George sat on his suitcase, waiting for his mother to arrive with the rest of their belongings. Go back to England, the master said. It would be safer, he said. He wanted to believe him. But he knew he was being foolish. Acting as if she never came wouldn't solve anything. Melinoe sat on his foot and meowed up at him. He smiled sadly and scratched behind her ears.

"What do you think I should do, Melinoe?" The cat cocked her head to the side. He sighed. "I can't just leave him. As much of a pain in the bum as he is, he can't drink himself into oblivion."

He stood up from his luggage and marched down the narrow corridor towards the western wing, Melinoe at his heels. He slowly opened the gold door. The room was in more disarray than when he'd last seen it. The wallpapers were shredded, feathers flew out from the demolished bed, and the windows were covered in wooden planks to block out the light. The only movement was the fire burning in front of the hunched creature with a bottle in his hand. He slumped in his chair, the only thing left in one piece.

George knocked on the door.

"Leave me."

George huffed and he knocked louder. Matthieu hurled the bottle of scotch at him. It shattered to his right, but he didn't flinch.

"Leave me, you bastard of an Englishman."

"I'm not leaving," he affirmed. "Not now, or tomorrow, or ever!"

Matthieu gripped the arms of his chair, a horrible cracking sound emitting from them. George marched up to him and grabbed a half empty bottle. Matthieu seized the bottle in his large, paw-like hand, trying to wrestle it away from the boy.

"Give it back."

"No."

"I said, give it BACK!"

George yanked the bottle away. "I said no!"

Matthieu lunged for him, half his body over the arm. George sprang back in surprise. Matthieu's face was flattened and covered in hair from the lack of a shave, his teeth fanged and his eyes wider and larger than any human pair could be. He seethed with animalistic rage. Melinoe dashed from the room in fright.

George scowled at him. "What would Catherine say if she saw you in this state?"

"You will not mention Catherine DeCiel - "

"She's the reason you're moping about, feeling sorry for yourself!"

"Go away!"

"I'm not leaving until you get your head out of your ass!"

"I don't want to hear anymore!"

"I know you don't but you've got to!"

Matthieu returned to his seat in front of the fire, shaking his head. George took him by the shoulders and put him back into a comfortable position. His eyes were empty and hollow.

"She's not coming back..."

George sighed. "I haven't heard from her, no. But that doesn't mean she has stopped caring."

Matthieu covered his face, his tangled hair falling over his eyes. "I suppose it's for ... for the best. She's safe from me." George smacked him upside his head. "Would you stop doing that?!"

"I'm trying to knock some sense into you! You know damn well she's never felt safer here, and she has been able to hold her own against you time and time again! You just sound like you've given up on her."

"No. I haven't."

"Matthieu, open your eyes! You've given up on everything! Even her."

The chair arm snapped, a wooden block and stuffing clutched in his trembling hand. He dropped the debris, his hand shaking violently as it began to contort. George dove and pinned Matthieu to the chair. He struggled against the much smaller boy, but he was drained. He had no more will to fight. He went slack. George slowly backed away.

"I'd never give up on her..." he growled. "She's got too brilliant a mind, too fair of a soul...She can do anything! All I want is for her to be happy, and she's got it."

"How can you be sure?"

Matthieu slowly looked up at the lad, tears forming in his eyes. "If she truly loved me, she would have returned sooner. It's too late now." He turned his gaze to the sliver of setting sunlight. "I'm dying, George...I'm losing myself."

The boy clamped him on the shoulder. "I'm not going to leave you."

"But I - "

"I know what you said. And my mother will take our belongings. But until you do change, I won't leave your side."

He took a seat in the opposite chair, now more of a stool.

"After all this time, why?"

"Because..." George sighed. "Because no matter how many times you slapped me or called me an idiot, you've been the closest thing I've ever had to a father."

Matthieu hung his head, gritting his fangs against the crippling sorrow. "Some father I've been."

"You weren't the best," he admitted. "In fact, you were rather awful. But, it was something, and I'll give you credit for that."

Matthieu sunk back into his chair, the dark circles under his eyes becoming more prominent. He didn't have much longer. And if the curse didn't kill him, his broken heart surely would.

Catherine sawed quicker than she knew her arm could take. The lock wouldn't give.

"I thought you said this thing could saw through a femur in 28 seconds!"

