Hiding in the undergrowth off the side of the road, Nat had guessed correctly that the swanky government car he saw speeding toward his grandparents’ house had contained the visitors Iona had warned them would come. He estimated, again with spot-on accuracy, that he and Woody had about an hour’s head start before whoever was in the car would turn around and come after them. He’d allowed himself a brief moment of regret that he had not said good-bye to his mum, but he’d already grabbed his passport, some apples, and some clothing, stuffing them all in his backpack. He had one wrinkled ten pound note in British currency, and he had found a few euros in Apple’s knickknack tray. Once he and Woody had hooked up with Crescent and the Howlers, they would be on their way to Eastern Europe.

When they reached the edge of the great East Wood, Woody’s gaze rested on Nat, and he knew they had no choice but to get off the road completely. He hesitated. Woody sniffed the air, his ears and tail quivering, then he pushed his face between the dense trees. Nat watched nervously as the woods appeared to swallow Woody into its leafy depths. Taking a deep breath, he followed.

The first thing that struck him was the eerie silence, and the claustrophobic pressure of the trees, like they were trying to take him prisoner. No birds sang; there was no sound of small woodland creatures scurrying about their business in the undergrowth; none of the sorts of sounds you would usually hear in a woodland glade. It was monotonously green, featuring no other color except the faded brown of the unhealthy-looking tree trunks.

Nat glanced up, trying to peer through the green canopy to where tiny chips of blue fought their way between the branches of the trees. He wrinkled his nose at the dank, moldy smell; he couldn’t imagine spending the night here. As soon as it got dark, they would head out again and, if they were lucky, find an empty barn to hide in.

But it seemed that Woody had other ideas. He loped slightly ahead, as if there were something up there he wanted to see. He kept his distance from Nat, glancing backward every now and then to make sure he was still following.

Nat’s feeling of claustrophobia increased. In the unhealthy, humid atmosphere, his skin felt clammy and itchy, as if insects were crawling all over him. His backpack seemed to get heavier, and tiny pinpricks of sunlight flickered through the trees and into his eyes, almost hypnotizing him. Nat’s eyelids began to droop.

“AAAAAAHHHOOOOWWWWWWWWW!”

“OOOOWWWWWOOOOOH!”

The voices of the werewolves brought Woody back to Nat’s side, his nostrils flaring, his eyes glowing, hackles as stiff as stalagmites.

“We’re so dead!” cried Nat. “There’s two of them.”