Lauren Roy - Night Owls

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.

FATHER VALUE 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.