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Anthony put his foot down both figuratively and literally. He knew it made him look petulant but he was getting frustrated. Karl's suggestions about how to make their Midwinter holiday "more special" were getting annoying.

"Look, a camera would just be a ... a violation! NeverEarth's pristine: their most advanced technology is the clock! Seriously, I thought you understood how special the place is; I don't want to despoil it." He tried not to sound irrational.

For months Karl had been stepping on his psychological toes; breaking in on the private conversation Anthony's childhood had with NeverEarth. They'd been through a lot together. What had started as nothing more than a few days and one-night-stands had blown up into something ... complex. Of all the people in the world, only Karl knew about Anthony's otherworldly home-away-from-home.

"Yeah, well, I like taking pictures of special places. And it's not like it's going to hurt anyone. Cameras don't really steal souls, you know. Stop being so dramatic."

Anthony grew increasingly steadfast in his refusal. "I don't want my childhood refuge littered with Coke cans, cigarette butts, and tourists. Leave the damn camera behind!" His gritted teeth made the pronouncement a bit difficult to understand. Why did Karl have to be so annoying? As he watched, his boyfriend's expression melted into one of begrudging understanding.

Or perhaps it was just acceptance. It was hard to tell.

His boyfriend was already dressed for a walk in a winter wonderland. Like Anthony, he wore a heavy winter jacket, gloves, boots, a scarf, and a stocking cap. Both had backpacks: Karl's at his feet and Anthony's over his shoulder. They had filled them with food and clothing for a week-and-a-half. Not that they'd be gone that long: time flowed differently in NeverEarth. In the nine days they'd spend celebrating Midwinter with Anthony's childhood friend, Wiste, only three would pass on Earth.

"Okay; I'll leave it behind."

Karl knelt in the middle of Anthony's dorm room and started rummaging through his pack to remove the offending technology. While he was in there, he also removed four cans of soda. Anthony bit back a biting comment and turned to the closet door. No need to agitate his boyfriend any more than he already had. He'd let the cans slide without comment. They were going on a holiday, after all, and he wanted it to be fun, like his childhood.

He stepped up to the white door and closed his eyes. He conjured images of deep forests, fearsome dragons, and--most of all--the satyr they were going to visit. With the argument confounding his thoughts, he didn't get it right, immediately. After rapping on the door four times and turning the doorknob counter-clockwise a few times, Anthony had to try again.

...And again.

It was the only way to open a doorway into NeverEarth: find one that had been prepped to go there, focus on your heart's desires enough for the emotions to reach through the aperture, knock four times, and turn the knob counter-clockwise.

That always did the trick.

Being rattled, however, interfered with his emotions. He tried for a sixth time and finally got it. The closet door creaked open upon a wintry forest of evergreen and birch.

"What happens if a door has its lock changed?" Karl asked.

Anthony, just about to step across the threshold, sighed, and turned around.

"I mean, what if you pulled out the rotating knob and put in one of those latch-style door handles?"

"Jesus, could you stop talking for five minutes?" Anthony said.

Karl looked hurt but defiant. He always started jabbering like a monkey whenever excited or nervous. Going into NeverEarth, together, for the first time in half a year had clearly rattled him. Still, Anthony didn't feel very forgiving of Karl's usual patter.

"I was just wondering aloud--"

"Well stop it."

Anthony turned and walked through the door into NeverEarth.

The World Labyrinth was the name for the collection of mystic pathways that criss-crossed the various lands and kingdoms that made up NeverEarth. The Kingdom of Kellen was foremost amongst these although the paths were available--if subtle and nigh-unseen--to any traveler. It was like walking along the threads of a spider's web: delicate and tenuous. Only by focusing on your emotions could you be sure you were still on course. Otherwise, getting lost was a very real possibility. Circumventing hundreds of miles in the matter of a few hours could drop a traveler just about anywhere in NeverEarth. Anthony had travelled the Labyrinth's contours dozens, if not hundreds, of times.

This time, it was agony.

Passing into NeverEarth wasn't supposed to hurt. Stepping across the boundary of worlds had never produced much of a sensation at all, really, save for a faint tingling as Anthony's body caught up to the faster rate of time flowing in the parallel reality. This time, however, as he set foot into the mystic forest, his body burned. He felt the agony surge through him making his muscles contract and his breath catch in his throat. Everything spun as he lost his footing and fell. He screamed as he rolled in the snow.

"Anthony!"

He didn't see Karl race through, but soon his boyfriend's concerned face filled his vision. He didn't seem hurt or even inconvenienced. The pain was only for him.

His bones felt like they were bending and cracking; his muscles burned. His vision blurred obscuring his view of the transformation that wracked his body. The shadow of his face pushed out into a muzzle beneath his eyes. Fur, grey and black, sprouted up and down his arms. His fingernails and toenails curled into claws while a tail pushed its way over the waistband of his pants in back. The colors of the world faded to a bluish wash. On his last trip through the closet--his last adventure that took place within NeverEarth--something similar had happened. A chill that had nothing to do with the season ran through him.

He was changing into a wolf.

As Karl hovered over him, looking frantic and unsure of what to do, he realized that the biggest difference between now and then was the lighting. The sky beyond the snow-covered branches was clear and bright; the sun shone all around. The werewolf's curse had only changed him at night, before, and even then only under a full moon. Plus, he'd been cured upon leaving NeverEarth before the enchantment could become permanent.

Hadn't he?

"Anthony! Anthony: what do I do? Do I ... do I drag you back--?"

"Get ... away!" Anthony snarled. His sharp fangs cut his lips as he barked out the warning. He could already feel his rage mounting. The beast within was coming out and it snarled as it emerged. But there was a difference. Unlike the last time, the fury felt muted; it grew but didn't consume him. His hunger, likewise, stayed in check. There was no drive to stalk, hunt, and devour living prey as the metamorphosis progressed; his mind remained clear. His emotions came closer to the surface, but he was not their slave.

In less than two minutes, the transformation was complete. Shaking, he stood on large, lupine paws.

The bright white sunlight reflected off the snow and hurt his night-maximized eyes. He squinted against the illumination and fought the urge to run back through the door to Earth. The aperture stood open between the narrow birch trees, nearby. His clothes were stretched and ripped, stitches popped and fastenings, opened, across his changed frame. His feet ached, trapped partially within the boots he'd worn; each of them having ruptured from within by his expanding feet. Their rubber soles flopped in the wet snow as he shifted his weight back and forth.

"Jesus: what the hell happened?"

Anthony just shook his head, uncertain how to answer Karl. "I don't know."

His voice growled from the depths of his throat,shaped into something hollow and guttural by his long muzzle.

"You should go back; head through the door before--"

"You're not in danger," he snapped. "It ... feels different this time."

"How?"

Anthony just shook his big, shaggy head.

Karl looked about a foot shorter, now. Anthony and he had never been the tallest of people before. Both were five-foot-nine. But with his biology shifted to an approximate cross between human and wolf, his torso and legs were elongated, putting him over six-and-a-half feet. His weight felt about the same with aching muscles in his limbs having replaced the small amount of excess weight he carried around his middle. As with the last time, the world had been drained of most colors before his large, golden eyes. Sounds and smells exploded in clarity and intensity, though, so his visual changes were hardly the foremost on his mind.

"I'm under ... control." He looked up at the sun and shaded his eyes with one arm. "Maybe it's because it's day, but--"

"But if the time of day meant anything you shouldn't have changed at all," Karl said.

Anthony scowled at the interruption. He didn't normally like people finishing his sentences and, given his recent arguments with Karll, was even less tolerant of the annoying habit.

"We've got to figure this out," he finally growled.

Karl looked dubious. "Are you sure? Maybe you should go back through the door while I go on and meet up with Wiste. If he's on time he should have a carriage and horses, nearby."

