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The world was a black pit. Daemon stared into it, letting it fill up into his being. He was on the edge of a cliff- the lights of the city below shrouded in formless smog, so dense that the light of the moon could not penetrate it. But he was free. Above him hung the stars and the moon, great celestial beings that hung motionless in a sky as black as the world beneath. But here, with the wind buffeting his loose shirt around him, he was alive. His form was bathed in a pale ghostly, shadowy light that crept uninvited to the earth below. And then he jumped.
If it were day the world would have toppled, spun and then whirled around his ears. His head would have filled with the screech of the wind. But he didn’t feel any of that. As he plunged downward, feeling the pungent smell of the smog fill his nose, he felt serene. His body arced, then streamlined against the wind. He waited, counted down the moments in his mind. Something dropped. He grunted, levelled and then pulled the cord. From his back blossomed the chute, as dark as the night itself. And so Daemon Hyde returned, uninvited, home.

The man was perfect. Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect suit. Perfect smile. And yet Joe found him ugly. Was it in the way that he wished Joe goodnight, or told him what was happening? Was it the way he laughed? No, Joe considered, that was perfect too. His voice was deep and measured, dipping in and out of a jovial manner when it was necessary and returning to the staggered, melancholic tone when he was talking about serious things. Joe sighed and pulled himself from the chair, turning the news projection off. The man flickered and died, revealing that he was simply a picture. Joe smiled briefly, but a green light from the frosted glass screen reminded him that they were still there, still watching. Hadn’t they anything better to do? Joe was painfully aware that his life was far from interesting. Every morning he woke, washed and ate the standard cardboard like substance that was issued for breakfast. He jogged- not outside but in front of the projection. It monitored his body, told him he was healthy but it still didn’t feel like he used to. The man would then tell him that England was fine and ordered- an oasis in a world of chaos. But although he lived in a clean, fresh, white apartment- furnished with art and furniture, and although he could go everyday to work, and come safely home every day, something was missing. Joe was one of the ones who remembered how the world was, and those memories had begun to fade. But he still knew what it was like not to be watched, not to live in fear of the terrorists. Not lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling in cold terror because of the howling outside. To hear them prowl. Hear the click and the metallic beep as they let themselves into the ground level. Imagining the unearthly change. Hearing them lolloping up the stairs, hearing them at the door, daring you to still be awake, to come out. To do something , anything other than cowering in pure, feverish terror. And then they left, and their human, wolfish laugh still echoed down the empty, wistful corridors.

The coffee tasted bitter. Joe reached for the sugar, poured it in. The flakes clung together in a lump, congealing in the centre and then sinking slowly below the surface. Somewhere, something clattered. He stopped and listened. Not many people would have heard what he had, knew what it signalled. But Joe was different. Once upon a time, his life had depended on what he heard. His hand leapt for a knife, closing in on the handle. He turned, and the knife flew out of his hand, but the man behind him was quicker. He ducked, and the knife quivered gently, lodged firmly in the wall. But Joe was not looking at the knife. The man stood before him, motionless.
“Daemon, I thought you were dead.” The man smiled. The scar that crossed over his right eye creased. Tears formed in his blue eyes and one made its way down a hollow cheek. His black hair was matted with blood. Joe laughed. He knew this man. The bond that he shared with him ran as deep as that of a brother’s. But this man had been gone for so long, had been chased out of his own country at the start of the Government’s power.
“Where’s Susan?” Daemon’s voice was much colder, crisper than Joe remembered.
“Sorry mate. She died. Three years ago.” Strangely, Daemon’s face didn’t show any emotion at the news of his sister’s death.
“They found her?”
“Yes. They took her while she was at the park with the kid. It was ten years ago.”
“Kid?” Joe smiled at his friend’s surprise, but then Daemon’s face creased into seriousness.
“Did they take her to...?” The sentence lingered. Daemon didn’t want to know the answer. Joe knew better than not to tell him though.
“Egypt? Yes. For interrogation. Mickey got in there, said she died after 3 weeks.” Joe laughed bitterly. “They killed Mickey 2 days later”
“Mickey’s dead?”
“Susan was your wife mate. Aren’t you a little sad?”
Daemon looked at him. His voice was a harsh whisper. “I knew she was gone.” He looked down. “I mourned for her every day that I was away.” He paused. Again the whisper. “I mourned for every one of them.”
“They are all gone, Daemon. All been smoked out.” Joe said ruefully
Daemon sat down at the bench and pulled out a cigarette.
“Then why are you still here? Why haven’t they got to you yet?” He lit it. The sentence had been said as much to himself than to Joe.
“Lord knows. Like to keep me here I guess. It’s as good as any prison. No, they think that I’m harmless now”
Daemon was stubbing out his cigarette when the howling reached their ears. Joe glanced at the clock on the wall. He frowned.
“It’s only six.”
Daemon leapt to his feet and swore.
“I thought that I lost them the other night.”
“Thought?” Joe was confused
“I’ve been running from them for days, ever since I landed. They caught my scent on the chute, must have worked out it was me. But I thought that I was safe....” He rubbed his temples, a gesture that brought memories flooding back to Joe. Daemon stopped suddenly.
“You said my name. That’s why they are out so early. They must have heard you say my name...”
“They’re coming here?”
The growing sound of baying answered his question.

