PROLOGUE

I

ROANOKE, Canada. Midnight. A silent snow falls on the frosted ground, while a cool wind blusters through the dark fir trees. There's an encampment, almost a small town, in the distance. The breeze dissipates into silence. Quaint log cabins line the edge of the forest. Some of the houses have their lights on, barely visible behind drawn curtains. A lone eldritch scream falls flat in the winter darkness.

Something bounds through the foliage, darting between the houses as suddenly, every inhabitant of this formerly quiet town runs for their lives. A beast attacking the people. The screams continue to fill the air, almost harmonising with each other like songbirds in the early morning before they are cut short by guttural growls. One of the men, shotgun in hand, aims his weapon at the creature, pulling the trigger as a spray of pellets rain down from the sky with a BANG! The animal is hit right in the chest, as it falls to its knees and then down into the snow. But it isn't enough; less than a second passes before it leaps back to its feet and ambushes the gunman, still hiding under the cover of the tree needles. The beast eviscerates the man, tearing him apart before what's left of his body even begins to bleed.

A family hides inside one of the many cabins - a mother and father, and their two small children - sitting beneath a windowsill, perfectly still. They keep their eyes locked on the front door which has been pushed ajar by a man who stumbled through the entrance and collapsed. Dead. Chunks of flesh are torn from his carapace with surgical, yet animalistic precision, as if a million scalpels had been fired at him from a cannon. His intestines can be seen beginning to spill from his gut, held in place only by the fact that the wood panel floor is keeping them inside his abdominal cavity. The occupants breath slowly and quietly, trying their hardest not to attract the attention of the demoniacal monster that seems to be hunting them, one by one.

'Daddy?' the boy whispers before being promptly shushed by his father. Shotgun blasts explode just outside the house, pellets dinging against the closed window above their heads. 'What's happening?' he tries to ask again.

'Be quiet,' the father responds and then it is. Everything goes completely and utterly silent, save for the wind blowing through the leaves once more. Nobody has moved a muscle for nearly twenty minutes and they all lie in anticipation of the bloodbath resuming. 'Stay quiet and don't move.'

The father crawls on his hands and knees towards the door, peering outside as he manoeuvres himself over the bloodied corpse. There's a hunting rifle laying on the verandah outside which the father surmises the deceased intruder must have dropped on his brief journey inside. There appears to be no sign of life outside at all. Just the white snow covered in puddles of red. He grabs the hunting rifle and pushes off of the floor, making sure that he still makes himself as small as humanly possible.

Taking his first steps in what seems like hours, he slips easily and his foot effortlessly and loudly crunches into the soft snow. He adjusts himself and with both feet now firmly planted on the ground, he surveys the house, scanning the environment with his firearm held in front of him, ready to fire at his own discretion. Walking around he circles back to the front door of the cabin where he holds a single finger against his lips, silencing his family for all eternity. They nod in reply, too terrified to move more than is absolutely required.

On a quest for survivors the man heads further into town. Seeing for the first time the carnage that has been inflicted, he instinctively turns away, trying to avoid violently gagging, but he sees only more wreckage. The snow beneath his feet has been stained in scarlet. Limbs. Organs. Parts of human beings that have become completely unrecognisable even to most medical professionals are strewn haphazardly around him. A few hundred feet from his cabin, he finds the bodies. Or rather, what's left of them. Recognising a close friend out of the corner of his eye, he rushes over to try and do something. Anything. Kneeling beside them he searches for a pulse, but there's nothing to be saved. His head hangs low, nuzzling his chin deep into his own chest.

In the distance he hears a cry, 'Daddy! Daddy!' Charging as quickly as he can back towards his home, the calls cease by the time he barges through the doorway, rifle raised at any potential intruder. Without even a second thought he pulls the trigger at the sight of it. BANG! The gun goes off as the beast cleaves the man's head from his body, hitting the ground with two distinct thuds.

The creature leaves the cabin, ambles towards the forest, completely inundated by shadows. Where sixty men once stood, now walks only one.