"We should find him, yeah," he said. "But I'm not going back; not yet." With that, he turned and walked back to the door, reaching through to pull it closed. He half expected his clawed hand to drop its fur and revert to human for the moment it was on the other side, but it stayed as wolfish as the rest of him. He turned to face Karl.

His boyfriend just shook his head. "This is just petulant: you need a doctor, not a quest."

"I need someone to back me up on this, not question me at every turn," he barked.

An arrow shot through the air and embedded itself with a pain like that of a hot brand in his left shoulder. With a roar that sounded half cry of pain and half profanity, he spun with the impact, lost his footing in his tattered boots, and fell to the snowy ground. Karl, likewise, swore and whipped around to face the source of the attack.

A woman strode briskly towards them, moving carefully between the trees with a bow in her hands, nocking another arrow. She was dressed in a heavy, brown cloak against the cold and her high, leather boots provided her the footing that had escaped Anthony. She kept her distance, though, only taking a few steps to gain better aim.

"Get out of the way," she called.

Anthony heard this as he struggled to rise against the pain and injury. His heart was beating wildly and rage began to cloud his vision. Had the shot been only two inches down and to the right...

He realized she was shouting at Karl to move when she repeated herself.

"I'm ... not a monster," he growled.

Karl, a bit slower to react to what was going on, nonetheless stood his ground and withdrew something Anthony had never seen him carry before: a taser.

Where he'd gotten it Anthony didn't know. That he'd brought it to NeverEarth despite Anthony's comments about technology only made him angrier.

"Keep back!" Karl shouted.

Anthony put his hand on the shaft sticking out of his shoulder in front. He could feel the wedge-shaped tip of the arrow sticking out of his back. Snarling through the pain, he reached up and snapped the shaft off about an inch outside of his flesh. "I'm not a monster!" he repeated, this time shouting.

The woman held her ground and positioned herself with a thick birch tree between herself and her quarry. She was about fifteen yards away and had her next arrow trained on Anthony's face. She looked ... familiar.

Something about her long, brown hair and deep, brown eyes stirred a memory in Anthony. It was an old memory, though; something dusty with disuse.

"If you're no threat then back away from the boy," she shouted. Her voice was warm, despite her tone, and was suffused with an Irish brogue. Suddenly, both face and voice clicked. Anthony, despite the pain, felt a sense of awe wash over him. The woman was middle-aged and fit but the last time he'd seen her, she'd been a child as he had been.

"Moira." His startled gasp sounded like a snarl.

She kept the bow trained on him. Her brow furrowed as she looked him over. Anthony raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. His baggy, transformation-torn clothes hung from him like vines in a swamp.

"Oi! You there!" She shouted to Karl. "Step back an' over here." She nodded to her side but still didn't fire the arrow. "I've got some questions about big-n-fuzzy, there."

Karl looked at Anthony nervously. Sensing that things were ramping down, the large wolf just nodded his assent.

His blood was boiling and he wanted to run over and embrace his childhood friend. The years had been kind in that she was still the strong, fit person she'd been as a child. But she was so much older and, as a human like him, the only way that would be the case was...

Karl and Moira talked in hushed tones for several minutes. Anthony trained his ears in their direction almost without consciously deciding to. It was a marvel his lupine form could hear so well. He listened as the two talked and Karl tried to convince Moira to put down the weapon. At the same time, he kept hold of the taser. Eventually, he heard the story of how he'd become a werewolf get described and their current surprise at his reversion.

"Tony." She slowly lowered the bow and stepped forward, boots crunching in the snow. Anthony lowered his arms. "Heissis, Tony: you ... you've changed!" She didn't smile but her eyes were glad as she came closer. A second later and they embraced, the smaller woman held tightly in Anthony's shaggy arms.

"I'd forgotten you," he rumbled. "I'm ... sorry." He pulled back and looked down at her, cocking his head to one side to move his muzzle from direct line-of-sight. She smelled like the forest and the honest sweat of someone used to walking in it. Her cloak was dark green. "You've changed, too."

She blushed, the faint remembrance of freckles showing on her cheeks. "Well, if we're comparing, I think you win," she said. Then, with a glance towards Karl, nodded deeper into the woods. "Wiste sent me to fetch you," she said. "The trees are too close, here, for a carriage. I've got one and a team of horses about a quarter mile that way."

Moira had been one of two human friends who'd also found NeverEarth when he'd been a child. From Ireland, near Shannon, the two would never have met had they not both found doorways into this magical world. She'd been at his side on many adventures and each time they were reunited they'd talk endlessly about their regained memories. But he'd never expected to find her, again. Once a person crossed the magical threshold between twelve and thirteen, the memories came back less frequently and, eventually, traffic between the two worlds ended.

"I waited for you, you know," she said. She didn't sound wistful; more like she was recounting something that happened long before. "You said that on our next adventure we'd investigate the Blood Rapids of the Alismar River."

"I remember; the missing kids from along its banks."

"It was a troll, actually," she said. She grinned slyly. "I took Castori Phane to check it out after you never came back. For years everyone thought it was the ghost of this captain--a talking river otter named Yarsmin--but the troll was using the myth to cover for his decades-old slave trade mining mystic gems out of the Twisted Heights."

"Sounds like quite the adventure."

"It was."

Anthony didn't know how to broach the subject he most wanted to ask but Karl did it for him. He bristled as his boyfriend asked, "So, why are you so much older? I mean, if you're human--"

"I stayed behind." Her curt tone cut him off and she flashed her brown eyes at him, warningly. "When Tony didn't come back, well, what was there for me to go back to?" She looked at Tony and smiled shyly. "I hadn't told you at the time, but I'd decided to stay even before the whole mess with the Umbral Knight. I'd sworn Wiste to secrecy and stayed."

"But what about your family? Your parents and siblings?"

"Only child, remember?" she said. "And the less said about my parents..." She trailed off and continued leading them. "But I wasn't the only one who stayed."

Anthony blinked as more memories came back. "Jeremy, too?"

She nodded. "The door he took home to New Jersey was always near the one I used to reach home. We'd usually see each other off. When I went with him to say 'good-bye' I let it slip that I was staying. He looked worried about me but promised that he'd come back more often and made me promise I'd come fetch him, too." She took a turn by a large, snowy boulder, and led them towards a broad, forest road. "He was always a year younger than us," she said, "so he had more time, I guess. We had four more adventures that year which, for him, must have been every month or so." She looked up at Anthony's face and sighed. "His mum: she died in a car accident just before his thirteenth birthday. His dad was still overseas and he didn't want to live with his grands so, well, I arranged for him to come here."

Anthony breathed long and slow through his nostrils. The three of them had been inseparable. Ever since their first adventure together during the Underbrush Wars, they'd been a trio. When almost everyone in Kellen of royal blood had been shrunk to mouse-size and scattered by the army of Lord Avartail, the three of them had organized the resistance. They had quested to gather forces to fight back to retake the Alabaster Throne, even after they, too, had been made fun-size. In the end they had put the mouse Prince-Regent, Whiskervane, on the throne before getting everyone returned to normal height.

Even before then, when he'd first met Moira during his quest to stop the Door Warden and his army of clockwork dwarves, he'd known they'd be friends for life.

They arrived at the carriage and Anthony felt a wave of nostalgia.

It was white, befitting the season, and large enough to carry four trolls. When he had been a child, the royal carriages had seemed like tanks. They were incredibly elegant, each clad in wooden panels carved with intricate filigree and set with tiny, precious gemstones. Six white horses pulled the winter carriage just as he knew that, come spring, the emerald stallions would be put to the task with a green carriage. Each held part of an enchantment that ensured the horses never got lost and no weather could harm its contents. Inside there would be food and drink for a month.

