Beneath a Winter Moon

By Shawson M Hebert

Thomas Devereux and his two close companions find themselves stranded on a snow covered mountain after their helicopter crashes. Unable call for rescue, they struggle against the elements in the hopes that help will soon arrive.

They are not alone. Death stalks the mountain in the form of a savage beast thought to exist only in nightmares. A creature whose sole purpose is to feast on human flesh.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawson M Hebert
• Release date: Aug 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9780615392981

Shawson M Hebert

Shawson M Hebert is a retired Army Sergeant who earned a Bachelor's Degree in Computer Information Systems in 2007 from Louisiana Tech University. He is currently employed with a Fortune 500 telecommunications corporation as a Systems Analyst and Web Developer. He lives at home in Louisiana with his family and their two Siberian Huskies. Beneath a Winter Moon is his first novel.Look for his next novel to be released in mid 2011.**Beneath a Winter Moon has been edited, as of August 21, 2010. Previous versions had been reviewed by the author, only**

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Beneath a Winter Moon

By Shawson M Hebert

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Winter Moon Publishing □ West Monroe, LA

Copyright © 2007 by Winter Moon Publishing and Shawson M Hebert. Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Winter Moon Publishing and/or Shawson M Hebert, unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law. Address any inquiries to: Reference Permissions, Winter Moon Publishing, 201 Revere Rd, West Monroe, LA 71291-9471.

ISBN: 978-0-615-39298-1

Everything and everyone in this novel is fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

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For Lori

Thank You!

Preface

About writing:

I started writing when I was eight years old. My first story was a book based on Star Trek. It was twelve pages, written with a number two pencil on college ruled sheets of paper, twenty-eight lines per page, (I believe). I created the cover for the book from white poster board, and am sure that the cover was much better than the story. Anyway, I was hooked from the moment I realized I could make the characters do and say anything that I wanted. They were mine, and they were fun! By 1979 I had switched to typeface by way of my sister’s typewriter. I spent afternoons and evenings banging away at the keys…producing everything from short stories to a, (colossal, at the time), 143-page novel based (again) on Star Trek.

I had not written anything in decades when I decided to give it another go. Something clicked in me a few years ago and I decided that it was time.

About the story:

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by werewolf lore. The half man, half wolf monsters were my favorite among the fabled creatures of the night...and the most terrifying, (as far as I was concerned). Come to think of it, in those childhood days I believed werewolves were absolutely real.

One of my sisters married when I was ten years old and after meeting my new brother-in-law, I was convinced he was a werewolf. As far as I was concerned, he met the criteria perfectly. He had all the symptoms, of which I had memorized after purchasing a book titled, Meet the Werewolf. His eyebrows met to a point above his nose. His middle and third fingers were very nearly the same length, he liked rare steak, wore dark sunglasses, and he was hairy.

I was quite the coward about it all, though. I didn’t have the courage to try to convince my parents. After all, I knew they would not believe me...and I figured that my mom would likely break out her infamous red belt and tan my hide.

My poor sister had married a werewolf and although he seemed nice enough, I just knew we must all certainly be doomed before the end of their visit.

Well, we survived...and it turned out that he was not a werewolf after all, for which I was glad, as I found that I really liked him...(and I had no idea where to find any silver bullets for my pellet gun).

I joke with my wife and kids about belief in werewolves, (okay, I joke with everyone about it), and I still, on occasion, have some terrifying werewolf nightmares—leftovers from an obviously, (as you have just seen), over-zealous imagination as a child. But, I understand that the Rou Garou and/or Loup Garou are purely mythical. Of course, I do.

Sure, there have been thousands burned at the stake after having been found guilty of lycanthropy. Sure, it is widely accepted that God made King Nebuchadnezzar into a wolf as recounted in the book of Daniel. Sure, there are hundreds of reports throughout the world of sightings of these creatures…

But we know they aren’t real. Right?

Right.

Werewolf lore has taken such drastic turns in my lifetime that when I started this book, I knew that I would want to do an about face from what I feel is an unnecessary expansion of the basics...and return lycanthropy back to the ugly, uncontrollable curse that it truly is.

I have had enough of the silly werewolves of Hollywood, for example. With the exception of a very short list of films, most have been—well—silly. I speak of werewolves who flip the bird to its would-be victims, werewolves who form armies to fight for social justice with the hopes that they can get their fair share of representation and station among the ‘elite’ ruling class of the night, and werewolves who morph, day or night, in order to protect certain northwestern American clans from elitist, day-walking vampires who seem to have better lives than mortals could ever hope for. I prefer the werewolf stories of old.

Since I was a teenager, I have had a specific story in mind. That story has changed over the years and indeed, I changed it three or four times just during the two-year effort to put it to paper. What is left of the original story is more complicated than my original, but also more widely inclusive and more involved with the back-story of the evil antagonist(s).

I hope that you enjoy it.

