Purgatory of the Werewolf - The Wolf of Dorian Gray (Book 2)

Copyright & Prologue

Copyright © 2017 by Brian S. Ference

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

*** Warning - This work contains mature content and is currently in SECOND DRAFT form***

I would greatly appreciate any comments or feedback from the point of view of Beta readers including: 

Plot holes

Inconsistencies

Character Development

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I would also appreciate it if you were able use the following http://thewritepractice.com/how-to-edit-your-story/ (How to edit) particularly in terms of passive voice or telling instead of showing 

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PROLOGUE:

Bright light—beams of painful whiteness penetrated the comfortable darkness and forced Dorian to open his eyes. He was in a thickly wooded area, encircled by a dense wall of trees. He was lying on the mossy ground with his arms flung over the carcass of a half-consumed deer. The air burned with the foul stench of rotting meat and bones that littered the forest floor. Completely covered by dried blood and gore, his skin felt raw and tender to the touch. He was utterly naked, like some ghoulish infant at the time of its birth. That was impossible. His last memories were of looking down at the gruesome wounds inflicted by the wolf, the excruciating pain that accompanied them, and the unpleasant feeling of being eaten alive.

Yet here he was, alive—apparently in the creature's lair. Taking stock of his body, he found he was amazingly uninjured. His hands explored the areas where massive gashes had exposed organs and torn his flesh, but found them all curiously sound and smooth to the touch. Had it all been some terrible dream? Then why was he bloody and in the forest? Whatever had happened, Dorian needed to be away from this place before the lycanthrope returned. Like a newborn fawn on unfamiliar and ungainly legs, he rose and moved falteringly away from the rotting pile of venison. As his legs began to strengthen he stumbled across a small stream and used the water to wash away some of the blood staining his skin. He felt like a common beast as he stooped to slurp up a drink from the muddy water. With his mind somewhat steadied, he focused again on fleeing from the center of the forest in the hope of reaching some safe place.

He ran on, naked skin oblivious to the cuts on his arms and scrapes on his feet as he fought against the undergrowth of the forest. He tried following small game trails to make his journey easier. It felt like he ran for hours, dodging amongst the trees. Unbidden, his path led directly to the one location he knew to be both close to the forest and currently uninhabited—Sage's country workshop. His good friend was dead and with no living relatives, the property was sure to be deserted. Dorian approached the estate cautiously. He waited for a time to watch for any signs of life, before dashing to the back door and forcing his way in. The old wooden door seemed to break at the hinges immediately. They must have rusted thin with age.

The stone hearth was cold and everything remained covered with pale linen sheets. It was almost as if Sage had never lived here. He walked over to the corner closet and began rummaging through it in the hopes of finding some closes. He was fortunate to a gentleman's coat that some patron or acquaintance must have misplaced there. Covering his nude and crimson form, he strode into the kitchen and began searching through the cabinets. There he found a surprising selection of cheeses stored in wax, dried fruits, pickled vegetables, salted meat, and even some canned fare. Not so deserted after all. However, none of the food appealed. Dorian found that despite his desperate run through the forest, he was still quite full—though from what meal, he had no idea.

He decided instead to pump several buckets of water into Sage's antique, copper tub and began scouring his skin clean. He exited the bath and tried not to look at the red-tinted water. With his flesh returned to a healthy pink color, Dorian felt once more like himself. Yet, strangely not himself. He was somehow changed and felt like an entirely new version of the Dorian Gray he had once been. More complete perhaps. His mind was swimming with regret, shame, and fear—but also something else. Maybe, there was an inkling of hope there. He felt now that he had the strength to begin a new life. He would gather some meager resources and leave all the wealth and debauchery of his previous existence behind him. Perhaps a grand adventure to places unknown in the world, or an excursion to India or the Americas. Any place that took him far away from that demon. It still haunted his vision every time he closed his eyes.