The First Werewolf

Night fell upon the tiny village as a feather falls upon water. The air was silent and still, the sky a clear black canvas freckled with bright stars. A full strawberry moon cast luminous shadows beyond the trees, covering the surrounding forest in darkness.

Small stone houses lined the streets of the tiny village, and most of their windows were dark. One of the cozy dwellings was alight, however, with candles throwing a yellowish glow onto the ground below its windows. Inside this warm, quiet home lived a man and his wife, and their baby boy. At this hour, the boy, Alder, was typically asleep. But on this particular night, he happened to be cutting a tooth. His mother, Lillith, was doing everything she could to get her son to go to sleep, but every time she laid him down, he would wail at an impossible volume. So, she was stuck holding him, bouncing back and forth across the floor, humming a tune that seemed to soothe Alder. Nearby, lounging in a chair near a quiet fire, the boy's father sat tracing his finger around through a bowl of salt.

He was not an exceptionally large man, but he was in no way small, either. On the left side of his head, just behind the ear, was a small mark; a twisting design of raised, pinkish flesh in the shape of a spiral. This was the mark given to him when he was just a child, burned into his skin with a hot, metal stamp to signify what he was. He'd only met three other people throughout his entire life with the same mark. It was the mark of magic.

From a very young age, this man could work magic in a way that no other child ever could. In his village, he was considered the most powerful, the most advanced diviner there was. But although he was held in high regard by all, and had many friends, he was always very shy. So shy, in fact, that they called him Conall the Coy.

As Conall sat listening to the humming of his beautiful wife, he drew circles in the salt and studied them closely. It was something he often did when he was awake late at night; a way to pass the time. But it was also a way to make sure his family was safe. Conall would spell the salt all night until he finally felt tired enough to crawl into bed. Just before he did, however, he would sprinkle the salt around the outside of his home, chanting and humming more words of magic as he went.

On this night, Conall was stopped as he spelled his bowl of salt, by a strange feeling that crept up the back of his neck like a spider. He closed his eyes and reached out with an endless string of magic, searching for the source of his sudden discomfort. He could feel nothing. Resting an open hand on the surface of the salt, Conall searched for an answer. The only thing he could feel surging through him was danger. And then, in the distance, an ear-splitting scream rang out through the night.

Conall locked eyes with Lillith, her face rigid with sudden terror. He pointed toward the bedroom door and started around the house, blowing out the candles that rested on the windowsills. Lillith took Alder into the bedroom and shut the door, leaving Conall on the other side. He locked the door from the outside and marched out into the streets, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

He scanned his surroundings with keen, dark eyes, peering through the dim light of the moon. Back and forth, around in circles, Conall squinted through the dark, searching until finally, his vision caught glimpse of a figure. A shadowy shape with two legs and two arms suddenly appeared; it stood in the center of the street and stared directly at Conall. Two pure white orbs glowed from the creature's face, and its mouth gleamed with sharp, white teeth that dripped a wet crimson. The longer he looked at it, the more distinct its features became; long fingers tipped with sharp, claw-like nails; thin, blue veins that snaked like spider webs beneath pale, ashy skin; dark hollows beneath the eyes and under the cheekbones. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as the thing moved toward him.

Without a second thought, Conall brought up his hands. Bright blue and green sparks flashed from his fingertips, surrounded by a widening circle of yellow light. He tried to scare the thing away, but it only flinched slightly before continuing to move toward Conall with inhuman speed. All at once, the creature stood before him, and it was all that he could do to keep from screaming.

"Vampyr," Conall whispered. He'd never believed them to be real.

The twisted, dead face before him smiled, showing its jagged, blood-stained teeth. Conall was thrown into the trunk of a nearby tree before he'd even seen the creature move. His head smacked against the tree and Conall, dizzy and nauseous, raised his hands again. The wind began to blow fiercely all around him, picking up small sticks and rocks and hurling them through the air. One fist-sized stone sailed into the Vampyr's chest, and Conall heard a sickening crack.

He watched the thing, bent over and groaning, waiting for it to collapse. But instead, the Vampyr slowly stood up and turned to Conall just as its bones began to stitch themselves back together. Crunching and grinding could be heard as the creature's body slowly mended itself, standing up straight as the last bone snapped back into place. It turned and headed again toward the house.

Conall scrambled to his feet and started toward the thing, his hand outstretched, reaching for a stronger magic. A blaze of red light shot out from his palm as he cried out and watched the beam of light slice right through the Vampyr's chest. It fell, finally, into a heap of dust on the ground. Conall caught his breath, his head feeling light, his arms weak.

"Lillith!" he called out, stumbling toward the house. "It's safe, my love. I've destroyed the demon."

