CHAPTER 1

THE FIRSTING

1996

Los Angeles, California

THUNDER ROARED in the sky and tore through his brain. His hands grasped his head, trying to stop the ripping atmosphere of his mind, but his clutching hands did nothing to quell the storm building behind his eyes. It needed out. It needed to be set free. He fell to his knees and sweat began to bead on his forehead as he fought it. Still, the red haze edged itself into his vision. Something was coming. Something he could not stop.

The pain from his busted lip and aching ribs fell away before this greater agony. It felt as if every cell in his body had suddenly thrown themselves into billions of blenders and, simultaneously, hit "Frappe". He'd never known that this sort of hurting existed. He hoped, if he somehow managed to survive this, he would never experience anything like this ever again.

Blood. He could smell it in the air now. He craved it, although a part of his mind balked at the idea. He wanted to feel its warm, stickiness on his face. He desired its salty, coppery taste and the sensation of it pouring down his throat. It was an animal lust, pure and uninhibited. It surged forward in him and he felt his control slipping away.

"Run," he yelled through the suffering, but he knew they would not.

The punks watched, a bit bewildered. This kid was not only a live one with a lot of attitude, but he was also completely whacked out. His little psycho-tantrum was all the proof they really needed,… but to tell them to run away? Not fucking likely. They had dragged him into the alley kicking and cussing, then commenced to beat his sorry, maniacal butt for a reason. They sure as Hell were not leaving without the leather jacket and wallet. No, the kid definitely had to be crazier than a shithouse rat to believe they would actually run. It just wasn't any good for a street rep if you ran just because some punk, mental-case told you to.

The kid's hand's dug into his unruly sandy-blonde hair. Sweat was now pouring from his head and hands, and his body shook like the L-train was passing through it. It truly might have been enough to send the punks on their heels, if it hadn't been for pride and greed. The kid smelled of money with his flashy jacket and suburbanite looks.

"Run," Hammer Tom laughed his moron laugh, and he rubbed his massive jaw where the kid had actually managed to land one. "I don't think so. Hey," his eyes never left the kid, "ya think he's gonna cry, Sykes?" Tom hoped the kid would. He popped his huge knuckles and smiled in anticipation of the sobs and whines to come. The kid had actually hit him, and he fully intended to repay that little kindness many times over.

"Who gives a fat fuck?" replied Eddie, who then turned to Sykes, "I say we stomp his sorry ass, grab the gear, and get." Eddied hid behind bravado, but he was fidgety (more so than usual) and Sykes could hear a faint tremor of nervousness in his squeally voice. Sykes would have normally seen this as a sign of weakness in his companion and chastised him for it later (there was never a place for weakness on the streets - you were either one of the sheep, or a wolf), but a certain edginess seemed to be creeping into him as well. There was certainly something "not right" about this kid.

"Tom," Sykes said, managing to bury the shake in his words. Tom pulled his fevered, bloodshot eyes off the kid and waited for the order. Savagery and violent dreams of the kid's fate played in Tom's eyes. "Do it."

Hammer Tom smiled with his crooked teeth, making him look more like some kind of troll than anything even remotely human, and turned back to the kid. Now came the really fun part. Now came the crying and the blood. Now came,…

Tom paused a moment, eyebrows rising in curiosity. Was the kid a bit bigger than he had been? A bit more buffed? His hair looked longer too.

Then, with a mental shrug and a muttered, "Screw it," Hammer Tom drew back his size thirteen Doc Marten and said, "Time to activate Daddy's dental plan, Kid."

Tom's foot swung towards the kid's down-turned head,… but met with razor-sharp fangs instead. A loud crunch filled the night, but it was not followed by the music of teeth skittering on pavement as Tom had anticipated.

The moments blurred. First, he saw that the kid was definitely a Hell of a lot bigger than he had been and covered in fur. Next, it seemed that the kid had simply shaken off the kick in the face. He then noticed the blood (maybe he had hurt the kid after all,… there sure seemed to be a lot of it). Lastly, he felt the pain. Tom looked down where his foot should have been, but seemed to be one shoe short. He hobbled, trying to balance on something wasn't there, and fell with a clattering crash into the side of a garbage strewn dumpster. Staring in shocked disbelief at the shredded calf and ragged stump that used to end with his right foot, Hammer Tom's mind searched for some sort of explanation. What happened? He looked up at the kid, seeking some sort of answer there.

The kid looked up, letting a mangled piece of black leather and flesh fall from his mouth, and locked his eyes with Hammer Tom. Tom couldn't help but think that he had never seen anything quite this pissed off.

