Prowlersby Christopher Golden
When nineteen-year-old Jack Dwyer's best friend Artie is murdered, he is devastated. But his world is truly turned upside down when Artie emerges from the Ghostlands to bring him a warning.
With his dead friend's guidance and the help of the one person who doesn't think he's insane, Jack learns of the existence of the Prowlers. Under bold new leader Owen Tanzer
When nineteen-year-old Jack Dwyer's best friend Artie is murdered, he is devastated. But his world is truly turned upside down when Artie emerges from the Ghostlands to bring him a warning.
With his dead friend's guidance and the help of the one person who doesn't think he's insane, Jack learns of the existence of the Prowlers. Under bold new leader Owen Tanzer, the Prowlers, already eight packs strong, have united. They move from city to city, preying on humans until they are close to being exposed, then they move on. And unlike werewolves of legend, they aren't human beings whom the moon transforms into wolves...they are savage beasts masquerading as humans.
Jack wants revenge. But even as he hunts the Prowlers, he marks himselfand all of his loved onesas prey.
Read an Excerpt
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 carrying 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 by Boston'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.
"You gonna let this punk talk to me like that?" the drunk sputtered. He tried to stand up straight, make himself a little more imposing in Big Bill's presence. He failed miserably.
"What do you think I should do about it?" Bill asked, amused.
The drunk liked that. Nodded to himself. "You oughta fire 'im, treatin' a customer like that. Dock his pay at least."
Bill shook his head slowly. "I don't think I can do that, my friend."
"Why the hell not?" the drunk said with a sneer.
"For one, Jack's right. Only staff behind the bar, and I can't serve anyone who's obviously so drunk he probably only stumbled in here 'cause the last place stopped serving him. That'd be you. The other reason I can't do that is 'cause Jack here is one of the people who makes the rules and signs the checks. See, he owns fifty percent of this place."
The drunk was dumbfounded, staring at Bill in disbelief, then glancing at Jack, then back at Bill. Jack smiled.
"If I was you, I'd move on out of here without raising a fuss," Bill went on. "See, Jack wasn't kidding about throwing you out. He's a kid, sure enough, and polite as can be, just like his mother taught him, but he'll break you in half if you get in his face. I've seen it happen."
Still smirking, the drunk glanced doubtfully at Jack, who kept smiling. But it was a cold smile, and he was bouncing just a bit on the balls of his feet.
Once, twice, the intoxicated fool opened his mouth to say something. At length, he turned away. "Chrissakes," he muttered under his breath, "all's I wanted was a beer."
Together, they watched him set off for the door. Rather than walk along the bar the easiest way out he weaved in and out among the tables, bumping a chair here and there. Patrons glared at him angrily and two older women watched him aghast as he pushed out the door.
Jack raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "I don't get it," he said. "It's like they see the word pub and think it's somewhere they can drink till they puke. I mean, c'mon, have a look around. This is a nice place."
With a sigh, he looked up at Bill. "Thanks."
Bill nodded, chuckling to himself. "Anytime, tough guy. Now get that beer out of my way and into the ice before I fall over and break an arm."
"Or the floor," Jack muttered, then squeaked a protest as Bill whapped him lightly on the head. "All right, all right. Can't take a joke."
Both of them were grinning.
Bill went back to pulling pints, and Jack started stuffing Bud long-necks into the iceboxes under the bar. He was down there on the scarred wooden floor when Courtney found him.
"Are you hiding down there or working?"
The last of the Buds had been stashed away, so Jack stood up and faced his sister across the bar.
"What's up?" he asked her.
Court was twenty-eight, but looked older, despite the spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. There were lines around her blue eyes and at the corners of her mouth, and she had cut her sandy blond hair to shoulder length a few years back just to save time in the mornings. On their own, Jack knew those things would not necessarily have made Courtney Dwyer look older than her age. But once you added the cane...
Court rapped on the bar with the lion's head on her black cane, which had once belonged to their maternal grandfather, Conan Sears. "Earth to Jack. You're gonna be late."
His hands were damp from the ice and he wiped them on his pants even as his sister's words sank in. "What? Oh, wait, what time is it?"