Note: This book has been edited by the author, only.

Shawson M Hebert

Prologue

Scotland 1852

Alastair McLeod awoke with a start at the myriad of loud voices. He squinted. The early morning sun was blinding. Indeed, the harsh rays were painful as his eyes tried to adjust to the bright intrusion. He squinted again and looked into a bright, blue sky bordered by the heads of men whose scowling faces stared down at him.

What is all of this, he wondered. Where was he? What the bloody hell had happened to him? He propped himself up on his elbows, and the scowling faces moved back a bit, but still hovered. The talking heads spoke in a language he did not understand, but one that he realized he should indeed know.

The language was Gaelic and was Alastair’s own native tongue. Had he been raised as a Scot, Alastair would have learned both English and his own language. As it was, he could not understand anything they said. He brushed aside the pang of guilt. He was His Majesty’s man, by God, and he spoke His Majesty’s language—as well as French and Latin. He needn’t feel embarrassed for not knowing the language of peasants.

But…what was happening? He slowly stood up—his bones creaking in protest. The crowd of men parted and a lone voice interrupted a brief moment of silence.

A bit of ale, for you, then, sir?

Finally, a language he could understand. The man behind the voice, a scruffy, brown-toothed peasant, held out a wooden bowl. Ordinarily, Alastair, one of the king’s taxmen, would have slapped the bowl away with impudence—he did not drink from the bowls of mere peasants. However, this was different. He snatched up the bowl without so much as a word and drained its warm, gritty contents. Only then could he summon words from his own parched and sore throat.

What…what is going on? What has happened and where am I?

The crowd, now standing some distance away, lowered their voices at the sound of Alastair’s questions, but their unintelligible speech quickened and took on a more serious tone.

You don’t kin what happened to you of the night past? Nay a thing? the brown-toothed peasant asked.

Of course not, you bloody fool! Alastair snapped. If I remembered…if I knew why I woke up here, he stopped and looked around. Wait—where am I, man? What is happening, here? He paused and then shouted so that the huddled crowd would be sure to hear and know his anger, Have I been waylaid?

The murmurs grew more intense. One of the peasants pointed at Alastair. Alastair looked at the peasant and saw that the man was motioning to his shirt. Alastair looked down at the left side of the blouse to find it completely covered in blood and ripped open. He fainted.

He awoke—and again found that he was in an unfamiliar setting—lying on a straw mattress covered by a stinking wool blanket. He saw his clothes hanging on rafters above him. His shirt had been stitched, washed and hung, free of the gruesome bloodstains, from a rafter over the bed. A woman stoked a fire in a stone hearth, while a man—the same brown-toothed peasant from earlier, rocked back and forth in an ugly rocking chair made from knotted wood. The man stopped rocking and poked the woman’s hip.

She scowled at him, and then noticed that Alastair was awake. She quickly snatched the shirt from the rafters, and then a set of breeches—Alastair’s breeches. Good God, woman… Alastair muttered, realizing that he had been fully undressed. He liked the way the woman looked. She was tall, slender, and not at all ugly. In fact, he had to admit to himself, as he felt a slight tug at his loins…she was quite beautiful. Her jet black hair was striking, the length of it past her lower back. He suddenly longed to press his face into that hair...

My apologies, sir’ the woman spoke in a soft, Scottish brogue. I was told to wash and repair your things, and so I did. She made a shooing motion at the man in the rocking chair, who nodded and opened the door to the small home. We will step out now, so you can make yourself proper. She lifted her tattered dress so that it would not drag the dirt floor as she hurried outside. She glanced back at Alastair and bowed her head as she closed the door behind her.

Alastair dressed in a hurry, putting the woman out of his mind while trying to recall anything that would help put the pieces of this puzzle together. He had been at the Inn, sitting across from the three village elders. They were short on the taxes that were due, and had been begging Alastair to give them another season to make up the debt.

Then, memories became blurry, and some were missing. As he pulled on his breeches, he stopped and looked down at his shirt. He took his right index finger and ran it along the stitching where a large, misshapen, ugly tear had once been. Then he stripped off the shirt, letting his breeches fall back to the floor, and checked his shoulder for injury. There was none. The blood he saw earlier must have been from someone else…and his shirt must have been torn during some event that took place in the Inn’s tavern—perhaps a brawl. God knew that these people were a wild, untamed bunch, as likely to go at one another, as they were to get along.

Something about the pattern of the new stitching bothered him. He stared at the shirt in his hands. The largest tear, which was shaped like that of an upside down horseshoe, seemed ordinary enough—but he looked in puzzlement at a series of holes below the horseshoe shape, six or seven in all. The woman had simply pinched each hole together and stitched them—but the pattern made his skin crawl. It resembled teeth marks.

