to look into this if I knew of any other way. It's been nearly two months since Dallas died, and I've tapped all my sources in the underground trying to track Olivia down. She just disappeared, Winter. I couldn't turn to anyone else."

  Bill's tone was almost reverent. Jack had never heard him speak that way to anyone before. Though Bill had told Lao that Winter owed him, clearly, it seemed he was not about to remind the other Prowler of that debt.

  Winter barely acknowledged Bill's words. Instead he focused on Jack, who forced himself not to squirm under the intensity of that scrutiny.

  "You really killed Tanzer?"

  Tanzer. The leader of a vicious pack that had ranged up and down the eastern seaboard slaughtering humans with abandon. It had been many months ago now, but the memory was still fresh.

  Jack nodded. "Not alone, but yeah, I killed him."

  "And you took out the sanctuary up in Vermont?"

  Again, Jack inclined his head, but more slowly this time, less willing to lay claim to that particular feat.

  Winter laughed softly. "I wonder how long your luck is going to hold out, Jack. Jack the Giant-Killer."

  The dark-skinned man's eyes were almost mesmerizing. Much as he wanted to tear his gaze away, though, Jack would not. A dozen retorts came to mind but he kept his teeth clamped down on all of them and simply stared back at him expectantly.

  At last, Winter looked away, turned his focus on Bill.

  "Guillaume, I owe you my life," Winter said kindly, almost sadly. "And when I had an opportunity to save your sister's, I failed in that. No matter how far I wander or how many people whisper about me, I will never forget that. You have never called upon me before because you did not want to."

  Bill began to protest but Winter waved his words away.

  "I understand. Truly, I do. I walk a line between this underground world and the surviving packs and yet somehow I stay alive. Somehow." He smiled, and there were a thousand secrets in the lines of his face. "But you should k
now that you could call upon me forever and my debt would not be paid. Claudia's death is a dark cloud upon my heart, just as it is upon yours."

  Winter paused, glanced at Jack, and then looked to Bill again.

  "When her mother died and she realized her father was not going to ever behave toward her the way a father should, Olivia stayed for quite some time with your mother's pack in Quebec. In April of last year she simply left without a word. Weeks later she turned up in New York. She made friends in the underground quickly enough, and word from the wild there is that she wanted to make it in the music business. She played clubs, met all the right people, joined that scene.

  "Six months ago she disappeared. Whispers in the wild say something went bad with the music thing, but I think that's just a cover."

  Bill stared at Winter as though at a loss for words.

  Jack wasn't. "Why?" he asked.

  Winter shot him a questioning glance.

  "I mean why do you think that?"

  The thin Prowler tapped his fingers in time with the music again and when he spoke again, it was to both of them.

  "Jasmine," Winter said calmly.

  "Shit," Jack whispered. Jasmine had been Tanzer's mate, one of the few survivors from the pack he and his friends had destroyed. He knew that she had had a vendetta against them ever since.

  "Jasmine has gathered a new pack in Manhattan," Winter continued. "She hired Dallas to kill both of you and your loved ones. Dallas was concerned for Olivia. Jasmine told him she might be able to help him locate the girl. Maybe that was just blowing smoke, hoping to guarantee his allegiance. But what if it wasn't?"

  "Then Jasmine knows where she is," Jack replied. "No disrespect intended, but we knew that already. It isn't like Jasmine's just going to tell us."

  At his side, Bill shuddered. Jack glanced at his friend and saw that the big man had covered his face with his hands. He ran his fingers through his beard and then turned to Jack.

  "You're missing the point. Just like I missed the point. What Winter's saying is that he thinks Jasmine has Olivia. Took her on purpose, an insurance against me."

  Winter nodded slowly, thoughtfully, fingers still tapping rhythm.

  "Either that," he said, "or Jasmine already killed her."

  The kitchen at Bridget's Irish Rose Pub closed at ten o'clock, but half an hour later there were still a few tables at which patrons lingered over their meals or simply laughed together and shared drinks, not wanting the night to end. The staff, on the other hand, couldn't wait. They had long since begun to wipe down tables and roll utensils inside clean napkins for the next day, careful all the while to avoid making the remaining customers feel rushed.

  Molly Hatcher used a clean rag to polish the brass railings around a corner booth and watched as her friend Kiera Dunphy approached a fortyish couple to ask — for what had to be at least the third time — if there was anything else she could get them. Molly smiled and shook her head. Kiera had a new boyfriend and it was obvious she wanted to get home to him, but if Courtney saw her hovering around customers like that, Kiera was liable to get an earful.

  The bar was still buzzing, though not nearly as packed as it would have been on the weekend, or in midsummer. Nobody had gone so far as to turn the lights up in the restaurant, but by eleven, if any of the tables were still occupied, Courtney would do just that. As it was, the music on the sound system — usually Enya or the Chieftains, something along those lines — had been traded in for an ancient recording by the Allman Brothers Band.

  Molly moved to another booth and sprayed the railing that separated it from the next. She polished it enough that she could see a gleaming, twisted funhouse reflection of herself. A long streak, probably from some child's greasy fingers, remained, and she rubbed at it.

  "Don't get all crazy, Hatcher," came a familiar voice.

