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The bells toll and the werewolves howl.

Swollen dark clouds conceal the full moon, thunder resonates, and lightning offer glimpses of light. Cold winds carry the smell of fruiting bodies and plague, clatter bone charms tied to towering, ancient trees.

The travelers should have listened to the locals when those begged for them not to intrude in the forest at night, should have listened to the stories of gnashing fangs and polluted blood told by the old women or the ill portents declared by the local priest. They though themselves rational and civilized, protected by silver and powder.

It took less than a mile to prove them wrong.

Emerald eyes regard a strange flower through thick, wire-framed glasses. Professor Victoria Shelley, a student of the preternatural sciences and a brilliant mind cursed with more curiosity than good sense. Short and thin, of pale complexion and blonde hair tied in a messy bun, the professor has her fingers stained with black ink and wears a simple, old dress she had bought at a discount.

“Close the blinders, dear!” Melissa Arrington demands with a soft tone. “Evil things live in those woods.”

Melissa Arrington is radiant, from her hair so dark it almost shines to the soft smile in her brightly red lips she carries herself with confidence and poise. A tall woman of voluptuous curves and warm beauty, whose dark eyes betrayal a coldness more commonly found in older, vile matrons. She wears her red dress as an extension of her body, the ornate red fabric accentuating her curves and the gold rings as accents against her tanned skin.

Victoria pays her little attention. “Just a moment, you think the conductor would agree to stop for a moment so I can collect more specimens?”

Melissa rolls her dark eyes and stretches herself over the other woman to close the window by herself. “If you want to step out and go frolic on the woods, be my guest. But we are absolutely not stopping!”

Victoria carefully pockets the flower and consider Melissa. “For Light’s sake! This is my research expedition, and I only brought the two of you along as a favor! These specimens can be incredibly valuable, more even than all of your frivolous dresses and jewels!”

Shadow falls on Melissa’s face, gives her a hard edge, all the sweetness gone from her voice as she speaks again. “I hate it when you act like that. It would make you good to remember that before the generous funding, graciously offered by our family, you were nothing but a disgraced researcher, living in a leaky basement, and teaching ungrateful kids...”

“Hell no,” Victoria objects. “Your family has been hemorrhaging money for the last two seasons, princess! You didn’t came looking for me out of generosity or scientific curiosity, but only because all your other options have been exhausted. You are broke, your family line is a dead end, and the moment anyone realizes it they will come knocking.”

“Victoria, dear,” Melissa says quite calmly with more than a note of condescension. “If you do or say anything to suggest my family’s financial troubles or lack of heirs… I’ll kill you.”

“Good luck with that,” Victoria replies with a choked laughter. “Careful, its damn hard to remove blood stains from that fancy fabric of yours.”

Melissa sighs deeply. “If you ever wish to become a lady of class, I could provide you with the means. I could even provide you with instruction. But you would need to forget all this nonsense and learn to be comfortable with your womanhood. That is, if you don’t want to end up some old spinster.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“Only that have been rumors. Terrible and deviant tales that could destroy your reputation, leave you a pariah from civilized society if you don’t take care. You hide yourself behind books and drab dresses with fervent intent. If you ever hope to marry, you will need to learn to appreciate your graces. A little femininity and refinement go a long way in winning a man’s affection,” Melissa saucily flutters her eyes at her husband, William Arrington III. “My dear husband knows exactly what I mean, don’t you dear?”

William Arrington III grunts in agreement, barely paying any attention to the discussion. Short and lean, the nobleman polishes his monocle with a handkerchief, his mahogany cane tucked between his legs. Dressed in the most expensive clothes money could buy and wearing several gold rings, he made a fashionable, but not stylish figure. He checks the gold watch chain adorning his vest for the third time in the last hour.

Time was running out.

Gnarling and growling, twisted creatures that are neither men nor wolf come out to hunt. Taller and stronger than men, built in the shape of a wolf, their fur dark, and their eyes red like embers. They are werewolves, the children of the Mother Night, creatures born out of plague, dotted of ferocity and speed, but above all a perverse intelligence.

Now, the four horses pulling their carriage take haste on the rough road carved across the dark woods, the conductor desperately whipped the horses into a full stride as the howling beasts came closer and closer. On the top, two young men cling to the rails, balancing perilously with muskets in their hands.

Ryan Fowler’s hands burn with remains of powder, but he keeps reloading the musket. His dark eyes fixed on the trees, following the movements of the werewolves. Tall and tough, his dark, messy hair hidden under a heavy, armored coat that hangs heavily on his shoulders. A veteran from the Royal Corps, he reloads the musket with ingrained movements that guide him through the pain and fear.

“Father of Light,” he presses the musket against his shoulder, squeeze the trigger, and its thunderous roar choke his prayers.