Then, recollection lit up his mind like the flash of a musket. By God, he had been attacked by something…perhaps a large dog? He replayed the memory over and over, and each time recalled a bit more. The people in the Inn’s tavern began screaming and running about in a panic, some trying to get to the door behind Alastair’s table and some diving behind the small bar in the center of the room.

Alastair had stood up to protest and to see what was happening—no—that wasn’t right. He’d stood up to make for the door when something—some massive, foul breathed thing, had slammed into his back with a huge snarl, forcing him to the floor. He recalled hot, foul breath and thick fur at his throat. He had felt the huge jaws of…the creature clamp down on his shoulder. Was it a wolf? Good Christ! There hasn’t been a wolf in the Highlands for a century! Still, that was his impression.

His mind was wiped clean of any memory short of waking up outside at dawn. He thought that he must have ran outside the Inn to get away from the beast, but then why had he not been taken back inside? And, why was he here in this man’s hovel when he should be in the comforts of his own room at the Inn?

He finished putting on his clothes and shoes and stepped outside into the cool morning to find the man and woman waiting. The young man looked at Alastair, and then at the ground. The woman, obviously his wife, never looked up. She avoided his gaze as she walked back into the house. Alastair waited for the man, who was still standing outside with him, to say something, but the peasant merely continued to stare at the ground. This annoyed Alastair, greatly, and so he said so. He wanted answers.

What is your name, sir? Alastair demanded.

The man finally looked up, trying not meet Alastair’s gaze. I am Camran Shaw, sir.

The peasant’s piercing blue eyes startled Alastair. He had never seen such blue eyes. Ah, good. Well, then, Camran—can you tell me why I am here? I am grateful for your hospitality, he coughed. "Such as it is…but why am I not in my room at the Inn? Where are my belongings? What of my servant and the officer assigned to me? Surely, he should be standing now, outside this very door. Alastair paused, red-faced when Camran made no effort to answer. I must insist that you tell me exactly what happened last night. He paused, and when no answer came, demanded, At once!"

It weren’t last night, sir. It were the past night before.

This revelation stunned Alastair. Do you mean to say that I have been incapacitated for more than a day?

Inca…incapas…? Camran stammered.

Unconscious, asleep, Alastair said gruffly.

Yes, sir. That’s it sir, exactly. We took you in after you collapsed the past day’s morning. You’ve been here, sleeping, ever since. He paused, looking frightened. We took nothing from you, sir…and we made you to drink when you would, and we kept you warm. He pointed at the closed door. My wife stitched up your clothing and then boiled and cleaned them.

Alastair settled a bit, looking back down at the repaired blouse, and then straightening it. Yes, yes. I thank you, Camran, and I do not accuse you. I am merely looking for answers. I recall being attacked by a mongrel of some sort, though it must have been another poor soul that was injured…for I am healthy as an ox. He didn’t give Camran time to answer, Though I admit I cannot understand why I would have slept so soundly and for so long. He looked around, trying to get his bearings and determine just where ‘this place’ was. Now, tell me…what about my servant and my officer?

As for the sleeping, sir—it were a fever. It’s gone now, but it were bad this past day and night. He lowered his eyes. I should not be the one to tell you of your servant and officer, but I cannot deny your insistence, sir. He hesitated, but saw that Alastair would not wait, so he continued. They are dead, sir—killed by the same beast that attacked you.

Alastair’s mouth dropped open. He did not know how to respond. He had known that something was amiss, else his officer would be here, and his servant as well, though undoubtedly the servant was less dependable.

Killed? By an animal? In the Highlands? Alastair was astonished. The nearest things to animal-related deaths up here in these lands were being trampled by cattle or perhaps falling off a horse. Could he take this man at his word? No, no. of course not. He would get to that Inn and learn just what was what. Now, however, he needed to keep calm and deal with what was currently in front of him.

I see. He paused. "Well, truly I do not, but I will come to understand, and so will His Majesty, of that I am certain. He patted Camran on the shoulder. He believed the best course of action at the moment was to keep calm and remain in charge. Your countrymen killed the animal, then?"

Camran looked at the ground. Old Thomas McRae put some holes in it just after it finished with your two officers—but no sire, it weren’t killed.

"I see. How did I come to wake up outside the Inn and not inside—in the tavern where I recall being attacked?

It drug you outside. It were as if it wanted you, especially. By then, your officers were doin their best to get it off you.

The beast killed no one else? Wounded no one else?

Camran shook his head.

I see. Well, it almost appears as though someone purposely sent that thing to meet me. He thought about that for a moment. If someone wanted him dead, then the sooner he got out of here, the better. Well, then, Camran…can you escort me back to the Inn, where I can ask the Keep what the devil is going on with my property?

Aye, sir. I can. He looked down at the ground again, and shuffled some dirt around with his foot. Alastair balked at the homemade leather shoe, and then saw Camran’s reluctance.

Good Lord, man! What is it, now? What have you not told me? What more could there be?

