After a while, Greg returned to the garden, where Mr. Higgins was still waiting for him. He was more dazed than scared, and he couldn’t even have said what he told his teacher what the doctor had wanted two minutes after the fact. For the rest of the afternoon, he felt absent, detached, as if all this was happening to somebody else, and he was just watching.

When he did think about it, he kept coming up with different ways how he could tell his family about what had happened, imagined different outcomes of the conversation. But when night fell, a realization started to pierce through the fog in his head like an iceberg through the ocean: He had to leave.

It didn’t even matter whether or not his father and brothers would let him go or try to kill him on the spot. He couldn’t tell them either way.

He couldn’t tell them, because he wasn’t ready to die. And if they did close both eyes and let him go, they would be guilty of treason, and then they, too, would be hunted by the Inquisition.

But no matter what his family would do, the fact didn’t change that he couldn’t stay within the biggest city of Loegrion if he was really going to turn into a raging monster within the next couple of weeks.

The first rush of panic and confusion that followed this realization made him ache to leave tonight, to just run out the door as fast as his bad leg would take him. Throughout dinner, he kept imagining furtive glances between his father and his brothers, the gleam of bloodlust in their eyes. He was their prey now.

But that was stupid. That was exactly why ibn Sina hadn’t told anyone else in the house about his suspicion, so he would have time to leave in peace.

What Greg needed was a plan. New moon was two nights away, so in theory, he had another two weeks of full humanity. He needed to make good on that time because there was no telling what he would be like after full moon. If he was really lucky, he might not change that much at all – aside from the murderous rage of the full moon madness, of course. Or he might turn into a fully grown monster, with no trace of humanity left, hungry for human flesh. Or he might slowly slip into madness over the next few months. Or something entirely unpredictable.

Hell, he didn’t even know what he was going to look like in his human form after full moon. His brown skin wouldn’t change, but his eyes and hair probably would.

But if he thought about what might happen to him, he would go crazy right here at the dinner table. And the roast that Clara, the cook, had served was way too good to go to waste like that.

So he tried his best to act normal, as if his heart wasn’t beating high in his throat, as if his fingers that were holding the cutlery weren’t shaking. He was surprised that he was so hungry, despite his nerves. In his books, the characters always lost their appetite when they got bad news, but he felt like he was starving. Andrew even made a joke about it, when Greg refilled his plate. No one seemed to find it strange though.

As soon as the plates were cleared away by the maids, Greg retreated to his room. He sat down at his desk, and for a long time, he just stared down at the letter opener that was still laying there. Every now and then he touched it with the back of his hand, felt the cold bite of pain in the injuries on his knuckles, and still couldn’t quite believe that this was happening.

In the drawer of his desk was the money locked away, the money that in a way had earned him these troubles. The pelt was at the furrier, and unlikely to be ready before full moon, but there was nothing to be done about that. Still, the money he had should last him a while, and he wouldn’t have to steal anything from his family.

What he needed was a place far enough away from people that he wouldn’t put anyone in danger, if he did turn into a rabid monster of a wolf in a couple of weeks. That meant leaving the Heartlands, and going either west or north.

If he made it all the way west into the mountains, that would be best. But that was a long, long way, and riding was out of the question with his broken leg. Even if he were to board a stagecoach this very night, Greg wasn’t sure if he could make it there within the time he had, and he wasn’t sure if a coach was going that direction tonight, either.

Also, the coaches mainly operated between bigger cities, which he needed to avoid.

Damn. Damn the werewolf, and damn his broken leg.

Greg ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

He needed to find a reliable way into the middle of nowhere, which was a contradiction in itself.

Was there any point in leaving Deva, before he knew where he should go?

What if the doctor changed his mind and told somebody?

But if he left too early, his family would no doubt try everything to find out where he was. And if they asked, the doctor would surely tell them? Or worse, the authorities? And then he would be running from every hunter in the country. And they wouldn’t even have to wait for full moon, because they would know his name and face, and they would have the doctor’s testimony towards his condition, which the Inquisition would gladly accept.

