Prologue

The Bible says in Psalms 5:4–6: “For you are not a God who is pleased with wickedness; with you, evil people are not welcome. The arrogant cannot stand in your presence. You hate all who do wrong; you destroy those who tell lies. The bloodthirsty and deceitful you, LORD, detest.”
I’ve killed more times than I can count—stolen, shattered families, destroyed companies, marriages, possessions, even buildings. All for pleasure. Because I had the power. And, unfortunately, I enjoyed it.
I should have died that night on the back of my parents’ land—that is to say, stayed dead. In the traditional sense. Not slammed into a world that I—and most of you—had no idea even existed.
The truth is, I was masking the pain and furious anger I had toward both of my fathers. I was no better than the abusers I often tortured and toyed with for hours before finally killing them at one of our clubs.
I am damned. Beyond sinful. Saturated with sin. I deserve complete isolation from all that is good—and I contain none of it. Never mind the fact that, as a race, my kind shouldn’t exist in the first place. And yet, we’ve infiltrated every corner of human society and government.
The other races—at least are alive. Breathing. Of nature. They have no idea how crucial that simple state of being alive is. Their nature is… friendlier. More alive—even as animals. Even the avian community can get gruesome.
I don’t care what you think or say. When you’ve endured centuries in this dark world, there comes a point when it’s no longer just a phase. No longer a game with outsiders. No more chances to reinvent yourself. There comes a day when you’re utterly and completely done. Finished. Time has taken its toll, and I am but a remnant. A hollow shell of former days. At the end of my tether. At my wit’s end.
You wake up in the morning—the actual morning you humans refer to, not my version—because you can’t fall back asleep. You’re a professional at running on autopilot. You’ve faked it so long you’ve made it… until you’ve done it all, been there, bought the T-shirt—and the ashtray.
I’ve reinvented myself. Moved across provinces, states—even centuries. I’ve spent at least $3,000 on U-Haul trucks and movers. And I knew the moment I first saw those four sixteen-year-olds that they would be the end of me, one way or another.
There was something about them that caught my attention, intrigued me enough not to just move on after they graduated secondary school. My dead heart screamed loud and clear during their first year at Niagara College to get away from them—all of them. But I’m stubborn. Bullheaded. Territorial. I wasn’t leaving.
Not even after I ran into him on campus. I could smell his particular scent—distinct, different from the rest of the wolves. They had no idea what he was capable of.