When Greg came back to his senses, he was still laying on the ground. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was back at the camp. Someone had wrapped him in blankets, and there was a fire just a couple of yards away, but his feet were cold anyway. His whole left leg was a dull, throbbing ache. He grunted softly and turned his face to look away from the flames. He could see a couple of more campfires, and people sitting around them, but the atmosphere seemed subdued. When his father, David, Andrew, and Nathan returned from a hunt, that was always cause for celebration.

Speaking of his family, where were they? At the very least he would have expected Andrew to be there, to yell at him for putting Dolly in danger.

He turned his head back towards the fire right next to him. Beyond the flickering flames, all he could see were shadows. He thought he did see someone standing there, but he couldn’t be sure.

After a few minutes, he heard people coming closer, several pairs of heavy boots and a whispered argument. They stopped on the other side of the fire. At least one of them was still wearing the ridiculous white cape, and then he could hear Nathan growl:

“Just let her have a look, David. They checked him out, I had a look myself, he’s fine. If it makes her happy, let her waste her time.”

Greg blinked. The person in the white cape turned out to be Lane deLande, not Nathan. She was flanked by his brothers, though. David’s fingers played with Greg’s pistol when deLande kneeled down next to Greg, in a crouch that would allow her to get up again quickly.

“I want to see your face,” she said, and David said:

“You don’t have to. This is stupid. This whole thing was stupid.”

“We agree on that, at least,” deLande sighed. “He shouldn’t have been there at all.”

“He wasn’t the problem,” David growled back.

Greg looked up towards Nathan since David’s gaze was fixed firmly on deLande. The youngest of his brothers rolled his eyes at him and shrugged.

Greg had to clear his throat and start over before he managed: “I got nowhere to go tonight.”

Which at least brought the ghost of a smile to Nathan’s face.

So Lane deLande reached for his face and turned it towards the fire, staring at his skin intently. It was incredibly uncomfortable. Greg had never been this close to a woman who wasn’t his mother, and after a few seconds, he closed his eyes. A moment later, he heard David hiss, and then he felt cold metal on his skin.

“What happened to your face?” deLande wanted to know.

“Just some twigs,” Greg said, and let her turn his head a little more so that she could put the cold blade against his neck. Was this what the cow felt like before the butcher cut its throat?

Finally, deLande grunted and got to her feet again.

“Happy?” Greg asked.

“Not really,” the huntress replied, though when Greg opened his eyes, he saw her put the knife away.

“Your skin is too dark,” deLande went on. “Makes it really hard to tell whether it reddens or not, when the silver touches it. Especially in this light. You should better keep an eye on him,” she added in David’s direction, who did not go for her throat, although Greg could see that it was a close thing.

“Of course, Lady Inquisitor,” Nathan griped.

DeLande glared at him, but finally left.

“Well, that was fun,” Greg muttered.

“You,” David started, stopped, and dropped to the ground. “You are so ridiculously lucky, do you even realize that?”

Nathan settled down next to him.

“I’m too pretty to die,” Greg replied, but when that didn’t even earn an eye roll from either of them, he asked: “How bad was it?”

“Bad,” David just said.

Nathan added: “You weren’t the only greenhorn who thought he’d check a copse of conifers all on his own.” He paused and added: “You were the only one who survived it. Thanks to Dolly.”

“Is that where Andrew is?” Greg asked. “She’s okay, right?”

“Dolly is fine,” Nathan sighed. “Dad’s dealing with the family of some of the men who – didn’t make it. Andrew is with him.”

Greg shuddered. “How many?”

“Thirteen, all together.”

“We lost four shooters, too,” David said quietly.

“Four shooters?” Greg echoed incredulously. Sure, it happened that a shooter wasn’t fast enough on the draw, but four of them? With a plan this well laid out? “How did that happen?”

“Well,” David said, “we shot four werewolves, and your inquisitor back there gave the signal that you guys had killed two more. So some idiots left their post, because hey, six werewolves are dead, the hunt is over and we never receive false information about anything, ever, do we? So of course the remaining two werewolves went on a rampage through what was left of the formation. They must have gotten some beaters early on, too, but no one can tell when and where at this point.”