Well, sir. I know you are His majesty’s man, and of a higher station than any man here…

I should say so… Alastair interrupted.

Aye. Well, the thing is…sir, the Innkeeper will not let you come in. Your belongings have been placed outside the Inn, he held up his hands at Alastair’s once more open mouth. …under constant guard, sir. I would not let them bring the property to my home because if anything were missing, I would surely be blamed. I cannot hang, sir. My wife and my young one would starve. He put his hands together as if her were praying to Alastair. I have only done right by you when no one else would. I have taken not a stitch from you. Not a stitch.

Alastair thought that was amusing. Indeed this man had not taken a stitch. In truth, his wife had added a great many stitches.

The amusement quickly passed, however, and now was the time to demand more. "Camran, you will tell me everything, and I do mean everything. I don’t care what you believe or why you believe it. If you do not know the answers, then tell me who does, but I want to know everything that you know." He snapped his fingers.

Camran sighed deeply. Then we best go back inside to sit down, so’s I can tell you proper.

The thought of going back inside the stinking hovel made Alastair shiver. You will tell me on the way to the Inn, by Christ! I will not wait another moment.

Camran shuddered, then bowed. Aye, then. It’s not a long walk, but there’ll be time enough. It is this way. He pointed North, down a muddy road.

After telling his wife they were leaving, Camran and Alastair began walking toward the Inn. I best tell you straight away why the keep will not allow you back in, Camran began, You’ve heard some of the old Highland legends, then, being a Scot and all?

Of course, of course, Alastair lied.

Well, then, you might have heard the legends about the man-beasts?

Hmmmm, well, of course it depends on the beast. I’ve heard tales of the wee folk and of centaurs and of half-ram, half-man…

Och, aye. Well, then, this is a half-man, half-wolf.

Alastair stopped, looked at Camran, and laughed. "Surely, not! Surely, you are not saying that the people of your village think the attacker was a wolf man of some sort?"

Camran stopped and for the first time, looked Alastair in his eyes. It’s not just that, sir. You were bitten…indeed, you were mangled up more than a just a bit. Do you know what that means—or at least what a lot of folk believe it means?

It means you are all out of your minds! Alastair exclaimed. Good Christ! Here I stand, right in front of you—unharmed and in perfect health, and you want me to believe I was bitten by some mythical man-beast two days ago? He stomped a foot. It’s preposterous man! He wagged a finger at Camran. "I don’t know what you and your Godforsaken people are about, but I assure you I will not accept it, nor will I play along. If I find foul play, I promise you that those involved will lose their very heads!"

Aye, sir, I understand, Camran stammered, and that is why I took you in. We would all be punished if you did not return the King. You do not understand, sir…you are still in grave danger so long as you remain here.

That caught Alastair’s attention.

Danger?

"Most assuredly, sir. Why, James McDonald wanted to cut off your head and burn you in a pyre. William McGregor agreed and I assure you that a McGregor hasn’t agreed with a McDonald about anything for a hundred years, sir. And then Duncan Roberts said that the only proper death for you was that you burned at the stake…whilst still alive."

Alastair felt faint again. The green grass on the sides of the muddy road began to swirl and he staggered. Camran caught him. Aye. There, now. He righted Alastair. Now you can see why I helped you. They’d have killed you, for sure. It was only your station, being a king’s man and all, and my oath to watch you night and day until you leave the highlands—well it was the only reason they let you live. If you had been of lesser station, they would not have hesitated long enough for me to protest. Aye, you’d be ash and dust right now.

But…but why, man? Why? What offense have I committed that would have them put their lives, and the lives of their families at risk by doing murder upon me?

They say you will become that which has bitten you.

Good God, but you are all insane. He threw up his hands. You’ve all been overcome and lost your wits to old superstition and nonsense. It’s like a disease that has spread out among you.

Sir, Camran began, "I agree with you. I do not believe the superstition. But I cannot let them know that…and you cannot speak that way to any of the others. They will kill you. You have no officer, and you have no man to help you, save me, and they will sweep me aside easily enough. He took Alastair by the shoulders, and then quickly released him, realizing his offense. You must get your things, man your horse, and leave here in haste and without saying anything. He paused. Do your worst later. Come back if you want, with your king’s men, but please, I beg of you to remember my kindness and that of my family."

Alastair saw that Camran was completely serious and he now believed every word the young man said. This peasant was not crazy—though the others obviously were. A sudden fear washed over Alastair. A fear unlike anything he had ever felt before. He would indeed leave this place as swiftly as he could. He would not aggravate the senses of these backwards, uneducated, superstitious peasants. He would say nothing. He would load his horse and ride out without so much as a word.

They were both silent the rest of the way to the Inn. Camran helped Alastair load the horses, which had been hobbled outside the Inn, with his property and that of his two dead companions. A few men and women came out of the Inn and the small shops surrounding it to glare across the street at Alastair.

