Midnight
September 27, 1790
Deuss du Dévaire, France

Alone on the plains, the autumn night unusually eerie, Lady Alix, Comtessa du Dévaire, was intensely aware of the dangers she faced as she fled the safety of her father's chateau. She shuddered at the thought of a violent, anonymous death in the property surrounding her family estate. Running away was a desperate move, but she no longer had a choice. Her hesitation had only compounded the problem. This was her final opportunity to take control of her future.

There was absolutely no way that she could ever be coerced to accept her father's plans for her. Marry the Viscount Jaguer? When she, along with every other member of the French aristocracy, was already too well acquainted with his disgraceful reputation?

He was a scoundrel and a pirate, a hoodlum who had squandered his criminal youth on the sordid backstreets of Marseilles. Everyone knew perfectly well that his mother had been little more than a prostitute when his spineless father had risked a vastly depleted family fortune to marry her. Lucky she had given him a clever son or the family would surely have languished in ruin.

And Alix knew it was true. Despite his lack of any other attributes worthy of her approval, she realized it was no use denying his cleverness. No brigadier, be he English, French or Berber, could rival the Viscount's bravery. He had made his fortune on the sea and was as much a seasoned paramour as he was a sailor.

In low France, of course, such bedroom credentials guaranteed him respect with every country count and slumming Dauphin alike. But to be married to a practicing adulterer—to be his unsatisfactory spouse—would earn her far less esteem.

Alix was both too cunning and too beautiful to ever find herself in such circumstances. If a dark death proved her only escape, then she would go to it happily. Better to embrace a wolf than an unfaithful husband, even if she had in fact been betrothed to him ever since her father had recognized his rising popularity among the mutinous working class.

The ultimatum was clear. Tonight would be her last chance to flee the unbearable future her father had arranged for her. There was no going back.

To her detriment, she had chosen to leave on the night of the full moon. Cruel, close, and golden in its dramatic autumn perigee, she felt that superstitions millennia older than she remained as relevant as ever. Even in the Age of Reason, a full moon was a disastrous omen.

Yet she continued undeterred, her feet propelling her forward with blind defiance. If she could reach the stable, then her plan was sure to succeed. Taking the fastest horse and the lightest saddle, she would reach Alsace before noon. From there, she would escape to Germany.

Alix had friends in Germany. She had been educated at a reputable boarding school in Switzerland for most of her adolescence, and had been outfitted there with enough affluent friends to keep her well cared for even without her father's aid.

That was the plan anyway—that she reach neighboring Alsace, pass the night in a local tavern, and then finally arrive at the stately urban home of her schoolmate's wealthy family in Frankfurt am Main.

Once there, the next step of the plan was to woo and marry one of the aforementioned schoolmate's three elder brothers. She had already met the eldest of the handsome young banking heirs when he had ventured to visit his sister abroad. Even then he had taken a liking to Alix's soft, dark hair and willowy curves. Taking him to bed would be as easy as brushing out her hair.

Alix stretched out her arms in the darkness, extending the oil lamp ahead of her as far as she could reach. A peculiar stillness had settled over the plain. The tall grass stooped to either side of the path, lifeless and inanimate in the windless night. Wary of her bad luck, she glanced up at the moon. The air was so still and hot that she could just barely perceive the faint shadows of its cratered surface in the clarity of the undisturbed atmospheric ether. Ominous clouds gathered above the horizon.

She continued down the path beside the creek, suppressing her fear with rage. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but she brushed it aside with the back of her hand. This was not the time for weakness. She had her future to think of. Once she married into the class of the newly wealthy, her title would seem exotic and alluring. It would excuse her every eccentricity. She could be assertive and autonomous, and everyone would humor her—the Comtessa, the Frenchwoman, the libertine. In Germany, she would find the freedom she longed for.

Suddenly, the heat broke. The entire countryside lit up from horizon to horizon as a bolt of lightning cleaved the sky. Her breath caught in her throat, and she struggled to move faster along the path. The stable was too near for her to turn back. Her fingers curled tight and white knuckled around the lamp in her gloved hands as she braced herself for the storm.

Her courage, however, threatened to waver. She was a brave girl, but she had seldom been permitted to wander alone at night, least of all in the middle of a storm. This immediate, visceral fear was unfamiliar to her. She was desperately afraid of the lightning, but this was not the time to tremble at the wrath of nature. She had to escape. Her freedom and her ideals depended on her success.

And yet…and yet there was something else. It was something besides the lightning and the thunder that left her with an uncanny apprehensive feeling. She tried but failed to name it. It was an oppressive feeling, like despair—like someone else's despair—as acrid and suffocating as breathing the hot, damp air exhaled by a pack of panting hounds.

She broke into a run. The air was hot and heavy. She could feel stray raindrops bursting on her face as she tore down the path, lamplight bobbing ahead of her to light the way. Another bolt of lightning split the sky. She fell forward onto her knees, shrieking as the lamp tumbled down the sloped path into the waterlogged creek bank.

"Mon Dieu!" she shouted, her hands working along the terrain, scraping in a panic against the clay as she reached for the lost lantern. When at last she retrieved it, she could make no sense of what had caused her to stumble. The path was clear of debris, and there was no other obstacle in sight.

But then it happened again. As the storm blew in, she could hear the bitter hiss of wind whipping through the tall grass and the growl of distant thunder. Rain fell in heavy sheets as the swollen creek began to spill over the bank. Once again, a flash of lightning illuminated the field. And once again, she flew forward into the dirt. This time the lamp shattered beneath her weight. She could see her blood-streaked forearm in the lantern's fading light. The exposed flame was soon extinguished by the rain.

"Who are you?" she cried, "What do you want from me? I have money—leave me alone! You'll have it all!"

But her pleas were unlikely to persuade a beast. Le Garou recognized her vulnerability. He knew that this evening's prey would prove low risk and high reward. While all fine young women tasted sultry in the dark, he anticipated this one would do more than merely assuage his hunger for her. Already he could smell her—the blood on her quivering body, the salt of dried sweat on skin so smooth and white.

And yet the familiarity of the scent arrested him.

That voice—though shrill and panicked—drew his attention.

And then, as he made a final approach, teeth lurching for her thin, pale throat, a vague recognition seized hold of him.

These had been unfit hunting grounds. This had been an unwise night to stalk the countryside. He should have expected this—that she would attempt an escape—and he should have cleared the region before hunting. Now she would never return.