With a sigh, Courtney held out her watch so he could see the hands. Twenty past seven.
"Damn!" he snapped. "Artie'll be here in ten minutes."
"You'd better change, then. You don't want to be less than beautiful for dear old Artie," Courtney teased.
Jack's head spun. He glanced around the bar, then out onto the floor of the restaurant. It was busy. Waiters and waitresses hustled, faces intent, and up at the front at least a dozen people stood waiting for tables and glaring at Wendy, the hostess on duty.
"I..." His voice trailed off. He glanced at Courtney. "Are you sure you don't need me? It's pretty busy."
A look of mock horror spread across her face. "My God, Jack, I don't know," she said in a fluttery voice, a hint of their late mother's brogue hiding in there. "What do you think, Bill? Can we spare the lad for the night?"
The burly bartender topped off a pint of Bass from the tap, slid it over to a customer, then moved down the bar toward them, looking patiently bemused. "What are you two going on about?"
"Our boy's got a hot date," Courtney told Bill.
Jack sagged against the bar. Nobody could make him feel twelve years old again the way his sister could.
"Oh, really?" Bill said, puffing up his chest and crossing his arms. "And do we get to meet this girl, or are you hiding her from us? Not good enough for her, are we? Or is she not good enough for us?"
"Kill me," Jack mumbled, and let his forehead slam down on the bar. He bumped it against the wood several times.
"Her name's Kate," Courtney said. "She's one of Artie and Molly's friends. Has her eye on our Jack, this Kate does."
"Can I go now?" Jack pleaded, forehead still on the bar. He could feel the grain against his skin and a damp spot where someone had set a glass not too long ago.
"I don't know if we can do without you," Courtney replied.
Jack laughed, stood up, and walked out from behind the bar. "I get it, Court. But if the place falls down on you, don't blame me."
"Be a gentleman tonight, Jack," Bill called after him.
With a shake of his head and a grin he could not hide, Jack held up his left hand and shot Bill the finger, blocking the gesture from the view of the patrons with his right. "You played professional football, buddy. I've heard about those locker rooms. Don't tell me about being a gentleman."
"Hey!" Courtney snapped, chiding him for real this time. "Watch that."
Jack's only reply was an expression of perfect who-me? innocence.
Bridget's Irish Rose Pub was two blocks from Quincy Market in downtown Boston. Most of the buildings around it were residential, though more businesses had sprung up in storefronts in recent years. Once upon a time the tourists and locals who swarmed Quincy Market had seemed to exist in a kind of box, and the neighborhoods on either side had been invisible beyond the walls of that box.
Over time, however, that had changed. The streets around Bridget's were cleaner, the buildings brighter, and more often than not, couples discovered the place by strolling hand in hand along the sidewalk. In reality, only a small percentage of the Quincy Market crowd wandered down that way, but it was enough to turn a once struggling neighborhood pub into a thriving business.
The transition had taken time. Others might have thought of Courtney Dwyer and her little brother as persistent, but the truth was, they'd had no choice. Bridget's was all they had in life and they'd had to make what they could of it, despite the odds and the mortgages and the times bankruptcy had loomed.
As Jack changed clothes in his bedroom on the top floor of the building he and his sister owned, he looked at the framed picture of his mother on the bureau and silently thanked her. It was a ritual for him, something he did whenever the photo caught his eye.
Nine years she had been dead, but he still lived by Bridget Dwyer's example every day. One look around his room was testament to that. The bed was made, clothes put away, and there was very little clutter except for the stacks of western novels ready to spill out of the overstuffed bookshelf. His mother had taught him that if he could keep his house in order, he could keep his life in order. That was her way of looking at the world. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but it comforted him.
Jack's greatest regret was that she had not lived to see what her little pub had become.
"Wish me luck, Ma," he said, his voice low.
With a light touch to his pockets to confirm the presence of his wallet and keys, Jack left the room. On the stairs he looked at his watch 7:45. He was running late, but not so late that Kate would be offended. He barely knew the girl, but he didn't want her to get the wrong impression. They had met three or four times, when he had been out with Artie Carroll and Artie's girlfriend, Molly Hatcher. Kate was cute but quiet. Apparently not so quiet that it kept her from telling Molly she'd like to see more of Jack, though.