Joe knew how the Lycanthrope hunted. They would travel towards their quarry in the shape of wolves. Joe looked down at the network of walkways that clothed the earth below. They will be in one of them. They travelled in packs of 10, and Joe could see them now, bounding down the walkways, each stride covering 5 or 6 meters. It was only 6 o’clock now, and the curfew begins at 8. That would mean that there would still be people about, shopping. They would be seeing them- but until now nobody ever saw the Lycanthrope. They always hunted at night, and the most anyone who dared peer through a window at that hour would only see huge, shadowy forms illuminated by the dying glow of the walkways as they prowled the empty malls and apartments. But now people would be hearing screams, would turn and see...

It was well known that they preferred to be wolves. There was something still primeval caught in them, something that, during the twisted process of their birth, could not be altered. Even their handlers remarked how savage they are, even in human form. It added to the sheer mythology of these creatures, people believed that they were far removed from humans. The city that the beasts roamed was a complex system of buildings and tubes, each spiralling down into the un-breathable smog. It had been like that as far back as people cared to remember. It had been even longer since anybody had stepped outside, had opened a door to reality and had stepped out from a land full of shops, food courts and cinemas.

The Lycanthrope now hurled themselves down these corridors. They took long bounding strides as wolves, twisting in the air and appearing as their human form, turning, swinging through space, leaping through the system of struts that held the roofs of the walkways up. Their whooping would turn to howls as they changed back to wolf, vaulting off the walls and ceiling as they chased down their prey. People screamed. Some froze, transfixed by the garish, lustful grin plastered on the face of the nightmarish creatures. For so long these people had created images of these beasts in their minds whilst they lay awake at night. They had let the sounds they heard paint a gargoyle, a mutant of man and wolf. But the reality could simply not be imagined.

The Lycanthrope knew where they were headed. The pack that were sent to capture Daemon followed only one being, their leader. Now he was leading the charge through the walkways, the sickly sweet scent of blood filling his head. His enormous form barrelled down the corridors, closely followed by his howling and yapping brothers.

The Government had created 40 Lycanthrope, divided them into packs of 10. Each pack controlled a quarter of the city. It was simple really- none of the packs could stand the sight of another pack. No Lycanthrope would mix with another Lycanthrope from a different quarter. The rivalry created through this system ensured that the Lycanthrope always had a purpose, always had a rival that was their equal. They are very territorial creatures, and would follow their leaders to the last. The leaders, in turn, were forced to show a kind of servitude to the state, in gratitude for the free reign of the city, and the debt for their creation.
The pack that now made their way to Daemon and Joe were the most feared of all Lycanthropes. Their power could be put to one thing, their leader. In human form he was a brute of a man. Built like a gorilla, he had a sloping forehead that all but obscured two evil black eyes. Behind those eyes lay a cunning and intelligence unheard of in Lycanthrope. In wolf form, two giant scars ripped across the muscle on his right flank. It was well known that this was the remnants of a fight with the western pack’s then leader. The western pack’s leader had been the only Lycanthrope ever recorded to have died.

Nobody knew what the Lycanthrope called each other. Some theories claim that there is a deep connection in packs, that each of the animals were bound to each other through thought. The government, however, gave them numbers for their ranks. Then they called them by the area of the city they owned- North, South, East, West. The leader that led this pack was called by the government as North 1. But, to most who work in the offices of power, North was enough.

North stopped at a door. His wolf self pawed at it, but it wouldn’t open. He grinned. Grunting, he stepped back a good 7 meters and jumped. Somewhere towards the apex of the jump, his human form emerged from the wolf, and so when he landed the momentum carried him into a somersault, bringing him crashing feet first into the door. North stood high among the wolves as he surveyed the entrance foyer. He barked a command, and somehow the sound seemed normal even though it came from a human mouth. The wolves fanned out in front of him. North listened. Above him he could hear the sound of people, families. One group of 5 watching television 3 floors up. The kid had spilt some lemonade on the carpet, and was complaining when his mother made him clean it up. 8 floors up a couple were fighting. North winced as a lamp was flung against the wall. The couple in the next apartment were making love. There was a man by himself on the 28th floor, reading a book. North heard the tiny flutter as the pages were turned. And then he heard it. His wolves heard it too, and they broke into joyful howls. All sounds in the apartment stopped, and the screaming started. But North knew where they were, he knew where his quarry was. He breathed deeply, sucking the air and filling his cavernous lungs. From his mouth screamed a howl the wreaked through the building and filled the minds of the people in there. ‘We’re coming’ it said. North smelt the fear run in droplets down the walls, and the room that smelt most pungent was on the 31st floor.