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Authors: Lauren M. Roy

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Night Owls

BOOK: Night Owls
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Nocturnal Premonitions

Val watched until his taillights disappeared at the end of the street. She turned her face to the wind and braced herself. Then she inhaled deeply.

Blood and rot and crawling things. Skittering, slithering. Writhing.
The thickness filled her nose and went straight to her brain, to the place where pure animal fear ruled. She realized that the soft whimpering she heard was coming from her own throat.

Then, just as suddenly as the scent had appeared, it was gone. All the breeze carried now was the dry earthy smell of dying leaves. Her heart slammed; her hands were shaking. Every muscle screamed at her to run as fast and as far as she could.

No.
Even as she thought it, the fear had begun leaching away. Val willed her fists to unclench. Deep breaths, as much to make sure no traces of that horrible scent remained as to calm herself down. For years, she’d been the scariest thing in Edgewood, aside from finals and dissertations.

Now it seemed something new had rolled into town. She hoped it hadn’t come here looking for her.

She’d thought she’d left that all behind.

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

NIGHT OWLS

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Lauren M. Roy.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14564-1

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Ace mass-market edition / March 2014

Cover art by Don Sipley.

Cover design by Erica Neumann.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

For Mom, Dad, and Greg, who have always believed

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I don’t believe a book can be written in a vacuum. Mine certainly wasn’t, and this is a brief (and likely incomplete) list of the people who’ve kept both my oxygen and my ink flowing. A thousand thank-yous, all of you.

Thank you to my editor, Rebecca Brewer, who not only let me keep some of my darlings but also laughed in the right places.

To Miriam Kriss, my rock-star agent, who dug my ensemble cast, saw something neat in the Creeps, and found these guys an amazing home.

To my family at Hachette Book Group, especially the sales force, and
especially
especially the telephone sales team: Erica Hohos, John Lefler, and Lily Goldman. Your support and well-wishes mean so much to me.

To my new family at Penguin Random House and Ace Books. I hope to do you proud.

To my instructors, staff, and classmates from Viable Paradise XVI. This book is stronger because of you.

To Deb Wedding, Becky Kroll, Vonnie Frazier, and Shannon Glass, who were among the first readers to meet the Night Owls crew.

To Marty Gleason, who gets excited on my behalf when I’m trying to be all dignified and restrained.

To David and Matt Finn and Eric Tribou, who’ve been so understanding when game night occasionally gets sacrificed on the altar of deadlines.

Thank you to my crit partner, coconspirator, and friend Hillary Monahan, who said, “What about that thing with the vampire in the bookstore? You should finish that,” when I was flailing for something to write.

To my husband, Greg Roy, for keeping me caffeinated and respecting my writing time even before this transitioned from hobby to career. Thank you for always taking it seriously.

And to my parents, Barbara and Arthur Digan, for indulging my love of Story as far back as I can remember. All those bedtime stories, all those trips to bookstores, led to this. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

1

F
ATHER
V
ALUE HAD
taught Elly everything she knew about living to see another day. His number one lesson, drilled into her over and over since childhood, was:
Never get cornered by a Creep.
Advice she was trying desperately to heed as she pelted down the kind of alleyway that tended to host muggings or murders. She figured if someone popped out of the shadows demanding her wallet, she’d toss it to him and keep running. Maybe the Creep would let her go and gnaw on the thief counting her money instead.

Not likely.
Her knapsack slammed into the small of her back with every jolting step. The item within pretty well guaranteed an extended chase.

Father Value had taught her other things, just as important:
Always carry something silver and pointy.
And,
If one happens to be nearby, virgins make excellent fodder.
Creeps found the flesh of the chaste particularly tasty. It might not be the nicest tactic, but when it was a choice between your own hide and someone else’s, well, she’d been raised as a survivor, not a savior.

Elly had lost her own virginity when she was sixteen. She was never quite sure which desire had been stronger—wanting to get in Billy Chambers’ pants, or wanting to make herself less delectable to the Creeps. It came in handy a few weeks later, though, when Billy became one of them himself right before her eyes. The fact that she’d been deflowered kept him from leaping upon her immediately, and it bought her those few heartbeats she’d needed to reach for her Silver and Pointy and drive it into his chest.

They said you never forgot your first. Every time she thought of Billy, it was his blood on her hands that she remembered, not his come on her thighs. Not so warm and fuzzy, as memories went.

