Pain brought Greg back to his senses. Someone was dragging him, sending waves of hurt through his whole body. When Greg’s vision cleared, all he could see were teeth, and red gums, and a huge tongue. The werewolf had gotten a whole mouthful of his white overcoat, just like it was supposed to. But with Greg’s rotten luck, of course, the material wasn’t tearing.

Greg could hear the blood rushing in his ears. When he struggled weakly, the werewolf started shaking its head violently, to shake the life out of him, yet still, the white fabric didn’t rip. Greg wanted to scream with the pain, but there was no breath left in his lungs. There was no rational thought in his head when he wriggled and struggled to get out of the cape. His arms came free easily, but he couldn’t get his head out. The way the werewolf had grabbed the fabric was choking him.

Finally, his searching fingers found his knife, and he started hacking blindly at the white linen until he slipped out. He couldn’t even feel his leg when he threw himself around, rolling over two, three, four times, desperate to put some space between himself and the monster.

He could still hear David’s voice in his head, yelling instructions at him.

“Don’t roll too far, you’ll just get dizzy,” so he pushed himself up onto his forearms, and tried to get to his feet. The white cloth had caught on a large branch on the ground, and the werewolf was ripping and rending at it, apparently not even noticing that Greg had slipped away.

A horse moved into his field of view, a dark grey one, and a crossbow sang. With a whimper, the werewolf went down. Lane deLande jumped out of the saddle. One hand kept her crossbow pointed at the monster, the other hand held a knife. Carefully, she stepped closer, bent down, and in one swift motion, she cut its throat.

Then her crossbow swung around, right at Greg.

“Drop it,” deLande ordered curtly.

It took Greg forever to realise that she meant the knife his fingers were still cramped around. He considered refusing, but the soft voice of reason pointed out that arguing with a loaded crossbow was a bad idea.

It was suddenly very, very quiet underneath the trees when he pulled his hand away from the knife. Greg looked around in confusion, noticing two more beaters who were holding on to Nathan with both hands.

“Don’t move,” Lane deLande said, her crossbow never wavering away from his face.

Slowly, hesitantly, a man Greg had never met before stepped closer and kneeled down next to him. A second guy with a torch stood over them. Slowly, carefully, the kneeling man examined Greg’s neck and checked his leather jacket for damage. Next, Greg was turned onto his back. It took the stranger forever to go over the injuries in Greg’s face, where the twigs had slapped him. He pressed a silver blade against each of them, over and over, and then made the guy with the torch come closer to get a second opinion. Greg didn't dare move a finger. Finally, the man continued onto his neck and then down the front of his jacket, his arms.

“He’s clear,” he finally announced.

Greg released a breath he had not realised he’d been holding.

Clear. The werewolves hadn’t scratched him. He would be okay.

DeLande lowered her crossbow rather hesitantly, scrutinising Greg with her own bright blue eyes. With a huff, she turned away and waved at the two men holding Nathan. When they let him go, Nathan jumped to Greg’s side, propping his head up on his knee. He was talking, but Greg was too numb to understand a word. He was dimly aware that someone was leaning over Dolly, holding a knife, and he tried to get up again. He needed to help, needed to get over there, but there was no way his leg would carry him. The knife flashed, and then the horse stilled. Greg tried to blink against the tears and was stymied to see Dolly climb to her feet.

“It’s okay,” Nathan said, who must have followed his gaze. “They just needed to cut the reins, she was tangled up in the reins, she’ll be fine, sheesh, Greg, you’re such an idiot sometimes…”

Greg let the words wash over him. Most of the beaters were already leaving again, led by deLande. Only Nathan and the two who had checked him over remained, crossbows at the ready, but now facing the dark forest.

After a while, the cold and the pain dragged him under.

***

When Greg came back to his senses, he was still lying on the ground. It took him a few seconds to understand 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. The cuts on his face smarted, too. He grunted softly and turned his face to look away from the flames. He could see the glow of a couple of more campfires, and the shadows of people sitting around them. Their voices were too quiet to catch. Horses stamped unseen, and tarps flapped in the wind, but the mood in camp seemed subdued.

Where was his family? 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 was darkness.

Just as he wondered if he should call out for someone—anyone, really—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. Greg heard 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, in a crouch that would allow her to get up again quickly.

“I want to see those scrapes,” she said, and David interrupted: “You don’t have to. This is stupid.”

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 else to go tonight.”

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

So Lane deLande reached for his chin and turned it towards the fire, staring at his skin intently. Her fingers were as cold as Greg felt, making the touch even more uncomfortable. Greg had never been this close to a woman who wasn’t his mother, and after a few seconds, he closed his eyes. He heard David hiss, and then he felt cold metal on his skin. Had to be the silver blade she had cut the werewolf’s throat with.

“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 icy 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 and Greg blinked.

“Happy?” Greg asked.

“Not really,” the huntress replied, though 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 understand 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 families 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 added quietly.

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

“Shit,” 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.

The pack had been smart, or at least been led by someone who had kept some spark of human rationality. They had been terrorizing the area for over seven months, either evading all attempts to take them down or killing the hunters. They had also attacked several villages, a travelling group of merchants, and just a few days ago, when the moon had been less than half full, there had been an attack on a crew of railway surveyors. Which meant these monsters had had a taste for human flesh beyond the full moon madness and that there were probably plenty of other victims no one had heard about.

It also meant the bounties on any one of them would feed a family for a year. Well, maybe not Greg’s family. But an average citizen? This was the hunt to make it big.

Indeed, there was a small crowd coming up the hill towards the camp. Greg had a good view of them from the back of their cart, where his brothers had put him earlier. There were both a cleric, easy to recognize in his red robes, and an Imperial official, wearing that specific colour of blue. Following them was a mixed bunch, some nobles, servants in colourful livres, villagers, and some who were quite obviously journalists, already clutching their little notebooks.

Greg watched from a distance how the officials 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 an even 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 officers, while 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 footmen carried up huge strongboxes full of silver.

Greg closed his eyes. Dividing the money would take its sweet time, especially today. Especially on a hunt of such unusual nature.

He ticked them off his fingers: His father had been guaranteed a bonus by the Church when he had been ordered to organise the whole thing. DeLande likewise, Greg suspected.

Then there was the money the beaters had been promised just for showing up, which they would have gotten even if this attempt had failed—it was a rather handsome sum for a farmer and the only reason so many men had been willing to risk their lives. It would go to the families of the men who hadn’t survived, too. Then there was the success premium, which they all would share.

Next, there were the general kill awards—the one that the Empire paid for every dead werewolf presented to any Valoisian magistrate. And finally 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 person 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 had some hopes that he might get a pelt, too. He had killed that one werewolf, after all. He fell asleep again over dreams of showing his first trophy to his friend Gustave.

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 to at least 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. But 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 and out of consciousness. Whenever he woke up, someone was sitting with him, usually 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 it was worth a try, wasn’t it?”

His mother smiled sadly, just with her glittering black eyes. “I know you love 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 has some hope of getting you to Rambouillet one day.”

“Or into poetry,” Greg muttered darkly to himself.

“You enjoy literature,” his mother pointed out.

Greg shrugged. “I do,” he said. “But Mr. Higgins would have me become 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 didn’t like how it came out as a question. His mother nodded slowly, but she didn’t look convinced, either, 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 pavilion, where 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.

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.

“I have not spoken to anyone else about this yet,” ibn Sina said. “And if I am wrong, I will be back after full moon to take off that splint. 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. Werewolf bites were nasty. Even magic couldn’t close them.

But all of his injuries were healing magically 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 scalp. 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 linen, 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.