Holland, early 17^th century…

There were days when nature sang. When the wind in the trees, the birds overhead, and the crickets in the brush were in perfect harmony. When he was in perfect harmony with the world and everyone in it. Whistling, Lars Maypenny stuffed his hands in the pockets of his sturdy woolen breeches and stopped as the cover of the dense forest gave way to a small clearing.

There hadn’t always been a clearing. He could remember when the forest extended for miles, when his own family’s home, a weathered stone fortress atop a hill just on the other side of the forest, had been the only civilization within a day’s journey. His lips twitched, knowing that most of the newcomers, the surplus population from neighbouring villages and hamlets desperate to eke a living out of whatever land they could find, did not consider his family civilization.

They were right.

Not because the Maypennys kept to their own society and rarely interacted with anyone in the neighbouring farmsteads. No, the Maypennys were not civilized, but it was for reasons that their simple, God-fearing neighbours would never—

She slipped out the cabin door, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder. Light as a summer breeze, she crossed the clearing, managing to look as if she weren’t doing anything more exciting than venturing into the woods to gather firewood to be used the next morning. He met her under the cover of trees and stars, drawing her into his world as she disappeared from her own.

“You came,” she said, breathless.

Didn’t he always?

Instead of answering, he tugged her further into the woods. Another few feet and there was no chance they would be seen from the cabin. Startled, she allowed it, though she’d never ventured so far with him before. She’d been raised to fear the woods, but after tonight… After tonight, she wouldn’t fear anything, ever again.

The moon illuminated her fair face, her white-blonde hair, and Lars could only gaze in wonder. It was so close to full dark, twilight giving way to the rising moon…

He didn’t realize he’d backed her against a tree until he heard her startled gasp. There was no fear in it, only anticipation, and he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he’d made the right choice. The only choice.

He pressed against her, moulding his strong and sturdy frame against her slight build, intoxicated by her softness and pliability. She made a sound that might have been intended to scold him, but the hands that gripped his biceps pulled him closer, instead of pushing him further away.

“You’re perfect,” he told her, his fever-bright eyes finding hers. Caught in his gaze, she froze, held in place. He didn’t know what she saw; he only knew that he was seeing his future. He kissed her, then. Forehead, cheek, and jaw. When his fingertips grazed her collarbone, she responded in kind by gripping his shirt, tugging until the strings holding it together gave way. His shirt gaped open, and he sucked in a tortured breath as her fingers explored him.

When her nimble fingers grazed his nipple, he was lost. Groaning with impatience, he reached around her, tangling his hands in her own laces. He clawed them open, sighing in satisfaction when the bodice of her simple dress loosened. He left it in place, instead tracing a line with his thumb that started behind her ear and trailed down. He followed it with his lips, oh, so carefully, until his mouth rested at the junction of her neck and shoulder.

He bit down, knowing that nothing, nothing, could ever be better than this moment. After tonight, she would be his forever, and they would have children, and they wouldn’t grow old, and—

And nothing happened.

Maybe he hadn’t done it quite right, he thought frantically, though he’d been taught that it was almost impossible to fail. After all, intent and marking were the only criteria, and he’d supplied both in spades. The only time it was even easier was when a child was born and nothing other than loving parents was required. This, though, was supposed to be perfect. And easy! Not a blind fumble. And it certainly should not give him the sensation that his own heart was turning to stone even while it continued to beat!

He stilled, his body taut with tension.

“Lars?” she whispered, no doubt confused.

But he couldn’t answer, because he was confused, too. And confusion was quickly morphing to panic, and that wasn’t good, because—

The clouds parted and the moon, full and heavy, appeared.

He searched her blue eyes, desperate to see a dawning realization, anything.

And then it was too late.

The moon pulled, tugging him away from her. He stumbled, his body thick and slow with thwarted desire and dreams.

“No,” he grunted, knowing that more than one battle was lost. She wouldn’t change, and he couldn’t stop his own.

“Run,” he told her, and did the same, even as his muscles convulsed, and fur flew.

For both their sakes, he prayed that they were running in different directions, as fast and as far as they could.

Sleepyside on the Hudson, twentieth century…

Dan Mangan swore as the potato he was attempting to peel jumped from his hand and bounced to the plank flooring of the cabin. The paring knife he’d been using leapt after it, nicking the palm of his hand before clattering to the floor. Dan jumped out of the way, eager to protect his feet from the sharp blade.