For the most part, she stuck to Father Value’s teachings. After all, they’d kept her alive so far, even if some were steeped more in superstition than in survival. Would the universe really notice if, just once, she didn’t leave three strands of hair on the windowsill during a full moon? Would the Creeps win by default if she just wiped up the salt she spilled and didn’t fling some over her shoulder?

Those were things she probably should’ve asked Father Value to clarify, but she’d never gotten around to it, and now he was dead. The police had declared it an accident, but Elly knew exactly what had killed him. The old man had broken one of his own cardinal rules when it came to the Creeps:
If you have something they want, sometimes it’s best to hand it over.

That way, you had a chance to live another day.

So what could be so important about this damned book that Father Value had died trying to keep it out of the Creeps’ hands?

And how stupid was she, that she’d gone and stolen it back to find out?

Her feet slapped along the pavement, the other end of the alley getting closer with every ragged breath. She felt like she’d been running for hours; her lungs burned, her muscles screamed in protest. But Creeps didn’t get tired like humans did, and if she slowed down now, the one behind her wouldn’t even have to break his stride to scoop her up.

She burst out of the alley, casting about frantically for somewhere to go. During the summer, this strip of the beach road would be filled with tourists until all hours. But Labor Day had come and gone and the clam shacks and clubs closed up early. She didn’t even bother looking both ways as she streaked across the street.

Two choices: the bus stop or the pier, both of them deserted. The bus stop was well lit, but that wouldn’t deter the Creep. The water, though . . .

Elly’s footsteps thumped hollowly along the wooden planks. For a moment, she fostered the impossible hope that the Creep wouldn’t venture out with her at all, that he’d stand at the place where sand met dock and be unable to follow—did the ocean count as running water? Then she’d just have to wait until morning, until the sunrise drove him back to his hidey-hole.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

So much for hope.

Thirty feet on, Elly ran out of pier. She spun around, shrugging the backpack off so it slipped from her shoulders. She held it in one hand, dangling it over the water as the Creep closed the distance.

“That’s close enough.” Too close, in fact. She could smell him—wood shavings and rancid meat, making her want to gag. He wore the hood up on his sweatshirt, so most of his face was in shadow. But the tip of his snout protruded out from it: thin, angular. Sharp-tipped teeth glinting in the dim light. The better to eat her with.

Or tear out her throat,
then
eat her with.

The Creep stopped. He held out his hands and spoke in a dusty, raspy voice: “Give it to me and I’ll let you live.”

“No.” She took another half step back, feeling the edge of the dock beneath her heels. “Leave me alone, or I’ll drop it.”

“Do that and you’ll die.”

She let the bag dip lower, until the tails of the adjustable straps touched the water. “Maybe. But you still won’t have your book. Something that old, it’s not going to survive half a minute in salt water. And you can’t go in after it, can you?” Her heart slammed. She should give it to him. She should give it to him and live another day, just like Father Value had always taught her.

But she remembered Father Value’s broken body, how small he’d looked beneath that sheet. The accident report said the fall had killed him, that all those shattered bones were consistent with a dive from several stories up. Bullshit. The Creeps had worked him over before they’d pitched him over the side. Elly only hoped he’d taken a couple out first. For the thousandth time since it happened, she wondered if things might have been different if they hadn’t decided to split up.

The plan was solid. Even now, she knew she’d have made the same calls as Father Value had.
Plans can go bad, Eleanor.
That was one of his lessons, too.

Was the Creep standing in front of her one of the ones that did it? If he hadn’t pushed the old man to his death, had he been there to witness it? Had he laughed in that dry voice while Father Value’s life bled out on the pavement?

Headlights flashed along the road, their beams reflecting out over the water: the bus, on its late-night circuit. It trundled down the hill toward the stop.

Elly edged to her left, keeping the backpack out over the water. “You stay right here. Take one goddamned step and I’ll drop it.”

The Creep glared. His eyes caught the moonlight, two spots of amber glinting beneath his hood. But he didn’t move to snatch at her as she inched past him and back toward the beach. “We’ll find you,” he said, turning to watch her retreat. “And it will go as well for you as it did for the old man.” Those leathery lips peeled back into a grin. He sounded eager for that day to come. “Always remember you had a choice.”

“Screw you.” She backed up as quickly as she dared, feeling her way along so she wouldn’t have to take her eyes off him. At last, her sneakers sank into the coarse sand. Only then did she put her back to the Creep, as she took off toward the bus.

