Prowlers - 1 (23 page)

"Eric?"

Carver started and turned to blink in surprise. "Owen. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

A smile played at the edge's of Tanzer's mouth. "Of course not."

Without bothering to mark the page, Carver closed his book and left it on the arm of his chair as he stood. "What can I do for you?"

"I want your opinion."

"I'm sorry?" Carver stared at him as if he had not heard correctly.

"Your opinion, Eric." Tanzer walked farther into the room, then casually dropped into a leather chair. He crossed his arms and stroked his chin with one hand, looking up at Carver thoughtfully.

"We'll be moving on soon. I would have liked to go to New York City next, but things are heating up for us in the Northeast. I'm considering Minneapolis or New Orleans as alternatives. Your thoughts?"

With pleasure, Tanzer noted the thought that Carver gave his question. From his seat he watched the lawyer pace. After a minute or two of contemplation, Carver turned to him. "Why ask me?

I'm not exactly up there in the hierarchy of the pack."

Tanzer frowned. "Why ask you? Because you're intelligent, Eric. You have a clever mind, and there aren't enough of those among us. Where do you think we should go next?"

Carver shrugged with both shoulders and eyebrows. "I wouldn't choose either of those cities, to be honest. If I wanted a hunting ground where I'd be unlikely to be discovered, where I could find plenty of people on the fringes of society and lots of places to hide, I'd go to Los Angeles."

"Interesting," Tanzer replied. "I had thought to work our way across the country, but there is no reason we cannot start at the edges and work our way to the middle. Los Angeles it is."

The lawyer opened his mouth slightly in surprise.

Tanzer thought he looked a bit foolish, a bit too human, but he had learned not to underestimate Carver. Perhaps he was too human, but that flaw was easily balanced out by his virtues.

I’ll want you to work with me on the planning," Tanzer told him.

Carver quickly nodded his agreement. "Yeah. Of course. Whatever you need."

Tanzer sniffed the air. Something had changed. With a silent snarl he sprang from the chair and paced back and forth. He went toward the entrance to the room and sniffed again, felt his nostrils flare in recognition.

He was not at all surprised when Ghirardi suddenly appeared in the doorway.

"Tanzer," Ghirardi said nervously. "Jasmine's back. Something has happened."

"What?" Tanzer asked, eyes narrowed, smelling the fear off Ghirardi. "What has happened?"

'It's something about Dori. She just.. .Jasmine told me to come get you."

"Did she?" Tanzer demanded. He moved closer to Ghirardi, who backed up out of the library into the hall. "Or did you volunteer? Did you think I would not smell you, standing out there listening to this conversation? If your curiosity is not satisfied, Ghirardi, we'll be moving away

from Boston in a week or two. Things are heating up for us."

Ghirardi's expression hardened; his lips set in a tight line.

Tanzer growled, a low thunder building in his chest. "You have something you want to say?"

"I like Boston," Ghirardi snapped. "And the only reason we have to haul our asses out of here now is 'cause you killed that mobster, and 'cause Dori and her crew painted Fenway Park with blood. It's like announcing we're here, screaming to come and get us. A couple of stupid moves, and now we're done here."

A ripple went through Tanzer's entire body, a shudder of furious energy, an urge to strike. His nostrils flared, and he stepped even closer to Ghirardi. His human guise began to give way, just a little. "Did you just call me stupid?"

Ghirardi's eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open. A long breath seeped out of him as though he had sprung a leak. "No, no. That's not what I said." He shook his head back and forth vigorously. 'All I meant was—"

Tanzer's flesh made a kind of crinkling sound as he moved, and his right hand lashed out, gripped Ghirardi's face and slammed his head against the wall. He was all Prowler now, thick lips curled back from fangs. "No, no ..." Ghirardi muttered in terror. At the last moment he knew he had to fight and he began to transform.

Tanzer ripped his throat out. Blood splashed on the carpet. He let Ghirardi's body slump to the floor, then turned to see Carver walk up behind him. Tanzer shuddered as he concentrated, forced his body to change again, forced the growth of skin and the recession of

fur, the restructuring of bone. He hated the false face of humanity, but the ability to transform themselves had always been useful for his species.

Carver stood beside him and glanced down at the rug.

"Sorry about that," Tanzer said.

"We're moving," Carver replied. "I can't really worry about a little stain, now, can I?"

Together they walked down the stairs.

Jasmine met them on her way up. Her eyes were wild, nostrils flaring. She could barely keep her facade in place, keep the Prowler hidden. That was unusual for her, and Tanzer was distressed to see it.

"What's happened?" he demanded.

Jasmine went to Tanzer, pulled him dose, and held him there, her chest heaving with anger and frustration. Her whole body quivered with barely suppressed energy, the need to lash out. She took a few moments to calm herself, and Tanzer waited patiently.

"It's Dori," Jasmine finally said. She pulled back and looked up into his eyes. "She took Brackett and Axel and went hunting. They're all dead. The cops did Dori, but a couple of civilians took out her two boy toys."

Tanzer twitched. "The bodies?"

"The cops took them away. Fast, too, as if they were eager to hide them."

'And the humans who killed Brackett and Axel? Do they still live?"

Jasmine nodded. "They do. But I tracked them to their lair, so I know where to find them."

CHAPTER 11

The window in the living room was open just a few inches. Molly burrowed beneath the sheet and cotton blankets on the pull-out sofa bed and sighed with pleasure. She had come awake slowly, aware of the deli-ciously cool breeze that fluttered the curtains and caressed her exposed face before she had truly risen from her dream-laden sleep. Pleasant dreams, despite all that she had experienced the night before. But they were gone upon waking as if that breeze from the window had carried them away.

For several minutes she lay there, enjoying the warmth of the covers in contrast to the chill of the air. Then the scent of fresh coffee began to permeate Courtney and Jack's apartment, and Molly finally opened her eyes.

Sun streamed in through the windows to form odd geometric shapes on the floor. Though cool, the morn-

ing looked as though it was going to be perfect, the kind of early spring day that would bring people into Quincy Market in droves. Sunday or not, the lunch crowd was going to be heavy at Bridget's Irish Rose today. Molly had been around the place enough to know that.

In the sweats and T-shirt Courtney had lent her, Molly reluctantly got out of bed and went into the kitchen, lured by the aroma of coffee. Jack was nowhere to be seen, but she found Courtney sitting at the table with a fresh cup in her hand and the fat sections of the Sunday Globe spread

out across the table. She had obviously already showered and dressed for work, her sandy blond hair gently pulled back with a pair of barettes.

After the events of the last twenty-four hours, it was a scene so surprisingly normal that it startled Molly just a bit. Then relief spread through her. The world had been forever altered for her last night, but this morning she saw that it had not changed completely.

"Morning," she rasped sleepily.

Courtney glanced up and smiled. "I thought you might be in a coma. Another hour or so and I would have had to call a doctor."

Molly frowned, then glanced at the moon-and-stars clock. "It's just after nine o'clock. Okay, I'm definitely not the early bird, but not bad for a Sunday."

With what appeared to be a bit of surprise, Courtney looked at the clock as well. Then she shrugged. "Guess we're used to getting up early.

There's always something to be done running this place. And you looked so comfy. Chalk it up to my envy talking. Cup of coffee?"