Prologue

It was the worst of times. That's it. The Coming Storm, the Wolf of Destruction, Fenrir. That’s what he was called, crouched in a Las Vegas alleyway, the surrounding noise and lights of Sin City blaring. He was panting, hard, his headlight from all his heavy breathing. His terrifying figure hunched over as he tried to regain control. All 7 feet of the man-like monster sat on his haunches, one clawed hand splayed on the ground. His gold eyes shivered in the darkness. His mouth hung open yet his fangs still reached his chin. His clothes were torn and soaked in a dark, red liquid and his mind was racing as the last remnants of his purpose drained from him. 1957, that was the year all he lived for disappeared, again. And an entire street on the Boston seashore had paid for it. The humans hadn’t gone without a fight though, more than one knife had dulled itself against Fenrir’s body as well as a myriad of other weapons. 

After the destruction of the street, Fenrir ran, as he always did, ran far, far away from the city he had briefly regarded as home. How long had he stayed there? Was it only five or ten years? A sliver of time in his lengthy lifespan that stretched over centuries. Only on the opposite side of the continent had Fenrir stopped his flight. And now here he was, pain searing through his heart as he remembered his small friend, a short, crippled, Irish man with a high-pitched voice. Finn Byrne, the little towhead with a limp, had befriended Fenrir and kept the wild beast under control. For a few years. That was all the time the fun-loving lad had. Just that morning Finn had a fatal heart attack. The only danger Fenrir couldn’t protect him against. Grief and rage had once again consumed him and sent him on a rampage. Just like every other time. The cycle of finding purpose inside another creature then losing it when the companion dies, then turning on the rest of humanity, had been repeating itself for far too long.

Slowly, the night wore on, and gradually Fenrir’s head cleared. His fangs slowly shrank, his claws receded, and his eyes returned to their normal brown. His breath began calming and no longer came out in ragged gasps. He pondered his state in the damp, dark alley. His clothes were in tatters and the iron tang of blood filled his nose and mouth. The noise coming from the pool hall next to him filled his ears and assisted in cooling his jarred senses. The jovial sounds of a carefree evening with friends were a comforting thing to hear. Suddenly, Fenrir was aware of soft, human footsteps nearing a door that stood in the far back of the hall, not too far away from Fenrir’s position. Fenrir scooted deeper into the shadows, he wasn’t fearful of the human, after all, what was a little more blood on his hands, but he knew all too well the complications that would arise from seeing him like this, and he was emotionally drained enough as was. The knob to the dingy-looking door turned and Fenrir heard every movement. The old gateway was rendered ajar and Fenrir watched as a woman poked her head through. 

“Hello,” she spoke tentatively, Fenrir hoped her pitiful human eyes would be too weak to penetrate the darkness, but apparently she saw a glimpse of something, for she called out again to him, “hey, do you want to come in?” Her voice was kind but cautious. There was an awkward pause.

“Do you offer that to every loiterer that hangs around?” Fenrir responded coolly.

“You’ve been out here for hours, I think, and we’re welcome to anyone. Well, most anyone.” She squinted through the shadows, trying to make out his form. A stab of grief and pain suddenly pierced him again and he clutched the ground as his breathing sped up. 

“No. Thank. You.” He snarled, an animalistic sound tearing itself from him. 

“Okay,” the girl said slowly, backing into the rambunctious hall. She closed the entrance behind her. A wise decision. Fenrir leaped to his feet and took off at an incredible speed away from the hall and the woman who dared to speak to him. 

In the hall, the girl walked back behind the bar and took again to serving the regulars that frequented the small pool hall. Whitlock’s Billiards was a miniature billiard room in comparison to some of the other halls in Las Vegas, and a rougher patch of the Sin City’s outskirts, but was nicer than most of the shops and entertainment around this place, or at least it was in Mary’s mind. That was what the young lady’s name was if anyone cared to ask. 

“Where have ya been girl?” Mr. Whitlock interrogated his daughter. “You were supposed to be at the bar.”

“Sorry dad, I asked a guy who’s been hanging around outside if he wanted to come in.” She apologized. 

