(Sixteen years ago)

On a craggy peak in the highlands of Scotland, a lonely cottage sat in the throes of a fierce thunderstorm. Dr. Moira MacTaggert had come a long way on unpaved roads to the bedside of her friend, Alystraea Sinclair. Moira thought she’d been called for a routine checkup or flu shot…but to her surprise, it was a much more immediate situation than that.

“Push, Ales! Almost there!”

Moira was no amateur at delivering babies, but this was one very difficult delivery. Alestreya’s sweat-soaked body was hardly moving anymore, so exhausting had the labor been so far. There was no telling just how long Alystraea had struggled before Moira arrived.

Where is the father, she asked herself. No woman should ever have to do this alone.

Finally the baby emerged, tiny and fragile, yet vigorous and loud. Lightning sliced open the dark sky as Moira told her friend the child’s sex. “A girl, Alys! Congratulations…”

Moira held the screaming baby and looked down at her friend. Alystraea was stone cold dead. (Three years ago)

Rahne Sinclair jumped from sleep, startled awake by the crashing lightning outside the window of her plain, barren bedroom. She was not used to sleeping alone yet. The only other girls at the orphanage that were her age had only recently left, and now she had a room of her own for the first time in her life. It was a clean room of course, or else Reverend Craig would have still had her up and cleaning it, even if it took her all night. It was also void of decoration, save for one simple cross that hung over her headboard. Reverend Craig never allowed any other fixture on any walls of the orphanage. Rahne did not mind this; she didn’t care about dressing up a room. She was thankful for shelter and food, even if she was constantly reminded that she was lucky to have them while she scrubbed the floors. Fashion was unknown to her, as were underclothes, but she was grateful for the old, worn out, second hand clothes she was provided with. She felt blessed to have these things, and would thank God for them several times a day. She didn’t have to be forced to believe in Christ, though the Reverend certainly would not let that stop him from lecturing her with loud voice and fearsome scowl. “Yuir hair never grows,” he would say as he disapprovingly scowled at her shortish red locks, “because God is punishing ye for being wicked.”

Rahne was drenched in sweat, though it was cold in her room. Her stomach was racked with powerful cramps. She knew something was wrong with her, but she dared not go for help or even make a sound. She had learned that Rev. Craig was not one to be awakened prematurely, especially by his least favorite.

She was dizzy and nauseated. Wha’s wrong w’me, she wondered. She had been taught about the sufferings of hell, but not about the sufferings of puberty. She had no idea what was happening to her. She investigated a strange feeling and saw the blood on her fingers, and screamed enough to wake the dead.

With a loud crash, the door flew open and light spilled into the room, revealing the towering frame of the Reverend with his strap in hand. “That does it then! Prepare for the strappin’ o’ yuir life,” he roared.

Rahne never stopped screaming. Not when he yanked her from the cot by one arm, not when he raised her nightgown and beat her bare bottom until it bled. The angry old tyrant was completely ignorant of the blood that was already there, and would not have cared even if he’d known. By the time he stopped strapping the terrified little girl, he was out of breath and ready to sleep again. Though he would never give it another thought, he punished her longer and harder than he had ever beaten any of the orphans before. He was saving their souls, he thought.

“Pray that the Lord forgives ye,” he instructed, “or suffer eternal damnation.” He slammed the door shut behind him and went back down the hall. Rahne lay on the floor in a shivering, sobbing heap. Her fear and confusion had been rewarded with pain and humiliation, and for the first time in her life she burned with rage. HE…HAS…NO…RIGHT, she quaked, HE HAS NO RIGHT!

She crawled toward the door and glared up at it through stinging, furious eyes. Her whole body trembled with anger. She had always thought that the Reverend was right about her, that she was just a wicked child. Now something was happening to her and she felt like tearing out his throat. She wanted to see him bleed, to see him afraid. She wanted to see him silenced and brought low. She wanted to see him dead.

Suddenly she felt her body change. She shook until she thought the ground was moving. Her eyes were clenched shut and her teeth gritted tightly together, begging to let loose a curse on the Reverend. Before she knew it there was a thin coat of fur on her arms and legs. It spread to her face and body, getting thicker. Her thin frame gained massive muscle tissue, and her shape changed. It was not until she had completely turned into a wolf that she knew she had changed. Her thoughts had changed also; they were much simpler. Kill, she thought. Kill Reverend Craig.

Rahne realized what she was thinking and quickly, purposefully changed back into her normal form. What am I, she wondered as she doffed her gown and tried to clean her self with it, What have I become? She prayed to the one person she had faith in. She begged Him for answers, for help, but they did not come. She remembered a library book that might tell her something about the blood, but she knew she would not find a book about the other thing that had just happened to her.

I am going to hell, she thought. Straight to hell.