Prowlers - 1 (2 page)

Weird smell to the dog, though. He'd noticed that. It was unusual for a house pet to have such a raw odor, such a feral scent. Even as Eric turned the key in the lock at his front door, he tried to shake the smell from his nostrils and could not. He pushed the door open with his knee, left hand clutching his briefcase, right hand holding the keys, and he glanced one more time along the sidewalk toward the old man and the dog with the wild scent.

It wasn't the dog.

A hand that was barely human whipped out from inside his apartment, grabbed Eric by his thick brown hair and painfully hauled him inside. Powerful hands slammed him face first against the door, dosing it. It was too quick for him to get a look at his captor. Huge, powerful hands. He felt the beast behind him, heard it sniffing him, felt the moist heat of its breath on his neck.

Then the hands let him go and he turned to see the beast. Shadows fell across his face, but his green-and-yellow eyes glistened just the same. Wet, like an animal's. The face was hard and stubbled and a trio of identical white scars marred the left side, from temple to jaw. The beast snorted.

Eric pulled himself up to his full height but was still seven inches too short to meet him eye to eye.

It was dark in the stone-and-wood foyer at the base of the tower, but Eric could see perfectly well in the dark. Far better than a human. The beast was not alone. Others were all around him, there in the shadows. One of them, a beautiful black woman with blazing orange eyes and hair dyed blood-red, crouched on the steps. Eric counted seven of them. He sniffed the air and

realized there were more upstairs, in his lair.

A low growl began deep in Eric's chest, but it was cut off instantly as the beast grabbed him again. Thick fingers splayed against his chest and slammed him back against the door. The beast lowered his head to stare at him, green-yellow eyes blazing.

"You know who I am?" the huge creature snarled in a voice like snakes gliding across sandpaper.

Eric could not help himself. He looked down at his shoes, too frightened to meet the cruel gaze.

'Tanzer," he whispered. "You're Tanzer."

"You heard what happened inDetroit ?" Tanzer rumbled.

Shuddering, afraid he might wet himself, Eric nodded. In the dark around him the others shifted, moving closer, circling him. Closing in. The black woman with orange eyes tossed her fiery hair back and grinned, showing her teeth, like a shark's.

Tanzer pressed harder on Eric's chest until he could not breathe. The beast's talons dug in; Eric could feel them through his suit.

"It's going to happen here," Tanzer told him. "What you've been living is a lie. A charade. It's over now."

Eric wanted to balk, wanted to shout "No," tell the beast that he had made this life, carved out his hunting ground. All he could manage was a tiny shake of his head. "This is ... my lair," he said, ashamed at how weak he sounded. "You're not supposed to—"

"Do I need to piss in a corner to mark it?" Tanzer roared. With one swift movement he reached down and unzipped his pants. "Because it is mine, Carver. I bring you the wind and the wild. It can bring you life as you've never known it, or it can hunt and kill and eat you. Call of the wild, boy. What's it to be?"

They were all around him, panting in the dark. Tongues flicked out to lick lips in anticipation. One of them was even drooling. Eric could smell their blood, and the animal scent of them was almost overpowering. The wildness.

Slowly he raised his eyes to Tanzer's. Then he leaned forward, just an inch or two, and threw his head back, exposing his neck. Tanzer opened his massive jaws, hot breath coming fast, and dosed his sharp teeth on the smooth flesh of Eric's throat.

"You are mine," Tanzer told him. 'And we are yours."

He moved away, and one by one, the members of the pack, even the weakest of them, took his

throat in their jaws.

Carver was the lowest in the order of the pack now. But in time he might rise above some of them.

The charade was over. The moon was high.

The beasts were loose.

CHAPTER 1

Glass shattered.

The clientele of Bridget's Irish Rose Pub hushed for a heartbeat to glance in the general direction of the sound. A waitress had dropped a beer mug. Instantly the chatter of the crowd resumed, people tossing back pints of Guinness on draft or digging into steaming, succulent servings of shepherd's pie. Bridget's pub served a hell of a shepherd's pie.

Nineteen-year-old Jack Dwyer hustled the short distance from the huge cooler to the long oak bar, two cases of Budweiser long-necks in his arms. The customers who came to Bridget's tended to want draft, and they tended to want it Irish, or the next best thing. If not Irish, then Sam Adams. But there were still plenty of people to whom Bud was the king of beers. The long-necks were heavy, and Jack had built up considerable biceps and shoulder muscles over the years carry-

ing kegs and cases out of the cooler. He'd never lifted weights in his life, didn't need to.

Still, "strong" was a relative term, and the cases were heavy, and the veins stood out in his arms and neck as he carried the beer toward the bar. Plenty of regulars frequented Bridget's for dinner, but others came in just to drink. Despite the crowd milling about—Saturday nights the pub was packed from mid-April on—he spotted half a dozen he recognized, some he even knew by name.

Jack only saw him in profile, but the goon standing at the end of the bar, blocking his way, didn't look at all familiar. He was maybe six feet tall, which beat Jack by an inch or two, needed a shave, and had slack features that indicated he'd had three or four too many.

"Bartender," the guy said a little too loud.

Over the Saturday night ruckus, nobody heard him except the twentyish couple who sat on the nearest stools waiting for a table. Bill Cantwell was down at the other end of the bar, pulling a pair of pints for a couple of Celtics fans with their eyes glued to the TV bracketed to the wall

behind the bar.

"Hey!" the goon snapped. His hands were on the edge of the bar, his body almost completely behind it now. "Bartender!"

Jack was leaning back, holding the beer cases against his body, putting the weight on his neck and shoulders. The guy was in his way.

"Excuse me," he said, loud enough, but with as little inflection as possible.

The guy rounded on him, wobbly on his feet. He glared blearily down at Jack with his lip curled up, his eyes narrowed. '"Hell's your problem?"

With a sigh, Jack held in the angry retort that was on the tip of his tongue. "Just trying to get the beer through. If you'll give the bartender a second, I'm sure he'll be right with you."

The drunk snorted dismissively, turned around still blocking the way, and called out for the bartender again.

"Hey," Jack said, and he bumped the guy with the cases of beer he was carrying.

Furious, the man attempted to shove him away. Jack slid easily out of the way and the fool stumbled past him. His path was now clear.

"Thanks," Jack said, smiling pleasantly.

"You little—" the guy began, as he reached for Jack.

With a grunt, Jack knocked away the guy's hands with the cases of beer, then put them down on the floor behind the bar with a clank of glass against glass. As he was standing up, the guy reached for him again. Not to take a poke at him, but to pick him up like a rag doll.

Jack slapped his hand away, pointed at him, snarling: "Customers are not allowed behind the bar, sir. The bartender will be with you in a moment. And when he is, sir, he will tell you that you have had too damn much to drink and that you should go home before you get your ass thrown out of here or hauled across town byBoston 's Finest. Sir."

The guy glowered, nodding a bit woozily. There was

spittle on his chin and he clenched his fists and started toward Jack again. Jack tensed, ready for it.

"Is there a problem here?" a deep voice boomed.

Jack paused, let out a breath. The drunk blinked in surprise and looked past him. Bill Cantwell

had finally come closer and now stood with his big arms crossed and his bushy eyebrows pinned together in a scowl. His beard and hair were more salt than pepper these days, but he was still as formidable a presence as he had been when he played center for the New England Patriots fifteen years earlier.