Leaving the old man’s house behind, Glen suddenly felt the prickle of unseen eyes upon him.

  Almost instinctively, he lifted his gaze, and it fell upon the second floor of the house across the street.

  All was still and silent there; the windows revealed nothing but an impenetrable darkness.

  “Who lives in that place?” Glen muttered under his breath, as though asking both another and himself.

  Searching once more through his memory, he was certain he had never encountered the owner of that dwelling opposite the old man’s home.

  A hoarse chuckle drifted from behind him, pulling his attention back.

  He turned and saw the old man seated in the gloom, half-shrouded in shadow.

  “The fellow across the street is a wealthy one,” the elder rasped. “Perhaps you might consider paying him a visit.”

  Glen had no desire to entertain the suggestion. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied flatly.

  …

  He made his way out of the town, returning to the place where he had been ambushed the night before. He intended to retrieve the revolver left behind.

  Now that he had crossed into this world, survival was paramount. Comfort and ease could wait until life itself was secure.

  Though the town seemed just as bleak beneath daylight as it had under moonlight, no danger lurked in the open—else the body’s original owner would never have lasted this long.

  He passed no townsfolk along the road, nor heard the chatter of birds; only his solitary footsteps disturbed the silence.

  When at last he reached the spot of yesterday’s awakening, the sight that greeted him made his guard rise sharply.

  The revolver was there, plain and obvious, but the corpse had been reduced to scattered flesh and clumps of hair still clinging to strips of scalp.

  A beast has been here? A chill crept down Glen’s spine.

  He stooped swiftly to reclaim the revolver, intent on leaving at once—when a stench, foul and suffocating, caught in his throat.

  Unable to discern its source, he stood frozen, scanning the shadows, fingers tightening upon the shotgun wrested from the old man.

  He had checked: it carried three shots, enough to handle ordinary beasts.

  But the stench thickened, pressing upon him, warning of something far more dreadful drawing near.

  This place… His face remained composed, but inwardly he braced for the worst.

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  A faint rustle broke the silence—the dry crack of leaves beneath cautious feet.

  The sound drew nearer, so subtle it would have passed unnoticed had not his hearing become unnaturally keen.

  Each step seemed to echo against the rhythm of his own pulse, until sweat beaded upon his brow.

  Yet still he could not pinpoint the direction; his eyes found nothing. The helplessness of waiting for an unseen predator gnawed at him.

  Then, all at once, silence returned.

  The rustling ceased.

  That, Glen knew, was no good sign.

  Every hair on his body bristled, his back icy cold.

  Behind me!

  He cursed inwardly and rolled aside in a flash—yet the anticipated strike did not fall.

  Perplexed, he crouched low, eyes darting backward.

  And there it was.

  A beast as large as a horse, black-furred and wolf-like, save for the single baleful eye glaring from its forehead. Its skull was grotesquely large for its frame, its mouth split wide toward the neck, baring jagged fangs that glistened in the dark.

  The creature stood still, its solitary eye fixed on him, brimming with wary menace.

  Quietly, Glen raised the shotgun. Could it kill such a thing? He had no memory of a monster like this; unless it struck first, he would not waste a bullet.

  Threads of saliva slipped from its maw like strings of pearls, while its tongue ceaselessly licked its nose, as though craving something near.

  Man and beast stared each other down in tense silence.

  At last, the monster began to edge closer, teeth fully bared, a guttural growl rumbling from its throat.

  Knowing he could never overcome such a brute at close quarters, Glen fired without hesitation.

  Bang!

  Blood spurted from the beast’s brow, and it shrieked in agony.

  But the bullet had not pierced through. Glen glimpsed metal glinting above the eye where flesh had been torn away.

  He reloaded with lightning speed, firing again.

  But the creature no longer offered him the chance.

  With an impossible burst of speed, it blurred aside, narrowly evading the second shot.

  “Damn it!” Glen snarled, swinging the barrel for a third strike—yet already the stench of blood and breath was upon him, fangs snapping inches from his face.

  “Back!” he roared, twisting his body hard, and lashed out with a powerful roundhouse kick to its jaw.

  Years of combat lived in his soul, regardless of the vessel he now inhabited.

  The impact was like striking iron; his foot went numb.

  Yet the blow, driven by his enhanced body, sent the beast—nearly a ton in weight—crashing backward, flipping head over heels.

  Glen himself tumbled, sprawling onto the grass, but rolled nimbly to his feet once more.

  The monster, chastened, did not rush in again. It lingered, growling low, hesitating.

  Glen’s leg trembled from the force of the strike, but he dared show no weakness. To falter now meant certain death.

  Then, with a sudden bound, the beast lunged once more, heedless of the risk.

  He tried to dodge, but its speed eclipsed his own. Jaws clamped hard about his ankle, and with a savage jerk of its head, the world whirled around him.

  He slammed against the earth, pain roaring through his body. As his vision cleared, he saw the gaping maw descending, death closer than ever before.

  In that instant, something within him erupted. The force coursing through his veins boiled over, driving his body into violent change.

  By instinct, his right hand lashed out.

  A sound like tearing cloth split the air, followed by the beast’s agonized scream.

  Blood veiled his vision in a crimson haze, and all thought dissolved into a primal hunger—hunger for slaughter, for blood, for ruin.

  His will to kill fused with this new savagery. With a snarl, he hurled himself upon the creature, and the two tore at one another in brutal struggle.

  Strength matched strength, but Glen retained his combat instinct, and soon he pressed the advantage.

  Within moments, the beast was a ruin of mangled flesh and shattered bone, pinned beneath his hand, whimpering in pitiful submission.

  He raised his claws for the final strike—but clarity flickered in his frenzied eyes, then slowly steadied into full awareness.

  Breath ragged, he stared in bewilderment.

  His hand, gripping the creature, was no longer human: black bristles bristled like steel needles, claws glimmered sharp as blades, and below his gaze stretched the muzzle of a wolf.

  He had become a werewolf.