Remiel had been dozing in his cottage, slumped back in his chair, his glasses tilted at an askew angle, the Maleficarum: Ars Lycanthropos opened and tented upside-down on his lap, his knee the place-holder. He snored loudly, dreaming of fighting ghostly hounds upon a desolate and forsaken moor.
The scream woke him abruptly from his slumber; he blinked blearily, still rising through the fogs of semi-consciousness, that twilight state in which it is impossible to tell what is real from what is imagined. He realized that all of the candles had burnt themselves out; he must have fallen asleep while reading.
He wondered whether the scream, too, was a product of his overworked imagination, but morbid curiosity bade him button up his shirt and don his coat. He arrived in time to see Lord Mayerling and Beguile's Mistress gathered around the garden of the widow Susannah, their faces pale and drawn. The cause of their dismay soon became apparent as he discovered the woman's corpse upon the ground, her throat torn out.
"Oh my," said Remiel, kneeling at the late Susannah's side. "Oh dear." He fumbled in his coat-pocket for a small vial, and, using an eyedropper, collected some of the blood in the vial and held it up to his eye. "Yas, yas, it iz az bad az I sot. Zese bites vere not made by any ordinary animal, I am afraid. Yu see ze vhite foam here? I am afraid zat zer cause vas a creature zat haz not been seeink in zome time, zat wuz previously sot to be extinct."
He pushed the bridge of his glasses further up his nose. "I am referrink, uv course, to ze verevolf. A creature zat iz like a volf, but zat iz able to dizguize itself in human form. For all we know, ze creature zat did zis could even be one uv uz."