Not a bad thing, he thought.
It was worth a shot, anyway. Through high school, Jack had never dated much because of his responsibilities to the pub and to his sister. But he'd been out almost a year now, and since school was no longer part of the equation, he figured it was time to get himself some kind of social life.
Jack was nervous. He hated it, but there was nothing he could do about it. As he opened the door that led down into the restaurant, he surveyed himself one last time. A shower and a fresh shave; his short, bristly hair barely needed a brush. He wore decent-looking black boots that Courtney had bought him for Christmas, a pair of Levi's, and a white T-shirt under an olive-green V-neck sweater. No jacket. He wondered if it would get cold, but shrugged off the thought. Better to be cold than to carry a coat around if it was too warm.
One deep breath, then he stepped out on to the landing at the top of the steps, locked the door behind him, and went down into the maelstrom of the restaurant. Bud Trainor was taking dinner orders at a table for six. Missy Keane and Kiera Dunphy were going in opposite directions burdened with trays of appetizers, twisting to slide back to back like ballet dancers or synchronized swimmers. Food service as an Olympic event.
Jack glanced around, turned to look back toward the kitchen. The swinging doors were beneath the stairs he had just descended, and he spotted his sister just in front of them, talking to Tim Dunphy, Kiera's brother, who was the best cook they had. He looked agitated and rubbed the stubble on his shaved head as he spoke. The tattoos up and down his skinny arm seemed to dance with the motion.
Courtney shook her head, leaned on her cane a bit more than usual, and flexed her bad leg unconsciously.
With a tiny curse under his breath, Jack hurried toward them. "What's wrong now?" he asked.
"Friggin' Marty," Tim grunted. "Cut his hand 'cause he was drinkin' before work again." He turned back to Courtney. "You gotta fire the guy. Seriously, c'mon. Bad enough some of these guys get in pissing matches 'cause one's from Dorchester and one's from Southie, but I can't use guys I can't depend on."
Courtney's expression was grim. She had never understood how people could hate each other just because they lived in a different neighborhood in the same city. Yet Tim had somehow managed to keep the peace in his kitchen. The least she could do was handle a problem like this. "I'll take care of it."
"Where's Marty now?" Jack asked.
"Went to the friggin' hospital," Tim said, rolling his eyes. "Now I'm short one guy."
Jack looked at Courtney. "I could "
"I'll take care of it, I said!" his sister snapped.
Her eyes were harsh, but Jack knew she was not really angry with him, only frustrated. The words she had not spoken were just as clear as the ones she had: I've been doing this since I was nineteen and you were still in grade school, Jackie. I'm not an invalid.
He took a breath, still concerned, but saw that she would brook no argument.
"Artie's at the bar. He's been waiting for you twenty minutes," she said quickly. "You should go before he breaks into song or convinces Bill to give him a beer just to shut him up."
Jack laughed, then Courtney and Tim joined him, and the tension had passed. They would work something out. They always had. He turned and moved swiftly through the restaurant, dodging customers, servers, and busboys, becoming part of the ballet himself. Artie was sitting at the far end of the bar, near the enormous frosted windows that faced the street. He was eating popcorn from a bowl and jabbering at Bill Cantwell, who was staring at Artie in a combination of amazement and dismay. More than likely, Artie was waxing poetic on one of his many favorite subjects, from gun control to the legalization of prostitution to conspiracies in the U.S. government.
Artie was something else. It wasn't really that those issues meant a lot to him, he just liked to have things to talk about, to get a debate going. That had always been his nature, but even more so since the previous fall, when he had begun his freshman year at Emerson College, studying broadcasting. As Jack approached, he heard Artie's rambling and knew the topic was gun control. He smiled. Artie had been born and raised in downtown Boston, just like Jack. Boston Catholic High School boys. But to look at him less than a year after graduation, one would think he'd been raised in southern California. His blond hair was long now, and shaggy enough that he perpetually needed a haircut. He didn't dress like a surfer. It was April in New England, after all. But the ripped, hooded Boston College sweatshirt he wore with jeans and battered high-tops fit his new persona perfectly.