“Since when did you go off and abandon your job to talk to a handsome face.” Her father needled. Mary had taken too many years of her father’s teasing to even protest. There was something about the stranger that unnerved her, but Mary tried to forget about him as she returned to work. As the rowdy guys kept asking for drinks and making rude jokes she successfully pushed the stranger to the back of her mind and busied herself parrying off a particularly nosy old-comer. For a little while, that was all the distraction she needed, until a substantially larger one came along in the form of a loud sound. It was a mix of a wolf’s forlorn howl and a man screaming in pain. Mary clutched the bar as the cry sliced through and completely smothered the din of the pool hall. It lasted for only a minute or two but seemed to last hours. The sound didn’t fade and die as a normal call would, it grew and swelled in force and intensity until it was cut off as suddenly as if it had been slashed through with a cleaver and the silence behind it left Mary’s ears ringing. After that, no one wanted to be the first to move. They all just stood there in a fearful silence until one man placed his pool cue down and announced that he was needed at home and left in a hurry, leaving behind his hat. The billiard room emptied shortly after with some giving weak excuses and others not even bothering. Mr. Whitlock approached his daughter, pale-faced and nervous. 

“Looks like we won’t be having any more customers this night Mary,” he said in feigned calm, “how about locking up early and getting some extra sleep, eh?” 

For the next couple of hours, Mary swept, wiped, and placed discarded billiard cues back in the racks while her father inspected the perimeter and locked all doors and windows. There wasn’t even a mouse hole he didn’t cover.  As time wore away, so did their panic. After all, who was scared of a piddly noise? Still, it was strange. 

“Oi, Mary, how bout’ a good talk with Mister Oliver?” Mr. Whitlock asked with a large sigh. Mary shrugged at him, the message was clear. You can, I’m content to stay here. Whitlock hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want to come on?” He tried. Mary simply nodded. Whitlock took up a light coat and walked out to the door. He paused and looked back fondly. His faithful wife had died from polio when Mary was just 12, 7 years ago. He could easily see the resemblance of her in young Mary. The thought saddened him a little. Just a little, then he was gone.

Mary glanced around the family business. She saw nothing else to do here except leave some dinner out for her father for when he would return. She felt strangely energized, she wasn’t used to closing up shop this early, and the eerie noise from earlier had swiped away any remnants of tiredness. She set about busying herself with repairing a chipped and cracked shutter on her window. As she toiled, she saw a shape in the darkness, moving up to her doorstep. For a second her heart leaped into her throat and she thought of the concealed shotgun under the bar, but she swiftly banished the idea. The most likely option was that her father had changed his mind about visiting the old hermit that lived a few blocks away. She stepped to the door as a thumping knock echoed from the front door. She drew open the door and started at the sight of a pool hall regular coming back. 

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Good evening Mr. Escarra, I didn’t know you were returning.” She told him. He stepped in without invitation which irked Mary a slightly bit. They were closed after all, but Escarra was a family friend and used to just coming into the usually busy billiard room. “Did you forget something?” Mary continued.

“Yes, actually, I did.” Mr. Escarra was a tall-ish man with heavy brows and greasy hair and his eyes were usually bloodshot. “My wallet's still here.” He informed her bluntly. Mary nodded politely. 

“You may look around for a bit but, as you see, we’re closed and if you can’t find it soon you may have to return in the morning.” She said. “Mr. Whitlock will be back any moment and he’ll be settling down-” 

“Your fathers gone?” Escarra asked in surprise. “That’s a tad dangerous isn’t it?” He neared her making Mary more uneasy. “Especially with who knows what running around, tearing up shops and houses, making a raucous.” 

“I haven’t heard anything except for weird calls, probably of some animal, not much to tremble about,” Mary responded.

“What animal lives in the city?” Escarra retorted. He was mocking her, her being alone. Mary again was reminded of the gun and she smoothly slid behind the bar. Escarra gave her a humorless sideways smile and reached for her arm. In a moment, a huge, clawed hand shot around Mr. Escarra’s neck and lifted him off the ground. Mary gaped at the creature. Like a man, but different. First of all, he was huge, massive, his head nearly touched the roof and his shoulders were wide as a door, second, he had a full arsenal of razor-sharp claws and, from what she could see, a set saber-like fangs reaching a little past his chin. But the most frightening part about him wasn’t the intimidating size, nor the fearsome claws and fangs, but the long-dried blood coating his body and arms. For a moment, Escarra stared back at him, his own pathetic-looking hands grabbing at the man’s writs as he was held easily at arm's length. Fenrir cocked his head and looked into the terrified man’s eyes. He heard a loud click behind him. He slowly turned around as Mary leveled the double-barreled shotgun between the brilliant gold eyes. Straightening his head, Fenrir dropped Escarra who collapsed on all fours, taking in huge gulps of air. 

“Leave,” Mary commanded, even as her legs trembled. 

“Must I?” Fenrir asked calmly and without malice.

“Yes, now,” Mary responded with the gun still aimed. Escarra got to his feet and staggered back, he looked up one last time at the beast and took off through the front door. Mary and Fenrir continued to face one another. 