  With a soft laugh she turned to find Courtney Dwyer eyeing her curiously. Along with her brother Jack, Courtney had owned and managed the pub since their mother's death ten years before, and yet despite the stress she lived with day to day, it never seemed to show on her face. Though Courtney was a decade older than she was, Molly thought she would still have looked twenty if not for the lion's head cane she relied upon to get around.

  "Hey, it's your place," Molly said. "I just work here."

  "And live here," Courtney corrected. "And always give two hundred percent."

  Molly shrugged, sheepish. Though she and the Dwyers had a great relationship — they were closer to her than any blood relations she had — it was unusual for them to dish out straight compliments without a little sarcasm or teasing to go along with them.

  Courtney smiled, crinkles forming at the corners of her eyes and on her nose where a light spray of freckles lent to the illusion of youth.

  "The rest of the brass can wait. I need a minute," she said. Then she turned and started off toward the back of the restaurant.

  What's this all about? Molly thought. But she picked up her rag and the polish she had been using and followed. Courtney led the way to a curved booth in the rear corner where the head hostess, Wendy Bartlett, sipped from a glass of soda. As they reached the table, Tim Dunphy pushed through the swinging doors from the kitchen, a dishrag in his hands. He wiped them dry as he approached.

  "Hey, boss," he said, running a hand over the stubble on his shaved head. "You wanted to see me?"

  Courtney smiled. "Have a seat, Tim. You too, Molly."

  They did as they were asked. Molly glanced around the table and saw from the expressions on their faces that Wendy and Tim seemed to be just as much in the dark as she was. Courtney was the last to sit, sliding in beside Tim and resting her cane against the table's edge so the metallic eyes of the lion seemed to glare hungrily at them.

  Molly tried not to look at it.

  There was a moment's pause as Courtney took a breath. Molly let her gaze wander to the colorful tattoos on Tim's arms before she glanced back up at her friend and employer.

  "I'm just going to get to it," Courtney announced. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled. "No happy preamble, no pep talk about how great all of you are at your jobs and how much Jack and I appreciate the effort you put in here. Which we do. I should have done this one-on-one, but to be honest with you, I don't have a lot of time for protocol these days. So here's the thing . . ."

  Courtney hesitated a second, and Tim jumped right in.

  "There some kinda problem?" he asked, eyes narrowed, South Boston accent weighted with concern.

  With a mischievous smile, Courtney nodded. "Oh, yeah, Tim. You're all fired. What with you having the kitchen under your tyrannical rule and Molly and Wendy pretty much running the place without Jack and I having to worry about it, I figured the fastest way to bring this place into bankruptcy was get rid of you guys. And, you know, it's always fun to fire someone who lives under the same roof."

  Courtney glanced at Molly and rolled her eyes.

  "You got a wicked sarcastic side, Dwyer," Tim drawled.

  The boss brightened. "Don't I?"

  "So you were telling us how wonderful we are," Molly prodded. "Please continue."

  At that, Courtney sat back in the booth as if a great burden had been lifted from her. She settled in comfortably and took them all in with a glance.

  "It's no secret that Jack and I have been letting some more of the day to day stuff fall to others. After everything that's happened, well . . . other things take up our attention sometimes. Bill manages the bar and he's got a couple of responsible guys working with him. But with us not spending every single waking hour on the floor of the restaurant these days, we've decided to promote Molly to manager."

  Molly blinked and stared at her, mouth open in surprise. Neither Courtney nor Jack had breathed a word about this to her, and repercussions swirled in her mind. She had been working as a waitress at Bridget's for barely six months. Not even. There would undoubtedly be people who thought she did not deserve the promotion, who wondered if she
had gotten it by merit or simply because she was so friendly with the owners. Beyond that, there was her own self-doubt. Do I even have the knowledge and the confidence to manage this place?

  "Hey! Way to go, Hatcher," Tim said. He leaned forward and patted her hand with a conspiratorial wink. "I guess I'll have to watch the flirting now, huh? Don't want to get in trouble."

  Courtney's expression was grave. "As you all know, it's not often you'll find a time when Jack and I are both off the premises, but it does happen. As we get involved in other things, it's also possible that there may be times when neither Molly nor Bill is here. Beyond that, it'd just be nice to know that when we're not on the clock, there are people riding herd on those shifts who can answer questions and make decisions without us. That in mind, I'd like to offer both of you, Tim and Wendy, positions as assistant managers. Not that you haven't been pretty much doing that job all along, but we thought it would carry more weight if it was official."

  Tim seemed genuinely stunned. Molly knew him well enough that she understood. He was a Southie boy, born and bred, a tough Irish guy from a neighborhood that churned them out by the dozens. There was more to Tim than that, evidenced by the way the kitchen staff looked up to him, but he had never graduated from high school and thought of himself, quite simply, as a cook. It was nice to see the light in his eyes when it really sank in what Courtney was asking.

  "No argument here, boss," he said. "I appreciate it."

  Wendy was not so quick to respond. A line of concern had appeared on her forehead. With her new short haircut she looked severe, almost angry. Then she smiled, her face softening.

  "Thanks, Courtney. It's nice to be asked. I just . . . I don't want to be difficult, but what does that mean exactly? You know, with pay and hours and all that?"