Marcus Chancey (God, he hated that name, even in his own head) ran down the street and took the first available turn down a narrow alleyway between two high buildings, thinking that the brick structures would hide him from busy morning pedestrians. Everything would be alright if he could stay hidden until he had his coffee and calmed down.

His mark was glowing, just like it did every time he went to the coffee shop. He didn't know why. What mattered was that every time he went for his special drink, the one he needed to remain in control, his wrist started to itch badly.

A year ago, the mark had appeared on his wrist after he'd recklessly shielded his team from a stream of hot, bright light pouring out of a Rune-covered box in southern India. He was deeply troubled when his Curse-Breaker co-workers couldn't remove it, having discovered that it was the equivalent to an Unbreakable Vow, one that unfortunately didn't require his, or anyone else's, consent.

He'd run repeated tests on the mark, and came up with the same conclusion – he couldn't get rid of it. So he did what anyone in his position would do, he ignored it the best he could.

The Runes translation for the curse claimed that he was linked to someone who shared a part of his soul, and that Fate had given him a gift. But he had suffered enough pain and misery, and wasn't about to spread it around. No matter what the Fates said. Fate could kiss his furry backside.

Actually, Fate was the only thing that would get close to him these days. Fate… and sheer bad luck, like he was having right now.

Even before the mark had shown up on his wrist, he was having more than his share of the universe dumping on him. His wife had died, most likely due to his sudden onset of half-blown Lycanthropy that was never supposed to happen. After that great tragedy, his comrades, fellow members of the premier Curse-Breaker Team in Gringotts, had found the right ingredients, a willing supplier, and a coffee shop with a shady enough reputation to produce the potion that was able to keep him human. Their collective plan of infusing Wolfsbane and other Were-suppressing herbs into his morning coffee had been successful for almost a year. This was the first time in many months that he'd gotten this close to losing control.

No one understood how or why he had suddenly transformed without notice, having nothing to do with the phases of the moon or nightfall. The whole circumstance defied all understanding of Lycanthropy as they knew it. And from the manner in which he was attacked, he was never supposed to transform in the first place.

But all those suppositions hadn't saved his wife.

With his heightened senses, he was hyper aware of heavy boots on the cobblestone street, along with the smell of entrapment hexes in the air. They were heading his way. But they weren't Aurors. They were… he sniffed the air again. Hunters were nearby.

Having been in hiding for almost a year, he'd accidentally rubbed shoulders with other individuals who, for whatever reason, didn't want to be found either. Some of them had not been as lucky as he had, and either been picked up by the Ministry, or worse, had been hunted down by an unscrupulous underground group who often made them disappear – permanently.

He'd done his best to steer clear of anyone who might be associated with the Death Eaters, but somehow, the Hunters had recently caught wind of him. Someone definitely had talked, and Fate had dealt him another bad hand. Plus, he had run into an empty alley, and it had turned out to be a dead end.

He whirled around himself, looking for a way out. His skin begin to crawl, his jaw ached, and his muscles spasmed.

Marcus. My name is Marcus. I am not who I was, I am not this thing. I am…

Hair sprouted from his chest, his face, his hands. Everywhere. No mantra could save him. He was turning.

That's when she came around the corner, face flushed from running, her eyes bright and focused. It was the girl from the coffee shop that he'd bumped into. Her confident stance and no-nonsense balled up fists radiated with so much energy and will and fire…

And she was going to die.

They said that animals, particularly werewolves, didn't simply smell the fear of their victims – they could taste it. The taste of terror would tip the monsters over the edge… make them ravenous, deriving primal pleasure from the violence, ultimately becoming addicted to the kill.

Obviously "they" had no idea what they were talking about.

To him, fear stank. It was a vile, insidious sensation that sank into his every fiber. It gnawed at him, making his insides burn, setting his head on fire. The only way to put it out was to eliminate the source.

Or get as far away from it as quickly as possible. The first few times he'd transformed after going on the run had been horrible. He'd been minding his own business, when all of a sudden he sprouted hair and claws. It was only a half-transformation, but the distinction didn't stop the people around him from staring in shock. Some ran. Some fainted on the spot. Some got down on their knees and begged. Fear stank up the air all around him, and with the exception of the first time, he remembered every terrifying, horrifying moment that he was only half-human.

He found no pleasure in it. He never wanted to kill. Ever.

So he ran.

"Hey!" the woman barked at him.

All he could do in this dead-end alley was put up his hands and hide his face behind the paper cup-with-lid, and hope that at first glance, she would run the other way. Besides the teeth and the hair, his face never lost its human characteristics. He was sure he was an ugly, frightening sight.

The terror-filled scream never came.

"Look at me!" Something in her tone commanded him look around the coffee cup still clutched in his hands.

She was holding up her bare wrist, showing off two wavy dashes that pulsed a dangerous fuchsia color.

He'd stared at his own mark often enough to recognize it. It matched his exactly.

"It's you!" He growled around his lengthened incisors. Dread seized him from the inside.

He turned his back on her and bit out his words. "Get out of here!"

"I'm not going anywhere. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be. You have my mark."

So what, had she seen his mark in the coffee shop and followed him, hoping to find true love, only to stumble upon an opportunity for her own untimely death?

"Don't be stupid. Can't you see what's happening?"

He could see her mark glowing bright pink now, almost red. This was his nightmare. Killing his soulmate. This was why he never wanted to meet her.

He'd expected the woman in front of him to reek of fear, this small thing that was barely eight stones. One smack of his arm would send her flying across the alley. The partially formed claws breaking through his skin would shred her pretty, pale face in red ribbons…

It was too much. His chest heaved from the exertion of trying to maintain his thread of control. He pushed aside his memories, agonizingly aware of what would happen if that thread snapped.

The woman stood her ground. "I think you're the one who is acting stupid. Look at your mark!"

"I don't need to see that you're about to get yourself killed," he growled, the only way he was capable of communicating now that the transformation had taken place. "Look at the danger you're putting yourself in!"

If she wasn't going to listen to reason, maybe she'd listen to the mark on his wrist. He held up his arm revealing the mark with broken dashes, just like hers. But instead of hot crimson, a sure sign of his soulmate's impending and untimely death, his mark pulsed mildly pink in a steady heartbeat-like rhythm.

He snapped his eyes back to the woman's wrist, which had now turned bright red.

"Like I was trying to explain to you," she said in an infuriatingly patient tone, "My mark shows me how much danger you're in. It's not me, it's you. We need to get you out of here."

The heavy footsteps resonated on cobblestones two blocks away, wands charged with wards and hexes at the ready. If he thought the Hunters had a chance of subduing him in this form, he'd have waited for them to arrive, but he knew what would happen instead. The half-beast would fight, tooth and claw, until there was nothing left, either of his attackers or of himself.

Instinct was a self-serving mistress, and so when she came closer and grabbed his furry arm, he was amazed that she dared to manhandle him into a side-apparition hold. Somewhere in the primal section of his brain, it had registered that his survival depended on the insanity of the stranger in front of him. He couldn't escape from this alley on his own. None of his magic worked when he transformed. She was his only way out.

She balanced on her heel, about to spin them into oblivion, when he caught her final words:

"Don't spill your coffee."