Greg swore again softly. How had he gotten into this mess? Why was this happening to him? All he had wanted was to be like his brothers and father, to hunt werewolves and help people, as they did. He hadn’t done anything wrong!

Frustrated, he eventually went to bed, but his thoughts kept running in circles through his head. He was screwed. Damned if he left, and damned if he didn’t.

There was no safety for a werewolf anywhere; the only places the hunters didn’t go were deep in the forests, where the Rot reigned and no human could live. Or could a werewolf live there? Could one kind of dark magic make him immune to another? Silver was, after all, said to work against both werewolves and the Rot. Just like fire.

If, if, if.

Shuddering, Greg tried to turn onto his side but was stopped by the bloody splint. If at least he hadn’t broken his stupid leg, then he’d have some options. Then he could just borrow a horse and ride away, ride until he was somewhere deep into the forests and wouldn’t put anyone in danger on full moon. Afterwards, he would have to travel onwards, maybe into the mountains, reach them when spring did...

By that time, he should at least have an idea of how exactly the curse would manifest for him. Provided he even retained a mind capable of self-reflection.

Somehow, Greg did fall asleep despite all his tossing and turning, but when he woke up the next morning, he felt exhausted, like he hadn’t slept at all. Still, he let himself get dragged into the city by Mr. Higgins and Gustave deBire. Gustave was a year younger than Greg, also a student of Mr. Higgins, and since they often had lessons together, they had become good friends.

Greg would miss Gustave, too. He wished there was anything he might say to him, but he kept his mouth shut while he hobbled along, down to the Royal Gardens by the river, where an inventor was presenting his flight mobile to the marvelling public.

Mr. Higgins was very excited about this latest wonder of science, but before they got there, they had to pass by the horrors of corrupted magic: Guards in silver helmets were using the precious hours of winter sun to burn the misshapen creatures that had gotten caught during the night in the hastily erected defences alongside the water’s edge. The whole Royal Gardens smelled of the putrid smoke.

A shudder ran down Greg’s spine as he watched two men not much older than himself drag what only looked like a harmless log of wood to the closest fire. Even with their silver helmets as protection, the effects of the Rot were strong enough that the guards had to be changed every few minutes.

“Is there any news about what’s happening to the White Torrent?” Greg asked.

“Well, as you can see, it hasn’t gotten any better,” Mr. Higgins said. “But other than that, little news, no. If it is unsanctioned magic that’s doing this, the culprits still haven’t been caught. Not even the Church has made out a scapegoat yet.”

“They must feel pretty annoyed,” Gustave said darkly. “This all started right after they had their big witchcraft trial. If they had waited just another month, they could have burned half of Deva at the stake, and the other half would have helped them pile up the wood.”

That was one of the things Greg liked so much about Gustave: He was a Valoisian noble and was dragged to church every Sunday by his devout grandparents, but it would be hard to find a more enlightened disciple of science anywhere.

“Dad reckons they’ll pin it on the Moon Worshippers, or some other heathens,” Gustave added. “Can’t be much longer now.”

“Call them Wayfarers,” Mr. Higgins admonished. “Moon Worshippers is factually incorrect. We shouldn’t perpetuate the Church’s mistakes. Though I’m afraid your father will be right. They will have to pick a scapegoat soon.”

And then there’d be another mass trial, and more completely pointless death. Greg shuddered again. The White Torrent was falling to the Rot, and nobody had any idea why.

The Torrent was the only major river of Loegrion that hadn’t been overtaken by the Rot more than two hundred years ago. Until this winter, everyone had just assumed that it would continue to be safe. But right after the winter solstice, the first of the Rot had appeared on the river, and small monsters kept coming into the city by night ever since.

The Church claimed, of course, that the people of Deva just needed to pray more, and present more sacrificial offerings, and in general follow the teachings and laws of Mithras.

The city guard suspected a powerful, unsanctioned magician, perhaps even human sacrifice, but had found no trace of them. Instead, they had erected some simple defences and prohibited everyone from stepping right up to the water. There was also a curfew in effect.