II

WITZELDORF, Germany. Afternoon. The sun sits on the horizon surrounded by the mauve tinted sky, unclouded and bright. It's a tiny village; no more than thirty buildings could surround the environs and no more than eighty people could possibly live there. It was built in at least the 8th or 9th century, as evidenced by the pre-Romanesque architecture that still remains. At its centre lies the Church of St. Margareta standing upon the foundations of what was once a mediaeval castle.

Through the worn stone streets marches a blazing orange light. Torches and pitchforks jerk up and down as the mob treads towards the church. 'Dämonenkind! Dämonenkind!' they chant in unison. As their parade continues, something leaps from building to building. Sometimes, when a jump is too far to land, it disappears with a flash of purple smoke and reappears at its destination with the lingering smell of sulphur and brimstone. Almost invisible in the shadow of the setting sun, the mob are totally oblivious to the creature's presence. As their crusade reaches the church, the figure stops and teleports inside the central building.

Inside the confessional booth, sits a priest, waiting for the next sinner. The door on the other side of the booth creaks open. The teleporter speaks with a thick German accent, 'Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been six months since my last confession.

'What are your sins, my son.'

'I have coveted my fellow man.'

The priest fiddles with the fabric of his pants as he listens. 'Why have you coveted them?'

'I want to be like them. Be normal. They are able to have friends and family that love them.'

'You don't have these things?' the Father says, looking through the gaps in the medallion carved in the wooden booth.

'I have nothing.'

The priest tries to look through the wall dividing them, but much as he was outside, the teleporter appears invisible in the shroud of darkness. 'Why is that?' he asks.

There is a significant lapse in time as the teleporter contemplates his reply. Eventually he proffers an answer. 'Because I am not normal. I am abnormal.'

'You are as God intended you to be and that is normal,' the priest pontificates.

'Why then do they chase me and call me names? Dämonenkind.'

The Father thinks for a moment. 'People are afraid of what they do not understand. You must know that you could not be such a beast, for if you were truly a daemon, you could not set foot on the hallowed ground of this church. Your penance will be three Hail Mary's.' Happy with his charge, the priest sits back in his chair, once again fiddling with a loose thread on his pants.

We finally see the boy on the other side still covered in darkness, hanging from the ceiling of the booth having never touched the floor of the church when he entered. His blue skin blends into the dark corners, but his yellow eyes would pierce your own, much like the tip of his devil-like tail.

'You may recite the Act of Contrition,' the priest continues robotically.

III

UST-ORDYNSKY, Siberia. Midday. A dying wheat field, what once was a fertile crop is now a dull taupe coloured bug buffet. Just across from the field lies the frozen Reka Ordushka, which runs through a large portion of Siberia and other North Asian countries. Along the frosty river plays a young girl, slipping and sliding on the ice, laughing the entire time. Her older brother cuts down a nearby tree.

Crack. The ice beneath her breaks and she plummets into the frigid water below. The boy looks for his sister after hearing a stifled scream, followed by a splash. 'Illyana?' he calls for her, 'Illyana!' He runs towards the water and finds the open wound on the ice, jumping from the river's bank and dives into the blue. As he follows her down to the riverbed, bubbles float to the barely exposed surface of the water. And then, nothing.

The water settles and the surface tension mends. The slow process of freezing begins anew as if nothing had happened at all when water suddenly shoots from the hole like a firehose, spraying into the air and across the field. After the chaos settles, the boy stands on the bank holding nearly drowned sister in his arms. His skin has turned into what appears to be pure metal; even his hair has transformed and he has gained about a foot in height. Some sort of colossus.

He sets her down against the tree that he was previously cutting down, vibrating like a kettle reaching its boiling point. 'Are you okay? Are you hurt?' he asks as he returns to his more human appearance.

'I'm… f-f-f-f-fine. But I need a b-b-b-b-blanket.' He takes her in his arms once more and carries her back to their homestead, only a few minutes walk from the river.