“Crap,” Greg muttered. Four shooters and nine beaters dead.

Eight werewolves, Mithras have mercy.

Late the next morning, the mood in the camp improved slightly: Coaches and riders were coming up the road. It was time to present the dead werewolves to an official, either from the Church or an Imperial magistrate, to have the kills confirmed, and reap the rewards. With a pack as big and as dangerous as this one, there would likely be representatives of both. Possibly other interested parties as well.

Indeed, there were no less than eight men coming up the hill towards the camp. Greg had a good view of them from the back of a cart, where his brothers had put him earlier. The cleric was easy to recognize in his red robes, as was the Imperial magistrate, since no one else was allowed to wear that colour of blue. A third man wore a bright servant’s uniform, probably from a nearby Valoisian noble – hopefully, someone who had put up a bounty.

Next, there were three men in the more sober suits of the Loegrian fashion, and lastly a couple of men who were quite obviously farmers. They probably wouldn’t have any rewards to hand out, but they would carry word of their success.

For those new hunters who still needed to make a name for themselves, that was almost as important as the money.

Greg watched from a distance how the men with the gravitas of their respective offices inspected each carcass and then had to witness how the heads were cut off. He couldn’t quite stop himself from grinning: the cleric and the Imperial magistrate were so clearly uncomfortable. Bram was standing right next to them. From his gesturing, Greg was guessing that his father was trying to leverage their discomfort into a higher reward. After all, the agreed-upon rates had been for only six werewolves, not eight.

Eventually, the last head fell and a cheer went through the huntsmen gathered close to the negotiation. The magistrate fled, waving to his servants, the cleric stayed just long enough to see the eight heads bagged before he too fled down towards his coach. Greg’s father ambled after them. The cheering grew louder when the armed servants of the officials carried up huge strongboxes full of silver.

Greg closed his eyes. Dividing the silver would take its sweet time. His father would get extra pay for organizing the whole thing, and deLande probably a little something for leading the beaters, too. Then there were fixed rates just for showing up, which generally barely paid for your expenses if you were a beater. Next, there was the success premium, which again, everybody would receive, and made the whole thing worthwhile.

Lastly, there were the general kill awards and the bounties, by far the most money, which would go to those eight individuals who had fired the killing shots. Unless of course one of the monsters had been brought down through a group effort, in which case things could get really complicated. Because the one who fired the killing shot also took home the pelt, and werewolf pelts fetched high prices with the Valoisian nobility, especially back in the homeland. If a werewolf hadn’t been active long and hadn’t amassed a bounty yet, the price of the pelt often trumped the official rewards for the kill.

Greg woke with a scream when the cart under him started moving. Even the slightest bump made his leg hurt as if there was a draft horse kicking him in the thigh.

“Oh, hey,” Andrew said. “You’re awake.”

“No shit,” Greg muttered to himself. He had to bite his tongue to suppress another whimper of pain.

“Yeah, sorry,” Andrew said. “It’ll get better once we reach the main road. Here, that should cheer you up.”

He dropped a leather bag full of something heavy onto Greg’s chest.

“What’s that?”

“Your reward, genius. One bag full of silver, and some gold to pad it out.”

Greg closed his eyes and breathed through the pain when they hit the next pothole. Andrew was right, though. The thought of his first earnings did cheer him up. He could buy a horse with the money – once he could walk again, anyway – and still have plenty left for a rainy day.

He really wished he had some laudanum, but all he got was a bottle of whiskey when they stopped for the night. They had just made it over to the next village, which didn’t even have an inn. When the farmers heard who they were, they were happy at least to let them stay in one of the barns, which was dry and sheltered from the icy wind that had picked up. Greg was cold anyway. By the time his brothers heaved him back onto the cart, he felt hot and feverish.

For the remainder of the journey, he dropped in an out of consciousness. Whenever he woke up, someone was sitting with him, mostly Andrew, but David and Nathan took turns as well, and once, there was his father poking at his broken leg. That time, Greg was really glad when he passed out again.

