Free Predator and Prey Prowlers 3 by Christopher Golden Page B

she had thought his friend’s spirit had gone on to wherever lost souls went when they weren’t “lost” anymore.
    Bill got it immediately, though. “You said his name. And she heard you,” the bartender said.
    Jack nodded.
    Then Courtney understood. “It had to happen eventually, Jack. I don’t know why you had to keep it from her in the first place. Sure, it would have been hard for her, but this has to be even harder.”
    “It wasn’t my call,” Jack told her, throwing up his hands. “Artie didn’t want me to tell her.”
    For long, drawn-out seconds the three of them stewed with their thoughts on the matter. Down the bar one of the regulars was trying to flag Bill down, but he ignored the guy. Normally Courtney would have chided him, but not right now. Jack needed them and the old barfly, Rollie McKeckern, was not going anywhere.
    “What was so important?” Bill asked.
    Jack raised his eyebrows. “Huh?”
    “Artie had something urgent to tell you. What’s the crisis?”
    As he explained it to them, Courtney shifted uncomfortably on her stool. Any time Jack talked about the spirits he saw, this Ghostlands, it gave her a chill. She thought of her mother and other people she knew who had died and wondered where their souls were.
    Now, though, with this other thing, a monster in the Ghostlands, stalking the phantoms of people who were already dead . . . in some ways it was even more awful than the Prowlers. From the quaver in his voice, she could see that it was unnerving her brother as well, and why shouldn’t it? Jack had grieved for Artie once, and the idea that they still had to be afraid for him, for anyone who had already died, was horrifying.
    Courtney shuddered as Jack told them its name: the Ravenous.
    “Artie wants me to look into it, talk to a priest or, I don’t know, a psychic or something, and see if anyone knows anything about this thing. How to kill it, or at least stop it.” Jack looked at Bill. “You ever heard of anything like this?” Bill shook his head. “Sorry. My . . . my kind of people aren’t much into spirituality. Even the nonviolent ones are usually involved in more . . . physical pursuits.”
    Courtney knew he was talking about other Prowlers who lived secretly among humans, just as Bill did. And what he said made sense. Prowlers were monsters in a way, yes, and directly linked to a lot of old myths and legends. But they were physical creatures, not supernatural beings.
    “You could talk to Father Mike,” she suggested.
    Jack perked up. “Y’know, I never even thought of him. Is he still at St. Mary’s?”
    “I think he’s at St. Anthony’s now.”
    St. Anthony’s was in the North End, a ten-minute walk from the pub.
    “I’m going to go up and take a shower,” Jack said, deep in thought. “Then I think I’ll take a walk over there.”
    Rollie McKeckern was getting agitated down the bar. Bill scowled at the man and went down to get him another beer. When Courtney glanced at her brother again, he was staring at something in the restaurant. She followed the line of his gaze and saw Molly coming down the stairs. Her unruly red hair was tied back in a thick ponytail and she had changed her clothes.
    Courtney started to rise to go over to her. She had no idea what she would say, what she could say that would make Molly feel any better, but she had to try.
    Or she would have, if the girl had even looked her way. Instead, Molly went across the pub and out the door without so much as a glance toward the bar. The sad cast of her features, her face pale and drawn, her eyes hollow, would linger with Courtney for hours.
    The long summer afternoon seemed to stretch the sunlight so that it reached out across the sky and down into the city with a strength and tenacity it lacked any other time of year. The light was golden and perfect, and its warmth ought to have settled into her flesh, making her feel more alive.
    But Molly did not feel warm at all. She felt cold and numb