Author's Note: So here it is… the long-awaited sequel (or as I like to call it 'sister-fic') to Silver Bullet. I've been musing on this for quite a while, and put a lot of thought into it, and whether or not I should write it. But, because Silver Bullet seemed so popular, I thought I would have a crack at a follow-up. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint. This first chapter is literally what I've called it… a prologue, through and through. Nothing more to it. Also, this plot might be quite odd and a little ambitious… just as forewarning.

Oh! Almost forgot, thank you to those who read and reviewed the 'trailer'. That was especially fun to write. Special thanks once again to Nightslash for his help in the 'production' of it. I wouldn't have been able to bring that to you otherwise. Hopefully that whet your appetites, otherwise you wouldn't be here! *grin* Yeah, so anyway… it's not essential that you've read Silver Bullet, but it most certainly would help if you were familiar with the particulars of the plot, etc. But enough of my waffling! On with the show…


                Running

                His breath came in short gasps, though he felt no exhaustion. He was panting, though far from tired or weak. Strength filled him… and hunger, unbelievable hunger. Or was it lust?

                He was being chased… though by what he couldn't see. He was frightened, despite the previous feeling of immense strength. Something was after him, and it was getting closer. He turned, coming face to face with his worst nightmare.

                Everything went dark.

                He heard a scream, and then felt the force grab at Jacques Beauvais, tearing him off the ground. The man's grip on him was so tight of course, that when he lifted off the ground, so did his captive.

                Jacques and he were thrown into the French double doors, and subsequently through it in a shower of wood and glass.

                He gave a cry as something scratched his lower arm, and he prayed it wasn't Jacques, even as they slammed into the ground on the other side, the werewolf sprawling down the stone steps nearby.

                He was outside again, under the moon… the moon, so bright and pure. He gasped.

                He screamed, loud, long and pained.

                Tom Sawyer shot bolt upright in his bed in a cold sweat, and gasped great lungfuls of air as though he had been submerged against his will, at risk of drowning. His chest heaved with the panting, and he closed his green eyes quickly, rubbing them with a single hand and groaning quietly.

                "Not again…"

                He swung his legs out from under the sweat-soaked blankets, and placed his bare feet firmly on the ground, hanging his head in his hands and slowly regulating his breathing rhythm. He trembled. He didn't know why, and forced himself to stop, to open his eyes and come to grips with the fact that it was only a dream… a bad dream, but a dream nevertheless.

                The haunting memories… he couldn't shake them. They took over every unconscious moment, whenever he closed his eyes to sleep; all he could see were flashes of what had happened. It wouldn't leave his memory, no matter how hard he tried to force it out, to think of other things.

                The rest of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen tried to help him in their own individual ways… but lately he didn't feel like having company. He always tried to find some excuse to be free of them, to retreat to his own cabin and be alone. Then the memories would haunt him again, flash in vivid clarity behind his eyelids whenever he closed them. So far, he had managed about six or seven hours sleep in three days.

                On top of it all, he had been feeling unwell. These constant nightmares certainly didn't help, although an illness could facilitate in explaining them, he realised. The resident doctor had cleared him from the infirmary about a month ago after the ordeal with Charles Evans and his… men, and now Tom Sawyer was starting to wish he hadn't been released from the medical facilities. Maybe if he'd stayed there, the doctor could have found out about his dreams and symptoms. He couldn't sleep anymore; he woke up in a cold sweat every night; he had started to run a slight fever; he was looking pale in the mirror.

                Tom ran a hand through his damp blonde locks of hair, brushing it lazily from his brow, and stood from the bed. His leg was much better now, and he had no trouble walking on it. The shallow stab wound – painful nonetheless – from Evans' cane sword had certainly given him a limp for a while. All the ache and soreness had passed, thankfully. The stab wound in his right side… he checked on it every now and then… and for days now he had not needed to change a dressing or clean the wound contrary to what had been explained. It had closed over entirely, and was already starting to fade.

                It didn't make any sense, and that frightened Tom. It scared him more than he wanted to admit. He crossed into his bathroom, and stared in the mirror there, tilting it slightly. As before, his skin had lost a little colour. He looked worn and thin. Something was wrong with him.

                What is happening to me? Tom kept thinking, and he leaned on the basin, trying to clear his head. A pounding headache had just started fiercely in his temples, apparently quite keen on breaking his skull apart from the inside. He groaned again, and stared down at his hands. His soulful eyes travelled up his arm, and stopped. He released his grip on the basin rim, and stood firmly on both feet, raising one arm to the light.

                Tom ran his fingertips lightly over the skin where he had found a shard of glass embedded after his little flight through the doors with Jacques Beauvais, a former employee of Evans. The werewolf had been trying to 'turn' him, and had been stopped by…

                Anise Delacroix. Tom's hand fell from his arm, the slight scar forgotten to the memory of her face; the ever-lingering scent of her delicate perfume in his cabin; the way her hair had felt like silk against his face and hands; her smile… the way she had died willingly to end all the horror she had reluctantly wreaked in Evans' employ.

                Tom's eyes swam with tears, and he turned from the mirror. He was wide-awake again, and he crossed back into the bedroom to dress. He pulled on his pants hurriedly, and grabbed a – he guessed – clean shirt from off the back of his desk chair. Tom slipped it on, and quickly located his waistcoat. Not feeling right without them, he pulled on his holsters and Colt pistols, checking they were secure before unhooking his long black coat from the rack. He donned it slowly as he went out of his cabin, and searched the corridor for signs of life.

                Making his way through the ship, he found his now-booted feet taking him to the conning tower. He didn't resist the lure of some fresh air… fresh, Paris air.

                They had been docked in Paris for a little over twenty-four hours now, and the way it almost smelled slightly sweet intrigued Tom Sawyer. The American Secret Service agent climbed the steps, thinking about how he and his invisible friend had taken a 'leisurely' stroll through the market before Tom had felt quite ill, and had to come back to the Nautilus.

                Pushing open the door to the outside, Tom took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He looked up, seeing the slight twinkling of the stars above, a clear night when the moon could shine down without the bother of clouds. Tom paused, and stared at it. He tilted his head to one side, shook it, and cast his gaze out over the mysterious wanly lit rooftops of Paris. Some of the crew of the Nautilus were patrolling the dock, keeping unwelcome visitors at bay. One such gentleman – who looked rather intoxicated from where Tom stood – was trying his best to get a closer look, but one of the sailors was pushing him away. One of his companions went to aid in the shooing.

                Tom gave a slight smile, and then held a hand to his side abruptly as it burned without warning. His breathing quickened, and he felt the fever course through him again. He closed his eyes slowly, and tried to ease the odd sensation in the pit of his stomach, quickly swelling up within him.

                Suddenly he didn't feel so good.