The kid, who was no longer recognizable as "The Kid", leapt on Hammer Tom, closing its jaws on his exposed neck and raking his chest with taloned hands. Tom flailed, but could not escape his "victim". Blood flew through the air, some splashing across Eddie's wide-eyed, gaping face, but his mind registered nothing. His bottom lip quivered and tears of fear welled up in his eyes. Death had come to this alley and it wasn't leaving until its job was done right.

Sykes stood and watched dumbfounded. "The Kid" had increased nearly double in size; was covered in thick, yellowish fur; and appeared to be something akin to a "Rotweiler-from-Hell". Each finger was tipped with a claw the size of Sykes' switchblade, and from the damage they were doing to Hammer Tom, each was every bit as sharp, if not sharper. "The Kid's" mouth was now full of wicked-looking, gore-stained fangs; from which a chunk of Tom's throat hung.

Eddie fell against the wall, cringing and wetting himself. Sykes could only watch, trying not to move or draw the thing's attention. A part of his mind still struggled to grasp what it was they were seeing. He was fascinated and afraid. Both held his feet in place.

Eddie died next. Apparently, "The-Beast-That-Was-The-Kid" found his mewling and blubbering as annoying as Sykes had. It pounced on the cowering form, abandoning its previous play-toy for something a little more frisky. It happened so fast that Eddie didn't have time for anything more than a choked, little whimper.

Sykes' eyes flickered to the messy ribbons that used to be Hammer Tom. His chest lay open and his viscera were thrown about like toys in a two-year-olds room. Blood streaked his otherwise untouched face. A clean path led from one of Tom's lifeless eyes down his cheek. A single tear had managed to fall, then Tom could cry no more.

Looking away from his former-friend, Sykes looked back at the doom that would surely not stop until he, too, lay dead. Still, he could not run. Something about this creature transfixed him. He'd seen something like this before, he just couldn't recall where that had been. So, he stood pondering, and watched as its dense muscles rippled and delivered its deadly blows. He watched as blood and foam flung from its maw. He watched as pieces of another of his friends fell away, like a sculptor's discarded stone. He watched as the light and terror faded from Eddie's eyes.

As if sensing that this toy had also lost its usefulness, the creature rose up on its hind legs, turned, and glared at Sykes. An unreasoning, animalistic anger burned in its eyes. Its towering, nine-foot body was clothed in blondish, blood-soaked hair; but Sykes could still make out the remnants of the tattered rags hanging from its massive form. The gear he and his companions had so coveted a few short minutes before. A burst leather jacket here, what was left of jeans there. This obviously was "The Kid", but what had happened to the punk they had dragged into the alley?

A sudden memory surfaced in Sykes' mind. A few years ago, during a brief period that his folks had determined that they needed to spend some "quality time" with their boy, they had taken a trip. In his mind, the entire venture had been a complete and utter waste of time,… all except the San Diego Zoo. He had tried to play it cool, but it had been quite clear (even to his less-than-adequately-skilled parents) that he had truly enjoyed his time there. He had run all over the park, watching the animals with keen interest. One exhibit in particular had drawn him back again and again. For reasons unknown to him, he felt some deep connection with them. He spent hours watching them. So sad and alone, yet somehow still majestic. Looking in the eyes of the monster before him; he saw that sadness, that loneliness,… but never in the eyes of the zoo-born creatures had he ever imagined the rage that must come from such emotions.

"You," he stammered, "You're a wolf." The simple statement brought the monster on him with a roar and the whoosh of claws cutting through the night.

It was over quickly.

When Kyle Nines awoke, the rain had begun, but it was only beginning to wash away the gore of the punks that had tried to mug him. He had no memory of the events that had led him to this point, but he knew something incredible had taken place. A new power surged through his fifteen-year-old body. He felt invincible, but afraid. What was happening to im? He looked at his bloodied hands and the bodies he shared the alley with. They were mangled and ripped apart. Parts of them looked like they had been chewed on. Had he really done all of this? Was he truly capable of such? Scarlet splashes streaked the walls and pooled by his attackers. They had died horribly violent deaths. If he was found here, he would be in some seriously deep shit.

Quickly piece-mealing clothing for himself off the punks, he tried to come up with some sort of plan on what to do next. He had to find a secluded spot, or the torn and blood-soaked clothing would surely draw much unwanted attention. That, and the feel of the already cool blood against his flesh, made him uneasy. He had murdered three people, the thought struck home. Panic started to rise up in him. He had to get out of here, but to where?

As if to answer, "Not here," the rain intensified. Kyle Nines fled into the curtain of the newborn evening in search of shelter from the storm. He would try to figure this out later, when he had a safe and dry haven in which to collect his thoughts. Someplace that didn't reek of death and innocence lost. Someplace where he would have time to piece together the puzzle his life had become.

From above the alley, a figure watched as Kyle Nines disappeared into the downpour, and smiled. Xochipilli-Never-Frowns had been privilege to many sights in his years, but never to a Garou firsting.