Artie had always been eccentric, though, so despite the fact that his new look had surprised other friends and even Artie's parents, Jack barely noticed. Artie was just Artie. And his girlfriend, Molly, didn't seem bothered by his quirks either.
"Hey," Jack said.
Without glancing around, Artie threw a kernel of popcorn over his shoulder and it hit Jack in the face. Then he turned quickly, feigning remorse.
"Oh, sorry, bro. Didn't see you standing there." Artie grinned.
"Sorry I'm so late. Things just got "
"Nuts, I know. It happens, man. Just to you more often than others. It's your life, you gotta live it. We oughta get moving, though." When Artie spoke, his sentences all seemed to run together, as if his mouth had gotten ahead of his brain.
Jack looked around. "Where are the girls? Are we meeting them somewhere or "
"Nah, they're double-parked across the street. Didn't think you'd be so backed up. Not that there's any parking around here anyway, right?"
"They've been outside all this time and you didn't think maybe you should tell them I was running late?" Jack asked, thinking Kate was probably ready to go home.
Artie frowned, looked at Jack as though he had been insulted. "Jack, come on. They're smart girls. They'll figure it out. We should go, though. Molly's patience isn't infinite, y'know?"
"She's in love with you," Jack replied archly. "She must be pretty patient, right?"
Artie punched him, slid off the stool, and turned back to Bill Cantwell, who had moved down the bar to hand a pair of sweating Budweiser long-necks to a couple of older guys waiting for a table.
"We'll have to finish our talk another time," Artie called.
"Yeah. Looking forward to it," Bill told him, with a wave and a look that he usually reserved for rambling drunks and madmen.
Together, Artie and Jack walked past the frosted glass toward the front door. Jack felt surprisingly good, despite the weight of the responsibility he was shrugging off for the night. Or maybe because of it. He strolled toward the door with a calm he did not usually feel, as Artie bounced along beside him, rattling with energy as always, muttering "Hey" and "How ya doin'?" to Bridget's staffers he passed, just in case he'd met them before and forgotten.
As he pushed out the door, Jack glanced at Wendy, the hostess. Short-cropped red hair, green eyes, perfect smile, twenty-five. She was on the phone, but when she saw him she held up a finger to get his attention. "Just a moment, sir," she said into the phone. Then she covered the receiver. "Jack, we've got a party of twelve want to get in at eight-thirty. What do you think? You want to carve that kind of space out for that big a reservation?"
Jack opened his mouth to respond, to solve the problem, then shook his head and smiled. "Know what, Wendy? I'm not working tonight. You really should check with Courtney."
With that, he pushed through the door behind Artie and out onto the streets of Boston.
A free man.
Her eyes darted about, scanning the people around her as she moved along the sidewalk, on the hunt. On the prowl. Ready to spring but forcing herself to stay calm, to play it cool, to lurk among the prey, unseen. Her entire body thrummed with the unreleased energy of her carnal desire, her bloodlust.
Where had that scent come from? So enticingly sweet, but only the barest whiff. With a frown, Jasmine paused and lifted her nose just a bit, sniffed the air.
An almost new Toyota was parked illegally a few yards back, hazard lights blinking. The engine was not running, and the front windows were open. Through the windshield, Jasmine could see two girls. Young and tender flesh, perhaps eighteen. No more than twenty. The passenger had wild red hair, past her shoulders, and her laughter as the two girls talked was innocent and warm. The other, the driver, was colder. She was like ice, with short blond hair cut in stylish waves to frame her diamond-cut features. Her voice was full of presumed knowledge and expectation.
She was Vanilla. Her natural human pheromonal scent was masked by some sort of perfume, but it was not offensive to Jasmine's nose the way so many such concoctions were.
Vanilla. She looked cold but smelled sweet. And beneath the ice, the hot, raw vulnerability at the center of all humans.