He ran his furred hand over its curved contours in fond memory. The horses nickered and stamped, though, as he approached. They looked back at him, ears folding back while showing the whites of their eyes.

"Careful," Karl said. "I think they don't like the big, bad wolf coming up on them from behind."

"Yeah: I get that," Anthony said.

"Just get inside," Moira advised. "I'll get them started then come back."

Anthony nodded and opened the door to get in. Karl followed and soon the carriage was on its way.

"What did she mean 'come back'? Who's going to drive?"

"Magic," Anthony said.

A few minutes later and the side door swung open and admitted Moira, standing on the coach rail and using the hand-holds to keep steady. She joined them and kicked back, comfortably, across from Anthony. The interior was warm and dry; they took off their heavy outer-clothes and she helped Anthony get out of his tattered remains.

"It's not as bad this time," Karl remarked. "Most of this can be salvaged."

"Except the shoes and stockings," Moira observed.

"If something like this is going to happen to him everytime he comes to NeverEarth, he's going to need magic clothes."

"I'm more concerned about _why_it happened," Anthony snarled. "Maybe because it was sunset back home when I came through or something..."

"The moon is far from full," Moira added. "It's definitely something to talk to the Heississian Order about. Minister Salbard ought to be able to tell you what's wrong."

Karl laughed and shook his head. "Salbard? He's a diplomat!"

"He's also adjunct to the Order," Moira chided. "He may not be a wizard but he knows all their tricks. He's been magical advisor to the throne for twenty years."

"Just after I left," Anthony observed.

"Just so," she agreed.

They rode on.

Moira spoke at length, telling them about her adventures in the kingdom of Kellen and its surrounding lands. She talked about Jeremy, how he had built himself a house out in the wilderness by the Susurrus Woods, and would be joining them for Midwinter. He'd had less adventures as he'd grown older, preferring the rustic life on the edge of civilization to life in the palace. Moira loved all of it: the deep woods, the far-flung mountains, the high seas, the royal court, the bustling cities: each aspect of NeverEarth was her favorite. She couldn't choose just one.

The commute was long despite following the World Labyrinth. Nearly a full day passed as they followed the well-maintained and manicured roads. The World Labyrinth was the framework that the royal road followed. The intent of the carriage's spells kept it true. By foot, without the enchanted way to follow, it would have taken weeks. By sunset they were skirting the farms that dotted the edges of the small hamlets on Kellen's edge.

Darkness had fallen as the road turned out along the Tallasine Bluffs overlooking vast plains, below. Here and there icy sheets stretched between hillocks of brown grass and stretches of snow where, in a few month's time, rice would be planted for harvest. The few stilt-houses amongst them were lit from within by candlelight. Anthony looked out the carriage windows at the tableau and felt a sense of peace wash over him.

In the distance rose a mournful wail. They all heard it.

"A wolf," Karl said. He looked nervous and took Anthony's hand.

Moira did not look as concerned but Anthony felt his blood run cold. They had heard the sound but not its meaning. His wolven ears deciphered it well, though. It had been a single word, rising high in the night air.

It had been his name.

They'd driven through the night, the plush and posh interior of the carriage lovely enough but hardly suited for three adults to get much in the way of sleep. They dozed fitfully with Moira going out on top of the carriage every few minutes to watch the road for bandits. The world sped by, under her watchful gaze.

By the hour before dawn, they'd left the magical concourse behind and followed the main Alabaster Way into the Black Heights. Anthony opened one of the windows and leaned out. The approach was just as he remembered: slender, winding roads that spun off from the main highway, losing themselves in rural farmsteads and stands of trees. The sprawling city of Talismere, no building save its clock tower taller than two stories, emerged from the darkness. Its tall, basalt walls seemed smaller than Anthony remembered but had been augmented with several large catapults and other siege weapons. In the distance, on the cliffs overlooking Talismere, stood the Alabaster Palace.

Alive with light, its myriad windows shone into the darkness like a thousand candles hanging in the night sky. The contours of the ancient castle stood against the stars like a paper cut-out pierced with bright holes. The shadows of hippogriffs flew in the sky, above, on their eternal patrols while guardsmen walked the walls.

He pulled his head back in to see Karl's smiling face. For a moment, he felt good. It was like coming home.

"You know you looked like a dog with his head out the car window, right?"

Anthony's mood evaporated. "At least your camera's not here," he snarled.

"And whose fault is that?"

The Alabaster Way continued to drive forward and descended into a low region, flanked on both sides by the walls of Talismere. Above them, guards of both royal descent as well as local, talking animals, looked down upon them. Every now and then they passed one of the closed gates that led into the city or passed beneath a bridge that connected West to East Talismere. But soon enough the Way rose out of the bifurcated settlement and started following switchbacks into the hills and up the rise to the top of the cliffs.

Soon, they arrived.

Anthony could hear Moira taking the reigns and guiding the carriage away from the front gates back towards the stables. They had talked about the fears that might spread should anyone see the transformed wolf stepping from the carriage into the midst of the Alabaster Palace.

The white walls, even in the pre-dawn dark, glistened with reflected light from its windows and lanterns. He'd spent years coming here as a child and even when he didn't nothing but explore, Anthony always felt as if there was something new around the next corner. He'd never visited all the rooms and buildings that made up the castle; he'd not even explored a majority of them.

Moira guided the carriage around to the rear where the cliffs resumed their march even higher into the hills. At their base, behind the Palace, were caves and buildings built into the rock-face that served as the stables for the royals. As they pulled up, Anthony could see several lanterns being born by running attendants coming out to greet the early-morning travelers.

He stayed in the carriage as Moira sent one of the attendants inside with word. Karl tried to hold Anthony's hand but he pulled away. Karl took the hint and got out to stretch his legs.

Inside of twenty minutes, a small retinue of guardsmen came out flanking Queen Allasande and Wiste. Walking briskly in long strides was Minister Salbard. Inwardly, Anthony had been trying not to think about this meeting. He'd significantly hoped that his transformation would either wear off by the time he reached the castle or he'd have found a way to turn back to human. Neither condition had arisen. Moira went forth to greet them. Again, she spoke in low tones but Anthony's lupine ears could hear every word. He blushed to think of how easy eavesdropping had become. Moira said nothing that she'd not already said to Karl or himself but it was the tone, the nervous voice that she'd not revealed in Anthony's presence, that told him just how concerned she really was.

He saw Wiste nodding, his ram-like horns bobbing in assent. The Queen exchanged words with the captain of her guard who, having also heard the description of the situation, was trying to bar her from approaching the carriage.

"He is my oldest friend and Champion of Kellen; I shall show him all due respect and not treat him like some ... some animal!"

He blushed again, hearing that.

He was slightly annoyed, although it may have been jealousy augmented by his heightened emotions, by the gracious greeting the Queen gave Karl. He was the one who had gone back and forth between Earth and NeverEarth during the whole debacle with the Red Hoods. The fact that Anthony hadn't been able to be involved with the resolution of that adventure due to being hospitalized at the time, only seemed to underscore his feelings about his childhood home being "invaded".

The queen approached the carriage. Anthony took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. She opened the door and entered. Her long, blond hair was drawn up in a coiffed sculpture atop her head with her blue eyes looking bright and awake despite the ungodly hour. She was dressed as regally as ever, in a native kaftan embroidered with stags and arcane runes in purples and reds. Behind her, Wiste followed.

"Oh, Tony; I had heard, but--"

"I thought you'd beaten that curse," Wiste interrupted.

Anthony shook his head. "No such luck. Going back home just disrupted it. I came back and this is what happened to me." He spread his furred arms for emphasis.

Allasande took his hand in hers. Anthony couldn't help but imagine her guards' faces if they'd been able to see.

"I brought along Salbard. Even if he cannot determine a cure, I am certain he can at least figure out what happened."

