Chapter 2

The alley was a narrow throat of cobblestone slick with refuse. The smell of urine and ammonia was blinding, but it was the only place in Varen’s Hold where the patrols didn't bother to look.

"Hurry," Isolde gasped. "Thomas, hurry. It burns."

"I've got you," Thomas grunted, half-carrying her. "We’re going to the old aqueduct. The grate is rusted. I can pry it open."

"No," she sobbed. She stopped, slamming into the brick wall of a dye shop. Her hands flew to her face, clawing at her skin. "No, no, no."

"Isolde!" Thomas grabbed her wrists. "Stop it!"

"My skin is too tight!" she shrieked, the sound strangled. "It wants out! Thomas, it wants out!"

There was a sickening *crack*, like a dry branch snapping under a heavy boot.

Isolde screamed, falling to her knees in the muck. Her left arm bent at an impossible angle. The bone was reshaping itself, lengthening, shattering the human structure to make way for the wolf.

This wasn't magic. It wasn't a noble spirit descending. It was a biological massacre.

Thomas dropped to his knees beside her, heedless of the filth. He ripped the hem of his cloak and shoved the fabric into her mouth. "Bite down. You have to be quiet. If they hear you..."

She bit down. Her jaw clenched with terrifying force. Thomas watched in horror as her ears began to point, the cartilage shifting and popping under the skin. Dark, coarse fur erupted along her forearms, tearing through the sleeves of her dress.

"Kill me," she mumbled around the gag, her eyes rolling back into her head. "Thomas, please. Your dagger. Do it now."

Thomas froze. His hand went to the misericorde at his belt. It would be a mercy. He knew that. The thing she was becoming had no memory of love, no memory of the nights they spent sharing stale bread and dreaming of leaving the city. It was just a mouth and a stomach.

"I can't," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I can't do it, Isolde."

"Coward," she gurgled.

Footsteps echoed at the mouth of the alley. Heavy boots. Chainmail.

"Did you hear that?" a voice called out. Rough. Mercenary.

"Sounded like a dog," another replied. "Or a turning."

"Check the alley."

Thomas grabbed Isolde by the back of her dress. She was heavier now, her muscle mass expanding rapidly. "Move," he commanded, fueled by panic.

He dragged her deeper into the shadows, behind a stack of rotting barrels. He pressed her against the wall, covering her body with his own cloak. She was trashing, her body convulsing as her spine elongated.

The mercenaries walked past the barrels. The beam of a lantern swept over the stone inches from Thomas’s boot.

"Nothing here," the first man grunted. "Just rats."

"Big rats," the second muttered. They moved on.

Thomas waited until their footsteps faded. He pulled the cloak back.

Isolde’s face was gone. Her nose and mouth had pushed forward into a muzzle, the skin splitting and bleeding as the wolf’s snout emerged. She was panting, a wet, guttural sound. Her eyes were yellow, terrified, and slipping away.

"We’re almost there," Thomas whispered to the creature that was eating the woman he loved. "Just hold on."

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