They say the hunter's moon was once called the blood moon, and I know why. A full moon shining through a crisp autumn night turns blood from crimson to black. I much prefer the shade of blood beneath the moon to its shade beneath the stark electric lights. But I digress. I am a hunter. A Juger-Sucher to those in the know - of which there are a select few. I hunt monsters, and in case you're thinking that's a euphemism for today's serial killers, it's not. When I say "monster" I mean hell unleashed, tooth and claw, supernatural magic on the loose. The kind of thing that will give you nightmares forever. Just like me. My specialty is werewolves. I must have killed a thousand and I'm only twenty-four. Sadly, my job security has never been in jeopardy. A fact I learned all too well when my boss, Edward Mandenauer, called me early one October morning. "Leigh, I need you here." "Where is here?" I mumbled. I am not a bright and shiny early person. This might come from living most of my life in the dark. Werewolves emerge at night, beneath the moon. They're funny that way. "I am in Crow Valley, Wisconsin." "Never heard of it." "Which gives you much in