The sun was rising over the hills, lancing down into the stableyard with warm light. Anthony couldn't see the yellows and golds but his hope that a new sunrise might shake the wolven shape from his body proved unfounded. Wiste took his other hand.

"You'll be fine, Tony," the satyr said.

"I feel fine," he growled. Wiste looked nervous and Anthony tightened his grip. "Please: forgive my voice. Everything I say through this muzzle sounds like a damn threat." The fact that his emotions were so close to the surface, too, were something to take into account, but he didn't think mentioning that would help.

They talked for a short while more until Salbard entered. He looked none the worse for wear from his time on Earth when he'd been beaten and taken hostage by a gang of thugs. He was ever the prime and proper elder scholar and ambassador. He put on a moon-shaped pair of spectacles and peered at Anthony through them. Amidst many a "Mmm-hmm" and "Ahh", he examined the wolf's body, carefully. Eventually, he pulled a thin, leather-bound notebook from under his blue robes and flipped through its pages, carefully. Anthony could only read a few snippets of words, here and there; the enchantments that apparently allowed everyone to sound like they were speaking English didn't apply to the written word and he'd only ever learned a smattering of the Kellen written dialect.

"I am by no means an expert," he finally said with a drawl, "but I believe the lycanthropic curse has been broken by your peregrination from the lands of Kellen for your own provincial lands."

Karl had re-entered the carriage during this time and sat, annoyed, in a seat against a window. "Seriously? You can look at him and say the curse has been broken?"

Salbard was a royal, what all humans in NeverEarth were called, and also held a position of authority in the Alabaster Court. He looked over the rims of his glasses in annoyance and pursed his lips. "By 'broken' I mean what I said: fragmented, slivered, shattered, damaged. The enchantment carried by the pathogen of the werewolf bite has been interrupted from its normal course and, now, lies in tatters. It does not appear to be functioning as it should. I should like to have High Wizard Millavarne take a look--"

"Millavarne? She's still alive?" Anthony asked. He felt a surge of hope. Millavarne had been the official High Wizard when he was a child and her spells and magical objects had helped him immensely on many adventures.

Salbard looked annoyed at having been interrupted by someone outside the royal family once again.

"Yes, quite," he said. "She is the foremost authority on magics within all the realms of the world. Mine is only a preliminary diagnosis. I should trust her investigation more fully."

"She is abroad, however," Allasande said. "She is in the Grey Demesne and is not expected to return for another three months. I shall send for her, immediately."

Anthony nodded. This was getting complicated and he felt suddenly acutely aware of how his condition was impacting everyone's lives. Midwinter was analogous to Christmas mixed with Thanksgiving. He'd been told by Wiste that it was often a week-long celebration of feasting and bonfires and music and dance. Everyone had their plans and Anthony was disrupting them all. He felt conspicuously responsible.

"I hope this won't be too big a disruption," he started. "I mean, I can always go back home and come back once she's returned. It would only be a few weeks for me and the last time the curse simply faded when I walked through the doorway."

"I would not recommend any further intermeddling with the course of this enchantment," Salbard advised. He snapped his little book shut and replaced it within his robes. "For all we know further disruption of the arcane investiture within your blood and sinew would make your condition worse." He glanced at Karl for a moment. "I strongly recommend you and your companion await the return of Millavarne and keep yourself safe."

"There's no safer place in all the world than here," Wiste said.

"As long as no one spies him and suspects an infection of wolves upon the Alabaster Throne," Salbard advised.

The queen nodded. "We shall keep him out of sight, then, until the High Wizard can return. The guards will be instructed to speak of this to no one and place a full guard upon his chambers." She looked at Karl and smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid he should be in seclusion until this can be settled or at least addressed by those with greater knowledge than the good Minister. For your own safety of course."

"Now wait a minute," he said. "I'm not leaving--"

"That will be fine," Anthony interrupted. Karl looked at him, hurt, but Anthony ignored it. "Look, it's for safety's sake. We already have one cursed wolf around. If there's any chance this thing is still contagious, I think ... I'd like to keep myself separate until I can be examined. Okay?" His boyfriend frowned.

"I didn't abandon you when you first got cursed, and I'd--"

"No one's accusing you of abandoning him, lad," Wiste said. "And it should only take a day or two for Millavarne to return." He had removed his hand from Anthony's during the discussion and was absently wiping it on his red, cotton jerkin. "Until then we should take every precaution."

The discussion did not last much longer. Allasande summoned the guards and had a large, heavy cloak brought to completely conceal Anthony from head to toe. It had a heavy enough hood that only the tip of his muzzle poked out. He tilted his head down and walked briskly with the guards to further hide his appearance. They led him to a room in a more isolated tower of the vast castle and showed him in.

Karl didn't move to hug him and just stood outside the door as Wiste and Allasande helped get Anthony settled. Moira had accompanied them, too, but stood with Karl.

"We'll see to your every need," Allasande said. "The bell cord by the door will summon a guard to take your wishes."

"Right now I'm just famished."

Wiste smiled. "Feel like you could eat a whole deer, no doubt?"

Anthony smiled but instantly regretted it. Wiste's momentary flash of fear as his wolven face attempted the expression told him that he'd looked more feral than he'd anticipated. "Just a hamburger, really," he said.

Allasande, who'd knew enough about Anthony's life on Earth to know what he meant, nodded. "I shall have the kitchens prepare you a meal."

With that, the group filed out the door and left Anthony to his regally-appointed room. He sighed, sat down on the bed, and looked at his clawed hands. He was a monster and monsters needed to be quarantined. He hoped it wouldn't last.

Anthony was awoken by tossing and turning; not his own, it felt like the whole bed was shaking. He bounced and slid violently from the sheets and hit the floor, hard. The room was spinning and in his half-delirium of sleep seemed vast, alien, and unknowable. It took his mind a moment to orient and a moment longer to conceive of his personal condition. Everything around him--the bed, the walls, the ceiling, the sheets, the pillow he'd knocked to the floor--was growing. A dark shadow loomed over him, getting bigger with each passing tick of the clock. His stomach felt empty and fluttered as if falling. It was a sensation he barely remembered from his childhood.

He was being reduced in size.

The enchantment was unsettling at the best of times; more so to come out of a sound sleep to encounter it. Despite being covered in a shaggy coat of fur and possessed of sharp claws and fangs, his wolven constitution was no match for the sensation. He couldn't stand, despite his attempts. The shadow seemed to know this and reached for him. Vast hands, supple and long-fingered, reached for him and gathered him up as if he were a mouse.

He got a vague impression of a hooded figure but that was all. Then he was gripped in giant, fleshy hands and tossed unceremoniously into a small cage. It was cramped; he barely fit inside. And then the cage, itself, was clasped by a chain to a leather belt beneath those robes and the earthquake began again.

He was tossed about as the giant moved with strident purpose. The length of chain was not long--he could tell that much--but it was long enough that when his abductor walked, he was bounced about like a rag doll. He had to brace both hands and feet against the bars to keep from having his head smashed against the metal. He found it easy, his relative strength much higher than it was at his normal size, but the trip was still disorienting. The smell of leather, musky animal hides, and floral perfume assaulted his sensitive nostrils. He tried calling out, but his shortened vocal chords barely issued a high-pitched squeak. He could hear himself but he doubted anyone else could.

All he could do was hang on and hope he came to a stop.

The travel was long and disorienting. It felt like hours but was probably only thirty or so minutes. He smelled the cool air of outdoors without seeing it. All his night eyes could tell him was that the cloak concealing him against the waist of his abductor was heavy and made for outdoor travel. Its course threads and titanic stitches made were reminiscent of those worn by castle guards with faint embroidery of the Alabaster Throne's crest along the hem: a white heron against a golden crown. At his size, the designs were almost a third his height.

