Free DarkWalker by John Urbancik Page A

right?”
    “Basically,” Jack said.
    “Then why tonight?” Nick asked. “I saw you bash that thing’s head pretty good before it ran off. Didn’t look much like watching to me.”
    Jack didn’t have an answer. He knew perfectly well why he’d protected Lisa.
    “ I know ,” the blind ghost whispered—for Jack’s ears only.
    Nick sheathed his knife. He kept it inside his jacket, out of sight but easily within range. He’d already hidden his gun away. “I think I get it,” Nick said. “I mean, I understand. I’d have done the same thing. Maybe. What’s her name?”
    “Lisa.”
    “Pretty name,” Nick said. “Good luck.” He turned to go, stopped, and said, “Doesn’t explain you, though.”
    “Doesn’t explain what?” Jack asked.
    “Look around,” Nick said. “You tell me.”
    In the trees, Jack saw eyes, yellow and green: owls, three of them, perched precariously on the farthest, thinnest limbs; a cat beneath one of the trees; another on the paved path. Shadows swam within themselves. A snake, wound around a branch of the tree, lifted its head to meet Jack’s gaze.
    “You’re being watched,” Nick said.
    “It’s never been like this.”
    “And I don’t feel very comfortable in your spotlight,” Nick said.
    Jack suddenly wanted to stop him. What if the night beasts attacked? What if the zombie had only been the first? What if, what if, what if?
    The hunter walked into those shadows, deeper and deeper until the darkness swallowed him.
    4.
     
    Jack Harlow had seen many things in his life, but he’d always felt invisible. On the sidelines. Safe. The hunter had said a word: spotlight . It was exactly right. The world focused on Jack now. Why? How? For how long?
    All Jack wanted was to get back to Lisa, make sure she was okay, kill that damned . . . imp , that’s what it was.
    Names often—but not always—came to him. He didn’t make up errant zombie, or lycanthrope, or revenant. After seeing something, he knew what to call it. Sometimes, he knew things by reputation. Ghosts, vampires, and witches all had stories and legends and myths. Sometimes, Jack knew instinctively which stories had an inkling of truth—like he’d done this before, but so long ago he couldn’t always be certain.
    Imp. That was all he knew. Popular culture had no silver bullets or holy water to deal with such creatures. They were unique to Jack’s experience.
    One of the owls launched into the air. It flew low over Jack’s head before veering away from the lake.
    He walked slowly. Carefully. He made sure every step was light, soft, in the grass, so his feet didn’t tap the asphalt. He watched every shadow. Some shadows lived—or approximated living. They watched and listened, just as Jack did. He carried his laptop loosely in one hand.
    Something had changed, something fundamental. Was it the imp? The Asian vampire chick? The ghost in the club? Or was it the ghost that followed him, even now, clinging to his warmth because she could not see “the light”?
    “Are you still there?” he asked.
    No immediate answer.
    “I know you can’t see me, but I’m still warm, aren’t I?”
    “You are,” she said.
    “You sound young.”
    “I was.”
    “You can’t stay with me.”
    “There is no place else,” she pleaded.
    “There are hundreds of places. Thousands. Millions. But you must leave me.”
    “Why?” She choked on the word, ready to cry.
    “What do you hear around me?”
    “Whispering,” she said, lowering her voice. “Voices. Footsteps. Questions. I hear no words, just the tone.”
    “They’ve been with me since you came,” he said.
    “No,” she said.
    “They have,” Jack insisted. “My life was . . . not ordinary, no, but simple. Always the same. Not since you.”
    “I didn’t bring them,” she said. “I’m not bringing them, am I? I can’t be. They weren’t there from the beginning. When I touched you in the hotel . . .”
    “Touched?” Jack asked.
    She ignored the