Which was stupid, because he was wearing boots.

He swore again, watching the blood well on the palm of his hand.

“Rinse with cold water,” Mr. Maypenny advised. He rummaged in the cupboard beside the sink. “And put this on the cut.” He tossed the small jar of something green and gooey at his ward, who caught it with his uninjured hand.

“What is it?” Dan asked, eyeing the paste as he rinsed the blood from his hand.

“Something to stop the bleeding,” Mr. Maypenny replied mildly.

Dan opened the jar and sniffed. Wrinkling his nose, he closed it again.

“It’s no worse than the iodine the youngest Belden always seems to be painted in,” Mr. Maypenny groused, and Dan’s lips twitched. It was actually the two youngest Belden who seemed to wear it as an accessory, since it usually fell to Trixie to patch up her brother. And, as all the Bob-Whites could attest, nothing ever went smoothly when it came to taking care of Bobby Belden.

“It’s an old remedy that hasn’t failed me yet,” he continued.

“Fine,” Dan said, grimacing. “I’ll use it. But don’t blame me if our supper smells like dirty gym socks.” He turned off the water he’d been using to rinse the blood and checked his palm for damage.

“Huh,” he said, twisting his hand. “I guess the knife only grazed me.”

Mr. Maypenny glanced at Dan’s hand and they both studied the fine white line creasing it. “Then you’re safe from the scary herbs for another day,” he said, and returned the container to the cupboard.

Dan’s stomach growled as he resumed peeling potatoes. There was something about the brisk October air that seemed to whet his appetite, no matter how much he ate. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have another growth spurt and outgrow the B.W.G. jacket Honey had only just made him. Which wouldn’t be completely unexpected, he realized. After all, he was pretty sure Mart was on his third jacket. And not all of them were because Mart somehow managed to stain them with food, even when he didn’t wear them while eating.

He and Mr. Maypenny made short work of the fried potatoes, venison, and canned green beans.

“Meeting at the clubhouse tonight?”

Dan nodded, his mouth full of canned peaches.

Mr. Maypenny glanced out the window at the sky that had already been dark for an hour. “Don’t be late,” he warned.

Dan shrugged. Early mornings made it almost impossible for him to keep his eyes open past ten o’clock, anyway. And even if the meeting hadn’t broken up by then, probably one of the girls would have a curfew, and Dan didn’t mind walking any of them home.

“Full moon,” Mr. Maypenny observed.

“Which means I can see better, but that predators are more active,” Dan replied, repeating the response that had been drilled into him.

The older man nodded, satisfied. “So, don’t be late.”

Dan shoved an entire molasses muffin in his mouth and slid into his B.W.G jacket. “Back by ten-thirty,” he mumbled, trusting that Mr. Maypenny would decipher his food-garbled response.

Mr. Maypenny grunted and handed him a bag. “Because I’m sure those Belden ruffians will smell the muffin on you,” he said gruffly. “And I wouldn’t want them to attack.”

Dan grinned, his mouth still full. “Thanks,” he said, peeking in the bag. Six muffins, and a seventh wrapped separately to be taken home to Bobby. “I just hope they don’t suffer an accident and somehow fall into my stomach on the way there,” he teased.

Mr. Maypenny raised an eyebrow. “All the better to slow you down for those predators.”

Dan didn’t quite roll his eyes, but his lips twitched. Ever since Mr. Maypenny had taken care of Bobby’s “kitty”, there hadn’t been anything particularly scary in the preserve.

“Get out of here,” Mr. Maypenny told him, grinning himself. “And see that the muffins make it to the clubhouse.”

Dan nodded.

“All of the muffins,” he specified.

Dan sighed.

“If you’re still hungry when you get home, you can pop up some of the corn,” he relented. “But I really did think Mart was the one with the hollow leg.”

Dan shrugged. He didn’t mean to be hungry all the time. He just sort of was. Probably a counselor would have a field day with that. Something about food security, possibly. And maybe he was overcompensating for a childhood spent wondering where his next meal would come from. Or recovering from his early teenage years spent wondering what he would have to do for his next meal. But mostly he just thought he was a teenage boy with a growth spurt, surrounded by people who knew how to cook.

What kind of a monster wouldn’t have seconds of hunter’s stew?

Several hours later, he aimed his flashlight down the familiar path to Crabapple Farm.

