[BOOK ONE] When hunter-gatherer Adele Shepherd comes across an injured werewolf in the woods, it's up to her to take him in and save his life: in a remote town dedicated to killing the creatures, she's the only one left who wants to help no matter t...
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s e v e n y e a r s e a r l i e r
THE SUN HAD already gone. It never seemed to hang around if it bothered to appear at all in the depths of December, dropping off the edge of the world long before night began to fall, and it had taken with it the last scrap of weak heat that had kept the temperature above freezing. The cold had set in thirty minutes ago when mercury had dipped just below zero, though a vicious wind made it even more numbing.
The snow would come soon. In the deepest part of the night, the puddles that slicked the roads would freeze and the rushing snow would hide the deadly ice. It would fall hard and fast, sprinkling the town in a layer of white like a dusting of petals from the lily of the valley: beautiful, but deadly. Once the snow arrived, it had a habit of hanging around: the bleak hamlet of Buck Pines hardly ever saw the sun once winter crept out of the clutches of autumn.
Buck Pines was a drop in the ocean, a tiny smudge on the map that had long since been forgotten by all but those who called it home. Once a thriving community, the thousands had dwindled to a couple of hundred who stubbornly dug their nails into the desolation that would take their last breath. The shadows would steal their souls, another stone appearing in the decrepit cemetery, with no-one to fill the space they left behind.
The dark little town lay nestled deep in the crook of Fallain Valley, a cleave hacked out of the Scottish Highlands like a scar between the mountains, the craggy rocks giving way to pine trees that stretched up in search of light. A narrow road trekked through the town from north to south, curving through the thick forest that enclosed the tiny settlement, and the track that stretched eastwards became a bumpy road that led to the nearest big town of Penlark, thirty miles away.
Three times a day, an ancient bus made the journey there and back, trundling over the potholes until tarmac became gravel and gravel turned to dirt. Each morning, it passed through as the sun rose to carry the last handful of children to school and at lunchtime it ferried pensioners into town. Each afternoon, it brought them back an hour after the last bell of the day had rung.
