One Silent Night

PROLOGUE

IN THE BEGINNING, THE WORLD WAS MADE OF beauty and of magick. Before there were humans, there were gods and those who served them and did their bidding whatever their bidding was. At war with each other, the gods fought among themselves until a new breed was born out of their senseless violence. Chthonians by name, these new creatures came from the earth that flowed red with the blood of the gods.

The Chthonians rose up and divided the world between the gods—they split the world among themselves.

To maintain the peace, the soldiers of the gods were ordered to be put down. None were to survive. Chthonian law took pre ce dence and together they were able to bring peace to the world once more and to protect the new life-form of mankind.

But the Chthonians were not without corruption. Nor were they infallible.

It wasn't long before they bickered, too.

And so time moved forward. Mankind matured and learned to dismiss the gods and the magick that existed in their world. Unable to fight on their own, mankind chose to ignore it.

"Poppycock." "Hokum." "Fantasy." "Fairy tales." Those were some of the many words man used to denigrate that which couldn't be explained by their so-called science. Empiricism became its own religion.

There were no shadows stalking innocent victims. It was nothing more than a human mind playing tricks. An overactive imagination.

Wolves can't turn into humans and humans can't turn into bears. All the ancient gods are dead—relegated to mythological tales that we all know are untrue.

And yet . . .

What was that sound outside the window just now? Was it the howling of the wind? A stray dog perhaps?

Or something more sinister? Something truly predatorial?

The subtle hair rise on a neck could very well be nothing more than goose bumps. Or it could be the sensation of the dead walking near. The sensation of the hand of an unseen god or servant passing through.

The world is no longer new. It's no longer innocent.

And the old ones grow tired of being ignored. The winds that whispered through the yard earlier weren't the tender caress of a climate change. They were a siren's call that can only be heard by certain preternatural species.

Even now, those forces gather and unite.

This time, they want something more than the blood of the gods and one another.

They want us . . .

And we are at their mercy.