Greg turned his back on the labouring guards. This wouldn’t be his problem much longer, and his family lived far enough away from the river that he wasn’t worried about them, either. The richest, most powerful nobles lived right at the White Torrent’s shores. One of them was the viceroy himself, Duke Desmarais, representative of the Roi Solei. Desmarais had a personal vendetta against the Rot, so Greg was confident that the issue would be fixed soon.

Or at the very least, that proper measures would be taken to protect the banks and the city.

“There’s the inventor,” Mr. Higgins interrupted his thoughts. “Isn’t it a marvellous contraption? To think that it actually flies!”

Greg had to admit that he was impressed as well. The small device consisted of a crate about as big as a dog, which contained some sort of clockwork mechanism. This caused a cross of flat wooden planks to rotate at high speed, which somehow lifted the whole thing into the air.

It was clumsy, compared to the elegant airships of the Imperial Fleet, but impressive none the less.

Greg let himself be pulled into a conversation with the inventor, who was originally from the heart of Valoir, about what he called aerodynamics. It was a welcome distraction from all his worries, but when they returned through the busy streets of Deva, he couldn’t help but wonder how people would react to him if they knew about the curse he was carrying. Once he left, could he ever return? Would he ever walk these streets again?

At one of the city’s smaller plazas, they passed a man who was standing on a wooden box.

“Gentlemen!” he called at the top of his voice. “Brave gents of Deva, flock around, you do not want to miss this amazing offer! Make your fortune, gentlemen, the Lackland Railway Company is hiring…”

He had picked his spot well, plenty of foot traffic was coming through this plaza. Still, nobody stopped, nobody was listening.

Mr. Higgins shook his head and chuckled darkly.

“Good luck, mate,” he muttered. “No one here’s going to be desperate enough to throw himself to the Rot. Better try it down at the New Barracks.”

“Who’s behind this?” Greg asked. “Lackland? Are they trying to butter-up the Valoise, or is this one of those resistance stunts?”

“Right, you weren’t in the city,” Mr. Higgins said.

“It’s most certainly the latter,” Gustave explained. “Last full moon, while you were frolicking through the woods, His Highness, the Duke of Mannin, announced that he wants to fund his own railway enterprise and introduced the Lackland Railway Company.”

Greg blinked a few times at that. Lackland was the sobriquet the Valoise had given to King George IV, the last free king of Loegrion, who had lost all his lands to them. At the time, it had been a way to lord Loegrion’s unconditional surrender over its people, and the Valoise still used it that way. But “King Lackland” had also become a rallying cry for Loegrian nationalists.

“Lord George Louis has to be real sure of himself,” Greg finally said.

“He wants to be king of a free Loegrion, and he’s testing what he can get away with,” Mr. Higgins said with a shrug. “This is only going to be the start of it.”

“Think they can do it?” Gustave asked when they moved on. “Build a railway right through the forest?”

“I very much doubt it,” Mr. Higgins said. “This is a fool’s errand. No matter what they’re offering, it’ll still be suicide.”

“What do you mean, right through the forest?” Greg asked.

Mr. Higgins and Gustave both laughed unhappily.

“The duke must have lost his mind,” Gustave said. “Wants to build a railway from Mannin to Eoforwic.”

“It’s a Northerner’s folly,” Mr. Higgins grumbled. “Just because they’ve beaten the Rot at Mannin, they think it’s not that much of an issue.”

Greg nodded along. The duke had to be mad, indeed. But the advertising had given him an idea. There it was, his reliable mode of transportation straight into the middle of nowhere. Not this full moon, the company wouldn’t take him with the splint. But as soon as that was off, and if his sanity survived full moon, he could sign up to whatever surveyor crew went deepest into the woodlands. It was a one-way trip, but at least he wouldn’t be walking the whole way and probably getting turned around within minutes. With his luck, he’d walk straight into a village, and he didn’t want to imagine what would happen then. He wasn’t a murderer, and he didn’t want to become one.

