I want to ask the questions now, find out the answers immediately. I want to rush to the large hut and demand the truth from Aideen and Torin. But this is their home, meagre as it is, and it would be disrespectful to speak out of turn. If their wish is for me to wait, then wait I must—no matter how frustrating that is.

Ronan and Lorcan hunt for food in the hours before sunset. Game is scarce in this rocky wilderness but the twins return with two hares, a crow and a cub fox. Fiachna, Bran and I pick berries and wild roots while they’re gone. It makes for a fine meal. There’s even some left over, which we offer to Fand when she comes to fetch us shortly after sunset.

“We have our own food,” she says curtly.

As we’re walking to the largest building, there’s a ferocious howl from one of the huts in poor repair. The warriors in our group draw their weapons immediately but Fand waves away their concerns. “It’s nothing,” she says.

“That was a demon,” Goll growls, not lowering his sword.

“No,” Fand says. “It was my brother.”

We stare at her with disbelief. She sighs, then strides towards the hut where the howl came from. We follow cautiously. At the entrance, Fand crouches and points within. We bend down beside her. Dim evening light shines through holes in the roof. In the weak glow we see an animal tied by a short length of rope to a rock in the middle of the hut. It’s human-shaped but covered in long thick hair, with claws and dark yellow eyes. It snarls when it sees us and tries to attack, but is held back by the rope.

“That’s your brother?” Goll asks suspiciously.

“His name is—was—Fintan,” Fand says.

“What happened to him?” I ask, staring uncomfortably at the yellow eyes. Disfigured as they are, they look disturbingly similar to mine. “Is he undead?”

“No.” Fand stands. “We’ll tell you in the main hut. Come.” When we hesitate, she manages a thin smile. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. Fintan and the others are tied up tight.”

“There are more like this?” Ronan says.

“Four.” Fand pauses and her expression darkens. “For now.” She goes to the largest hut and ducks inside. One last glance at the creature chained to the rock—it looks like a cross between a wolf and a man—then we follow, gripping our weapons tight, watching the shadows for any sign of other, unchained beasts.

It’s crowded inside the hut, with all five adults, the three children we saw earlier, two younger kids—one just a babe—and us. The MacGrigor are poorly dressed—most of the children are naked—and scrawny. Dirty hair, rough tattoos, cracked nails, bloodshot eyes.

“They’ve seen Fintan,” Fand says when we’re seated, after a few seconds of uneasy silence.

“Good,” Torin grunts. “That saves some time.” He collects his thoughts, glances at me, then tells us their sorry tale—my tale.

Several generations ago their ancestors bred with the Fomorii. They thought the semi-demons were going to conquer this land and threw in their lot with them. When the Fomorii were defeated, the MacGrigor were hunted down and executed as traitors. But some survived and went into hiding.

“Though if they’d known what was to come next, I think they’d have stayed and accepted death,” Torin says bitterly.

Some of the children of the human-Fomorii couplings were born deformed and demonic, and were immediately put to death. But most were human in appearance. These lived and grew, and for many years all was well.

“Then the changes began,” Torin sighs. “When children came of a certain age—usually on the cusp of adulthood—some transformed. It always happened around the time of a full moon. Their bodies twisted. Hair sprouted. Their teeth lengthened into fangs, their nails into claws. The change developed and worsened over three or four moons. By the end, they were wild, inhuman beasts, incapable of speech or recognition. Killers if left to wander free.”

The affected children were slain, while the others grew and had children of their own. They thought they were safe, that they’d survived the curse—but they were wrong. Some of the children of the survivors changed too, and their grandchildren, and those who came after.

“It strikes at random,” Torin says. “Sometimes four of five children of any generation will change, sometimes only two. But always a few. There’s never been a generation where none of the children turned.”

The family sought the help of priestesses and druids in later years, when their treachery had been forgotten and they were free to live among normal folk again. But no magician could lift the curse. So they struggled on, moving from one place to another whenever their dark secret was discovered, living as far away from other clans as possible, sometimes killing their beastly young, other times— as here—allowing them to live, in the hope they might one day change back or be cured by a powerful druid.

“It’s no sort of life,” Torin mutters, eyes distant, “waiting for our children to turn. Having to feed those who’ve fallen foul of the curse and look upon them as they are, remembering them as they were. I’d rather kill the poor beasts, but…” He glances at Fand, who glowers at him.

“And Bec?” Fiachna asks, sensing my impatience, speaking on my behalf. “Her mother was of your clan?”

“If her mother was Aednat, aye,” Torin says. He looks at me and again his face is dark. “Aednat had six children. All turned. When she fell pregnant for the seventh time, years after she and her husband, Struan, had agreed not to try again, Struan was furious. He couldn’t bear the thought of bringing another child into the world and rearing it, only to have to kill it when it fell prey to the ravages of the moon.

“Aednat argued to keep the child. She thought she might be lucky this time, that the gods would never curse her seven times in a row. She was old, at an age when most women can no longer conceive. She thought it was a sign that this child was blessed, that it would be safe. Struan didn’t agree. Neither did the rest of us.”

“Some did!” Aideen interrupts bitterly, but says no more when Torin glares at her warningly.

“We decided to kill the child in the womb,” Torin continues gruffly. “That was Struan’s wish and we believed it was the right thing to do. Struan took Aednat off into the wilds, to do the deed in private. But none of us knew how much Aednat wanted the baby. She fought with Struan when they were alone. Stabbed him. I don’t think she meant to kill him, but—”

“My mother killed my father?” I almost scream.

“Aye,” Torin says, burning me with his stare. “She probably only intended to wound him, but she cut too deeply. He died and she fled. By the time we discovered his body, she was far away. We followed for a time, to avenge Struan’s murder, but lost her trail after a couple of days. We prayed for her death when we returned. I’m pleased to hear our prayers were answered.”

I rear myself back to curse him for saying such a mean thing, but Fiachna grabs my left arm and squeezes hard, warning me to be silent.

“Of course the girl’s not our business now,” Torin says heavily. “She’s of your clan, not ours, so we can’t tell you what to do with her. But she’s a cursed child, from a line of cursed children, and the spawn of a killer. She’s at the age when the moon usually works its wicked charms. If you let her live, the chances are strong that she’ll change into a beast like Fintan. If you want my advice—”

“We don’t,” Goll snaps.

“As you wish,” Torin concedes. “But when the moon is full, be wary of her.”

He falls silent. I’m panting hard, as if I’d been running, thinking of the kind, weary face of my mother, trying to picture her killing my father. Then I recall the boy-beast in the hut and imagine myself in his position. I wish now that the past had remained a secret!

“What about the demons?” Drust asks, maybe to change the subject to stop me brooding, or maybe because he has no interest in my history or Torin’s grim prediction. “Don’t they ever attack?”