Prologue
Born of Ancient descent, power and blood, the wolves of the Black Wood came into existence. In this land of Britain, they watched and waited, protecting the land itself and its people. Enemies came and went and these beasts of myth and legend showed themselves, instilling fear and authority. Bred from the mystical power of the Elementals and from the blood of the one true wolf King Boragen, they exist as a reminder of patriotism, of the earth beneath our feet and its importance in the nature of all things.
Over millennia they grew silent, changing with the land and its newcomers, blending in, observing, and continuing to protect what mattered most. Different enemies came but the war of attrition rolled on. Numbers diminished, the pureblood lines disappeared and the wolves found themselves outnumbered.
Society moved on, progress hastened, drug culture ruled and the youth forgot their heritage. Allies have aligned themselves to the pack in the deepening threat of a ‘New War’. Government, Law enforcement and even Royalty back the true guardians, the High Protectors. The vampire has grown in numbers, the threat greater, yet the wolf waits, silently.
***
Killian
The Blackwood Wolf runs with the wind at his back. As the beast, he is at one with his surroundings. Huge in size, over twelve foot long, six foot at the shoulder his tail another three feet trailing behind, he is a wonder. Yet, no one sees him as the fog of London and the shadows hide his blurry form. Helped by the deep black steely shiny fur, he cuts the breeze in two with ease. Alone now, he remembers times past, wars forgotten and fallen comrades.
The past, over two millennia ago, he stands on a ridge. By his side, his Alpha father, his mother by him. Below, he hears the sound of metal against metal, the harsh cries of his people as they put fear into the enemy, the Roman army. Snarls and growls come from behind as the rest of the pack crowd in, ready and poised for the battle.
The Alpha raises his head and asserts his authority, calling his pack. The howl is heard for miles, and then as it wanes the sound of thunder echoes.
The Romans fight on but the people scream louder, fight harder as the thunder rages through them. Enemy horses snort, fear of the unknown rattles their instinct. The trees sway and the ground rumbles as hundreds of wolves’ storm into sight. The enemy sees and they stand with their jaws dropped. They run, they turn and run. Some stumble, falling over each other. The rest are taken by giant teeth, ripped apart, others slashed by sharp claws. The enemy is slaughtered. They’ll never come this far north again.
Now, Killian runs on, dodging trees, his huge paws echoing as each thumps the ground in his haste. His strong heart beats with a steady rhythm. Muscles glide, flesh is strong, skin like iron. Long forgotten, he snarls—not anymore, not for long. The hunt is on. Leaving the open countryside behind him, he ventures into the city, using walls and buildings to cover his approach. He leaps and lands like a soft pawed kitten, then runs on, nearly there.
Sniffing the air, he growls as the scent he seeks hits his flared nostrils. The final obstacle, he jumps, clearing the twelve foot wall. As he settles, he looks around. Trees provide the perfect cover while he waits. In the distance he hears a carriage.
The wolf becomes the man, out of sight, out of sound. The metamorphosis is easy. Fur becomes the clothes, covering him. Eyes seek the dark, ears listen for a whisper. It starts to rain.