Camran held up his hands, a pistol in each. These belonged to your officers, sir. The Keep has seen to it that they have been reloaded.

Alastair took the pistols, cramming one into his sash and the other beneath a strap on the saddle. He mounted his horse and then opened a small leather slot, hidden in the saddle. He pulled out a gold coin and tossed it to Camran. Bury my men, proper, he said in a low voice. It may be that someone will want to retrieve them, however—and that must not be refused. Is that clear?

Camran rolled the coin over in his hand, and tossed it slightly, as if judging its weight. He tried to hand the coin back up to Alastair. Puzzled by this, Alastair wanted to ask why, but his inquiry was cut off by Camran. They burned them, sir. Their bodies have returned to the dust of the Earth.

Sweet Jesus Christ, Alastair moaned. Then, not wanting to stay another moment, he straightened himself up, and pushed Camran’s hand away. You keep that, and tell your wife she has my thanks for the hospitality. He paused, And you do, as well, Camran Shaw. It was the kindest thing that Alastair McLeod had ever said to a man of Camran’s station.

Alastair led his band of horses away, and as he reached the end of the village, he heard a man shout, Beware tonight’s moon, man! For your family’s sake, beware the full moon!

Alastair shuddered. Damned fools, he thought. Soon enough, however, he would return to the backward village, this time with a platoon of English soldiers to deal with each one of these backwards people. Theirs were the ways of the devil—Alastair was sure.

As Alastair rode away, Camran laughed aloud and tossed the coin into the air. Bloody fool, he said, as he watched. King’s man, tax man...cursed man. He saw the look of disgust coming from a shopkeeper. In return, Camran bared his teeth and then spit, staring into the man’s eyes all the while.

Alastair worried that he might not make it to Edinburgh by nightfall, and the thought was especially alarming to him because, being a man alone with three horses and property, he would be an easy target for thieves. He decided that if necessary, as dusk neared, he would stop at the first decent home he could find, and was relieved when he saw the buildings and lamps of Edinburgh just as the sun began to wane on the horizon.

He collected his thoughts as he rode into the town. He decided to wait until morning to report the terrible events of the past few days. Tonight he would reunite with his wife and son, clean himself up, and perhaps start on a written account of his days at the village.

His wife and son greeted him with the same great affection that they had always shown, a reassuring love that Alastair savored and kept close. He was convinced that he and his family were happy and that he was indeed, a good and honest man. The adoration bestowed upon him by his wife and son, even by his own servants on occasion, was what Alastair lived for. He knew he would never rise above the station he currently held, which was a high enough rank, to be sure. Alastair was a tax collector for His Majesty, the only true Scot to hold such a rank in Edinburgh. His specialty was the law, for which he held a degree from Oxford. The position of Tax Collector was the culmination of years of ridicule and hard work, and Alastair was proud of the achievement. Though he hated his father, who had been dead for many years, Alastair had to credit the man. Aonghasan McLeod had forced his family to live as Englishmen, forsaking all things Scot and adapting to every English mannerism and belief, and had he not, Alastair would likely have become a tradesman or artisan, laboring for years to accomplish nothing. Alastair’s mother died when he was young, and there were whispers that she had killed herself after her family disowned her for her marriage to Alastair’s father.

Aonghasan McLeod was a known thief before he reached the age of ten. He lived alone in the dilapidated hovel that had been left to him by his father, a traitor to England. Aonghasan had adored his father in life, but hated him in death. His father, named Aonghas, had died with so many other great men in an uprising against the king. Aonghasan had been left alone with the cattle and chickens while his father had ridden off to battle—never to return. Aonghasan never knew his mother, who died giving birth to him, and, after the death of his father in that great battle where so many of his clan died, there was no family willing or able to take another mouth to feed. Aonghasan, a mere boy of eight, was left to survive…or to die…on his own.

One afternoon, a lucky day for young Aonghasan as he was actually at his father’s old, run-down hovel instead of thieving, a procession of the King’s men arrived on horseback. There were perhaps twenty men, followed by two large wagons carrying several young boys. Alastair thought they came to arrest him and take him to the courts for his deeds, which would surely lead to a hangman’s noose, so he had ran. One of the horsemen promptly caught up with him, hitting him hard on the back of the head with the flat of his sword. He was dragged before the leader of these men, who explained that the King, in his infinite wisdom and mercy, had decided to take in twelve Scottish orphans from the Highlands. They would be brought to Edinburgh, given a home and schooled so that one day they could serve His Majesty and the great country of Scotland.

Of the twelve, five ran away and never were found, four died from various illnesses, and three lived long enough to make it through the tough schooling and the torturous life as a bastard Scot learning how to be English. Aonghasan was successful and became a lawyer, given the lowest possible station and salary of course, but even so, the man was a far cry from the starving thief he had been as a boy.

