Hunting horns echoed through Blackbriar Wood as Jaenna hauled the moonstruck werewolf up to the porch of her cottage. Fannie, the old barncat, hissed and spat from her cushion by the door.
"Let me in the house, Fannie," Jaenna said. The werewolf wasn't getting any lighter. If she didn't get him hidden soon, the hunters on their trail would surely shoot him.
Werewolves were people too, Grandma always said, just cursed to lack the sense God gave little green apples when the lunastorms hit. The tidewater wind blew the moon's influence into every corner and crevice, and left its creatures with no way to hide.
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