MOONWATCH

Prologue

TW: bl00d, dēâth, viOlence, dizziness

1933

He could feel the darkness approaching, and there was nothing he could do.

If someone had opened their window that one night in November of 1933, they would have seen him, running down the streets with a determination unusual for that era. Perhaps, however, the determination was in fact desperation, something that many people could identify with after the stock market crash of 1929.

In any case, he ran as if he was being chased. This thought would have risen, unbidden, to the minds of the onlookers, but quickly shoved away.

Because, of course, there was nothing chasing him. The streets of the neighborhood were empty and dim-lit—no one would be out, especially in the chilly November air. People were asleep in their homes, assuming they could still afford them.

If anyone had been watching, they might have suddenly felt the darkness become tangible, running its fingers across their shoulders or ruffling the tips of their hair, slowly twisting around their neck. Maybe they felt as if their limbs were turning to ice for the briefest of unexplainable moments. Perhaps their vision blurred, causing them to grip the windowsill.

But if anyone was watching him, if anyone was awake, if anyone cared or felt these strange feelings, it was gone in an instant. With a shiver, they would have put the thought out of their mind and gone to bed like all sensible people.

Below, he struggled on. His throat was raw with the sting of cold oxygen, and his muscles strained with tension. He looked like any other boy at seventeen years of age, unremarkable in most ways. Dark, straight hair brushed into his eyes as he ran; he was somewhat tall for his age and lean from labor.

The strangest detail one might observe was the sliver of smooth black stone that he clutched in his fist.

The night grew deeper. The streetlights, spread far apart alongside houses, cast long shadows over him and the road. Overhead, the sky was gray due to the overcast weather, creating an inexplicably ominous atmosphere.

An ice-cold wind tore through the night. He stumbled, and the sound of rushing wings became audible over the silent neighborhood. Dark shapes swarmed, quickly decreasing the space between them and him. The world twisted, and he collapsed, hitting the pavement with enough force to take his breath away—if the sight of them had not already stolen it. A wingbeat later, and they were upon him.

The air tightened, the oxygen thinning until he could no longer breathe. Energy surged from the edges of the mass of darkness, making his limbs weak. A spark of panic, and he pumped his fist in the air.

A metallic scream filled the quiet street, and a window shattered in response. The mass of dark entities scattered, some disintegrating into a fine black dust and others fleeing as if for their lives. He stood up, tucked the stone into his hand once more, and kept going.

He shouldn't have been able to see them, and that thought was what terrified him most. They were growing stronger, and they knew where she was.

He ran faster.

Nearing the end of the street, he rounded a curve and halted, gasping. To the left was his house, but he knew he was too late. The edges of the windows gleamed with dark, pulsing energy, and the front door laid on the lawn, its hinges melted and smoldering.