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bustle as the townsfolk discovered the murdered drunks. He’d been toward the east end of the village, having drawn essence from a finely dressed man who claimed to be der rechtsanwalt , an attorney. The slight man with the large mustache and even larger nose had pleaded for mercy, begged for forgiveness, confessed of sins with someone called Abigail, and offered to handle all of Dolnaraq’s litigations. The young molt understood very little of this and simply silenced the annoying little man by drawing essence and leaving him slumped on a sofa.
    Dolnaraq had then discovered the man’s icebox, nearly empty but for a glass bottle partially filled with goat’s milk and a red slab of meat neatly wrapped in white paper. Dolnaraq quickly consumed the cold bloody flesh, ripping at it with his sharp canines, and grunting with pleasure at the bittersweet taste of blood. Still weakened from the infusion of essence, Dolnaraq then curled up on the patch of rug under the small dining room table, resting as his body worked to incorporate that which the man had given.
    The young molt awoke to the sounds of panicked villagers. “Tresset,” he whispered as he rose. “Tresset.”
    Dolnaraq cocked his head back, sniffed the air, his ears rotated, turning from side-to-side, attuned to the chaotic sounds. Within seconds, the young molt had discerned the scene. Tresset had slain a man and fiercely wounded another. The bodies had been discovered, his companion pursued. Dolnaraq was still weak. His limbs were sore and his vision clouded, but he was not incapacitated. He’d been slow in drawing the essence of the man, cautious. Unlike Tresset, he was still able to function at near full capacity.
    Bolting through the doorway, Dolnaraq sprinted toward the rising commotion. But he was not alone. Humans seemed to pour from every home, alerted by these same shouts of horror. Dolnaraq was quickly sighted and pursued.
    As had Tresset, Dolnaraq scrambled one direction then another, weaving between buildings, clawing at anyone who approached. There were screams and curses, cries of “der werwolf,” but Dolnaraq ignored all of it. He was focused primarily on the scents of the village, on locating Tresset. As he neared the wooded border of the town, a man stepped before him, lean, gray-haired, with the thin line of a mustache on his upper lip. He was old, but not feeble. Bare-chested, his biceps rippled as he lifted a broad two-sided ax above his head and brought it down, missing Dolnaraq by only inches as the frightened molt dived to his left.
    Dolnaraq was young, agile, accustomed to the fights of survival. Instinctively, he buried his long sharp canines into his attacker’s calf, bringing the man to his knees with a painful howl. Another quick chomp and the jugular opened, splaying a red fountain on the approaching mob and giving the young molt the opportunity to scamper away unimpaired as his pursuers gasped in horror.
    Tresset’s scent was on the subtle breeze. It seemed he had made the forest. Dolnaraq smiled as he sprinted forward, darting into the green sanctuary, racing between limbs and stones as only one of the forest’s true inhabitants could do. Small black birds fluttered to the sky and a lop-eared rabbit bounded out of the young molt’s path. The scents and sounds of the village diminished to near nonexistent and Dolnaraq savored the fresh aroma of vegetation.
    But there was another scent as well. A foul smell, and one too familiar. No villager could have raced ahead of him. None could possibly have outpaced him in his own environ. Then why did he once again smell the rank human odor?
    A shot rang out. The molt was spun around and thrown to the ground, his face buried in the brush. His left shoulder burned with a fierce fire that seemed to traverse the entirety of his arm. There was blood. Too much blood. He tried to rise but his limbs betrayed him. There were voices, but not those from the village behind. These were from ahead. Two