Ryder and the Wolf: The End Begins. (Book 1 Completed)

Chapter 1

This story is written especially for my friend Garrett P; who has also been a major help with ideas for the plot, as well as ideas for the sequels. This is chapter one from the first Ryder and the Wolf book; so if you like the way it starts out, then please comment and I'll post another chapter. Hope you like it! I know I enjoyed writing it!!!!

Chapter 1 

New homes and Bad dreams

My name is Ryder Peterson. The story I'm about to tell you is not about me; however, I am one of it's chief characters. This story is about my brother; Peter Peterson, and about my friends: Alick, Tagger, Romulus, Remus, Rollin, and Steven... but the most important of us all; of course, is a twelve year old orphan boy named Deo McKale.  

What's so important about a twelve year old orphan? You might well ask. Well for one thing he's no ordinary twelve year old boy; he might seem average enough, but don't be fooled by appearances. This story is no ordinary old wolves' tale either. This story is one that might shock you, frighten you, amaze you, and make you believe the impossible, all at once. It all started with the time; I moved to a small cottage in the tiny English village of Widecombe, in the moors of Dartmoor National Park. The very same place; I might add, where I met my first love and most trusted friend, a mysterious young man by the name of Alick Bade.

           In the darkest recurring nightmare that I remember having; I was with my father, and it was the day of the incident. The largest wolves ever seen by human eyes were chasing me; with their gnashing teeth and their matted faces, all caked in blood where they had torn my father's flesh. I could hear him shouting "Run away Ryder, go to your mother. Don't look back, and don't stop running or they'll kill you. Go straight home. Run!"

Waking up in another cold sweat; I sat silently breathing in the air around me, suffering in secret and wishing my father was still there to take away the fear and the hurt. Ever since I was twelve; I believed that he had been torn apart by those monsters, but everything I believed to be true was about to change. My mother had always told me to put such horrible images out of my mind; she made my brother and I believe that my father left because he wanted his freedom, not because of what he really was.  

Our family was different than others; I was unaware of our "gifted nature" at that time, but we were only half human, to us they were "normal folk" and to them we were "monsters". What constitutes "a monster"? someone with a rare blood type? someone with fangs and a tail? or is it just a term used to describe an individual or group reaction toward the unknown? like a shadow; cast against the wall, in an already dark room. I felt hunted when surrounded by the locals; I was always picked on and beaten down at school, the kids always used to call me a freak. 

That's why we moved out here; to the quietest little village, in the most deserted area of Dartmoor. This area of England was the most beautiful place I had ever seen; there's nothing for miles around here, Only rolling green hills and bogs as far as the eye can see. In some places where the ground is covered in dense thickets; you can hear underground streams, running past you about thirty or so feet below the earth's surface. They say be careful where you tread when you hear it; if you fall in, there's no way you're coming back out... you're as good as dead. 

Over the first few days; the nightmares got worse, some of them even continued after I awoke and plagued me through the daylight. I began seeing flashes of memories; visions of past experiences, faces of familiar strangers, questions reeled in the back of my mind; nagging at me to ask someone, anyone about things I didn't yet understand.

I'd black out at inopportune moments; collapse in plain sight surrounded by everyone, and just lie as still as death. Having visions of things from my childhood; memories that I could never recall ordinarily, and yet the dearest of all were the stories that my grandfather told me as a child. My grandfather died before I came of age; I'd never forgotten his wisdom, nor had I forgotten the smell of his old tobacco pipe. 

Sometimes I'd be out cold for a few minutes; other times I'd be out for a few hours, and when I woke up my grandfather's words were still with me. There was still something behind each flashback that I couldn't quite figure out; like a riddle wrapped in a mystery, shrouded in the lies my mother used to cover up who we really were. The three of us were not just Etta, Peter and Ryder Peterson; we were something far different, than the ordinary humans around us.  

It was only through my flashbacks; along with the events that followed, that I was to find out exactly what that was. There was still so much I had to learn; and I had no idea, just how quickly I could run out of time. Unfortunately for me I had no one to teach me; at least that's what I thought, until the night I had decided to venture past the boundaries set by my mother.