Five days before full moon, a messenger came from some bishop or other, and Greg’s father was called out to another hunt. Only Nathan and David would go with him, but it was only a single werewolf that was roaming the hunting grounds of the bishop’s castle, so Greg didn’t worry about them. As soon as they were out of the house, he started packing his own bags. He would have to travel light, and as fast as possible. Five days wasn’t much time, but if he wanted to join a crew of navvies, there was no point in travelling all the way to the mountains anyway. The Lackland Railway Company was operating out of Eoforwic, which the fastest mail coaches travelling from Deva could reach within a week.

The coach left in the evening and travelled at night, when the roads were empty, so Greg claimed that he was going out to see Gustave. If he was lucky, he would be well out of the city before his mother even realized that he had never reached his friend’s place. He spent forever debating whether or not he should leave a message, but in the end, he had no idea what to say anyway.

So he just slipped out of the door with his bundle and flagged down a cab, which took him straight to the post office from where the coach left. Greg got there early because he didn’t want to risk that the coach was full, and ended up milling around the yard for over an hour. Eventually, though, the coach was ready, he paid his fare, and with some troubles climbed aboard. Three other men were travelling inside the cabin, and two more in the front with the driver. In the back of the carriage, outside, rode the guard with the strongbox full of mail. Two of the other passengers he shared the cabin with just said they were travelling on business, the last one was rushing home to cremate his father.

Somehow, this revelation stifled all conversation.

The coach rushed off as the bells struck six, hooves thundering on the cobblestones. Soon, they were out of the city, and Greg could finally breathe a little easier. Of course, werewolves weren’t allowed on the mail coach, not even on new moon, when they were basically human, but nobody was suspicious: everybody knew that there were no werewolves inside the city walls of Deva. The guards at the gates weren’t good for much, but they were very experienced at finding werewolves, unsanctioned magicians, and other undesirables, and tended to err on the side of caution.

Greg looked around. The two businessmen dozed quite peacefully, despite the way the coach was shaking, and the last guy stared morosely out of the window. Greg glanced down at his hands. He had paid the fare in silver, and his fingers still felt tender. When he was sure that nobody paid him any attention, he fished a piece of silver out of his purse. A sharp pain shot up his fingers, and he had to bite his tongue to suppress a hiss. He furtively dropped the coin on his pants and stared at his fingertips. They were most definitely flushed. Hadn’t ibn Sina said that his dark skin might hide the reddening? Gently, Greg pressed the back of his hand at the coin and waited as long as he could bear the burning cold. When he checked, he could just barely see a darker spot on his skin. But the inside of his fingers and palms were lighter, and the silver burn far more noticeable.

Out in the country, it was common practice to exchange silver coins as a form of greeting, to prove that one was fully human. He would have to find a way to trick people if he wanted to survive a full month around civilization.

The coach stopped at regular intervals to change horses, but that was the only interruption of the monotony until they reached a steep hill, and the driver made them all get out and walk to spare the animals a little. In the morning, they stopped for a few hours and then got not only new horses but also a new driver. The two businessmen got off as well. The young man on his way to his father’s funeral stayed, and the guard with the mail remained the same, too. A young couple filled the coach cab, endlessly bickering about the upcoming festival of the spring equinox which they would spend with her parents, apparently. They were an amusing distraction to Greg for about an hour, and then just exhausting. Luckily, they got off again at nightfall and after that, Greg finally fell asleep.

The journey passed in a blur, an almost feverish sensation of mounting terror made only worse by the boredom. Every mile they travelled brought him further away from his family, every hour that passed closer to full moon. Years ago, he had seen a werewolf, collared and in a cage, presented by the Church of Mithras, as proof of their might and Mithras’s greatness. Even then he had wondered what might be going on inside that huge head, behind those gleaming eyes. What did the creature feel? What did it remember? How much self was left in there? What would be left of Greg, of Gregory Feleke? Would he even remember his family? His past? Himself?

The strangest thing was that Greg still didn’t feel any different. Sure, the silver burned him worse the fuller the moon got, but really, that was all. The sign of the sun, which was sacred to Mithras, was supposed to repel werewolves, but when a young lady entered the coach, who wore it as a medallion around her neck, Greg felt nothing. She might as well have worn a potato on a string.