Gilles stared at her worriedly. "Catherine." She took longer strokes with the saw. "Catherine, stop!" She cried out, the saw dropping to the cellar floor. Blood gushed from her hand. The old man gasped. She staggered over to him, tears streaming down her face.

"Catherine, my dear. Keep calm, and I'll staunch the wound."

She sobbed. "This is all my fault...He's going to die, and it'd be all my fault!"

The rose he'd given her sat on the table, its petals folded in. Gilles grabbed a cloth and wrapped it around her wrist.

"Gilles, I can't let Jean-Charles take someone I care for. Not again."

Gilles sighed, and he looked up at her in sadness and anguish. "I'm so sorry..."

She held his wrinkled face. "Gilles, it was not your fault. There was nothing else you could have done...but ran."

He sighed shakily. "He was a dear friend..."

"I know." She swallowed dryly. "But now, Jean may do the same to Matthieu. And I can't let that happen! Even if Matthieu never turns back into himself...even if he never remembers me again, I must save him. He's my truest friend."

She hung her head in despair, her knees threatening to give out under her. Her sight blurred with tears falling to the ground. She held them closed, bitterly wishing she had never left the manor.

A small light glowed in front of her. She ignored it, thinking it was a candle Gilles had found. But another came, then more. She opened her eyes and snapped her head up.

The rose on the table had slowly opened, light dissolving from its petals one by one. A few specks of light wrapped around her wrist, closing the wound before her eyes. The rest traveled up the the locked door and swirled around and inside the lock. The lock shook and rattled violently until it finally snapped, and the doors flew open. Catherine stared in awe, then turned back to the rose. Only two petals remained on the stem.

She snatched it up and ran out of the cellar. "Gilles! Come on!"

Gilles slowly climbed out of the cellar. "No, mon ange. This is your fight."

She took his hands, shaking her head. "No, you must come with me."

Gilles clasped her hands together. "Ma petite, you've been like a daughter to me. Now, I must urge you to fight for your man."

A horse whinnied behind her, beckoning her to ride him. Catherine kissed his cheek and ran for the horse, carefully placing the rose in the side satchel. "Please, take care, Gilles!"

She waved to him and drove her heels into the horse's side. The horse took off into the fast-approaching night, Catherine's torn skirt flowing behind her. She could only hope she made it there before he could be hurt.

A loud bang woke George from sleep he hadn't realized he'd fallen under. He glanced at Matthieu. He was still sound asleep. Another bang rattled the walls. George leapt to his feet and ran out into the corridor. Someone could be at the door. It could be Catherine!

Mrs. Townsend rushed towards him, frantic.

"Mother!" She guided him back a bit. Her eyes were wild with fear he'd never seen before. "Mother, what's happening?!"

"There are men at the door! Go to the master and get him out of here!"

He obediently sprinted back to the western wing, slamming the door behind him. Matthieu jumped in his seat, but he didn't move otherwise. He blinked blearily, looking around the room as George dragged a stool over to the mantel.

"What's happening?"

"There are men at the door!" George climbed up the stool and on top of the mantel, peeling back the curtain. Craning his neck to see past the wall, he could see dozens - possibly hundreds - of men with weapons. A select few held to a fallen tree. They were pounding on the door, obviously the source of the noise, and preparing the break it down. The sun was not yet set, so there was still time. He jumped down from the mantel. "We need to get out of here, Matthieu."

He grabbed Matthieu's wrists, trying to haul him out of his seat. He remained firmly planted in his chair, refusing to stand.

"Matthieu! Now is not the time to be petty!"

Matthieu clenched his hands into fists. He was trembling violently, his emotions welling up inside him. Seeing his chance, George hauled him to his feet. Matthieu stopped shaking for a moment, shocked at this sudden movement. This was quickly replaced by anger for taking advantage of him in his vulnerability. George paid no mind and began to pull him out of the room.

"You can still walk!" George whispered. He dragged the poor man over and set him down against the wall. "Wait here. I'll see if we can escape."

He turned to race up the corridor, but Matthieu grasped his wrist. "George...there's no point. If they wish to kill me, I'll welcome their endeavor. But you and your mother need to get out of here."

George ripped his hand away from him. "We're not leaving you!"

