There wasn't much by way of a hood on the van, but the thing on the windshield held on just the same. He spied it through the many facets of the ruined windshield, and found that he could not breathe. Movement in the woods off to his left drew his attention, and Phil glanced over to see several huge, bestial figures slipping through the shadows beneath the trees. As one, they trotted into the road toward the van.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Phil Garraty whispered to himself. "It's true."
Something landed on the roof of the van - a heavy thing with claws that clacked against the metal.
"I don't have it!" he cried out, the scream searing his throat.
Silence, as they al paused and gazed at him. And then the quiet was broken by snarls, breaking glass, and rending metal.
CHAPTER 1
The swinging door that separated the dining room from the kitchen of Bridget's Irisk Rose Pub was a portal between two worlds. In the restaurant proper, fans whirled lazily above brass and wood, and the Celtic-rooted melodies of the Chieftains were pumped into the room along with the air-conditioning. Only the steady chatter of the clientele and the bustle of the wait-staff disturbed the tranquility of the scene.
When Mol y Hatcher, empty tray in hand, pushed through the door into the kitchen, it was like diving into chaos. The cooks in the back shouted pleasant obscenities at one another, dishes were clattered, and orders were shouted out. Somehow, the chaos managed to find a kind of focus whenever Tim Dunphy was on duty.
Tim was twenty-three, a powerful y built guy from South Boston who had little patience for fooling around. Mol y had a feeling it was more the respect for Tim's ability to kick the hel out of any one of them rather than his prowess as a chef that made the other cooks obey him. Either way, he ran a tight ship. Loud, yes, and wild, but somehow the orders in his kitchen were fil ed and rarely wrong.
Mol y stood with her back to the wal to let another waitress slide by her. A computer screen to the left showed that order number 0417 was up, and it was one of hers. She slipped her tray onto the counter and scanned the various dishes that were arrayed on the warming racks before her. Swiftly, she gathered the four dishes that comprised her order and turned to go.
"What, you don't even say 'hi' anymore?"
Tray balanced precariously on one hand and hip, Mol y turned to grin at Tim on the other side of the counter.
"Hi, Tim," she replied, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I didn't want to interrupt. You guys are so busy."
"Never too busy for you, Miss Hatcher," he flirted.
Mol y rol ed her eyes, but she knew he would not take it harshly. Though she did not real y know how to handle his advances, that didn't mean she didn't like them. Not at al .
Tim was a mess - greasy face, bandanna tied over his head to keep his hair from fal ing into the food; never mind the odd bump on the bridge of his nose, where it had been broken at least once. A fighter, no doubt. Growing up in Southie, he'd probably not had a chance to be anything else. And with her wild red hair and green eyes, Mol y knew she was Tim's type.
He'd made no secret of that fact. Truth be told, despite his rough edges, she thought he was sort of sweet.
But it was too soon. Way too soon. After what she'd been through . . . after Artie . . .
"So, y'know," Tim began, "I was thinkin' maybe we could - "
"Leave the girl alone, Timothy Dunphy."
Mol y turned, startled - though not enough to unbalance her tray - and saw Tim's sister Kiera shaking a finger at him. Kiera was also a waitress at the pub, and she and Mol y had struck up a friendship.
"Mind your own damn business, Kiera," Tim snapped, eyes narrowing.
"I make it my business. Why don't you just do your job?"
Her brother bristled. "You oughta learn to keep your mouth shut."
"I kicked your ass when you were twelve, boy, and I'd be happy to do it again."
Tim shot her the finger, then grinned broadly at Mol y and disappeared back into the kitchen. A second later one of the other cooks slipped several plates of food onto the warming racks.
"Don't let him bother you," Kiera said, a smirk on her face.
"He's not," Mol y insisted. "But I'm happy to provide you guys with something else to fight about."
"And we appreciate it," Kiera confirmed, eyes lighting up with mischief. "We truly do."
Mol y shook her head in amusement, then carried her tray out of the shouting and clattering that was the kitchen and into the much more serene environment of the restaurant. The other difference, of course, was temperature. The kitchen was insufferably hot, with so many stoves and ovens going at once. The restaurant and bar area whistled along at a cool seventy-three degrees, according to the thermostat.
As she slipped around a recently hired waiter named Paul and waved at Wendy, the hostess up by the front door, Mol y found her thoughts again drifting back to Artie. For most of high school, the two of them had been inseparable. Then, in April, her sweet, funny guy had been murdered. Surreal as it had seemed then, it was even more so now. For Artie had not been kil ed by a drive-by gangbanger or convenience-store robber. He had been butchered by a race of monsters that had been around before the first man walked the earth.
Monsters. After al