Two days before full moon, Greg left the mail coach when they stopped at a coaching inn at noon. The tall building was surrounded by a high stone wall, which was topped with iron spikes alternating with torches, to keep out whatever monster might climb out of the surrounding forest. While stable hands were bringing the new horses and leading away the tired ones, people got on and off the coach, and a new driver took over as well, Greg slipped out of the front gate.

He found himself surrounded by trees almost immediately, which was why he had picked this stop to get off. There was no town nearby, no village, nothing but forests and swamps for miles and miles in all directions of the inn. Greg found a deer crossing and followed it until he reached a small river. Then he turned downstream until he reached a small island in the middle of the river. There was nothing on the island besides a single tree. It must have been hit by lightning, or some strange magic: it had almost no bark anymore, and one half looked completely dead, but fresh limbs were sprouting from where the trunk had cracked.

It was as good a landmark as he was likely to find out here. They were close to the Savre, the biggest river of Loegrion. In this area it was more of a swamp, completely overtaken by the Rot, but he should still be able to find it fairly easily, even after full moon. And then he just needed to find the right tributary and the island. It wasn’t perfect, but he couldn’t think of anything better. So he lit a small fire and hid everything he had brought with him in the hollow trunk of the half-dead tree.

Greg shivered when he saw the moon rise above the forest. To his bare eye, it looked round, and most people considered this the first night of full moon. When the sun set, about an hour later, he could finally feel something, something strong and terrifying, like an earthquake that rocked nothing but the inside of his body. He wanted to run, to move, to scream, to hurt something…

Greg shook his head and stopped again abruptly. The small movement felt like his whole body would shake itself apart, as if every part of him had become brittle. Very carefully, he sat down again and began to chew on a dry bread crust.

He had bought plenty of food just that same morning, easily enough to last until the moon was waxing again. Yet somehow, half of that was gone by midnight. And he was still hungry. For a while, Greg walked up and down on his small island. There was nothing to do but worry. Worry and eat, and if he finished his supplies tonight, what would he eat tomorrow?

Greg groaned softly. It wasn’t just the hunger. His whole body ached as if all his bones had been bruised or broken. Or as if they were too big for his body. He wanted to scratch under his skin, stretch his muscles in ways that his joints didn’t actually bend. Somehow he wished Gustave were there so that he could talk to somebody about what was happening to him, not in a personal form, but the way they used to discuss horses and their physiques at the race track.

Could he hunt for more food, restock his reserves?

He had to be mad to even consider the possibility. The fire was the only thing that might keep him safe from the Rot; it would be stupid to leave that protection. But Sun, he was hungry.

Eventually, he did pick up the double crossbow he had taken from home. Just like his brothers, he had learned how to hunt werewolves by first going after deer and wild pigs. He used to be fairly good at that, but tonight he had no luck. He was too anxious, too twitchy, and his broken leg in its cast made too much noise.

When the moon set, maybe an hour before dawn, he had to face the fact that this wasn’t normal hunger. This was something new, something he had never felt before. If all werewolves felt like this, constantly, it was no wonder that they raided villages for food.

There was no way he would sleep, but he dragged himself back to the little island, stoked the fire again. He checked on the money he had hidden in the tree trunk, and then watched the sunrise while ripping dead leaves to the smallest pieces he could manage and break up twigs with his bare hands to splinters.

When the sun rose up above the trees, the restlessness eased a little and he did manage to doze for a few hours. But then the moon went up again in the afternoon, and he just couldn’t sit still.

Eventually, he decided to take off his clothes. They wouldn’t transform with him, and he couldn’t afford to lose them, especially his shoes. For a moment he worried about his leg, but then he remembered his father saying that the magic that forced him to change shapes would also heal his wounds – all and any that hadn’t been caused by silver or fire or magic.

He crouched down close to his fire and wrapped a heavy blanket around his shoulders. His breath came too fast and uneven. His skin felt hot, even though he was stark naked by now, and he was shaking, not from the cold, but the helpless terror that had gripped him.

There was absolutely nothing for him to do but sit here and shiver. The curse would find him, no matter where he ran to.