"And to think," Xochipilli said to no one, "He got his cherry popped by three simple guttersnipes. Must be an Ahroun." He paused to ponder this tidbit, playin semi-consciously with one of the feathers braided into his ponytail, then continued his dialogue with the night's rain. "Yup," he reaffirmed, "definitely an Ahroun." His face lit up with a revelation, "Wow! I should follow this one. It could be quite entertaining." His smile took on a more devious cast, "No tellin' what lessons he'll need to learn."

Something, down amongst the carnage, caught Xochipilli's eye. At first, it appeared only to be a scrap of leather from the boy's jacket, but something still nagged the corner of Xochipilli's mind. Being of the curious sort, he chose to investigate.

Dropping the thirty feet onto pavement would have hurt, if not crippled, any normal man. Xochipilli prided himself on being anything but normal. Normal men didn't have the benefit of spirits willing to teach them really neat tricks like the one called "Catfeet". Xochipilli did have those benefits, and he could fall much higher than this simple roof and walk away unscathed. His soft leather moccasins made almost no noise as he landed.

Scanning the alley, Xochipilli quickly reacquired his target and moved towards it, attempting to avoid the pools of ichor. He had no problem with gore, he had seen and caused plenty of it in the past, but getting bloodstains out of the soft, leather boots was always such a pain-in-the-ass. It took him only a few moments to navigate to the object he'd spied from the rooftop. As he approached, he realized what it was and why it had drawn his eye.

The object was indeed made of black leather, but its shape was too purposeful to be a shred of the has-been jacket the boy had worn. It was squared off and thick, well worn at its edges, and one tiny piece of green, papery substance peeked out from its folds. The boy's wallet, left in the haste of his escape. Xochipilli smiled, it would not do to leave this behind. Sooner or later, the humans would come and they would be looking for answers. This bit of evidence would give them far more than they needed to know,… not to mention that the boy's Garou folk would come searching for him as well. No reason to make it too easy for them either.

Xochipilli picked up the wallet and thumbed through it briskly. The boy had fifty-seven dollars, a key to some sort of locker, and was called "Kyle Nines". His ever-present smile widened at this new-found treasure and he slipped into the bag he carried at his hip.

"Now," he spoke to himself aloud, "to find this Kyle Nines and return his property."

Xochipilli Never-Frowns whooped loudly, and with great delight, up at the dark sky; then he stepped sideways into the realm of spirits, the Umbra, with Nuwisha ease.

Only a few hours had passed since Kyle Nines had had his run-in with his would-be muggers. Their scents and their blood still clung to the rain-dampened clothing he wore. He'd have to find new clothes soon, as these were just a bad scene waiting to happen.

After several failed attempts, he'd finally found a door to an abandoned building that he had managed to force open. Judging from all the dust covered shelving, this had at one time been a bookstore of some kind. Now, it was his refuge. A place to get out of the rain and try to figure out what the Hell was going on. So much was happening so fast.

A hasty search of the shop turned up little of any real use. A few discarded newspapers, almost three years out of date, and the remnants of a waterlogged cardboard box. Another search, this time of his purloined attire, garnered him a pack of severely abused cigarettes (only two of which appeared smokeable), a cheap plastic lighter, and a switchblade.

He retired to the backroom, where his point of entry had been. Lighting up one of the good cigarettes and huddled up in the corner, trying to retain his escaping body heat. Shivering slightly, he wished that he had his daypack with him, but he had stashed it in a locker at the bus terminal. A new fear rose up in him. He abruptly tore through his pockets again. His wallet was gone! He thumped his head against the wall in denial. He had no money and no key to the locker. Instead, he possessed only the blood-covered clothing. And, to make matters even worse, he had left his wallet at the scene of a triple homicide. Life surely couldn't get any worse.

Tears of self-pity began to blur his vision. If only he had stayed in New York. If only he hadn't run away. It hadn't been that bad, had it? Compared to this, it had been a cake walk. Now, he was a criminal - a murderer - and wore the evidence as his only change of clothes. At home, his father had taken pretty good care of him. He had never raised a hand to Kyle, never treated him badly; but for some reason, Kyle had just been so angry lately. He couldn't explain it. The smallest of things was enough to set his fuse to burning and something deep within him would bubble upwards, trying to break free. This new sensation felt like the purest essence of anger, a murderous rage welling up. "Rage," he thought, "Yes, that's what it was. Rage." He couldn't this new feeling's origin, but that those around him seemed able to sense it as well. Everyone he knew had begun to treat him differently. Friends, teachers, family,… all had began to act like he was some sort of murderous, psycho freak. He thought back to the grisly scene at the alley. Maybe they were right. He'd finally gone off the deep end and killed three people, and his only memory was of the "Rage" building up in him, then waking to their remains. What had done this to him? He'd always been a fighter. His mouth and his attitude left him little choice in the matter, but he'd never thought that he would ever actually kill someone. Now,… now, things were different. He'd taken the final plunge and the life he had know before was gone forever.

