Paris, 1757

The ballroom was grand, covered in gold and diamonds and crystal chandeliers. Men and women in white, gold, and blue scattered the floor, chattering. They whispered of their host. His eccentricity, his flamboyance, his riches. Most of all, they spoke of his music.

His music was unconventional to say the least. They say, as a boy, he would strum the violin like a guitar and slide his hand down the harpsichord to make a discord of sound. But for whatever reason, the people enjoyed it. And he loved the attention it brought him.

The large gold doors swung open and he sauntered in, his suit the same color as his raven black hair, embroidered in silver and pearls. From the large circular window above the grand door, the full moon shone as if to watch him as well. He placed his music on the stand and faced his orchestra, turning briefly to wink at a few blushing ladies in the audience.

He lifted his hands, turning to the guitarist. The confused audience watched as the strings were plucked in an upbeat rhythm unlike anything of conventional music. The orchestra then joined in, swelling in the allegro of the Host's hands. The music crescendoed and abruptly ended.

The audience rejoiced despite the unorthodox practice. The proud conductor turned and bowed. He glanced at the talented guitarist at the front, and he whacked him across the head with his baton. He bowed again.

Suddenly, the hall doors burst open! The Host snapped his head towards the front as a hunched figure hobbled inside. The audience stared at it, but the Host held his ground.

"What is the meaning of this?!" he demanded.

The figure lifted its head. A haggard old woman, dressed in fine garments and a thick cloak. The Host sneered.

"I have come for the performance, monsieur." Her voice was low and raspy, making him bristle. "I assure you I was invited."

She held her invitation letter in a wrinkled hand. Despite him being three feet above her on the stage, he flinched back.

"And I assure you that I would never invite a shriveled old hag like yourself!"

She dug into her cloak and pulled out a small satchel. "If you insist on payment, I can provide."

He scoffed at the money, snatching it and tossing it aside into a drum.

"I don't care for your money, wench! Leave this hall!"

She leaned forwards, pointing at him with a gnarled finger. "Should my appearance be the one to ruin the beauty of your music? Or is it yourself, my Lord?"

He leapt from the stage, intent on striking the old woman. "I order you to leave this hall!"

She continued to point at him. His anger rose to his head. He raised his hand to slap her, but it stopped mid-swing. His hand, caught in the strong grip of the woman.

He watched in awe and horror as her wrinkles became smooth, her nails clean and slender. Her wispy, white hair turned a full gold. She gazed at him with violet eyes, throwing away her cloak to reveal her beautiful glowing form.

The Host's audience began to scream, running from the scene as he stood frozen in fear. The witch's eyes pierced through his.

"The moon you adored so, its light being your halo, your star. And so now it shall be your doom."

She released his hand. He stepped back and held his wrist in pain. He winced as the pain grew worse, coursing down his arm and up his shoulder. He stared in horror as his hands began to twist and morph, claws extending from his fingertips.

"For your cruelty, your pride, your vanity..."

He fell to his knees as pain wracked his body. His spine cracked and stretched as his body grew, his coat and jewelry popping off.

"You shall become the monster you are. The only music you shall sing will be the howls of an animal."

He screamed in agony as fangs slid from his mouth, his face flattening and lengthening into a muzzle. His eyesight blurred, but he could still see her cruel form. Through the pain, he was asking why. What had he done to deserve this?

"I will watch over you, my dear Lord. That is, should you survive the night."

With that, she disappeared and the pain began to ebb away. He gasped for air, trying to wake up from this nightmare. But now all he felt was hungry. Hungry for food. For meat! For blood!

He snapped his head up, turning back towards the near empty concert hall. A few unlucky attendees were staring, mouths agape, paralyzed before the creature. He was starving!

It was cold when he awoke. He sat up, feeling as though he'd overdone it with the wine the night before. Perhaps it had been. Perhaps it had been an awful nightmare. If not for two things:

One, he was in a moving carriage.

Two, he was completely naked.

He peeled back the curtain and shielded his face against the sunlight. But there was hardly any. He was in the forest. Panicked, he banged on the carriage walls, screaming for the driver to let him out. But the carriage rode on.

He went for the handle. As soon as his hand meet the silver knob, he recoiled. His fingers blistered with red and yellow. He held his head in panic. How could this have happened?!

He gripped his hair, trying to relay the events of the previous night. There was the music, the audience, the people...and then the woman.

The witch!

"I will watch over you, my dear Lord."

He pounded on the ceiling. "Let me out! Let me out this instant! I demand to know where I am being taken!"

The carriage slowed, and light shone through the driver's window. A boy with mouse-brown hair, large eyes, and freckles greeted him and waved.

"Should I say something to him, Mother?" he asked in English. A plump woman sat beside him holding the reins.

"So, he's awake, is he?" she asked. He recognized the voice.

"Mrs. Townsend?" he asked.

"Apologies for the unfortunate travels, sir," she said. "But we had to get you out of there quickly."

"Mrs. Townsend, what happened last night?" he demanded. "Why is everything so strange all of a sudden?!"

She paused, as if she were afraid to tell him. He banged on the window, his anger rising.

"I order you to tell me, Mrs. Townsend!"

The boy jumped back after his outburst, hiding behind his mother. He pointed at the young lord, shouting "Your eyes! Your eyes!"

He knitted his brow in confusion, until he saw his reflection in the glass. His eyes, supposed to be a deep forest green with flakes of blue, were now bright yellow. His thin face was now also covered in facial hair, something that he knew had been shaven the night before. His anger ebbed into fear, and his eyes returned to their normal green. The Lord collapsed to the carriage floor and gripped his hair.

"What is happening to me?!" he cried. "What's happening to me?!"

The carriage bumped, knocking him onto his side. Mrs. Townsend sighed, gently pushing her son back to a sitting position.

"We're taking you to a safe place, dear," she said reassuringly.

Safe place? He shook his head. He wanted to go back to Paris, back home! He closed his eyes and begged. He begged to wake up from this nightmare, from this curse that he did not deserve!