by Phil Brucato The cries begin far off, waking mothers in their beds. The moor-mist shimmers in the full moon's light. Around that moon, a ring of silver glistens and the air grows cold. There are reasons men fear the night, and in the absence of the sun they often come calling. Where are the wolves? she wonders. Surely they cannot be far away. And they are not alone. Then the howls begin. The people cheer. The wolves have come at last! But Elyr Ma Cullogh chills; the cries are ragged and sick, tinged with madness. She knows the wolf-folk better than most, and these howls do not sound right.