A memory of the dreams came unbidden to his thoughts. Could they have anything to do with his new "Pissed-Off-At-The-World" lifestyle? They had begun about the same time, but did dreams really have that kind of power? For months, he had been suffering from terrible recurring nightmares of monsters disguised as humans committing numerous atrocities to people and the environment. He'd never been real big in any of the environmental protection movements, but the glee with which these monsters destroyed made him feel that Rage swell within him. He wanted - no, he NEEDED - to kill them. It was not so much a wanting as it was a moral imperative. Those creatures would ravage everything until nothing was left, and do it happily. Nothing seemed sacred to them, save for the acts of destruction they reveled in. If destruction was what they craved, he would give it to them. He would relish the feel of their blood on his claws.

Kyle's mind flashed back to the present and found his body shaking with pent-up anger. Even the slightest thoughts of those demons was enough to infuriate him.

Claws? The new thought bled away his fury and left him feeling quite perplexed. Their blood on his claws? What was that all about? He thought back to the dreams. Yes, come to think of it, in the dreams he'd always been equipped with claws. Wicked talons that would spill the entrails of his enemies and tear apart their weaker bodies. In the nightmares, he would always end up fighting with the monsters. He would slaughter them in countless numbers, but there was always so many more of them,… and he, alone. They were overwhelm him. Drag him down. Torturing him in the darkness until they made him one of Them. His body shivered again, but not from the chill this time.

A loud bang from the front of the store interrupted his reverie. Someone had forced the front door, he realized. "The Monsters," he thought. No, that was impossible. There was no way such beasts could survive outside of his dreams.

Staying low, he peeked around the corner of the doorway and into the store proper.

"You're sure he's here, Gwen?" The question itself came in a gruff and harsh tone, radiating the speaker's irritation that was held in check by willpower alone. The figure that the query issued from was huge. Nearly seven-and-a-half feet tall, with biceps as big as Kyle's head. This guy made Arnie look like the "Before" guy in those muscle ads.

"Like, fer sure. That's, like, what the kin-fetch said, and, like, I totally trust those guys." The woman's voice was much more pleasing to the ear. It was mellow and laid back, but contained a lot of what Kyle liked to call "airheadedness". In the darkness it was difficult to be sure, but her silhouette had a certain easy-going attractiveness to it, and an aura of peacefulness exuded from her presence.

"Gib," the big guy asked, "You got anything?"

"One moment, please," replied a calm voice from the third, and last, figure. He stood at an average height and average build, but what unnerved Kyle was when his eyes began to glow a soft red color. The eyes scanned the room and settled upon Kyle's hiding spot. "Affirmative. He's in the back room." Kyle could hear him smiling.

Kyle pulled back behind the doorway, out of sight, his heart racing. The jig was up! He didn't know who these people were nor their intentions, but they were looking for, and had found, him. He had to get out of here, and fast.

A loud commotion erupted from the front room, and someone yelled, "Run, Boy!"

Kyle bolted out the door, and back into the night.

James Fire-In-His-Heart hated many things in life, but that which he hated most was babysitting detail. That was no way for a noble Get of Fenris Ahroun to be spending his time, but that was exactly where he found himself. It was supposed to be a big party when a lost cub was found, but this one was turning out to be a true pain-in-the-ass. First, they had tracked him to the bus station, and from there to an alley off of Wilshire. On that dark back street, they had found testament of his presence and probable firsting. The bodies had been torn to shreds, but still no sign of the know-nothing pup that was on the loose somewhere in LA.

"Like, well, it's, like, totally obvious that, like, he was here," Gwen had said in her "looking-for-the-silver-lining-Child-of-Gaia" sort of way. It really irked James when she did that.

Gibson hadn't offered any useful suggestions either. He had only shrugged and muttered something about "An American Werewolf in LA" under his breath.

Then, if it hadn't been for the Umbra, they would have taken the rap for the deaths, as the police had finally decided to show up. Hours later, after Gwen had consulted with the kin-fetch spirit once again, they had arrived at the deserted bookstore. Now, James was in a really sour mood, and he hoped that they had finally reached their mission's end.

"Affirmative. He's in the back room," Gibson Burning-Chrome had said. James had enough time to allow himself a slight, satisfied smile,… then all Hell broke loose again.

A figure vaulted over one of the dusty bookshelves, planted both feet on James' chest, and pushed. The big man staggered backwards, arm flailing for balance, into another empty shelf. It toppled over with a loud crash and tripped him up further. He smashed into the fallen furniture, cursed vehemently, and glared up at his attacker.