“Wait! Wait! Oh please, wait.” Father Value had always said she had a hell of a set of lungs. Her voice echoed off the closed-up clam shacks and the shops across the way. With every step, she expected the Creep’s hands on her shoulders, yanking her back. She put on one last burst of speed as she reached the sidewalk, hollering for all she was worth at the idling bus.

The driver heard her. He waited, one hand on the lever that opened and closed the doors, a grin splitting his face. She imagined what she must look like to him, winded and windblown, her mouse brown hair in wild disarray from her run. Her clothes were old and oft repaired, but clean. No one would have called her intimidating at a glance; usually they saw her petite frame and dismissed the possibility of danger altogether. That was usually their mistake. With the bus driver now, it worked to her advantage.

“Didn’t want to say good-bye to your boyfriend until the absolute last minute, eh?”

Fumbling for her wallet, Elly followed his gaze. Out at the end of the dock, the Creep’s silhouette was visible against the moonlit waves. He could have caught her. It wasn’t even a matter of him worrying that the bus driver might see and interfere.
He let me go because they like to hunt.
This was a head start to him, nothing more. She shuddered and fed a fistful of quarters into the collection box.

That had been another of Father Value’s lessons:
Always carry bus fare.

 • • • 

T
HE BUS ROLLED
into Edgewood a little after two a.m. It had picked up a few more passengers after Elly’s frantic boarding, mostly college kids coming off closing shifts at restaurants and coffeehouses. Elly watched them as they pulled out their cell phones and texted their friends or dragged huge textbooks into their laps for some after-hours studying.

She wasn’t much older than they were, and yet their world was so alien to her. She’d tried hanging out with normal kids once, a couple of years before. It had been easy enough to slip into the party, which had overflowed from the house into the street. All Elly’d had to do was walk in the door. Whenever anyone asked, she’d said she was “Mark’s friend.” No one had challenged her, which meant either there really was a Mark, or the other partygoers were also only loosely acquainted with the house owners.

She’d lasted maybe ten minutes.

She’d walked into the kitchen and plucked a beer out of a basin filled with ice. She’d stood at the edge of a gaggle of people and listened to the guy in the center holding court. She’d even laughed with the rest of them when he got to the punch line of his story.

But soon enough she found herself eyeing the doors and windows, planning exit routes and scoping out the décor for likely weapons. Silver and Pointy was a reassuring weight along her forearm. Her long sleeves hid the sheathed spike—she couldn’t help but wonder what people would say if they saw it.

She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d need it.

The walls had started closing in then, and from the sidelong glances the others were giving her, she knew she’d gotten twitchy. In the end, she’d deposited her half-drunk beer on an end table and fled out into the night before anyone could question her.

Father Value hadn’t known how to comfort her when she came home with red-rimmed eyes, hiccuping out her story between sobs. Not that she’d expected him to understand. That sort of life hadn’t ever been his.

That was what you gave up, being one of Father Value’s kids: being like everyone else.

Elly managed to hold it together on the bus ride, at least. She’d chosen a seat near the emergency window, the one you could pop out if the bus rolled over or plunged into a lake. If the Creeps decided to descend upon them, she had the instructions to get out of there memorized.

But that wasn’t the Creeps’ MO.

She made sure she was in the middle of the weary pack of late-shift workers when they disembarked in Edgewood. Anything looking to pounce on her would have to go through the coeds first, and while that wouldn’t buy her her life, it’d give her the opportunity for a good running start.

The streets were quiet, for the most part. Light spilled onto the sidewalk halfway down the main drag from a smattering of still-open shops. A coffeehouse, maybe, and probably a copy shop. The college kids shuffled along in that direction, headed for the campus on the other side of town. Elly had to fight the urge to shadow them—there was safety in numbers, and odds were at least one of them was a virgin.

But her destination was the other way, toward the huge white house on the outskirts of Edgewood. With a sigh, she turned away from the cluster of bodies and toward the one place Father Value had said might take her in.

Might.

She practiced speeches as she waited for someone to answer:
I’m sorry it’s so late, sir,
and
I’m sorry to be leading monsters to your door.
But when the silver-haired woman answered, all Elly could manage was, “Um, hi.”

Even though it was almost two thirty in the morning, the woman was dressed in jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled back in a bun. She might have been about to go out for a late dinner or a PTA meeting, to look at her. She regarded Elly with impatience. “Office hours don’t begin until eight, young lady.”

BOOK: Night Owls
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