When the sun finally vanished behind the trees, he was almost glad. At least now the wait was over.

The first thing he noticed was that weird feeling in his bones again, that ache, the feeling that his bones were too large, and shifting without his control. And then the sun slipped down beyond the horizon, and there was pain, the pain of returning circulation and broken bones. His body was tearing itself apart, and there was no way not to scream.

His fingers shrunk back into the palm of his hand and he could feel all five of them getting dislocated as his changing muscles jerked them into a new position, muscles and sinews that were torn in the same moment by the growing bones in the middle of his hands. When his hip joints shifted, he fell forward onto the still tender skin around his changing nails. Next, he felt his spine grow out, piercing through the skin of backside as if he had been stabbed by a knife. Then new skin and muscles grew, forming a tail, and with it came the worst pain, the agony of exposed nerves, like a toothache that encompassed this whole new limb.

Greg’s scream abruptly ended when his whole ribcage bent itself out of shape and for a few panicked moments he was certain he would suffocate, because he couldn’t breathe. No matter how hard he tried, his diaphragm just seemed to pull on nothing, until he could feel things lurch inside him, and his organs, too, took their new positions.

Greg groaned weakly. The sound changed into a whine when his jaws bent themselves out of shape and his tongue grew. His teeth itched and new ones filled the extra space in his long muzzle.

Finally, his skin felt like it was pierced by a million needles as hairs sprouted all over his body. With a last semi-rationale thought, Greg tried to look what colour his fur was, but then his bones all jerked and swelled at the same moment, tearing his muscles and stretching his skin for a second time.

For a moment he thought this new pain would be too much, that he would finally faint – and in a way he did faint, but right before he passed out he felt something stir in the darkness: a soul made of nothing but fear, and pain, confusion, and a terrible anger, and that same hunger he had struggled with all day, taking over, drowning him, pushing aside everything that was Greg Feleke.

He came to his senses at sunrise, in the middle of a swamp. He felt tired, cold, and filthy, and he hurt all over. But he was still there. Still himself. The monster hadn’t killed that.

Greg could only hope that he hadn’t killed anything – or rather, anyone – else.

Dragging himself out of the swamp, naked and barefooted, took him the better part of the day. Then the moon rose again, and before he even realized what was happening, his body was ripping itself apart for the second time. The pain was at least as bad as last night, but this time, the sun was still up, and somehow that made it different. He was still there, barely. He was in pain, and terrified and confused, and this wasn’t his body. This was wrong, and yet, he was running before he knew what was going on. Running felt good, safe. He wanted to hunt, to rend and tear and kill and taste the fresh, sweet blood, feed on tender flesh…

He had a vague memory of a place he needed to find, somewhere by the river, but then the sun set and all that went away.

Again the sun rose, and Greg looked around in bewilderment. The colours were all wrong, but the smells – he could smell so much, and he had no idea what it all was. And sounds! There was movement all around him, and his head kept swinging right and left. But whatever he heard, it stayed hidden. Which was a shame, because he was about hungry enough to eat the whole holy bull of Mithras by himself.

He was still a wolf. The realization came curiously slowly, followed by a new rush of panic that made him sprint forward. As if he could run away from his own thoughts or this new body. The scariest thing was how right it felt to not even be human. To have four feet and a tail and no hands. He didn’t need to think about running at all, but when he started to pay attention to how his legs moved, he nearly fell down onto his nose, because Greg Feleke had never needed to move his arms to walk forward.

Greg stumbled to a stop and tried to take stock of this new body. He looked down onto his feet. His four legs were brown turning to a lighter grey at his paws. When he craned his neck as far as possible he could, he could see that the coat on his back was darker, almost black with lighter hairs interspersed. His belly was nearly white, as far as he could tell.

He really wished he had a mirror.

What would he look like as a human? Would his curly hair change colour to the same dark grey as the fur on his back? Would his eyes still have human pupils surrounded by white, or would they be completely brown, or gold, or whatever eye colour he had right now?

If they had changed, he was pretty much screwed. Or screwed even more.

