Why couldn't they meet somewhere civilised instead of in the middle of nowhere? Steve shivered in the cold moorland air. The damp heather glistened with early morning dew. The top of the Penines, just off the M62, was a neutral place but the view was shrouded by low clouds and the only sound was the hiss of traffic on the nearby motorway. The tedious wait was getting to Steve and even his imp had gone to sleep. Armani snorted and gurgled inside Steve's pocket. He woke with a splutter.

"Trouble's coming, boss." There was an edge of panic in his voice as he struggled to get out.

Ambush, thought Steve. He was supposed to hand over the rare book to a member of Lord Lothar's court. He felt very exposed as he glanced up and down the track.

"Hello, meat." Out of nowhere a tall, rangy figure appeared, scruffy and unshaven with ragged jogging bottoms and an inadequate thin t-shirt. "You have a book for me."

Steve felt in his pocket. "You don't look like the messenger of an elfen lord."

"Werewolf," Armani hissed in his ear and flew off.

"I'm offended." The thin man bared his teeth in a fake smile. "I'm what you would call a freelancer. I can get a good price for that book. Hand it over."

"I don't think so." Steve found what he was looking for in his pocket.

"Brave words for a lonely place," the werewolf smirked.

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The werewolf was enjoying this too much, thought Steve. He extended his hand in his pocket. "Just a minute." He found what he was looking for, rolled his shoulders, then punched the werewolf hard on the jaw.

Steve had come prepared and the silver knuckle dusters fitted easily on his hand. He wasn't prepared however for the hiss and the stench of burned flesh as the silver bit into the werewolf. It staggered back, clutching at its blackened face. Steve followed up with a hard punch to the side of the head and another, then a kick to the sternum as the werewolf fell onto its knees clutching at its damaged head.

The kick didn't do enough damage. Steve's training and gym work were useless without the reinforcing silver and the werewolf rolled away still clutching its head. To Steve's horror the werewolf flowed and suddenly there was a large wolf like creature in front of him, its fur matted, its ribs showing and its head burnt and blackened.

Steve swore as the creature swung round at him. Desperately he punched at the great head snapping at him. I must not let him bite me, Steve thought frantically, I have to stay away from the teeth. Armani was hanging onto the werewolf's back, his dirty claws sunk deep into the creature's flanks. A part of Steve was impressed by the sparks the imp was shedding as Steve managed a lucky punch to the throat.

Then Armani flew up and a second werewolf landed on the skinny attacker, biting hard down on the back of the neck. Steve fell backwards and scrabbled away as the two wolves snarled and snapped in a tumbling ball of fur and flashing teeth. The newcomer was sleek, twice the size of Steve’s attacker and again caught Steve’s attacker at the back of the neck and shook the skinny wolf like a terrier would shake a rat before dropping it, lifeless, onto the moorland heather. Steve watched in horror as the skinny shape flowed back into a dead, skinny, battered man. The attacker also flowed back into human form.

"Steve Adderson, do you remember me?"

"Yes," Steve worked the knuckle duster from his sore hand. "It's Carl Armstrong, isn't it? I recognise you even without your clothes." He looked again at the shape on the floor and fought back his nausea. “I am really glad to see you. I think you saved my life.”