Finally, he woke up in his own bed, in their townhouse in Deva. Dr. ibn Sina was sitting at his bedside, who had taken over for his father as the family’s doctor just recently, and on Greg’s other side was his mother Imani. It was embarrassing how incredibly glad he was to see her. When she hugged him a little awkwardly, he was relieved that the young doctor got up and left them alone.

Had David cried like this in their mother’s arms after his first hunt, Greg wondered as he blinked away the tears. Had Andrew and Nathan?

If they had, his mother didn’t mention it. She did ask, however: “Does this mean that you do not wish to go hunting again?”

Greg pushed himself upright as much as he could and wiped the tears from his face. “What?” he asked. “No! I – it was just…”

He stopped, confused, when his mother reached for his hand. “I did not think you would change your mind so quickly,” she said. “But I can live in hope, can’t I?”

“Uh, sure,” Greg muttered. “Uh – what would you have me do?”

His mother smiled sadly, just with her glittering black eyes. “I always thought you liked the city,” she said, standing up. “The theatre, the music halls, even the lectures of Mr. Higgins. And I would have liked to keep at least one of you closer to home. Mr. Higgins will be disappointed, too. You know, he had some hope of getting you perhaps even into parliament.”

“Or poetry,” Greg muttered darkly to himself.

“You used to enjoy literature,” his mother pointed out.

Greg shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “But I don’t want to be one of those sappy romantics who waste all their time just dreaming of adventures, instead of living some.”

“But what if all your adventures go like this one?”

Greg thought about it for a moment. “Then at least I’ll have done some good in the world, instead of just talking about it,” he decided.

His mother nodded slowly, but she didn’t look convinced, Greg thought. He was almost sure she would say something more about the matter, but ibn Sina returned to take his temperature. Greg closed his eyes and tried to think himself somewhere else.

Ibn Sina insisted on repeating the embarrassing and uncomfortable procedure three times a day for a whole week, even though Greg didn’t feel feverish at all anymore. He actually felt really good. The doctor had secured his leg in a splint, and with help from David and Nathan, he spent a lot of time out in the garden, where, despite the cold, he had lessons with Mr. Higgins.

Mr. Higgins was the teacher who had educated them all since they were kids, and he was at least as disappointed as Imani when Greg’s injury didn’t stop him from wanting to go hunting again. So he spent the whole time trying to change Greg’s mind, until, at the end of the week, Greg actually felt relief when ibn Sina interrupted a lecture because he wanted to talk to him in private.

“I have to ask you,” the doctor started, as soon as they were alone.

“Sure,” Greg said, perplexed, because the young physician stared at him intently, looking worried.

Ibn Sina huffed softly, opened his mouth, stopped himself, started again, and finally asked: “Did you use any kind of magic to speed up the healing process?”

Greg just stared at him, mouth agape.

“Magic,” he finally managed. “Where would I have found a healer? When?”

“So you didn’t use any magic?”

“No,” Greg said, as firmly as he could. He knew that ibn Sina, just like his father, had strong views about using any kind of magic. Apparently, there was a taboo against it in their religion. There had been a time, when Greg had been very young and the last plague had hit Deva, when his father had consulted a healer about his mother’s illness. Greg had been too young to understand the details, but he remembered ibn Sina senior storming out of the house and not returning for over a year.

He didn’t want the doctor to run out on him. And he really hadn’t used any sort of magic.

But to his surprise, ibn Sina didn’t look assuaged. Quite the contrary: he buried his face in one hand for several seconds. Eventually, he looked around and led Greg upstairs to his room. Walking the stairs became easier every day, but the doctor’s firm grip surprised Greg, and nearly pulled him off balance.

“I need you to think very carefully,” the doctor said, as soon as the door closed behind them. “Did you ever – purchase some kind of amulet, a charm maybe, or make some sort of deal with – with an entity of some sort, even as a child, even if you thought it was just a joke, or – or a dream... Maybe some strange blessing…”

When Greg kept shaking his head, he trailed off, looking crestfallen. He rubbed his face again, swearing in a language Greg didn’t understand.