And how did he turn back? He had always assumed that it would happen by itself, that the power of the sun would somehow – defeat the curse or something like that?

He found a sunny spot and tried to sit down right in the middle. When his tail touched the ground, he jumped straight up again, startled by the sensation. He finally understood why his father’s favourite dog always took ages to settle down. He wanted to cross his legs like he would as a human, but of course, he couldn’t do that, either. His back was too long, too.

Greg forced himself to stop squirming around and just stand there for a moment, picturing in his mind how a dog would sit down. It was hard to consciously think of himself like that. He was Greg Feleke. He had two hands, two arms, two legs, two feet. Absolutely no tail.

Except that right now, he did have one.

As if growing impatient with his clumsiness, the other awareness in the back of his head stirred, and Greg sat down slowly, turning his face towards the sun and closing his eyes, waiting with baited breath.

But nothing happened at all.

A sound in the underbrush made Greg jump. He still couldn’t see what he was hearing, and he was beginning to suspect that it might be something really small, like a mouse, maybe. He had known on an intellectual level that wolves had better ears than humans, but he hadn’t ever pictured what that might mean. If it was just a mouse, then it was a little embarrassing how jumpy the rustling between the dead leaves made him, a giant wolf.

He truly was a giant wolf, Greg thought, turning his head this way and that to stare at himself as much as possible. When he craned his neck as high as possible, he was looking at the world at nearly the same angle as when he was standing on two feet. But there was so much more of him behind the back of his head, and that was just strange.

Eventually, he gave up both trying to see himself and waiting for himself to turn human again. Instead, he started moving again. If he couldn’t change shape, he might as well try to get back to the little island instead, to where his clothes and the meagre remains of his food stocks were. At least that way he didn’t have to walk back barefoot. Maybe he could find his trail or something, retrace his footsteps?

He felt really stupid when it eventually occurred to him to try and find his way by smell rather than sight, but once he thought of it, it wasn’t hard to find his own scent. All he had to do was turn around and sniff at his own paw prints, and then follow that smell. The hardest part was not getting distracted by all the other scents marks he came across. So many of them made his mouth water.

Finally, there was his island.

Now he just needed to find out how to become human again, and maybe he could make it to the coaching inn before the sunset, and buy some food – always provided his mirror image in the water wasn’t too markedly different.

Or should he avoid the inn in any case? It would be really hard to allay suspicion if he walked into a place that far away from civilization, especially this time of the month.

He really should have considered this, like, three days ago, but it was too late now. He would have to go to the inn, to get food and a way back towards human settlements. If he couldn’t walk in looking entirely human, he would have to steal something at night.

His shape still didn’t change though. He tried to think of his own body, of his real body, but nothing happened, except that his stomach started to growl louder and louder. He tried to think of when the last time was that he had eaten anything, but he couldn’t even remember. Before full moon. Hopefully.

He could remember almost nothing about the last two nights. The days were a little more clear, but it was as if with sundown, his whole memory blacked out.

When the moon rose for the fourth time since he had gotten off the coach, Greg was still hungry but also starting to get bored. There was nothing useful he could do until he looked human again – he couldn’t reach his food, or make a fire, and there was no way he could go hunting in this form – right now, all the new sense-impressions were confusing rather than helpful. And even if he had known how to interpret them, he wasn’t sure how he could slink silently through the forest while he was a big as a horse.

It happened just when he rested his head on his huge paws to try to catch some sleep. Suddenly his whole body seemed to cramp, like a seizure, and the next moment he shuddered with the cold. Becoming human again was no less agonizing than becoming wolf, but the pain was tempered a little by the relief.

Greg hurried over to the hollow tree stump and dug out the remaining food he had hidden all the way in the back. The bread had gone mouldy and the once dried meat had a strange smell as well, but he didn’t give a damn. He wolfed it all down before he got a fire going and finally slipped down to the creek, to wash away the worst grime of the swamp. The water was icy, but he stank of something vile, so he scrubbed at the dirt until his skin felt raw and hot, and jumped back into his clothes.