He married a young girl whom he had met during a clan gathering. He was not there as a clansman, of course, but he had ignored the jeers of his fellow Scots while he wooed the young Alice Camran with his station and his money. Alice’s parents had been more than willing to marry their youngest daughter to Aonghasan, who would take the girl to Edinburgh and give her a decent home.

Within three years, Alice began running away from Aonghasan and back to her family. Each time, she was promptly retrieved, always with the blessing of Alice’s parents. Young Alastair was born, and soon afterward, Alice was found dead, the circumstances mysterious. Thus, young Alastair was raised by his father, Aonghasan, who focused every moment of his free time forcing his young son to act like an Englishman, and forever sever the ties—save his name, which he could not hide—with his Scottish past.

After a long, hot bath—made all the better because his wife attended him, Alastair moved to his small stateroom where he settled into the rocking chair at his desk. He preferred a good, sturdy rocking chair, even while sitting at his desk. He dipped a feathered quill into the expensive ink—true ink, not the cheap, soot filled mess, and began writing a lengthy and detailed report of the past week’s events, focusing, of course, on the past three days.

When he finished, he retired to his bed, where he found he was too exhausted for anything more than sleep. He awoke in the night, unable to return to sleep. He felt strange and feverish, but did not want to wake his wife, so he took great effort to be quiet as he slipped from the bed and made his way downstairs to the kitchen. The robe he wore, though made of the finest imported cotton, felt rough and heavy to his suddenly sensitive skin. He thought of shedding the thing, but realized that he might encounter one of his servants. He grinned at that thought, but resisted the urge, deciding to leave the robe open, instead.

His thirst was incredible, and drank glass after glass of water, standing in the kitchen looking out into the moonlit night. He felt a twinge of fear, as he could not quench the sudden thirst and now even more troubling was his itchy and extremely sensitive skin. He took a pitcher of water, poured it into a small wash-pan, and doused his hands. The itch had suddenly turned to a burning sensation, almost as if his hands were aflame. He resisted the urge to cry out.

Unable to stand the burning pain that overcame his body, Alastair ripped off his robe and threw it to the floor. He looked down at his hands and doubted his sanity when he saw that they were shifting, muscles bulging and fingers seeming to stretch. Then, with a sudden fear unlike any he had felt before, Alastair McLeod realized what was happening to him. The peasants had not been crazy, nor had they been wrong to want him dead. He was changing—into God knows what—but he was changing.

Alastair’s thoughts were now all about protecting his family, from both harm and the knowledge that he was cursed. He knew he would have to run in order to protect them and he didn’t even consider reaching down for the robe as he bolted for the back door. Each stride left him wracked with agony as his body shifted and pulsed with the change. He burst through the door and into the small courtyard, which was brightly lit by the light of the full moon. He tried to reach the gate leading out into the street, but failed, collapsing in misery. Alastair’s last coherent thoughts before darkness overtook him were of his wife and son…and perhaps those very thoughts were their very undoing.

He woke to sunlight shining through a window to his dog, Gerdonny, licking his hands. When he finally managed to open his eyes, he realized he was on the floor in the living area, next to the fireplace. His senses slowly returned and he rubbed at his eyes. He rolled onto his left side, facing the fireplace, and slowly tried to get up.

He realized he was naked and tried to remember why. Had he drank so much last night? Then, as he turned slowly around to view the room, everything came rushing back to him. For what he saw forced the memories to come and he was forced by those memories to understand. The living room was pure carnage. Every tile of the expensive, white marble was covered with thick, drying blood. Amidst the blood were the mangled and partially eaten remains of his wife, his precious son, and their three servants.

Of them all, his wife was the worst. Her body had been hollowed out—her twisted corpse lay on its back with dead eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, her mouth set forever in a scream. Alastair tried to shout with all his might, collapsing to his knees, but no sound came forth. Instead, he convulsed, his mouth open—leaving silence as he tried to cry out in an agony that touched his very soul. He lurched forward and vomited a mass of blood and gore. Something lodged in his throat and he reached for it, pulling and tugging until a long cord-like mass of tissue came free. Gerdonny yelped and ran for the kitchen as Alastair finally stood. Shaking, but determined, Alastair stepped through the blood to reach above the fireplace and take down his father’s sword. He took the arm of his mangled son and dragged him through the blood so that he lay next to his mother’s side. Alastair knelt beside them and wedged the hilt of the sword against the protruding marble frame of the fireplace, then set the tip of the sword against his skin just under the rib below his left breast. He took a deep breath, and then leaned his body forward with all his might. The sword passed under the ribs and pierced his heart perfectly.

When Alastair awoke a few hours later, still amidst the bloody carnage, sword lying beside him, he almost went mad. He ran a bloody hand across his chest. There was the slightest scar where the sword had pierced him, ensuring that he had not imagined the success of the deed. Nevertheless, his body had somehow pushed the sword out and healed itself. The irony was almost too much to bear. Camran Shaw’s words of dismemberment and burning came to him and now he understood. He assumed that, to stay dead, his body would have to be burned. Alastair imagined being caught, hanged, and then buried, only to wake in his casket, forever entombed…perhaps to wake and die over and over through time.