Jasmine felt a tiny shudder go through her and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled with anticipation. Her flesh wanted to be released, the beast within yearning to be free, but she focused enough to control the urge. Tanzer had taught her well. Her tongue snaked out and slid along her upper lip. She quivered as she took a deep breath and then let it out. After another moment she crossed the dozen feet between herself and the Toyota and crouched by the passenger window.
The girls' conversation faltered and they each shot her a questioning glance.
"Hi!" Jasmine said, light and friendly.
"Hi," the passenger responded hesitantly.
Jasmine inhaled deeply of them, of Vanilla in particular, a smile on her face.
"Do we know you?" Vanilla asked.
"Sorry," Jasmine replied, sublimating her ancient accent as best she could. "I'm just a bit lost. Can you tell me how to find Quincy Market?"
The passenger smiled and pushed her hair behind her ears. "Yeah. You could spit on it from here. You're headed in the right direction. Just...right down there where you can see all the people that's it."
Jasmine thanked them. The girls looked at her oddly, but she did not mind. She had felt an undeniable temptation to move closer, to inhale that aroma. With a tiny, playful wave, she walked on. A moment later she glanced back to see that the girls were once again engaged in conversation and paying no attention to her at all. She ducked into a narrow alley between two aging buildings and headed for the fire escape. The metal ladder was not down, but she easily made the twelve-foot leap to grasp the first landing.
With a quick glance about to see that she was not being watched, Jasmine scrambled soundlessly up the fire escape to the fourth-floor landing, from which she leaped to the roof. Her muscles rolled beneath her flesh as if they had a life of their own, and as she moved she knew that her features and the texture of her skin had changed.
The beast was surging up inside her. She shook it off and moved to the edge of the roof. From there she watched Vanilla and the other girl in the Toyota for another thirteen minutes until two young men walked out of the pub across the street and slid into the backseat of the car. Their scents were interesting as well.
The engine roared to life and the car began to roll off.
Jasmine pursued it. She moved swiftly across the roof, darting with extraordinary speed through the nighttime shadows like a wraith. With a grunt she leaped a sixteen-foot gap between buildings without breaking stride, then continued on.
On the breeze, she scented others in her pack. She tilted her head back and uttered their ancient cry, throat vibrating with it. The others responded, moving toward her through the neighborhood. Below, the car took a right turn. Jasmine sprinted to the far end of the roof and leaped out into open space, arms widespread as she fell to a roof two stories lower. She hit, went down to her knees and rolled, then was up in an instant and running.
By the time her keen eyes detected others of the pack converging, two on the ground and one on the rooftop across the street, she had already identified each of them by scent.
The gray Toyota with Vanilla behind the wheel stopped at a traffic signal, then sped up with the flow of traffic when the light turned green. Jasmine's lips curled back from spiked teeth as she gave voice to the ululations of the pack once more. The breeze whipped her hair, and her legs pumped beneath her, carrying her at inhuman speed across the rooftops of the city of Boston.
The hunt was on.
Copyright © 2001 by Christopher Golden
Meet the Author
Christopher Golden is the award-winning author of many bestselling books including Waking Nightmares, Of Saints and Shadows, Of Masques and Martyrs, and The Myth Hunters. He has also written books for teens and young adults, including Soulless and Poison Ink, and he is the editor of The New Dead: A Zombie Anthology, published by St. Martin’s Press. His novels have been published in fourteen languages. Golden was born and raised in Massachusetts, where he continues to live with his family.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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I really don't know anyone else who has read this series and I have no idea why! These books would wet anyone's appetite who loved adventure, romance, supernatural, monsters, and a plot with plenty of twists. The excitment just keeps building and building. If you are looking for something new, try the Prowlers series!
After finishing PROWLERS, the first book in this series by Christopher Golden, the only question I have is why it's proclaimed to be a young adult read. I guess it's because the main character, Jack Dwyer, is nineteen--but besides their age, there's nothing about this book that would make it strictly for young adult readers!
Jack's life is pretty predictable. Ever since the death of his mother in a car accident that also injured his sister, Courtney, the two have run Bridget's Irish Rose Pub together, making it into the type of pub/restaurant that their mother would have been proud of. Jack didn't attend college after high-school, but he's part owner of the Pub, has a number of friends, and is basically content with his life. He's even gotten a date with Kate, a friend of Molly's, who dates Jack's best friend, Artie.