The silver ammo is precious, each worth more than a hundred high quality steel cartridges, but now they pierce the werewolf’s thick skin, wreck the muscles under it, fracture the bones. Their black blood boils in contact with the sacred metal.

“I hate these fuckers,” Jack Skye scream over the roar of his gun, his shot finds the head of a werewolf and shatters the skull. Short and blonde, Jack was no soldier, but a hunter from birth. To put food on the table and coins in the purse he learned how to hunt as soon as he could carry his grandfather’s musket with the impetus that only an empty belly could provide. A missed shot brought no coin. He became good at it, great even! The best sharpshooter in a hundred miles, the best tracker in all the northern regions. Could have made a real living out of it, if not for his proclivities.

“Quit the chatter and kill those abominations,” Charley Clements screams whipping the horses for them to go faster, the other hand holding tightly to his wide-brimmed hat. “If you two let those creatures put their foul claws on us, I’ll have the two of you fired!”

“Aye aye, boss!” Jack replies while reloading, his eyes tracking the next target through the woods, a lean beast with their wolf-like ears pierced several times, an all too human act of vanity. He fires and the beasts topples back with a sharp screech of pain.

“Mean scrapper,” Ryan drops a silver cartridge in the musket and rams it down. “Why do we keep working for him?”

Jack chuckles, musket pressed against his shoulder. “Still better than the army, lad!”

Ryan replies with a grunt as he reloads. That isn’t the truth. Charley Clements is a terrible boss and even worse as a person, the miser shortchanged them at every opportunity and will skim profits from every nick and corner he can put his grubby hands on, but he also cares nothing that Jack and Ryan share a room, or the matching rings they wear.

It’s a familiar rhythm, side by side the soldier and the hunter reloaded and fired, reloaded and fired, and the werewolves went down. Together they had stood against the creatures of the plague before, intruded in their forests, and collected their dark furs for copper; taken nobles in expeditions to their ancient states to recover family heirlooms; escorted precious cargo through plagued territories.

The carriage picks up speed, hurtling recklessly over the broken trail when something hit the side of the carriage, sends it veering dangerously and almost out of the road. The passengers scream as large, black claws pierce the wood and smash against the door.

Jack lost not a heartbeat, lowering his rifle and blasting the werewolf hanging on the side of the coach. The beast whimpers painfully as the silver pierces his flesh and thumps heavily against the road.

Keeping the rifle clenched in his hands, Ryan covers him while he keeps an eye on the road. The frightened whinnying of the horses grows in volume, quickly followed by the cruel crack of Charlie’s whip. The carriage barges ahead, bouncing on the broken trail. The sounds of the werewolves’ paws pounding the ground follow the thunder of the horses’ hooves.

A giant claw in a furry, black paw swipes at Ryan’s leg, drag him down and almost pull him out of the carriage if not by Jack’s quick knife. The long blade, coated in silver, plunges with enough force to pin the beast’s paw to the roof of the carriage. Ryan jumps to his feet, holding the cold iron of the musket as a talisman as he prays and reloads.

The carriage shakes violently as a werewolf lands on the roof. Lightning strikes give a momentary glimpse of the beast’s dreadful beauty: A large beast, nearly two meters of muscles, claws, and fangs. It’s red eyes glow against the black fur and it’s so heavy its weight nearly tips the carriage.

Ryan whips around to face the werewolf, dropping the musket and unsheathing a long knife with silver edge. Swift as he was, Ryan couldn’t match the ferocity of the werewolf. Batting the knife away with a thunderous roar, the beast’s claws go for his heart.

A werewolf’s claws could have easily cut through his leather coat, ruined his flesh, and broken his bones. His hearth would be crushed in the creature’s paws, his conscience would last only long enough to see the creature fasting on his flesh.

But Jack jumps in front of the beast.

“You fool,” Ryan clenches his teeth and takes the musket out of Jack’s hands. “You fucking asshole!” He raises the rifle, press it against his shoulder, the werewolf rises up to attack. “Why you had to do this?” He squeezes the trigger.

The werewolf falls back, the silver ball pierces the muscles, destroys the creature’s heart.

A loud, cracking, grinding stroke flips the whole carriage fifteen feet up in the air and comes crashing back to earth with a violent shattering of wood and metal. The horses break free of the wreckage where they can, run into the woods closely followed by the howls.

Ryan holds on tightly to the railing as everything else goes flying around, baggage and supplies are violently scattered by the might of the impact. Ryan don’t care about the bags filled with clothes and camping gear, or even the much more valuable laboratory equipment brought by the travelers, he doesn’t even care about the precious packs of food and water, because in that moment the only thing he tries to save is the body of Jack.

Still, he lands on the ground with an impact that steals all of his breath and conscience.

“Wake up, your cheap ingrate,” Charley comes at him with fuming pace. “This whole thing is busted! We don’t have time for you to take a nap! Go fix it at once!”