He fled the living room and ran up the stairs and into his master bath. He stood in the Eagle Claw tub and washed the dried, sticky blood from his body. Afterwards, he stood at his closet, looking at his fine clothes. He realized that his rank and popularity would be a hindrance to any plans of escape. After all, his was a well-known face. He went back to the sink, forcing himself to look into the mirror as he shaved off his beard and mustache.

Alastair knew it was a minor miracle that soldiers were not in his house now and if he were to escape Edinburgh, he would need a disguise that left him unremarkable and inconsequential. He used his own underclothes, but left the rest in his wardrobe. He grabbed his leather travel sack from the closet and ran around the bedroom gathering up his wife’s jewelry and any small valuables he could find. He felt a heavy guilt but he was in a panic to preserve his life. He had pushed the powerful wave of suicidal guilt and sorrow away and into a dark corner of his mind. In its place thrived a more powerful instinct—survival.

He took clothes from his servants’ quarters and thumbed through them until he found something he could wear. He felt a pang of disgust as he gazed in a mirror but felt sure that no one would recognize him from a distance…and who would want to come close to or speak to a simple peasant? Men of rank would never bother to speak to a commoner without good reason.

He gathered up all the coin in his home, even those hidden within the servants’ quarters and decided that the small bounty now in his travel sack would get him anywhere he needed to go and still allow him enough comfort and time to establish himself in a lawyer’s trade. Things would be difficult, to be sure, but he would adapt. He would learn what he could about this damned affliction and do what he could to control it. All that he knew now was from childhood stories and would have to do for the moment.

Alastair knew that when the moon was full, he would change. After that, he was unsure, but believed he could only change at night. Silver was supposed to be dangerous, and he would heal from most wounds very quickly—he could not die, as could ordinary men. That thought now exhilarated him and he wondered if he would also stop aging. He was forty-two now, and age had not been so kind to him even allowing for the benefits of his station. Would he remain this age? Could he die of old age? Could it be that he was truly immortal? He found excitement at the prospect…even though it came at a high price.

He refused to allow memories of his wife and son to reach the surface of his mind. If their faces did make it through, he would force them away and focus only on the future. Alastair McLeod, now calling himself Jeremiah Roberts, found a ship to America the next morning and sailed away to leave murder and mayhem behind. He looked into the distant horizon and began planning a new future.

Present Day, Canada

The beast breathed in the cold midnight air as he studied the dark surroundings. For a brief moment, he understood time and felt that too much had passed since he was last awake. For another moment, he was self-aware. He looked down at his huge black hands; long razor-sharp claws extended on each finger, and felt power surge through them. While turning the hands over to look closer at them, blurred images…thoughts of daylight and humans entered his thoughts. He struggled to recollect, but the ability was beyond him. Then, as quickly as the awareness came, it was gone—replaced by a gnawing hunger and an instinct to kill. The beast raised his snout high, making his near seven-foot frame even taller. He huffed icy air through his nostrils and caught a scent. It was distant—how far did not matter—if he could smell their scent, he could find them.

Humans. He could not form the word with his mouth, nor could he summon one of the blurred images that had been at the forefront of his mind only seconds ago...but it did not matter. The urge to track them down was so strong and his abilities so remarkable that the beast did not need images or recollection. The human things were his prey and his instinct was such that nothing else mattered. Not the deep snow on the ground or the freezing temperature. Not the gusting, icy wind or the stinging snow that sailed on it. Not the rocky crags that jutted from the ground, or the mountainous terrain between he and his prey—nor the darkness. Indeed, he thrived on darkness.

What mattered was that he was awake once again and that he was hunting. The excitement he felt knowing that he was to have a human was almost too much for him to bear. He howled with exhilaration, his black, muscled frame shaking as he threw back his head. However, a jolt of inner alertness let him know he should stop the congratulatory howling as his calls might scare his prey and cause them to move farther away. He stopped and opened his eyes as he held his face to the sky a moment longer—and he was captivated by what he saw. The beast stared with an innate veneration at the shiny globe that floated high in the night sky. His jet black eyes reflected the image of the moon so perfectly, that if one were to look into those dark orbs, they could make out its every detail. The beast felt a tug in his chest and did not understand. It was pain, and yet he enjoyed it. It was also a longing so strong that he choked in reverence. Finally, he looked away, back into the forest and began to move. His senses tingled and his heart thumped heavily with excitement. He was filled with elation. Tonight’s hunt was different. Were the beast able to tap into memory, he would know that the man he had been only hours ago had wanted this hunt. The human side of the beast had welcomed the thought of the human prey and so the instinct to hunt was more powerful and the thrill almost tangible.