Finally, he was brought from the outdoor air indoors once more. He smelled hundreds of conflicting aromas in the interim: a cacophony of scents he'd never had the experience of smelling before. It was all so intense but it reminded him, vaguely, of the surrounding city of Talismere. Had he been brought out of the castle to the tangle of streets, below?

The cage was mercifully pulled free from the belt and the giant, cloaked figure set it down within a much larger cage. The ceiling, spanned and supported ed by beams the size of California redwoods, stretched away in the distance over his abductor's head. Once on the floor, the figure withdrew a small scroll and unfurled it. A few whispered words that were as harsh as sandpaper followed and the small cage door popped open.

The sensation of falling returned.

He staggered out as he realized the spell was fading. He was returning to his former size. Not wanting to be crushed within the tiny rodent's cage, he got free just in time to be caught within the bars of the larger, surrounding cage. Soon, he was standing at his full height, captured within a large, iron cage only a foot-or-so taller than himself. The robed figure walked to the corner of the room, keeping an eye on him.

The small hovel was probably in one of the poorer sections of Talismere if within the city walls at all. While is perception of time had been skewed by his reduced stature he was certain they couldn't have gone too far. The room was decked out in furs hanging from the walls and all manner of cages and traps set on shelves and a workbench that ran next to a staircase that descended into what was probably a basement.

In one corner a heavy crossbow had been mounted to the wall, aimed at the center of the room ... aimed at Anthony. The figure made some adjustments to it and set the bolt in position. Then, working deftly, looped a strap of leather around the trigger. The other end was attached to the door of the cage and was pulled taught around a series of pulleys. The inference was clear.

The figure picked up another bolt and turned to the cage. Anthony couldn't pull back very far. Like the small container that had brought him here, this trapper's cage was barely big enough for him. He couldn't pull away and didn't dare jostle the bars lest he trigger the bolt. The figure approached.

The tip of the bolt glistened and shone brightly. Anthony could feel something in the air as it got close. Like a shiver of pain that had not fully manifested itself, the crossbow bolt's tip sent a shiver down his spine. He didn't know how he knew it, but he instinctively shied away from that metal. He could feel it from a foot away: it was silver.

Beneath the hood, he caught a glimpse of a smooth cheek; of a pointed chin and soft features. The woman who had taken him, however, was no one he'd ever seen before. She reached forward through the bars and gripped a heft of his fur. She was careful to not be between the mounted crossbow and Anthony.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he growled. "Get off--!"

"Hush! Cease your profane prattle!" With that, she stabbed the bolt forward, piercing the flesh on his shoulder.

The touch of the sharpened silver burned like nothing he'd ever felt. He howled in pain as the woman then produced a brass syringe with a somewhat thick needle and glossy black plunger. She pressed it into the wound and withdrew a full measure of his blood before stepping back to observe her handiwork. Withdrawing the hood from her head, she gazed at him coolly. "Now, my boy, my work can begin."

Initially he had taken her for an older woman, possibly in her fifties. But despite the fine lines around her face and the tinges of white at her temples in her black hair, he suddenly got the impression that she was older. She had the physique of a very fit woman: toned and wiry with only the air of someone unused to nature and the wild. On her forehead, though, was a singular mark: a tattoo or a brand shaped like a black crescent moon. It was slightly off-center and looked roughly applied. Her golden eyes pierced him to his soul and he suddenly got a feel of power and authority from her. His mind made a leap of logic.

"You're ... Duchess Malgrave," he said, slowly.

"Duchess no more," she affirmed. "My title and lands were stripped from me leaving me nothing more than Calmina Malgrave. But what the actions of a rogue son removed, I plan on re-building."

Her words carried weight. He didn't know how, but with each declaration he felt the inclination to agree and obey. She was the alpha in the room, he suddenly realized: the head of the clan that had infected him. It wasn't like mind-control but it was a very strong compulsion.

"I'd heard you were arrested and imprisoned."

She scowled. "Do not think you can talk to me as an equal, cur. That you share my blood is an accident of my over-zealous offspring." She turned away for a moment. Only Anthony's heightened hearing could have picked up on the whisper, "of which you are the only one remaining." She turned back, eyes afire. Anthony recognized her gaze as that of a wolf, despite her human form. "They branded me; buried the wolf within and exiled me far from the beloved lands of Kellen. But they did not kill me. That shall prove to be their mistake."

Anthony furrowed his brow. "I thought there was no cure."

"This is not a cure!" she shouted. "Every moment, even during the day, even without a full moon, I burn with the wolf within! She cannot escape; she paces and gnaws on the bars of my mind like a trapped animal and yet can never get free!" She stormed up to the cage, face twisted in rage. She glared at him for several moments. Her pupils were dilated and nostrils flaring with deep, shuddering breaths. But propriety eventually won out over her rage and she composed herself. Forcing herself calm, she glared at Anthony down the bridge of her nose. "And in any event, why would you think me desirous to be free of my power? They neutered me, like a common animal, and banished me in eternal pain to walk the world beyond Kellen's borders but the power..." She turned away once more. "The power still sings to me."

Anthony didn't know what to say. He felt fear welling up within him at the former duchess' clear insanity. He licked his muzzle and tried to think of a way out of his predicament.

"I have been imprisoned," she finally said, "just as you heard; but it is a prison I carry with me."

"What do you need me for?" he asked.

Malgrave had circumnavigated the cage in the room's center and paused near the boarded-up front windows. "I would have thought that plain," she said. Her face took on a haunted look and her voice cracked as she responded. "They killed my children; murdered them. They hunted down the pack and put them to death with silver and flame. Were it not for my title and last vestiges of influence in the court, I would have followed them." Her golden eyes grew cold and narrow. "My prison prevents me from creating any more of my line. What they cannot cure, they contain."

Anthony understood. "But my blood--"

"Is of my lineage," she finished for him. "I know not what invokes you to become wolf with neither nightfall nor full moon, but your blood is still of my line. With it, I can have a loyal family once more." She slowly let out a long breath. "But on the off-chance your blood is not the same without the fullness of our Lady, the moon, I shall hold you; keep you alive until I know whether my prison is truly final or if it can be beat."

"So, you're just going to _infect_people? You know what this curse does to them; to us! How could you knowingly infect them?"

"It grants power, boy: freedom to do as you desire. Do not think to lecture me on the price of the wolf!" She stepped towards the cage and pointed at him, accusingly. "You know as well as I the song that sings in our veins. The hunger--the emotions--are but a small fee for the glory of youthful power and a beast's fangs and claws."

"It isn't," he lied.

He wouldn't admit to her that she was partially right. He'd only felt the power flowing through him a handful of times. And although the driving hunger was gone and the rawness of emotions was somewhat dampened at the moment, he had to admit the energy and freedom he felt were unlike anything he'd ever felt when human. To be able to smell the world--to_hear_ what no other human could hear--was like being a super-hero. He had to admit, to himself if not to Malgrave, that he understood the desire to pay that price.

"But you need not fear, peasant," she snarled. "It won't be just anyone. Only the strong; the aristocracy of the royals that shall receive my gift." She replaced the hood over her face and strode to the door. "Starting with those very individuals who revoked my title and slew my blood."

With that, she departed. The heavy, wooden door slammed behind her leaving Anthony alone in the dim cottage.

Anthony had no idea where Malgrave had gotten the enchantments. In all the lands of NeverEarth magic was plentiful but usually not so easily accessed. A royal, even one with lands and a title, could hire a wizard or alchemist but she'd been de-throned and exiled for at least two years. Money wouldn't be easy to come by nor would promises of royal indulgences. He didn't think she'd been dabbling in the arcane arts on the side so it meant someone was helping her. Allasande would want to know this.

Of course, Allasande would want to know she was a target of an attempt to infect her with lycanthropy, too.

Everyone in the court was at risk.

