In 463BC a hand carved tablet was buried in what would become Ulster. No one know who buried it or why. No one knew who carved the intricate designs. Thus far, only one person has been able to decipher their meaning. And no one believes the translation that has been offered. That one person, Alexandra, now lays bruised, burned and possibly dying at the bottom of a nameless chasm somewhere in the Caucasus Mountains. The wounds at her neck are quite probably the worst of the lot. Those running the length of her arms and legs are not far behind. No matter how serious these wound appear, however, they are nothing compared to the seriousness of the bared fangs of the wolf standing over her.

"Get up," He growled.