The heavy winds of the snowstorm were at his back pushing him to move even faster. He grunted as he leapt over a fallen tree, landing gracefully a full ten feet the other side of the tangled branches. Huge canine-like paws thudded softly in the deep snow. The beast did not know, but minutes ago, those paws had been human feet. His legs retained some human form but were now massive and strewn with muscle and a black, oily coat of fur. They were long and powerful, effortlessly propelling the dark form through the snow-covered forest. The upper torso of the creature was comprised of an unnaturally thin waist and a thick broad chest with huge and powerful shoulders. His dark, black eyes were set close together and might have been considered wondrous were they not set on a face of pure horror. He was no longer a man but neither was he wholly an animal and so his head was a jumbled mixture of both canine and human features. Tall, pointed ears twitched and turned, catching sounds that had traveled great distances through the trees. The snap of a branch or the soft sound of clumped snow falling from the branches of an Evergreen. Protruding just below and between the dark eyes of the beast were fierce jaws set within a grotesque canine snout—rows of sharp, pointed teeth, waiting for prey.

The change was complete, and though human features might be recognizable in his monstrous form, nothing of the man remained in the beast’s mind—or in the empty cavity that had once possessed a soul. Driven by instinct, with anticipation and anxiety he picked up the pace, taking longer and fuller strides. Though he was no longer capable of tapping into his human memories, something akin to an image from the past shot through his mind. Synapses fired and a cross between recollection and instinct came together to tell the beast that the huge crag of rock that jutted out of the ground to his left was familiar. He felt this was a place of importance and understood that this was somewhere he was supposed to go—somewhere he had been many times before. Though he could no longer smell his own scent among the rocks, he instinctively knew that this was his place.

The human sent grew stronger and although bursting with need to kill, he stopped and sniffed at the air. Snow whirled around his massive black form as he heaved in breaths, closing his jaws briefly to pull the scent in off the wind. He was close enough to stalk the humans and now the true hunt would begin. There were two of the humans, though numbers did not matter to the creature. Remarkably, the beast recognized the scent of both of the men and instinctively chose his first victim. The monstrous head snapped back as the beast raised his face to the sky—then checked, realizing he was too close. They would be aware of him. They would be warned--and he did not want them warned. Though the element of surprise was unnecessary, it was his nature to stalk silently, and then come in for the attack when he saw the look of sheer terror on the face of the victim. He shook himself, throwing snow and sweat from his body. He knelt down and placed his deformed hands into the snow. He stared at the ground and then lifted a handful of the white powder and some of the frozen soil to his face and breathed in the scent. He closed his eyes in delirium. He must have them. He wanted them, now. He pushed the urge down and waited. Stalk, reveal himself to the prey, let them take in the horror, and—kill. He shuddered with anticipation.

The two men sat by a small, waning fire. They were unusually nervous, having heard the unnatural howls only minutes before. One man, the fat one, poked at the embers with a stick, leaning in too close and almost catching his orange, vinyl hunting-vest on fire. He was breathing harder than he should have been, and though most of his body was cold, there were small beads of sweat on his forehead. The thinner, taller man detested his companion. The tracker was here for the money but had begun to think that there was not enough cash in British Columbia to justify being so far removed from civilization, deep in the night in heavy snow with few supplies and a waning fire—and a disgusting, spoiled, fat man. The fat man had convinced him that the hunt would be successful on the first day, and that they could radio in for pickup within forty-eight hours. The opposite had turned out to be true. No game lived in the forest at all, nevermind Grizzly, and after two days and nights, they had found only grief.

The crazy hermit in that cabin up north had only served to exacerbate the already bad situation, throwing a fit unlike any the fat or thin man had ever seen. There was even a moment—just a brief one—(it had happened when the hermit had growled like a dog), that they both feared the man might just pull his pistol strapped from its wild-west-like holster and shoot them. The two men barely had time to grab their packs and rifles as the man forcefully shoved them out the cabin door. The shaky hunting guide had had enough, and he would tell the fat, disgusting man that no amount of money would save him from a helicopter ride home tomorrow. There would be no bear, no moose, not even an elk—merely a turbulent flight back to civilization. And the guide would charge him for every minute—oh yes—he would not let the rich, fat cat out of his sight until he had coughed up every penny.

The guide stood up, moved to the fire and rearranged the logs so that it could breathe, and the flames seemed to appreciate the effort, rising higher and thicker. The fat man grumbled something under his breath and the guide sneered at him in disgust. The fat man turned to look into the forest behind him. He thought he heard something out of the ordinary, especially having heard strange crunching sounds over the wailing winds. He froze. The guide eventually saw the look on the fat man’s face and noticed the man’s unwavering form. Puzzled, he started to ask his motionless companion what the matter was, but he suddenly knew the answer.

Standing no more than twenty feet away was a tall, thick,