“You might as well put the gun away,” Fenrir told her in the same deep, strangely quiet voice, “I mean you no harm. If you don’t believe me you might as well fire now and see how far that gets you.” 

“I might just,” Mary retorted, her finger still on the trigger. Fenrir kept his peace and rocked back and forth on his heels, waiting. After a second with no shot, he tipped his head to the side again and approached. “Stay away,” She yelled, but to no avail. He unhurriedly reached for the shotgun and as he gripped the barrel she squeezed the trigger. The bang that filled the hall was earsplitting and Mary stumbled back, releasing the weapon. Fenrir stood there with the look on his face you would find on a mother chastising a naughty child. Mary struggled to understand what just happened, she fired the shot directly into his chest, in fact, the powder was still on him, speckling black over the rusty brown of the blood, but other than that he seemed to have taken no effect from the shot. He placed the gun on the bar top and raised his hands to show surrender, which was almost funny considering he was the one with the gun now. Mary’s heart pounded through her chest as she backed up. “What are you doing here, what do you want?” She whispered in fear. 

“You invited me in,” he responded simply.

“You denied my invitation,” She responded.

“I changed my mind.” He said. Another awkward pause ensued. Mary realized he was waiting for her to speak. 

  “Well, I-” she fumbled, not knowing what to say to the beast. Then she wondered if all that blood was his. A wave of guilt washed over her and she mentally kicked herself for ignoring his injuries. “Excuse me, are you hurt?” She asked in a sweeter voice.

“Nope,” He responded.

“Oh,” she said, the sweetness gone. All of her guilt disappeared and a deep disgust replaced it. “Do you, um, want something to eat?” 

He thought for a moment, then nodded. Slowly, Mary backed off into the kitchen. She had some leftover half-eaten cherry pie in the ice box, so she opened the cooler up and pulled the pie out. She then heard the sound of the sink running, starting her so badly that she jumped and whirled around to see the big person letting the cold water run over his arms. 

“Don’t do that!” She barked at him. He turned around halfway to give her a confused look. He pulled his arms out of the sink, bloody water still dripping from them. “ Make some noise so I can know you’re moving goshdangit.” Amusement sprang into his eyes. Mary just realized she had scolded a seven-foot monster who had presumably just killed something or someone. “Please,” she added abashed and he turned back to the sink. 

Carefully, Mary and the pie maneuvered to one of the tables. She set the pie, pan and all, on it and then walked over to the silverware drawer and took out a fork. By this time, Fenrir had taken a hand towel and began to dry his arms and face. He looked less like a monster now and more like a big, dirty guy. His alarming claws and fangs had mysteriously receded and his arms were semi-clean now, along with his face. She noticed that his eyes were no longer gold, but a dark, almost black shade of brown. He stepped over to the table and nodded his thanks to Mary who had backed a good distance off. That was the first time she had actually seen him walk, besides his attack on Escarra which was too fast to comprehend, and she noticed how he moved in an odd crouched way, almost as if he was bracing himself for something. He slid into the chair and immediately began demolishing the partially frozen pie. Mary was content to watch him and wait for her father to get home. He would know what to do with this creature. 

“Do you have a name?” She asked the man. He looked up as if he was surprised to hear her speak. So was she honestly, but she didn’t let it show. He swallowed and spoke.

“My name’s Fenrir, Fen if you want to shorten it.” He said. Mary raised an eyebrow. 

“What kind of a name is Fenrir?” Mary continued. 

“It’s Norwegian,” He explained and Mary nodded slowly, still amazed at her own boldness. 

Fenrir ended up eating the entire pie as well as three or four sandwiches to match and drank about a gallon of lemonade. Mary had offered him some of the more colorful drinks from the bar, trying to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t take anything out on her, but she had quickly learned that he didn’t enjoy alcohol as much as most men who entered the hall. He claimed it was just flavored vomit. Mary stayed quiet for some minutes while he ate, but the uncomfortable silence was just all too suffocating and she began attempting light conversation with Fenrir, trying to make the possibility of an attack from sheer awkwardness as low as possible. One thing about Mary, that not a lot of people knew, was that she was outstanding at prattling off to a silent observer, she could have made a conversation with a wall if she needed to. She told him about Mr. Oliver, his abundance of wisdom, and his even greater bounty of cats. She told him about the pond she used to live by when she was a kid before she and her father moved to the city, and the desert tortoise she found there. She told him about how her mother died and how happy she was for other children when the polio vaccine came out. Fenrir listened to her talk, and it didn’t take long for him to decide what his new purpose was.