"Run, Boy!" the silhouette shouted, then turned back to face James. Outside, the clouds parted, bathing the store in moonlight.

"You!" James exclaimed in disbelief.

"Me," Xochipilli Never-Frowns reaffirmed proudly.

"Like, hi, Xochi," Gwen absently twirled a bit of her blondish hair.

"Gwen," he nodded to her, "beautiful as always. And Gibby, you're looking oh, so,… solemn tonight. What happened? Did somebody pee on your laptop?" Gibson only stared at him with a somewhat perturbed look on his face. "Quite the conversationalist as always, I see. There just is no shutting you up, is there?" Xochipilli laughed mirthfully at his own jests, and turned his attentions back to James, "And; last, but not least; my favorite poster child for decaf. What's shakin', Toots?"

James picked himself up and drew himself up to his full height. "What are YOU doing here, Xochi?" The question dripped like venom from his tongue, and he felt his Rage building. "This is none of your concern."

"Au contraire, Kimosabe. I saw him first. I gots dibs."

"What are you talkin' about?" James' voice raised, and he was only barely holding the Rage back. The nerve of this Nuwisha. "He's one of us. Not one of you." He spat the word "you" like some sort of curse. No stupid werecoyote was going to steal this pup away from them.

"Oh, I disagree. He's not one of you yet," retorted Xochipilli, still all smiles, "Not until you get your paws on him and warp him with your silly, little ways. Nope. Not this one," Xochi shook his head, sending the ponytail whipping back and forth, "This one's special. Coyote wants him, and I deliver." He smiled mischievously at those before him. "You know I will."

"But, like, Xochi, he's supposed to be, like, a GlassWalker or some junk," Gwen Wallace cocked her head to the side and through her own logic into the debate, "Like, what would Coyote want with him?"

A "hmmph" issued from the area occupied by Gibson, followed by a baleful look cast at Gwen.

"Like, Omigod! Like, I'm totally sorry, Gib. It's, like, sometimes my tongue moves faster than my brain."

Xochipilli whooped loudly, "Ain't that the truth!"

Gwen smiled and blushed ever-so-slightly.

"You're off the point, Xochi," James broke in, trying to reassert control, "Why does Coyote want this pup?" James knew that Xochipilli was a master of double talk and leading people off of the true topic, but James was on to him. He wouldn't let the Nuwisha lead him astray this time.

Xochipilli shrugged. "I don't know. It's not my place to question Coyote. Him big, me small," Xochi gestured with his hands to further demonstrate the difference in their stature. "In the Nuwisha family, he is the Grand Pooh-Bah, and I, only his messenger boy. He is the King, and I am merely a page. I just do as he wishes and try to have as much fun as possible while I'm doin' it. And that is a lesson that could serve you well in the future, my friend." Xochipilli laughed, "You Garou-folk are way too serious for your own good. It's gotta be all that Honor and Glory you guys are always goin' on about. If you ask me, you be better off tryin' to attain Humor and Glee."

James lunged at Xochi, attempting to catch his jovial antagonist off-guard, but his hands closed on nothingness. Xochipilli Never-Frowns had passed through the Gauntlet, the barrier between the material world and that of the spirit, as if it didn't even exist.

"DAMN!" James shouted in frustration.

"Like, that was totally uncool."

"I hate to say it, James, but he did it to us again."

"What, Gib?" James asked in exasperation, What did he do to us again?"

"He sidetracked us long enough for the pup to get one helluva head start."

James slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead and mentally cursed himself for being an idiot. He should have seen it coming. It was one of Xochipilli's favorite tricks, and even knowing that, James had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. He'd fallen into the meaningless banter and let the "stupid werecoyote" lead him away from his intended goal.

"Damn," James said again quietly, shaking his head. It was going to be a long night.

Kyle ran, and he ran like the Gates of Hell had just opened behind him and spewed forth its demonic host. He had no idea of where he was going, just away from those who had hunted him down in his safe haven. What they had wanted, he had no idea, but their presence had disturbed him greatly. They weren't cops, that much he was certain. He'd never met any police, or even heard of any, that could make their eyes glow in the dark. Whoever they were, he hoped that he could lose them in the darkness and the maze of streets. All he knew, was he had to get away from them.

He counted at least twelve blocks, making random turns, before he stopped to catch his breath. He felt safe for the moment, but clutched the switchblade and was prepared to bolt again at a moment's notice.

Leaning up against a gritty, brick wall, he panted and searched the gloom for signs of pursuit. The rain had slowed to a slight drizzle, and the clouds had opened up, illuminating the city with the full moon that hung in the night's sky. For some reason, his first sight of the moon filled him with renewed anger. The feeling wasn't bad, it was intoxicating, like the moon had sent a sudden jolt of furious energy. The sensation passed quickly, but his breathing had slowed to within normal parameters and his body felt revitalized.