Matthieu collapsed against the wall, his strength all but gone. There was no way he could convince this pathetic shell of a man. He wasn't like Catherine; he couldn't talk sense into Matthieu like she could. He huffed and dragged Matthieu over towards the silver chamber.

"If I don't come back in time," George explained and dashed back up the corridor before he could protest.

The boy entered the foyer, but he was too late. The door burst down, pieces of metal and splintered wood flying into his face. Mrs. Townsend wrapped her arms around him protectively. The men dropped the tree and marched inside. The one in front, a well-built man with blond hair and piercing grey eyes, held a pistol in his hand and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. They stared at each other, George glaring them all down.

"Exposez votre entreprise, les étrangers!" Mrs. Townsend demanded, her eyes stabbing through each and every one of them.

The front man stepped closer, his hand on the crossbow hung from his belt. "Partez maintenant avec votre garçon, madame. Une créature dangereuse est parmi nous, et nous apprécierions le moins de sang versé."

He couldn't understand what they were saying, but from the way his mother stared this man down, he must have been a threat. She pulled him behind her, unafraid to stand in the man's face. George struggled to see what was going on. The man laughed at the sight of him, making his anger rise even more.

"Quelle noblesse pour une petite femme faible. Et encore plus pathétique pour un petit enfant."

He recognized the word "pathetic", and whether it was directed at him or his mother was none of his concern.

"You shut your mouth, you impudent Frenchman!"

The man stared at him puzzled. He clearly didn't speak English. His face began to change color, and he pulled the crossbow from his belt.

"Assez de bêtises! Où est "la bête"?"

Mrs. Townsend stepped back a bit, but her stance was firm. She turned slightly to George and whispered to him. "Get the master safe and then get out of here!"

George glanced from her to the men. Wouldn't he be followed? Would they kill them? Mrs. Townsend nodded to him, urging him to go. He nodded in return, and they both spun around and ran off in different directions. George ducked into a narrow hallway to drive them off, winding through parlor rooms and sitting rooms. He couldn't risk being followed lest they found Matthieu. But it made no sense. How did they know of his existence? How did they find their way here? Why did they want to harm them?

He shut the final door behind him and tied the handles together with drape wire. It would hold them off, but not for long. He whirled around. The three doors stood in front of him like a cross. He rushed towards them, turning to find Matthieu exactly where he'd left him.

"Matthieu!" He scooped up his arm and urged him to stand. "We have to go! We have to go now!"

Matthieu continued to slump, overpowering the smaller man. George groaned loudly and hitched him up.

"Matthieu, we have no time for this! We are being followed."

Moaning, Matthieu shuffled his feet under him towards the silver chamber. George yanked him by his shirt, trying to urge him forward. He hoped his mother was alright. They were more likely to follow her than him, and there were so many of them. Were they not above killing women? He prayed they were. The light of the sun was beginning to fade, so George hurried his pace.

He finally reached the cold silver, setting Matthieu down on his knees. He worked with the tarnished lock to open the door. They were running out of time; he had to open it now! All of a sudden, the giant lock clattered to the floor, bits of rust and thinned metal scattering on the floor.

"Oh, no!"

The doors to the wing flew open. Matthieu paid no mind, but George was eager to hide them both and get out of there. He hauled Matthieu to his feet once again and opened the door a crack. A click made him stop.

"Ne me force pas à te tirer dessus, gamin."

Matthieu kept his head down, his strength seeping quickly from him. He had only moments. If only George had listened to him. It was only out of curiosity that he looked through his hair at his assailants. Tall, broad shoulders, blond hair that reached the middle of his back, and grey eyes that cut through you like arrows. He was obviously the leader, standing with authority in front of his henchmen. He was familiar, but he couldn't pin how. A crossbow was loaded in his hands and pointed at him and George.

"Give him to me, and I will let you live, boy."

George answered in English, but the man couldn't understand. Matthieu frowned at the man to get it over with, but prayed he would let the boy go. This was his death, and George did not deserve that. The man turned his gaze to Matthieu, smirking.

"Look at this, men. This is the great creature who has been terrorizing our lands. How pathetic." Matthieu paid him no mind and hung his head low. He cared little of what this stranger had to say about him, especially now. He felt George being ripped from his grasp and a hard fist collide with his stomach. Then men laughed as he fell to his hands and knees. The man stepped closer to him, pulling his face up by his hair. "I was expecting better, especially from what I thought would be a worthy kill."

