Predator and Prey Prowlers 3 by Christopher Golden Page A
Authors: Christopher Golden
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Horror, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, supernatural, Horror & Ghost Stories, Ghosts, Werewolves, Body; Mind & Spirit, Legends; Myths; Fables
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elderly couple with shopping bags scowling in his direction. The crowd on the streets had thinned, but the people that were still there cast him disgusted glances, this guy who had been shouting and slapping at his head and covering his eyes. He knew what they must think, and didn’t care.
He couldn’t see the Ghostlands anymore, could not see the Ravenous. But even as he rose, quivering, to his feet and began to walk out of Downtown Crossing, he was certain he could feel it there, its presence, stalking back and forth across the spirit world, just out of sight. It was searching for him now, Jack knew.
It had his scent.
Courtney had invited him to stay, but Bill had opted to go home. The last thing he wanted to do was overstay his welcome. He slept at her apartment a few nights a week as it was, but he did not live there, and he did not want to make any assumptions. Besides, the mornings after the nights he stayed over she usually slept later than usual, and it added stress to her life to have to rush through her usual ritual to prepare for the pub to open.
So he didn’t stay. But every time he had to go home, when he kissed her good night and let himself out the rear door at the back of the kitchen, he regretted it. Tonight was no exception.
When he had set the alarm on the kitchen door and locked it tight, he slid the pub keys into his pocket and walked down the alley that ran behind all the buildings on Nelson Street. It was used for deliveries and trash pickup, mostly, but it was also the easiest way to get to the small open lot where he, Courtney, and Jack all parked their cars.
The attendant was long gone for the night but he always left Bill’s car where it could be retrieved. It was an Oldsmobile Delta 88, a boat of an automobile he had acquired back when he was playing professional football and held onto ever since. The Olds had its share of dents and rust, but he kept it up pretty well. It was familiar, nicely broken in, and in some ways was just as much a home to him as his apartment.
Bill glanced up at the stars and began to whistle as he strode across the lot to his car. He reached for the door handle, and froze.
Twitching, he stepped back and sniffed the air. A low growl began to build in his chest and he glanced quickly around. He edged along the car, watching the shadows. When he reached the trunk, he saw that someone had popped it with a crowbar or something. His nostrils were filled with conflicting odors, but the stench from the car was clear above all the others.
Bill opened the trunk.
In it lay a human corpse that had been torn apart.
C H A P T E R 5
Bill slammed the trunk.
He started to change, could feel the bones shifting in him, the fur beginning to shoot like needles out from under his false skin, but he took a breath and composed himself. Bill raised his chin and sniffed at the air again, caught the scent right away.
A Prowler scent.
Not that he was surprised. The corpse in the trunk had been torn up by two of his kind; their scents were still on the dead man. But only one of them was on the car. Again, Bill inhaled that odor. It was male . . . and there was something familiar about it. He couldn’t place it, but whoever had left the little present in the trunk of his car was someone he had met before.
His head whipped to the left and another growl, softer this time, escaped his lips. Without a glance back, he sprinted down the alley, all of his senses attuned to his surroundings. The pavement was littered with decaying garbage and oil stains and he avoided them without even glancing down.
The body had been dead a day or more, in his trunk no more than half an hour. But the scent was fresher than that. Minutes.
Whatever had left it there had lingered to watch.
His muscles rippled under the masque of human flesh he wore and he yearned to let the beast out, but not yet. For in seconds he had reached the end of the alley, where it spilled out between two trendy boutiques right
He couldn’t see the Ghostlands anymore, could not see the Ravenous. But even as he rose, quivering, to his feet and began to walk out of Downtown Crossing, he was certain he could feel it there, its presence, stalking back and forth across the spirit world, just out of sight. It was searching for him now, Jack knew.
It had his scent.
Courtney had invited him to stay, but Bill had opted to go home. The last thing he wanted to do was overstay his welcome. He slept at her apartment a few nights a week as it was, but he did not live there, and he did not want to make any assumptions. Besides, the mornings after the nights he stayed over she usually slept later than usual, and it added stress to her life to have to rush through her usual ritual to prepare for the pub to open.
So he didn’t stay. But every time he had to go home, when he kissed her good night and let himself out the rear door at the back of the kitchen, he regretted it. Tonight was no exception.
When he had set the alarm on the kitchen door and locked it tight, he slid the pub keys into his pocket and walked down the alley that ran behind all the buildings on Nelson Street. It was used for deliveries and trash pickup, mostly, but it was also the easiest way to get to the small open lot where he, Courtney, and Jack all parked their cars.
The attendant was long gone for the night but he always left Bill’s car where it could be retrieved. It was an Oldsmobile Delta 88, a boat of an automobile he had acquired back when he was playing professional football and held onto ever since. The Olds had its share of dents and rust, but he kept it up pretty well. It was familiar, nicely broken in, and in some ways was just as much a home to him as his apartment.
Bill glanced up at the stars and began to whistle as he strode across the lot to his car. He reached for the door handle, and froze.
Twitching, he stepped back and sniffed the air. A low growl began to build in his chest and he glanced quickly around. He edged along the car, watching the shadows. When he reached the trunk, he saw that someone had popped it with a crowbar or something. His nostrils were filled with conflicting odors, but the stench from the car was clear above all the others.
Bill opened the trunk.
In it lay a human corpse that had been torn apart.
C H A P T E R 5
Bill slammed the trunk.
He started to change, could feel the bones shifting in him, the fur beginning to shoot like needles out from under his false skin, but he took a breath and composed himself. Bill raised his chin and sniffed at the air again, caught the scent right away.
A Prowler scent.
Not that he was surprised. The corpse in the trunk had been torn up by two of his kind; their scents were still on the dead man. But only one of them was on the car. Again, Bill inhaled that odor. It was male . . . and there was something familiar about it. He couldn’t place it, but whoever had left the little present in the trunk of his car was someone he had met before.
His head whipped to the left and another growl, softer this time, escaped his lips. Without a glance back, he sprinted down the alley, all of his senses attuned to his surroundings. The pavement was littered with decaying garbage and oil stains and he avoided them without even glancing down.
The body had been dead a day or more, in his trunk no more than half an hour. But the scent was fresher than that. Minutes.
Whatever had left it there had lingered to watch.
His muscles rippled under the masque of human flesh he wore and he yearned to let the beast out, but not yet. For in seconds he had reached the end of the alley, where it spilled out between two trendy boutiques right
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