His hands shook when he tried to close the laces of his shoes. As soon as they were closed, he inched back towards the water. He was a little scared of what he would see, but when he finally found a clear pond where he could see his face, he couldn’t see any difference in it. It was hard to tell what colour his eyes had now, but he could still see some white in them, so at least they should look like a human’s eyes.

He was so relieved, he almost dropped down right there in the mud.

For a while, he sat by his fire afterwards, letting the warmth seep into him. He was tired, and sore, and still hungry, and the idea of sleeping on the forest floor wasn’t exactly appealing either. So after a while, he grabbed his crossbow and a quiver full of normal, steel-tipped bolts. He hadn’t seen a single hint of the Rot during his whole stay in the forest, not as wolf and not as human, so he moved upstream, back to the crossing he had followed into the forest what seemed like an eternity ago. He had to force himself to move slowly, to stay downwind of where he hoped to find some prey, and he was lucky: he hadn’t even reached the trail when he was rewarded with a couple of large forest hens. His father would have been proud if he could have seen his marksmanship.

But his family, especially his father, was something he really didn’t want to think about.

Instead, he stoked the fire and then focused on plucking the first hen. He wasn’t nearly as thorough as he would have been in any other situation, but hunger made him impatient. The meat wasn’t really cooked either when he started eating, ripping out big chunks, and gobbling them down. A strange sensation came over him, a deep satisfaction that seemed out of place considering where he was and how he had gotten here.

Apparently, the wolf approved, even though he had forgotten one of Andrew’s rules: Always carry salt.

Greg decided to stay another day, and the following night, on his island, and then return to the inn, and make up a story about some sort of coaching accident. He spent the time practicing his story and how to accept a silver coin without flinching away. Finally, an idea came to him, and he practiced that for the rest of the time. He felt pretty good when he managed to sleep at night and to wake up in his own body. Still, just that one night on the forest floor was enough to make him long for his bed.

Early in the morning, he gathered his things and started walking back. It was just before noon when he reached the inn, and just as he had expected, people were not exactly thrilled to see him. The guards at the door argued for a small eternity before one of them went to fetch the innkeeper. The proprietor of the establishment was a heavyset man, a little older, who looked like he had just gotten harder with the years.

“All right, son,” he said when he saw Greg. “Got some silver on you?”

Greg nodded and fished a single coin from his pocket, and offered it to the innkeeper. The man looked a little surprised but handed a coin of his own back. Normally, one was expected to show his unblemished hand after accepting the silver, but Greg instead made a show of letting the coin walk across his knuckles, the way a jester might at the fair. It hurt, a lot, but he had practiced it yesterday, and if he did it right, he could minimize the contact he had with the metal, while at the same time making it look like he was drawing it out. Then he offered the guards and the innkeeper the back of his hand for inspection, where it was really hard to notice the reddening.

The innkeeper actually laughed and shook the hand Greg offered. “Mithras must really like you,” he decided. “Got just that one coin?”

Greg shook his head. “I can pay for a room,” he assured the man. “And some lunch? Or am I too late?”

“We got plenty of food, son,” the innkeeper assured him. “Stuart’s the name.”

“Gustave Higgins,” Greg lied.

And that was it. Greg got some food, and then retreated up to his room, almost skipping up the steps. He had survived full moon. He was still – there. Still Greg. And nobody here suspected anything. For the moment at least, he was safe.

Until the next full moon.

But that was something he would worry about in a couple of weeks. For now, he could sleep in a real bed, eat fresh food – though his appetite seemed to return to normal as well – and tomorrow, he would get onto a coach, and move on to Eoforwic. In a couple of days, three at the most, he would reach the city, and then he could see about joining the railway.

He lay on his back on the bed and stared up towards the ceiling. The room wasn’t very big, but clean, and the bed was at least better than the floor. He could almost imagine living like this – travelling from city to city, only staying out in the forest around full moon. Except it would probably get lonely very fast, and the money wouldn’t last him long either, unless he could find some form of income.

Maybe he could make the railway thing work. Mr. Higgins had said that most of the crews were made up of convicted criminals who were given the choice between the rope and the railway, so maybe they would hire a werewolf as well?

Unlikely.