Anthony had spent the last few hours examining the cage and testing its bars. It wasn't attached to the floor and did not have a solid bottom. Given the surroundings, he was fairly certain it had come with the hovel and had belonged to a trapper or furrier. The problem was, he had almost no room to move in the narrow cage and the bars were only just wide enough for him to fit his clawed hand through the spaces between them.

The hinges were solid but old. He could move them back and forth if he used his claw tips like a set of pliers. But they were still heavy and he would need leverage to pry them loose. The problem was that the trigger of the crossbow was hooked up to the cage door fairly tightly. Any movement beyond a certain amount was sure to cause it to fire.

He'd toyed with the idea of trying to twist the cage so that one of the bars would intercept the path of flight of the crossbow bolt but it was almost impossible to be sure he'd line it up correctly. Also, in the process of moving it, he'd only have one chance before it fired. He abandoned the idea of shifting the cage, itself. He looked around, trying to find anything he could use to aide in his escape.

She'd placed the cage in the very center of the room. Although the place was small, nothing was within reach.

He kicked something hard that rattled against the floor bars of the cage. Glancing down, he saw the tiny mouse-sized cage he'd been transported in. Its tiny grey bars had seemed to strong to him when he'd been that small. Iron, definitely, and sturdy enough to hold even a shrunken werewolf. An idea suddenly dawned on him.

Reaching down, he picked up the little cage.

Three to four inches long and an inch around at its base, it was heavy for its size. He didn't know what use it would have for a trapper but supposed that once in there, a tiny rodent wouldn't be able to struggle as it was carried around, alive, before it could be dispatched for its fur. The thought gave him the shivers.

He had been that rodent.

But the past wasn't as important to him right now.

At the moment, he had to jury-rig the tiny cage into an escape plan.

It was difficult to crouch in the cage or do anything else but turn around, in place. But when he looked at the crossbow where it aimed its silver-tipped bolt at him, he thought he could make out the flight-line along which it had been aimed. He pressed the tiny cage up against the bars of his containment and, sure enough, it would fit between leaving very little space on either side. If he could figure out where the bolt would launch itself through the bars...

He swallowed, hard. It was almost as risky as trying to shift the entire cage and interpose one of the bars. But what other choice did he have?

Steadily, he held the miniature cage in the palm of his hand and held it up against the bars. He squinted for a moment and tried to sight along the crossbow's path. He held the small chunk of metal firmly in one hand. He knew the bolt could rip through the tiny bars and still puncture him. He knew that at this range the bolt would hit like a bullet. No matter what, even if he was successful, this was going to hurt.

Time ticked by. Even after he had his plan, he hesitated. He took several deep breaths as he lined up his protective, hand-held armor once more and slipped his toes through the bars at the bottom of the cage. He felt the taut rope between them and tugged experimentally. It wasn't easy using his foot to try and trigger the crossbow but the connection was already so shaky he felt it would be easier than he had anticipated.

He gritted his teeth and winced.

It was now or never.

He held the tiny cage three-quarters of the way up the outer bars and braced himself for impact. He jerked once, twice, three-times with his toes until he managed to get the rope to buck and pull just right.

The crossbow fired.

Pain exploded in his right hand as the cage was ripped from his grasp. Small tines of metal ripped through his palm. Blood stained his fur and it felt like his cramped arm had been struck by a hammer and knife at the same time. He cried out in pain as the crossbow bold clattered to the ground, half-in and half-out of the cage. Through the burning pain, he tried to focus his thoughts. He looked down and saw his fingers bent at an odd angle, two of them clearly broken. Blood covered him and his palm would need stitches, at least. The cage was pierced and the bolt pressing through both sides. It silver tip, though, had only scratched him. The majority of the damage was from the tiny iron bars of the cage being ripped through and shoved into his flesh. His wrist was in agony and he was certain it was either broken or sprained.

But he was alive.

His breath came in great sobs. He choked back on the pain in relief. For several long minutes, he could do nothing but stare at the weapon at his feet.

Then, he acted.

He crouched as best as he could in the confined space and retrieved the crossbow bolt. With a snarl he levered it beneath the topmost of the cage's door hinges and started working. He didn't have much time.

Anthony had been right about where he was. Although his trip had been both concealed and disorienting, it looked as if the duchess had brought him to the outskirts of the city, just outside the wall. Here, in a tangle of small homes that had been built for tradesmen--carpenters, blacksmiths, woodsmen, furriers, and others--he escaped into the streets beneath the overcast skies of late morning.

A few cries of alarm echoed through the streets. He sniffed the air, trying to ignore them. Whatever people might think was irrelevant. He had to catch up to his would-be captor and get that blood back. He had to stop her.

Unlike a dog or wolf who'd lived all its life with an incredible sense of smell, Anthony had only possessed the heightened sense for a short time. Still, he'd been in the cottage and held close against the duchess' body long enough that her smell was, to him, as distinctive as black and white. He caught her scent quickly and raced after where she had gone.

Sneaking through the busy streets of Talismere was difficult and ate up most of his time. At first Anthony tried to stay to the shadows, such as they were, but this soon proved to be impractical. It was a living, breathing city: bustling with its inhabitants as they bought, sold, traded, and negotiated in the panoply of their daily lives. There were no places completely out of sight ... at least on the ground. It took him several hours of moving about, trying to remain unseen, before he realized he would be least seen traveling on rooftop near the outskirts of the city. When he came to a street wide enough that he could not summon up his courage and leap the gap, he would have to climb down and wait for the way to be clear. Several times he got unlucky and hear cries of "Monster" or "Wolf" in his wake. His tension grew and by the time he was halfway to the base of the castle cliffs, his hackles were constantly raised. From that point, around Noon, it took him another three hours to make his way through the snow-shrouded streets. The sun was setting and he grew anxious that he might already be too late.

He'd had to abandon tracking her by scent, taking the route he had but he knew where she was going. Once at the Alabaster Palace, he would have to pick up her scent again.

The climb was arduous and he wasn't entirely certain he could have made it in his human form. He had more energy as a wolf, that was for sure, and the claws gave him extra purchase on the rocky cliffs. He'd waited for sundown, despite the urgency. It took all his will not to charge off as fast as he could. Getting caught, though, before he could explain--confronted and possibly killed--was too great a risk. At least, this close to the solstice, the sun set early. It couldn't have been later than five in the evening when he began his frozen climb.

It was agonizingly slow but he forced himself to be careful.

When he reached the top, gusts of wind blew the snow into whorls and arcs that drifted out over the precipitous fall to the city streets, below. Bells began to ring in the city and he realized the first day of Midwinter celebrations had arrived.

He mounted the white walls of the palace and slipped into the rear courtyard near the stables. He sniffed the air. Too many horses and a few other animals he didn't quite recognize clouded the air with their conflicting scents. Still, his nose was keen enough to know she'd not come this way. However the duchess was getting into the palace it wasn't by scaling the walls as he had.

He had to get inside.

High above, he saw lights in several windows. All of them shone warmly though the glass panes, keeping out the winter chill. He shivered despite his fur in sympathy to the visual contrast. He'd have to go that way.

Again, he began to climb. This time, though, with only sheer stone surfaces only occasionally perforated by a cornice or rough hand-hold, it was slower. The wind began to pick up as he reached the second story by a window through which there was no light. He braced himself against the narrow sill and curled his fingers into a fist. He knew that breaking windows in the movies was only easy because they were made of special glass. He expected this to be much harder.

It was.

Three tries later and with lacerations across the back of his hand from sharp glass, he was inside. He began his hunt.

Sounds of music and song drifted through the halls from the floor below. The palace was enormous. Even with its full compliment of servants, functionaries, and officials, it was easy to go for hours without running into anyone. But unless the duchess also had somehow acquired magic to change her face, she would have to stay away from the main throng until she was ready to strike. That much, he'd figured out. What he still needed to know was how she intended to do it--to infect the queen and other members of the court--and not get killed in the process. Malgrave didn't seem the suicidal sort, despite her pronouncement of being in constant agony.