He scoffed. "To think that Catherine believes there's greatness in a creature of darkness."

Catherine! He knew Catherine! The man pounded his face into the floor and got up, picking up his loaded crossbow. Matthieu strained as he pushed himself back to his knees. Catherine, he had said her name. She had called him great, and to this man filled with such disgust and hatred for him. Catherine still held affection for him. The thought made his long-dead heart flutter a bit - He gasped! A strange dizziness came over him. It was happening! He clutched his chest, letting out a painful grunt.

The man lowered his crossbow for a moment. "What? What's wrong with you?"

Matthieu stretched his neck as much as he could to meet their gaze. George was in the hands of a burlier man, anger and childish determination in his eyes. Matthieu fought to hold back the transformation a bit longer. His limbs convulsed awkwardly, but he held them in place. He muttered so quietly, they almost couldn't hear him:

"You...moron!"

The assailant stepped back a bit, dismayed at such an insult. Matthieu clawed at the ground, desperate and pleading for a few more moments. He swallowed.

"You ... and all who have come here...must leave! I will kill all of you...I will KILL ALL OF YOU!"

The man laughed. Did he think this was a joke? One of the other men, a skinny man who looked just like the man beside him, took a step back. "Kill him already, Jean-Charles. I don't like this."

"Alright, alright!" The man - Jean-Charles - raised his crossbow. "Just wanted to let the man indulge in his fantasy for a moment." George kicked against the burly man, distracting Jean for a brief moment. "Shut him up!"

The man clamped his large hand over George's face, covering his mouth and nose and muttering some form of apology to the boy. What was taking them so long? Why were they just standing there instead of doing something about this?!

"Kill me," Matthieu begged. "Kill me quickly! PLEASE!"

The crossbow fired into his shoulder. He lost his balance, his face hitting the floor. Another click of the crossbow signaled another arrow being loaded. Matthieu looked up, his skull beginning to burn. The crossbow released its arrow. Matthieu shot up his hand, stopping the arrow centimeters from his face. The men stared at him in dismay as his eyes seared into bright yellow.

A sickening crack startled them all. Matthieu's back arched, his shoulders coming apart and snapping back together. He'd held back too long. The wolf inside him was aching to be released, and nothing would hold it back. His arms and legs stretched and snapped, hair growing from every pore and then falling out in clumps, the arrow dropping from his shoulder to the ground. His tattered clothes fell to the floor now stained with droplets of blood dripping from his mouth, fangs stabbed their way out of his gums, and his face stretched and remolded.

Arrows and bullets pelted his skin, but they bounced off of him harmlessly. Matthieu let out a distorted wail, almost a howl. He couldn't die this way! He would much rather die by a silver bullet than by this godforsaken curse. He hoped that Catherine...the name sounded familiar. He didn't know why. Why were these men standing in front of him in fear? The longer he stared, the less he understood, and the less he cared.

A red haze fell over his eyes, focusing on the man with the crossbow. This man filled him with rage. He didn't know why, but he didn't care. He focused on the man, rising to his hind legs and raising his paw. He wanted flesh. He wanted blood! And he wanted it now!

Matthieu rose to his full height, towering over every one of the men in front of him. George fought against the large man holding him, the large hand over his mouth growing damp and clammy. The two skinny men looked at each other and immediately ran for it, the big man following close behind and dropping George in the process.

"Où allez-vous chattes?! Reviens ici!"

The crossbow flew into the wall. Matthieu let out a feral roar towards Jean-Charles, stalking towards him. Jean pulled his pistol from his holster, trying to load it in time. Matthieu lunged and pinned the man to the floor, growling with animalistic fury that made George shiver inside.

"Matthieu, no!" he cried.

The creature snapped his head in his direction. George's breath lodged in his throat. Matthieu leapt for the boy and snatched him in his mouth. George was met with something wet and warm against his face and the sickening smell of rotten meat. His body compressed down Matthieu's narrow gullet until everything was dark. The wolf turned back to the man with the gun. He finished reloading and pointed the pistol at him again. Matthieu threw himself out the window, grabbing onto the ledge. He pulled himself onto the roof and threw back his head. He howled at the dreaded full moon.