Ryan scrambles back up, reaching for his rifle before assessing the situation, the weight of the weapon in his hands is a promise of security even if he is running dangerously low on silver cartridges.

The Carriage is toppled on its side, the wheels splintered, the metal bands of the suspension ruined, the wood paneling on the sides completely fractured. It would take them hours to fix it if they even had the tools and the material. They should have been carrying flares, at least three of them to call in for help, but it would take hours for any reinforcement to arrive.

“We can’t fix it, boss,” Ryan replies.

“Dammed thing,” Charley goes on a rage filled rant, but Ryan can’t pay attention, he doesn’t want to think about money or even possible reinforcements. The only thing he needs is to go back into the wood to look for Jack’s body, to retrieve it before the creature’s feast of his flesh.

“This is absolutely dreadful!” Melissa Arrington tumbles out of the carriage with difficult, trying to keep her dress out of the muddy road. “What kind of amateurs are you? As soon as we are back to civilization, I’ll write to the president of the company a strongly worded letter.”

“Lady, there’s no need for that,” Charley moves quickly from rage to an appeasing smile. “We have everything under control, nothing more than a small delay! When I was hired it was with the solen duty of guaranteeing the absolutely safety and comfort of my passengers! I will take whatever steps are necessary to guarantee the three of you reach your destination unharmed and on time!”

Ryan counts his silver cartridges, five in total, plus twenty steel that would be near useless against those beasts. His long knife has a silver edge, but against a werewolf it’s near useless. Good against the shambling dead tough. At least he still has his flask securely tied to his belt, half full with cheap whisky.

The broken trail ahead of them split in three different paths, an old signpost marked the directions with wooden arrows, the names on the arrows almost erased by fungous growth. The road to the east should taken them to the ancient Dmitriev castle, a once noble state now consumed by the plague. To the west once was the village of Lacrimi, a prosperous little town that was swollen by the dark woods. Due north is the port town of Mitoc, their original destination, the city had somehow survived the plague, even tough some of the locals told tales about the strange looks of the inhabitants.

“Our chances are not good, are they?” Victoria approaches him, she has an old pistol in hands. “Family heirloom,” she explains quickly. “My father used to hunt on the weekends, mostly ducks and foxes.”

“What you do for a living, ma’am?” Ryan asks.

“Call me Victoria, please. I’m a scientist, a researcher of the ectogenic and spectrology fields!” Victoria replies proudly. “My study on the field of botanical mutations due to exposition to ectoplasm wells…”

“Right,” Ryan cuts her. “Victoria, I’m a soldier and Jack is… was a hunter. We hunt and kill these things for a living. You understand that every day you spent locked in a laboratory doing your sciency stuff, we were out here killing. So, stow that gun unless you want to end up shooting one of us by accident.”

Victoria nods as she puts her gun back in the holster. “Right, sorry! Anything I can do to help?”

Ryan sighs, rolling the last silver cartridges in his hand. “You won’t happen to have silver bullets in you?”

Victoria shakes her head.

“The wolves have lost our track for now,” Ryan explains as he takes a long swig of his flask, he needs the liquid courage more than ever. “Get walking, take the east path and don’t stop for anything. The castle is old and abandoned, but it’s walls are of stone. Shelter in there until dawn and then call for help.”

“You are not coming?” Victoria asks, more accusation than question. “Fucking hell, you want to leave us all to die!”

“It’s not that!” Ryan replies, trying to keep his voice low to avoid calling attention from the rest of the group. “I just need to do something important first, I’ll meet you on the way.”

“Stop being so bloody secretive, what could be more important than our lives?”

“Nothing you could understand,” Ryan replies. “Just go ahead and keep following the road, I meet you there.”

“What I understand perfectly is that without you, we are all doomed. You are the only one here that knows how to shoot, the only one that even knows what is hiding in these dammed woods! So, at least tell me what could be so fucking important that is worth all of our lives?”

“It’s Jack!” Ryan spits the word. “I need to find his body; I need to burn his flesh and salt his remains! He is… was the only that really matter and I don’t care if me and all of you end up devoured by these beasts, but I’m going in there and giving him the peace he deserves!”

“You selfish, arrogant, stupid soldier!” Victoria says. “Go ahead and put a bullet in my head right now, because it sure will be a much peaceful end than any of the beasts will give me! Go on, kill all of us at once and then you can go look for the body of your friend!”

“He was my husband!” Ryan says before thinking and immediately regret the words out of his mouth. “He was my husband… The only person that ever loved me.”

Ryan let himself fall to the ground, holding the Jack’s rifle with both hands as he struggles to breath. Victoria is dazed, but not repulsed. She falls at his side and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Melissa was my girlfriend,” she speaks in barely a whisper. “She loved me until the day she married. Now she fears me.”

Ryan opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t know what words could have made it better.

“Please, we need your help,” Victoria says and Ryan sighs deeply, whispering a pray to the Father of Light.