Anthony tried not to think about that. He wanted to be free from this curse, broken or damaged though it was. But if it meant constantly being able to feel the rage, always being on-edge and burning with the wolf within always clawing to get out, he wasn't sure if he could do that. Going home was an option, of course, but that also meant never coming back. There were ways to destroy doorways between the worlds. He had done it, once, long ago. If he went back still accursed, he wouldn't blame members of the court, or even Allasande, herself, of removing the doors that were used to reach his dorm or his childhood home. He could forge a new one, of course, but to what effect? Unless he got his condition cured, he was an outcast; just as much as Duchess Malgrave.

The oil lamps flickered in every hallway. Wiste had told him that during celebration nights of Midwinter every hearth held a fire and almost every torch, lamp, and candle was lit. The only places with enough shadows to hide him were the unoccupied rooms. Creeping through the halls he'd once explored as a kid made him realize just how wrong this situation was. He had to hide from people he trusted while skulking about a place he used to feel completely safe. He owed Malgrave for this corruption of his past.

He caught a whiff.

Tenuous, his sensitive nostrils detected it: the smell of sweat and salt covered with remnants of pine forest and expensive perfumes. He breathed in her aged scent and the unique aromas of her accursed body. She was unlike Moira, Karl, or anyone he'd met. Malgrave was easy to follow.

But he could tell she was distant.

He followed the scent quickly down a hall and stopped. It came from a small door, no more than two feet wide, halfway up the wall. It was mingled with the scents of roasting fowl, nuts, cinnamon, and fruits. The closer he got the stronger the food smells got. They soon overwhelmed the scent of his prey.

He opened the small door and looked in.

A dumb-waiter. The door opened into a shaft that led down to the kitchens in the basement, below.

That was how she would do it.

The servants would be unlikely to recognize her; few of them ever saw a royal from a distant part of Kellen. Further, if she could conceal her blood in the food for the festivities...

He took off, running. There was no time. She might have already done it.

He didn't know if the lycanthropic curse could be transmitted via ingestion but he wasn't about to take any chances.

The way to the kitchens was easy but it led through the most heavily trafficked parts of the castle. He could take the back and more concealed servants passages but those wound around and around, avoiding the areas where more gentrified heels would tread. He had to go there, directly, if he was to be in time.

He burst through the side doors of the Golden Ballroom.

Like all the official function rooms of the Alabaster Palace, the Golden Ballroom's walls were polished smooth and white. The seams between the great blocks of stone making up the ageless building were so fine a mouse's hair couldn't fit between them. But the place was called the Golden Ballroom for two reasons. First, the ceiling reached high above, all the way to the top of the castle. There, slanted windows conducted ambient sunlight through tinted windows the light the place with a golden hue.

Second, all of the fixtures--from the lamps hanging on their chains to the chandeliers to the ornate rods holding tapestries against the walls--were leaved with gold. The ornate chamber was were the grandest of events were held. Anthony had seen weddings here as well as signings of peace treaties and blessings upon those who went out on quests for the King.

Tonight, it was full as in his childhood memories.

People were dressed in royal finery. Gowns swept the spotless floor while men in golden attire danced with the women. Many wore black masks and more than a few had ceremonial yellow feathers adorning their hair. Music played merrily in a fast-paced dance tune while drinks were circulated in clear, crystal goblets. But the instant Anthony burst into the room, all that stopped.

Screams and calls of alarm erupted as guards snapped to attention, drawing weapons and moving to protect the queen.

Allasande was there, overlooking the scene from the high dais above the musicians. Next to her was Karl along with Wiste. Both were dressed in what Anthony thought must be borrowed royal clothing but all looked shocked and frightened at his intrusion. He saw the small door on the opposite wall that led to the stairs down to the kitchens. He ran towards it as the queen tried to shout for the guards to stop and the assembled throng of royals tried to get out of his way.

Arrows whizzed past him from the right and one impacted his shoulder from the left. The explosion of pain made him growl in agony as he felt metal hit bone. It didn't burn like silver so he knew it would heal. Even the back of his fist was no longer covered in gashes from the glass; only scabs existed beneath the fur to show how he'd broken in.

He risked a glance to both sides as the guards closed in before him. One had grabbed a long, ceremonial spear from the wall while the others brandished their swords. To his right, in the shadow of a tall, waving golden tapestry, he saw Moira. She had her bow out and an arrow knocked. For a moment he felt his heart fall that she'd shot at him. Then, she fired.

Two, quick arrow shots lanced ahead of him and knocked the spear out of the guardsman's hands. He realized, then, that her shots had missed him on purpose. She was giving him cover. She may not have known what he was doing but she was trying to keep the chaos under control to let him do it.

He grinned, grimly, as he dashed to the left and then to the right, trying to throw off the guards in front of him. They staggered from side to side, trying to keep in an optimal position to use their swords. More arrows flew in and the queen's shouts grew louder over the din. Anthony's wolven ears could hear her well but he doubted anyone else could. She was trying to call them off.

Anthony knew that wasn't going to happen.

He dove at the nearest, curling his claws against the palms of his hands. Using his fists and trying not to break their skin, he hammered into the two guards between him in the servants' door. The tight, coiled muscle of his werewolf body erupted like a sledgehammer. His sprint across the ballroom floor also added to the impact as he sent the two guards, sprawling. He pain in his left shoulder still burned, but adrenaline was concealing it.

Another guard leaped forward and attacked him from his wounded side. The man's sword came slashing down forcing Anthony to duck to the floor and roll to one side. An arrow flashed by overhead and pierced the guard's weapon hand.

Anthony didn't stop. The guard would have to be healed, later, along with being given an apology.

He reached the door and practically tore it off its hinges as he barrelled through.

Down the curving stairs he ran. Low torches guttered in the gloom lighting his way to the kitchens. The smells grew stronger. The stairs ended in a hallway that stretched to his right and his left. Directly across, however, was the door to the kitchen. He ran through it.

The screams of the kitchen staff rose in a crescendo but didn't mask his quarry. Hidden in plain sight, dressed in servant garb, the former duchess stood by the great fireplace near serving trays set on counters, ready to be brought upstairs.

If she was surprised to see him, it didn't show on her face. Nor did she react as if she had expected his sudden intrusion. She quickly and coolly drew a dagger from beneath her clothes and held it before her while her other hand fished about in her pocket.

She withdrew her left hand as Anthony barrelled across the room. She tossed something small and red from her palm and, quickly, it grew into a sparkling cloud of small flames. The conflagration roared outwards, expanding to a ten-foot sphere. Several kitchen staff were caught in the flames: their clothing combusting. Anthony tried to dive to one side, but he wasn't fast enough. His fur caught fire and he felt the burning race across his body.

Silver wasn't the only enemy of the werewolf. Fire did a pretty good job on lycanthropes, too.

He changed course, still burning, and grabbed a pot of soup from the stove. It would burn, too, but less than continual flames. He doused himself in the broth and vegetables, dropping to the ground with a snarling howl of pain. The flames went out.

Malgrave didn't stop.

She fished out another pre-prepared bit of magic and hurled it at him.

This time it looked like a pale, blue chicken egg. Around its perimeter were scribed sigils and runes in glowing, silver script.

It struck him in the chest and exploded like a firecracker.

Black, ichorous vines erupted from it, entwining his chest and coiling around his arms and legs in moments. He struggled to get free, but the bonds grew tighter and tighter, squeezing the air from his chest. He saw the duchess then make a run for the door he'd come through. He snarled and strove to free himself from the bonds. They held even tighter, the more he pressed against them.