A bit confused, he turned his attentions back to the problem at hand. He still had no clue as to what was going on. Perhaps those people in the store had been friends of the punks he had killed, seeking some sort of vengeance,… but how had they found him? Had someone seen him enter the bookstore? If so, why had the others come through the front door, as opposed to the one he'd already forced open?

"Well, that's just James' way," a figure stepped out of the alley a few feet from Kyle, wearing deerskin breeches and a matching, fringed jacket. His black hair was pulled back in a long ponytail with two large feathers woven into the braid. With a somewhat native American appearance and a disarming smile that any used car salesman would have killed for, the man approached Kyle. Having already seen too much today, Kyle refused to let himself be lulled into a false sense of security.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his body ready to fight or flee as needed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to spook ya. Name's Xochipilli Never-Frowns, but you can call me Xochi." The man leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, hands in plain view.

Kyle relaxed a bit, then recalled the thoughts he had been having just before this mysterious stranger had appeared. "You can read my thoughts?" Kyle asked in disbelief.

"Oh?" Xochi laughed, "Oh, no. I only read from a script Coyote himself has prepared."

"Coyote? Who's Coyote? And what's goin' on!"

Xochipilli laughed again, such a carefree sound. "Coyote? Boy, do you have a lot to learn? Sometimes even I forget what its like to open your eyes for the first time. Fortunately for you, I'm full of lessons to teach, and my schedule seems to be completely empty at the moment. Should you accept me as your mentor, I can teach you all you need to know, plus a couple-few tricks that might prove useful as well. If you go with the others - those that you saw at the bookstore - they could teach you too. Their ways are a little restrictive, while mine embraces the freedom Gaia granted us. Theirs is an out-dated chain of rules that they, themselves, barely pay attention to anymore. I can show you,…"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Kyle interrupted, "What the hell are you talkin' about! Rules? What friggin' rules! Your way? Their way? What is all of this? Things are goin' crazy, and I can't take much more of this bull!" It felt like his body was shifting and changing beneath the flesh, as the Rage swelled up in his brain. Power coursed through his limbs, and he felt the muscles rippling with new-found strength.

Xochipilli whooped twice loudly. "Yep. I was right. Definitely an Ahroun. Fortunately, Loki was one of Coyote's face that I followed for a time. Not nearly as rewarding as Xochipilli, but will prove quite a boon in this situation." Xochi's words somehow bled away Kyle's anxiety, and he felt his body reverting to normal. Xochipilli paused, made a clucking sound with his tongue and teeth, then continued, "One of the first things we're gonna hafta work on, is gettin' you to be able to control that a little better. I'm not afraid for myself, but humanity - in general - would not appreciate the wholesale slaughter you could bring into their midst. Take, for instance, the gangers that made your acquaintance back in that alley."

"You know about that!" A mixture of dread and shame gathered in Kyle's soul.

"Know about it? I was there." Xochipilli gave the boy an appraising look, "I know the Firsting can be rough. The first time anyone changes is almost always a little tough on the ol' conscience. People get hurt." Xochi shrugged nonchalantly, "That's just the facts. But, you gotta look passed all of that and see what the future has in store for you. I see big things ahead of you, Kyle. Some good, some not-so-good; but, come what may, these are to be your things to experience. No one else can do it for you."

"Firsting? Change? Change into what?" Kyle paused a moment, "And how do you know my name?"

"Oh," Xochi's smile broadened, "the last one's easy." One hand slipped into the bag he wore belted to his hip, fished around for a few seconds, and withdrew Kyle's wallet. "You left this in the alley, Silly. As for your other questions," he tossed the wallet to the stunned - and profoundly happy - boy, "well, those will take a little more time to explain. So, I tell you to cast away what you think you know of the world, and embrace all the things you never even knew that you didn't know. I can show you the path, but only if you wish to travel it."

Kyle looked at the wallet in his hand, then back up to the man before him, "Who ARE you?"

"Xochipilli Never-Frowns, but now we are recovering old ground and my question remains unanswered. Do you wish to know what you are, and why? I can teach you the ways of your people -BORING -" Xochi mimicked an uninterested yawn, "and mine. I can show you the wonders of worlds you never knew existed. I am your doorway to understanding. I am the gateway to your birthright. I am the portal to possibilities. Whadda say? Are you up to it? Think you can stand up to the Truth?"