No sound came from inside the house, not even a flourish of movement. Conall took two more unsteady steps toward the door and heard a quiet shuffling in the dirt behind him. Turning around, he saw them. There were at least fifty of them, moving almost silently across the ground, a hoard of fanged, white-eyed monsters, all staring at him. As they folded in on him, there was only one thing he could do.

Conall grasped the heavy, white stone that hung from a rope around his neck, closed his eyes, and began to chant.

The sun rose the following morning in silence. Not a single bird would sing to greet this day, as the streets ran red like rivers of blood. Pale bodies, empty of blood and devoid of life, hung from treetops and were scattered in pieces across the village. The warm glow of sunrise spread out across the fields and the rolling hills beyond, into the trees of the forest, and over the two fresh graves where Conall the Coy had just buried the remains of his wife and their son.

The white circle of the full moon could still be seen, just enough, fading into the brightness of dawn. Conall pulled the stone from his neck and observed it as it hummed lowly with a dull glow. His deep brown eyes stayed locked on the stone as he spoke to no one but himself, for he was the only one who'd survived the night.

"For each life that was taken last night, I vow to take a hundred Vampyr lives. To be sure that I succeed, I will draw upon the power of the death that runs now in the veins of this village; the life force that is soaked into the soil beneath my feet; the souls of those whose bodies litter the land; the dark magic of death that is absorbed within this stone." He closed his eyes and spoke to the earth, the source of his magic, and asked its guidance. "Give me a sign. Send me a clue to the final ingredient for this spell I do not know. A spell which will grant me everything I want; the need that lies deep within my heart and soul. I ask for a new power, a new gift to bestow upon myself. I ask for the key to unlock a power that will change me into the weapon that can destroy the Vampyr race."

Conall's voice grew darker as he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, gripped the stone with every ounce of strength he could find, and called out his final wishes. "Show me what I need so that I may possess power beyond all power, strength beyond all strength, and a forceful magic unlike anything this earth has ever witnessed."

When he opened his eyes, Conall saw exactly what he needed. Just across the field, bathed in sunlight, sat a great white wolf. Its tongue lolled in its mouth and it watched Conall with little interest as he approached it. The beast was enormous, bigger than any bear Conall had ever seen. He had to look upward to see into the wolf's orange eyes.

"Are you friend?" Conall asked. "Or foe?"

The wolf licked at the stone that hung around Conall's neck, then laid down in the grass with its eyes closed, panting in the warm morning sun. The wind whispered into the diviner's ear. Kill it. Kill the beast and drink its blood, every

last drop. He gazed down at the beautiful wolf, its fur white as snow and soft as satin. He didn't want to kill it. Kill it, the wind whispered again. Drain its blood into your belly and be filled with the powers you seek. Conall hesitated, then removed the rock from his neck, weighing it in his hand. It was a rather large, heavy, white quartz crystal the size of his hand, with rough, sharp edges. Kill the wolf, the wind again whispered. It beckoned him, called to him, urged him to do it. Your power runs in the animal's veins. It waits for you to take it. Don't hesitate! Strength and power beyond! Life eternal! It waits for you!

He swung the stone down hard into the wolf's skull, again and again, screaming out in agony as he did. With each strike, Conall felt the wolf's pain. He felt the life trickling out of the beast and used a sharp edge of the stone to cut into its throat. Black blood soaked the wolf's fur and Conall pressed his face to the gushing wound, opening his mouth to let the thick, bitter liquid inside. Tears dripped from the corners of his eyes as he swallowed mouthfuls of the viscous fluid, all but choking on the taste of it. Finally, when he could drink no more, he pulled away from the wolf and turned his bloodshot eyes to the sky. The first thing he saw was the faint, round moon hanging high above.

Conall channeled every last ounce of magic he could find within himself and, still gripping the bloody quartz, cast one last spell. It was a spell that nearly killed any diviner who attempted to cast it, and would link any enchantment to three separate items, for a secure, essentially unbreakable bond. To make this task even more difficult, the three items had to be specific; something of this world, something not of this world, and something temporary. Conall, in this moment, possessed access to all three.

The stone, which he'd found deep in a cavern behind a great waterfall when he was eleven years old, was certainly of this earth. He'd performed acts necessary to the spell using the quartz and would also use it to keep the spell alive. The moon, just visible enough, was not of this earth, but he was not strong enough to bind the spell to the moon itself; Instead, Conall bound a portion of the spell to the current phase of the moon. For the third item, something temporary, Conall chose his own life. He intended to do this so that when he was finished with his task, once he had wiped out the entire race of Vampyr, he could break the spell with him. He would die and end it all; no more unnatural creatures prowling in the night. Conall would get rid of them all, then get rid of himself.