“Stupid curfew,” Trixie muttered. “I don’t see why I have to be home by nine-thirty when the boys don’t even have a curfew!”

Dan stifled a yawn. He would never admit it, but Trixie’s curfew often gave him a welcome excuse to leave early. He would also never tell her that he was pretty sure that her curfew had little to do with her gender, and a lot to do with her penchant for finding trouble. Not that a curfew would slow her down, but he supposed it didn’t hurt to let Mr. and Mrs. Belden feel like they had some control over their daughter’s safety…

“And you’d think that Brian and Mart would just leave when I do, but, no!” She kicked at a pile of leaves on the path, and he could almost see her bad mood dissipate as the leaves crunched and then scattered.

Dan snorted. “And give up the opportunity to walk Honey and Diana home? I don’t think so!”

Trixie snickered. “I get Mart walking Di home. But, honestly. What does Jim do? Walk three paces behind Honey and Brian?”

Chuckling, Dan swung the flashlight in an arc. The night was quiet, without even the muffled sounds of quiet night animals going about their lives. Even the owl that usually hooted a time or two to protest their presence in his territory was silent, almost as if something bigger and scarier than him or Trixie was near. Which was ridiculous. The only danger he could spot was the exposed root of a tree, which Trixie might very well make into a hazard. He nudged her around it, and then kept his arm tucked around her. He wasn’t under any illusion that he could keep her out of trouble, but he could keep her from face-planting in the dark.

Probably.

Possibly?

At any rate, it made him feel better.

Shivering, Trixie shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “Why is it so cold?” she grumbled. “It’s only October!”

It wasn’t like Trixie to feel the cold, Dan thought with a frown. Heck, in the winter months, her tolerance was better than his! She habitually shed scarves and hats while he made sure he didn’t go anywhere without his leather gloves.

Not tonight, though. Dan tugged at the collar of his jacket and opened a few buttons. The chilly air was a welcome relief on his sweat-damp skin. They must have had cranked up the electric heater in the clubhouse too high, he decided. And Trixie was only cold because of the contrast between the toasty wooden structure and the night-chilled preserve. He popped another button, but it wasn’t enough. Giving up, he tugged off his jacket and draped it over Trixie’s shoulders.

“Dan!” she protested half-heartedly as she burrowed into its warmth, “won’t you be cold?”

“Not if I keep moving,” he assured her. A cool breeze swept past, ruffling his hair and causing Trixie to pick up the pace. When they could see the light at the farmhouse’s back porch, Trixie started to remove his jacket.

“Keep it,” Dan offered. “You can give it to me on the bus in the morning.”

But Trixie only grinned and shrugged out of the jacket. “No way am I showing up on the bus with your jacket! None of the girls in my grade will ever talk to me again!”

Dan flushed at the reminder that several of girls in Trixie’s grade had expressed romantic interest in him. He flushed even more when Trixie handed back his jacket, mashed into an awkward ball, and gave him a quick and fierce hug.

“Thanks for walking me home, Dan,” she said, and took off at a run for the house.

Dan shook his head, still feeling the warmth of her arms around him even as he turned and set out at a brisk pace toward the cabin. The warmth crept to his cheeks in what he was sure Mart would call a blush, but which totally wasn’t. Because he didn’t do that.

But the heat flooding his face apparently hadn’t gotten that memo. In fact, with each step he took, he felt himself getting warmer and warmer, until he wondered if he was developing a fever.

And not a fever of love, or amore, as he was sure Mart would suggest!

Though he was starting to feel a little light-headed.

And his muscles were aching and tingling at the same time, and that couldn’t possibly be good, could it?

He stumbled down the path, his breath coming in short, tortured pants.

He was almost to the cabin, he thought, when the moon suddenly sprang above the treeline, bathing the path in an eerie glow. He stopped and stared, eyes fixed on the white globe hanging so close to him.

The moon stared back.

And they both howled.

Lars Maypenny paced the length of the not-nearly-long-enough cabin. It was a testament to his age and hard-fought control that he hadn’t already escaped the confine of his wooden prison. He was fully capable of waiting out the all-consuming urge to change, at least until the boy had made it home and was safely tucked in bed for the night. He knew that.

But that didn’t make the desire to trade his human body for a much earthier one any less compelling.

The old cuckoo clock, one of the few things he’d brought with him from Holland, chirped the hour, and he took a deep breath. Dan would be home shortly. Saddling his charge with early morning chores had many benefits, one of the most important being that he went to bed early and slept like a rock.