“What’s going on?” Greg asked when the doctor wouldn’t say anything further. “What’s the problem? I’m feeling great.”

“Yes,” ibn Sina sighed. “That is precisely the problem.”

When Greg looked at him blankly, he continued: “You were really, really sick when you got here, Greg. You fevered for the three days of the journey, and then another day and night after you were back home, and I don’t think you even remember. Because you were slipping away, Greg, we were losing you. And then suddenly we weren’t anymore, and you woke up, and you were fine. Even your leg is healing way too fast.”

“So?” Greg asked.

“Gregory, bodies don’t work that way. I would have been willing to shrug off the fever as just incredibly good luck, or possibly even a heavenly blessing. But what your bones are doing – magic is the only explanation for that. And if you didn’t – acquire – this magic by your choice and free will, then – then you have to consider – then the most likely explanation is that you were bitten.”

“No,” Greg said. “No, I wasn’t. I was checked. Twice, actually.”

“Greg, if it was that easy to spot, don’t you think there would be fewer werewolves around?” The doctor looked at him seriously. “Especially with darker skin tones, such as yours, it’s hard to be sure before the first full moon. In fact, even a simple sunburn can make it impossible to see the reddening around the wound. Especially if it’s just a scratch.”

Greg opened his mouth, but he had no idea what he should say to this, so he closed it again after a few seconds.

“Because of your father’s occupation, I have not spoken to anyone else about this,” ibn Sina said. “And if I am wrong, I will be back after full moon and take off that splint, since you will not need it any longer. But I doubt that I am wrong. May God have mercy on you.”

With that, the doctor left. Greg just stood there, staring after him. Without thinking about it, his hand reached up to his face, to the cuts there, that had already faded to pink lines, still lighter than the rest of his skin. It couldn’t be. One of the things that made werewolf bites stand out was that they took forever to just scab over. In fact, there were a lot of stories about people who survived the initial encounter with the monster, but bled to death hours later, because even small wounds wouldn’t close.

But all of his injuries were healing faster than they should, not slower.

He stepped in front of his mirror and pulled down the neckline of his shirt. There was nothing on his neck or his shoulders, and as far as he could twist his head, nothing on his back either. He hesitated for a second, then slipped out of his room and over to his mother’s boudoir, where he nicked a hand mirror from her vanity. But that didn’t show him anything but the smooth, dark brown skin of his back, either.

Which, admittedly, was a little weird. A month ago, like most seventeen-year-olds he had had plenty of pimples on his back and face. Now, there were only a couple of tiny spots left.

The black curls on his head were too thick to see anything underneath, but when he returned his mother’s mirror, he found a silver letter opener, so he used that to run it over his head. He felt stupid doing it. Silver was supposed to be inimical to werewolves, shouldn’t he feel something when he gripped the handle of the letter opener? But the silver just felt cool. Not bad, just very cold. His fingers were starting to feel chilly from holding the letter opener.

Greg dropped the silver and stared down at his fingers. Warmth flooded back as soon as the metal cluttered onto the table. And when he stared at his hands, for the first time he noticed the teeny tiny cuts at the knuckles of his right hand. No bite marks, he was sure of that.

But. He suddenly remembered that moment when the werewolf had gripped his white cape, shaking him, remembered reaching for his knife and just blindly hacking at the wool, right next to the werewolf’s teeth.

So scratch marks?

Carefully, hesitatingly, he held out his hand, palm up. He had to take a deep breath and close his eyes before he could bring himself to brush the back of his hand over the letter opener.

It was cold, icy cold. Unnaturally cold. And it hurt. It started slowly, barely noticeable, but then the chill and the cold turned into a burn as if glowing embers had landed on his skin. Not everywhere, but he didn’t have to open his eyes to know that the burn was everywhere where the skin was still scabbed over.

Ibn Sina had been right: He was well and truly screwed.