I’ve finally started writing my next novel. It’s a different take on the werewolf genre that’s being bouncing around my head for years.  I’m toying with several different titles, but here’s a sneak peak at the prologue so far to wet your appetites…
The night air was still, save for a gentle breeze drifting in from Loch Mullardoch, grasping a suggestion of the previous unseasonably warm February day. The looming tip of Sgurr na Lapaich was just a black smear against the clear sky, and a full moon cast silver tendrils dancing across the gently undulating waves of the loch.
   The remote rugged Scottish Highland terrain appeared utterly devoid of life, save for a single tent pitched at the water’s edge.
A man sat cross-legged, eyes closed, breathing softly. Wearing only threadbare cargo pants, he was lean and his scarred and weathered skin was slick with sweat.
   His breathing was quickly becoming more laboured, panting, his hairy chest rising and falling like the rapid pounding of a drum.
In his lap, his hands curled into balled up fists and knotted muscles flexed in his arms as his knuckles whitened. His panting intensified and sweat dripped from his unkempt ginger beard.
   Barely above a whisper, the man spoke, in low guttural moans, “Cha tèid nì sam bith san dòrn dùinte.” (Nothing can get into a closed fist.) He repeated the phrase over and over, chanting, his voice cracking, ever more desperate with each incantation.
   “Cha tèid nì sam bith san dòrn …”Wolf eyes
   His eyes snapped open. Eyes the colour of arctic ice, enclosed in a ring of black, focussed on the tent flap and narrowed.
   Above the gentle breeze, a mournful howl split the quiet.