At this time of the month, it wasn’t just a benefit. It was a necessity.

He could feel the moon. Usually, it was a quiet presence hiding in the corners of his mind. But tonight, as it grew full, it grew stronger. Much like the sun at midday, he could feel it on his skin. It wasn’t painful, exactly…

But it was determined.

There was no escaping it. For months after… well, just after. For months, he’d resisted the pull, but it had only made the inevitable change more painful. An ordeal instead of a communion. Eventually, he’d had to come to terms with it. Though that hadn’t happened until he’d left Holland and the woman he’d tried to change behind.

Somehow, in running away from Holland to settle a pie-shaped section of land in what would eventually become New York, he’d been able to separate the bitter disappointment of being denied a mate from the headiness of the gift of lycanthropy. He still didn’t understand why the woman he’d chosen to share his life had been deemed unsuitable. Or maybe he was the one who was unsuitable. It was impossible to guess, and the moon, as always, kept its silence.

Maypenny suspected he would never know why he hadn’t been allowed to marry and pass on the gene of lycanthropy, but it didn’t consume his life the way it once had. No, now he had other worries. Like whether Dan would return to the cabin before he himself was forced to leave it to answer the call of the moon.

Just thinking about the moon was a mistake.

The pull strengthened to a physical ache, and he had to close his eyes against it. Next month, he promised himself, he’d find enough chores for the boy that he wouldn’t even think about staying out so late. It was a lie, though. Dan already did far more work, and did it far better, than Maypenny had ever expected. The first few weeks of his stay might have been rough, but he’d always been able to tell that Dan would work out just fine.

But not if he didn’t get back to the cabin now so that Maypenny could slip out.

The clock ticked, louder and slower.

And then he heard it. An ear-splitting howl, followed by a low, menacing growl. His blood froze, and then sang in remembrance. He’d heard grey wolves when he’d first moved to New York. Once or twice he’d even seen them.

These howls were nothing like those.

No, these howls were the sound of home. The call of family that he hadn’t heard in more years than he could keep track of.

He dropped to his knees, his body answering the call. The air crackled with electricity as bones stretched and skin split. The cuckoo clock ticked, echoing in his sensitive ears.

But that wasn’t all he could hear. Outside, the undulating howl had ended in a choked whimper, a cry for help that he was powerless to ignore.

With practiced claws, he edged the door open and trotted into the clearing. A black form waited at the treeline, hunched in fear and misery and confusion that Maypenny could practically taste.

Because he knew it well.

After all, hadn’t he smelled it on the boy the first day they’d met?

And that wouldn’t do. They’d both worked far too hard to go back.

He crossed the clearing, his pace steady and slow. They’d already done this dance, and they both knew how it would end. The wolf growled once, half-heartedly, and then waited. Maypenny approached, stopping only when they were almost nose-to-nose. He could see when Dan’s wolf recognized him in the way his shoulders eased and the whimper turned to a yip.

Lars Maypenny hadn’t changed his intended spouse, and he doubted he ever would.

He hadn’t raised children and guided them through their first transformations.

Until now.

It turned out that it really did come naturally, when it was supposed to.

He and Dan had never been in the habit of using words when a look, gesture, or grunt would do just as well, and it seemed that as wolves, they communicated just fine without any words at all. Lars nipped playfully at Dan’s shoulder, and then they were rolling and tumbling, chasing each other in a wild and exhilarating game of tag.

He’d forgotten. Forgotten what it felt like to run with family and to share the miracle and magic of the change. The pure of joy of running, of being one with the preserve, and with the pack.

They tumbled against the trunk of a tree, pausing when the motion knocked the dry and brittle leaves loose. Maypenny shook himself, sending the leaves flying again. Panting, Dan lay still, his nose resting on his front paws.

It was time to head back to the cabin, Lars knew. Time to teach the pup about the blessings and the curses of lycanthropy. Lives so long they were almost immortal, but urges so strong they lived lives of strict discipline. He had a feeling that Dan would be fine with the discipline. The longevity would be trickier, once it truly sunk in. And there would be questions that Lars couldn’t answer. Like how Dan had been changed, even though he wasn’t Lars’ biological child.

The one lesson that neither of them would struggle with, he realized, was the value of the pack. He led the way to the cabin. For the first time, it felt like going home.