Kyle thought. Either this guy was completely off kilter, or he knew what he was talking about. Both ways frightened Kyle. His life had been turned inside-out in a few short hours, but this Xochi-fellow seemed to know what it was all about. This self-proclaimed knowledge Xochipilli possessed made Kyle feel more uneasy than the ignorance he knew plagued him suddenly. Things appeared to be falling into place. What was it Xochi had said? "The first time anyone changes"? Kyle reflected on the effect the moon had had on him and recollections of late night TV movies pointed out a new theory to him. A crazy new premise promoted by hundred of hours watching cheap, horror flicks. But that wasn't possible, was it? He never been bitten by a wolf, so how could he possibly be a werewolf? Images of Lon Cheney, David Naughtington, and Jack Nicholson paraded past his mind's eye. Could he really be one of them? Cursed to become a bloodthirsty murderer every full moon? This new hypothesis at least explained part of the incident in the alley, although he couldn't recall if the moon had been up at that time or not, but it was full tonight. The moon was still out though, he realized, why am I not still a monstrous beast? Too many questions, and nowhere to turn for answers, except this lanky, American Indian, who smiled too much and seemed to find humor in everything.

Screw it, Kyle mused, I've got nothing to lose but my sanity.

"There they are!"

Turning to the shouting and the sound of feet slapping against concrete, Kyle saw the big guy and his cohorts from the bookstore charging down the block towards Xochi and himself.

"Okay," Kyle face the other man again, "show me."

"Your first lesson," Xochipilli grabbed his hand, "The Umbra."

The world blurred a moment, then became a much larger and wonderful place.

"DAMN!" James bellowed his disgust at the top of his lungs. He hated going back empty-handed, but the Nuwisha had obviously stolen the pup from his pack. They had just started to make a name for themselves at the Sept as well, and here came Xochi to screw things up royally as usual. It seemed to James that this particular Nuwisha lived merely to torment him, and he was very good at what he did.

For a moment, he considered taking the chase into the Umbra, but quickly decided against it. Chasing a werecoyote in the spirit realm was like chasing your shadow in an unlit room. And woe unto the individual that actually did manage to catch one there, because the Nuwisha had most likely allowed itself to be trapped and probably had some sort of "prank/lesson" in store for their captors. No, the world of the spirits was very much their collective place, and any battle with them there would be futile in James' eyes. It was better to let the pup go for now, rather than suffer the humiliation of defeat at the hands of a singular werecoyote. The pup would likely grow tired of Xochi quickly anyway, and then seek out his own kind later. James would just have to return to the Sept with the news of a failed mission.

He thought of the endless sea of questions the elders would have for him, and he could already hear that irritating Shadow Lord, Sheila Whispers-In-Darkness, commenting on how easily she would have taken the pup from the werecoyote, even though she'd never had any sort of dealing with a Nuwisha, much less Xochipilli Never-Frowns. Life would be tough until his pack received another chance to prove themselves.

"Damn," he swore again. It was going to be a very long night.

1996

New York City, New York

Among the columns of forged steel and shaped concrete, loomed the ebon monolith of Stane Industries. Its triangular-shaped roof knifed into the night sky stories above street level and its ominous presence was masked with the guise of big business deals and acquisitions. Very few were privy to its true purpose or the nature of its founder and present proprietor. Most, even many of those who wandered its halls in the daylight hours, had no notion of the evils that had been born within. Their eyes found only what they could understand,… and Garrison Stane was well beyond that.

He sat behind an enormous marble desk, his back to the panoramic view of Manhattan (displayed behind twelve-inch thick bulletproof glass) and drummed his fingers on the folder that lay before him. The Daily Reports. It held information of great importance to the survival and growth of the empire he had built, but Garrison's mind kept wandering to more personal concerns and goals. He loved his company, and the power and influence that came with owning the international conglomerate, but in his "greater scheme of things", the outcome of this particular enterprise (a company that had closed at a record high of on the stock exchange today) mattered little to him. It was only a tool to help him towards his "Greater Plan". Should he be forced to sacrifice the company to achieve his goal, then so be it. "Victory at any cost" was his motto, and failure was never an option.

Although these thoughts played at the fringes of his mind, Garrison Stane was bored, and only half-heartedly listened to the ramblings of his personal secretary.

"… up six points, and with the new shares the company acquired from Stevenson's widow, our profit margin made an enormous leap. Also, the Florida markets are a lock, and Denver should come on line in approximately three days. Construction of our offices there will begin once the papers are signed. Everything is being set-up as you prescribed, Sir. And that brings me to the final point on the agenda. The Seattle project. Our last projections show its completion to be in about five years. However, these estimates were made with current technology in mind. With the leaps and bounds made in the software and hardware industries, the possibility does exist that it could be much sooner. Perhaps in as little as two years."

