He ran through the forest, his muscular wolf legs carrying him at a flying pace. His nose was leading him more than anything, but also his instinct. The instinct that had passed from generation to generation, the instinct that told him that the next descendant in the Soif de Sang line was near.
Since the day that his father had told him of his responsibility, he'd searched diligently. And now, he finally had her.
He ran faster, forgetting everything in his haste. But he didn't care.
He only had one thing to be afraid of, well, two, technically speaking. And the runes had never been wrong.
But he was certain he could handle it, after all, the Warwicks had survived thus far. But he would be the first to succeed.
He, Fitzwilliam Warwick, the last descendant of the world's first werewolf.
Finally, he saw the beginnings of the town, his destination. Where his mortal enemy lay, unaware of his approach and unwarned.
Forks, Washington.