Desperate, he snapped with his jaws and managed to hook a vine that was around his chest in his mouth. It tasted like a rotting swamp full of mud and amphibious musk. He bit down, anyway. Tearing at it, he ripped the vine free and then the next.

He staggered to his feet as he freed one arm. The duchess was just going through the door.

"Stop her!" he growled, but the servants paid him no heed. They just continued their mass exodus away from him.

He freed his other arm, then, and with his claws ripped the final vines away from his legs.

His body burned and hurt with a thousand burns. Clumps of his fur had fallen out in large, singed patches. The ribs in his chest felt pained, as if cracked. He ignored them and ran after her.

He got out into the hall and spied her moving down one of the servant's corridors to the left. It was obvious she wanted to avoid the royal throng, upstairs. Besides, he could hear the clanging feet of metal-clad guardsmen coming down from the Golden Ballroom.

He dashed after her, forcing himself to run faster and dropping to a loping, all-fours as he did so. His lungs burned as he got closer and closer. He saw her looking back as she fled. She fished in her pocket for, undoubtedly, another magical charm. He dove forward.

Tackling Malgrave to the floor, her heard the satisfying cry of pain as her shins met cold, hard stone. He slammed his knee into the small of her back and knocked her knife from her hands. True to his suspicions, it had been silver-bladed. She withdrew a small, ceramic tile from her pocket but he was too quick and knocked that away, too. Where it hit the wall, an explosion of ice expanded, quickly covering a ten-foot-square area. No doubt, it would have done the same to him, had she managed to hit him with it.

Snarling, he lowered his face next to hers.

She glared back at him, though, completely in control of herself.

"Little cur," she hissed, "do you really think you can intimidate me?"

The rage in his breast was nearly as strong as he remembered it being when he first had become a werewolf. It nearly crowded out his mind but he fought back. The damaged magic, the fractured curse, gave way and he assumed control.

His fangs inches from her face, he closed his mouth and lunged forward, cracking his heavy, thick forehead against hers.

Stunned, she snapped back against the floor cried out in pain before slumping, limp, in a daze.

Guards filled the hallway behind him, and he weakly looked back. He hoped he had enough strength to keep them off long enough to explain.

"Lay down your weapons!" Moira's voice cut through the din with the authority of someone used to being obeyed. "Anyone who touches that wolf will answer to me."

Relief swept through him: as strong and sudden as all his emotions, these days. It was over.

"The food," he gasped. "She's tainted it. Werewolf's blood..."

The guards came forward trying to get close to the stunned, former duchess while trying not to come within clawing distance of the massive wolf. Anthony slowly stood, raising his hands in supplication.

"Got it," Moira answered. She quickly took charge and ordered the kitchen sealed. The guards surrounded the duchess and dragged her to her feet. Blood trickled from both her forehead and the back of her skull where it had hit the floor.

Anthony snarled in pain as he stepped back to give them room.

"Careful," he growled. "She's got charms all over her. Magic that can handle even a werewolf." He narrowed his eyes and glared at her. "Where did you get all that, anyway?" he demanded. "You're no wizard."

Her eyes were clearing as she realized her predicament. She struggled for a moment but found herself held fast. She frowned and glared at Anthony. "You think I'm the only adversary you have in this land?" she hissed. "You made many enemies from your time here as 'Champion'." She spat at his feet and lowered her voice. She knew the ways of the wolf and knew he'd just barely be able to hear her. "They know where your doorway is, child. That they allowed me to strike at you, here and now, was an indulgence I insisted upon. But next time you shall not know from whence the attack shall be launched. Even your beloved will not be safe..."

Karl had walked through the crowd and come to stand next to Anthony. He could feel his warm hand on his injured shoulder despite the burns. Even with all the heat raging in blisters across his body he felt a chill go through him at her words.

He wanted to charge her. He wanted to rip her throat out right there in front of everybody. He wanted to pound that smug, bloody face until it no longer resembled anything remotely human. The wolf within him demanded it.

Anthony turned away.

Karl was there, looking at him with accepting eyes. He knew he must looked terrible but there, in Karl's face, was total acceptance. He shivered at the sight and paused for a moment before pushing past to go down the hall. He had a lot to think about.

High Wizard Millavarne gave Anthony a clean bill of health. Her ungents, salves, enchanted dusts, and potions had been able to heal his wounds but he still looked like a savage wolf. The rage still roared within him and the feral shape concealed his true nature. The curse was, effectively, stuck. When in NeverEarth, he would be a wolf--day or night, full moon or not--despite him not being a true lycanthrope. His blood, she assured him, was not infectious; Duchess Malgrave's plot would never have succeeded. But he was a wolf, now, and as long as he remained in a land where the magic flowed as it did in NeverEarth, a wolf he would remain. It was possible that repeated travels back and forth between here and Earth would further erode the enchantment but even Millavarne could not say for sure.

He was stranded on an island of his own body in the midst of a sea of people who feared his bestial visage.

Word quickly spread of his predicament and by royal decree Anthony's story was spread throughout the land to ensure his safety. He bristled at the idea of something so personal being spread so far and wide, but he understood why Allasande did it. Besides, he had other things on his mind.

A few days later, Moira and Wiste escorted he and Karl back to the door in the woods. They took the carriage, again, but this time in comfort and at a more leisurely pace. He would still be on-time to catch his flight back to Illinois to spend Christmas with his parents. But he didn't feel particularly good about it.

Soon, he and Karl stood before his dorm room's closet door, its thin, white veneer looking as it always did: pristine, simple, and wholly out-of-place standing in the middle of the wood.

"Shall we step back and de-fur you?" Karl asked.

He had given up trying to hold Anthony's hand. Over the last few days, they'd been cordial but the Duchess' quiet threat filled Anthony's mind with horrible images. He'd celebrated as much as the rest of them but Midwinter had been as hollow as the Christmas awaiting him. He had to say something. He'd put it off before now but he couldn't any longer.

"Karl," he growled, "I'm ... I'm not going back."

"What?"

"You've got the little memory charm Allasande gave you; you won't forget this. But I ... I can't go back."

"But you'll be human again!"

"That's not the point," he said.

Anthony had been racking his brains for how to tell Karl the truth; how to warn him. He'd spoken to Allasande and Moira and Wiste about the threat but each of them had said the choice was ultimately up to him what to say to Karl.

And did he really want to fix this?

"This past week," he said, slowly, "it's been ... hard." He looked at Karl's eyes; water touched their edges as his boyfriend anticipated the words that were to come. "We've argued more than ever; there have been several times I've felt so much rage, I had to stop myself from doing something ... I'd regret."

"All the more reason to come back; put the wolf back in his cage--"

"That's not enough," Anthony said. "We've been having these arguments even when not in NeverEarth. And I ... I've got to say, I ... I don't feel comfortable back on Earth any more. Not with you."

This time he definitely recognized the expression on Karl's face: he looked like he'd been stabbed in the heart.

"Oh, come on! You're not saying--"

"We should spend some time apart," he finished. "You go back. Call my folks and tell them ... tell them I'm not coming home for the holidays. I'll figure out what to do after that. But right now..." He trailed off, miserable. He felt his own heart breaking. His wolven heart magnified the feeling a hundredfold. "I'm sorry."

Karl stood there for a minute looking as if he was trying to figure out what to say. Eventually, though, he just turned and knocked four times on the door before turning the knob counter-clockwise. He opened the passage on the first try and stepped through into Anthony's dorm.

Through the door he could see his former life: the computer desk, the couch by the window, snow falling in the nighttime parking lot, outside. He saw it all. And, for the first time, it didn't look like his.

"I'm sorry, Karl," he whispered. He didn't know if he said it loud enough for his boyfriend to hear.

Then Karl shut the door behind him.

Anthony stood with Wiste and Moira in the snow and tried to figure out what to do next.

The End