Andrews studied his notes again briefly, searching for anything he may have missed. Finding nothing new to add, he brought his tired eyes to rest on his employer. Mr. Stane appeared to be either in deep contemplation on a point Eric Andrews had made or was completely uninterested in the going-ons of his one hundred billion dollar business. His eyes had glazed over, giving his stony visage that "faraway" look. Andrews hated when Stane did this, but would never even dream of saying anything. And not only because he wished to keep his job. He was afraid of Stane. He couldn't exactly explain why, but a hint of dread always crept into him when he dealt with Stane for long periods of time. Thankfully, meetings, such as this one, only occurred once a week. Other than a few hours late Thursday nights, Eric Andrews never saw his boss. All business and orders were sent via fax or messenger. It had taken Andrews quite some time to become accustomed to such protocol, but now he was quite pleased with the arrangement.

Moments ticked by. Andrews patiently waited for Mr. Stane to either dismiss him, ask for clarification on one point or another, or to issue an executive decision. During the drawn out silence, Andrews studied Stane, seeking the source of his disquiet in the man behind the desk.

Blacksmith's would have envied the body Mr. Stane possessed. He was anything but small, and his movements conveyed a message of quick power that resided in that massive frame. But even his intimidating size was not what disturbed Andrews.

"The eyes," he realized, "Yes, that's it!" Within them, secrets danced. Secrets never meant for mortal eyes. Stane's eyes knew all. Like dark pits in his head that penetrated into one's soul, found that individual's blackest hidden truth, and made it a part of Stane.

Mr. Stane's hand rested on the folder, two fingers absently kept up their steady drumming. Another folder, one Andrews had not delivered, barely peeked out from beneath the one he had brought to the meeting. A flash of curiosity burned through his mind. All documents to be delivered to Mr. Stane were to go through him, and he would see that they were passed along, whether they were to be faxed, delivered by messenger, or hand-carried by Andrews himself. It was his job, but he knew that this particular folder had somehow managed to slip through without coming to him first. He would have remembered the safety orange folder for certain. It nearly screamed to be seen.

Before his curiosity could overcome his nervousness, Andrews cleared his throat and spoke, "If there is nothing else, Sir,…"

Garrison Stane blinked like both he was coming out of a reverie and that he had expected it. The drumming fingers ceased and the room was engulfed in a heavy silence. Stane's gaze swept the room, finally resting n his assistant. Andrews' fear intensified briefly as the eyes seemed to bore into him, and he swore that he saw the corner of Stane's mouth flicker up in the faintest of smiles. "No," Mr. Stane answered in his deep baritone, "That will be all. Thank you, Andrews. You may go home now."

Spinning on his heel, Andrews moved towards the exit at a brisk walk. He was almost within reach of the door,…

"Andrews," Stane called out, "Actually, I do have one more question."

Suppressing the urge to sprint out the door and run screaming into the night, Eric turned to face his employer once more. "Yes, Sir?" he managed to keep his voice at least moderately steady. He was extremely jumpy now, and at a loss to explain why that was so. In the past, he had been nervous around Stane, but he was now sliding into the realm of panic. Something was very wrong here. Something he could not place.

"The item. Where is it now?" Stane's face was still an emotionless mask, although he now spoke of something the Andrews knew interested him greatly.

Andrews cleared his throat again. As he opened his mouth to reply, a movement in the far corner of the office caught his eye. A quick second glance told him that it must have been a simple trick of the light. "At,…" he began, "At the present time, Sir, the item is located with your British associate. He understands your wishes and has agreed to see it delivered at the prearranged time."

Mr. Stane's lips curled upward slightly, as if entertaining himself with a joke only he knew or understood, then looked down to his desk and the now-open orange folder, "Very well. You may go now."

Eric Andrews left as quickly as he could while trying to pretend to not be in a hurry.

From Stane's far right, a figure melted out of the shadows, as if he had been made of them himself. Wrapped in robes of raven black with emerald green trim, the individual within the folds was completely obscured by the garment.

"The Prince of London is trustworthy," its masculine voice rasped, "Continue to use discretion, and he will not question your loyalties, your Grace. However, I have foreseen difficulties leading to and during The Time of Truth. You shall not stand uncontested. My master says that precaution is called for."

Stane turned to the figure. "You should use some precaution yourself, Gornathorn. Could you not tell that young Andrews somehow sensed you? Now, I shall be forced to take care of him as well. A pity. He was a fine secretary. He will prove to be difficult to equal." Stane shrugged, "So, when have you foreseen our troubles beginning?"

"I apologize for the loss of a servant, your Grace. Were my news not important, I would have waited until you were alone." Gornathorn bowed slightly, "Our troubles surround the object of your desire, the Icon. The battles will be fought over a mere piece of the puzzle. When the Icon begins its journey, the troubles will grow."

Stane looked out at the city stretching out below for a moment, then replied, "Very well. We shall be ready."

19