Life is good, until after their double-date, when Jack and Molly have been dropped off at their respective houses, and things get ugly really quickly. Kate and Artie are found dead--mutilated and brutally murdered. The cops don't know what to make of it, and Jack--along with Molly--are existing in a sort of limbo, trying to come to terms with the death of their friends and loved ones.
And then Artie comes back--as a spirit from the Ghostlands, the place where spirits reside until they're ready to move on--to warn Jack about the Prowlers. Prowlers--monsters in human clothing, a lot like werewolves but different, who prey on humans and who are responsible for Kate and Artie's deaths.
What is Jack supposed to make of this? First, he can suddenly see ghosts. Secondly, there's monsters roaming the streets of Boston, and he feels compelled to bring them to justice. With cops covering up the murders that are soon piling up in town (including a nasty dispatch of some security guards at Fenway Park), Jack has no one to turn to except Molly, his sister Courtney, and the Pub's bartender, Bill Cantwell.
A fast-paced, compelling, thrilling, and often greusome read, PROWLERS was absolutely awesome! Action, the paranormal, the story of love and friendship, all weave together to make this a book you won't be able to put down once you start reading. I highly recommend it, and can't wait to read the next book in the series.
After finishing PROWLERS, the first book in this series by Christopher Golden, the only question I have is why it's proclaimed to be a young adult read. I guess it's because the main character, Jack Dwyer, is nineteen--but besides their age, there's nothing about this book that would make it strictly for young adult readers! Jack's life is pretty predictable. Ever since the death of his mother in a car accident that also injured his sister, Courtney, the two have run Bridget's Irish Rose Pub together, making it into the type of pub/restaurant that their mother would have been proud of. Jack didn't attend college after high-school, but he's part owner of the Pub, has a number of friends, and is basically content with his life. He's even gotten a date with Kate, a friend of Molly's, who dates Jack's best friend, Artie. Life is good, until after their double-date, when Jack and Molly have been dropped off at their respective houses, and things get ugly really quickly. Kate and Artie are found dead--mutilated and brutally murdered. The cops don't know what to make of it, and Jack--along with Molly--are existing in a sort of limbo, trying to come to terms with the death of their friends and loved ones. And then Artie comes back--as a spirit from the Ghostlands, the place where spirits reside until they're ready to move on--to warn Jack about the Prowlers. Prowlers--monsters in human clothing, a lot like werewolves but different, who prey on humans and who are responsible for Kate and Artie's deaths. What is Jack supposed to make of this? First, he can suddenly see ghosts. Secondly, there's monsters roaming the streets of Boston, and he feels compelled to bring them to justice. With cops covering up the murders that are soon piling up in town (including a nasty dispatch of some security guards at Fenway Park), Jack has no one to turn to except Molly, his sister Courtney, and the Pub's bartender, Bill Cantwell. A fast-paced, compelling, thrilling, and often greusome read, PROWLERS was absolutely awesome! Action, the paranormal, the story of love and friendship, all weave together to make this a book you won't be able to put down once you start reading. I highly recommend it, and can't wait to read the next book in the series.
The book was very suspenful , with a surprising ending. I can't wait to read the other two!
One of the best books I have ever read. It was my inspiration for the first full-length short story I wrote. I reccommend it to anyone who enjoys thrillers with a little bit of romance, supernatural bits, science fiction, and realistic characters all thrown in to one.
he needs to stick with the books he does best
I rarely go out looking for a book. I tend to just go and pick one that has an intresting look to it. THat doesn't always work; this time, it did. This really is a good thing to read. If you engoy Buffy, Angel, anyother type of fantasy, you'll like this.
This is such a great book!!! It's very suspencful and has a crazy twist in the end. It's Awsome!! READ IT!!!
i found that the book prowlers was much more dissapointing then i thought to be. It took awhile for the book to get kickin' and took even longer for anything to happen. i wouldn't suggest this book to someone who tires easily