On the island of Beltra, just off the western coast of Ireland, life thrived in its own quiet way. Farmers tended their sheep, fishermen hauled in the day’s catch, seamstresses mended torn garments, and bakers filled the air with the smell of fresh bread. It was a self-sustaining community, small by most standards, but the largest in the region. In the grand scheme of islands, it was humble, but to those who lived there, it was home.

  Tonight, though, that home was under siege. Storm Malcolm, the most powerful tempest in living memory, battered the island with relentless fury.

  Brian O’Reay sat hunched in his rocking chair near the fireplace, wrapped tightly in a thick wool blanket. Usually, a fire would keep the cold at bay, but the howling winds found every crack and crevice, quenching any flame Brian tried to light. The storm rattled the shutters and moaned through the eaves, setting his nerves on edge.

  The last time a storm of this magnitude had struck, Brian had been a newborn, cradled in his father’s arms. He had no memory of it and little experience handling such ferocity. If not for his neighbor, Séamus Daly, reminding him to herd the sheep into the barn, he might have left them out to fend for themselves.

  Even inside, the storm’s howls made sleep impossible. The bedroom walls shuddered with every gust, so Brian had retreated to the fireplace at the far side of the house. The noise wasn’t much quieter there, but it felt less like the roof might collapse on his head.

  His thoughts turned to the barn. The sheep were his livelihood. If anything happened to them, it would be as devastating as the storm itself.

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  A deafening crash broke through the wind’s howls, startling Brian from his chair. He bolted to the front door and flung it open. The barn’s roof glowed faintly against the black sky, a fire had started near the ridge.

  Lightning! he thought, just as another bolt split the heavens, illuminating the scene. For an instant, Brian’s heart stopped. A massive silhouette loomed near the barn, larger than any animal he had ever seen.

  He blinked, and the light was gone. He squinted into the darkness, his eyes struggling to adjust. “A tree,” he muttered aloud. “It must’ve been a tree blown over by the wind.”

  Pulling his coat tightly around him, Brian hurried toward the barn, keeping low to avoid flying debris. The wind whipped at his face, and rain soaked him to the bone. When he reached the barn, he opened the door as little as he could in the raging wind, it was just wide enough to stick his head inside.

  Relief washed over him. The fire had barely caught, just a flicker on the roof’s edge. The timbers had been treated to withstand flames, and the rain was already working to douse it. The sheep bleated softly, huddled together, unharmed.

  Brian turned to go, but the ground shuddered beneath his feet, as though a giant boulder had dropped nearby. He let out a nervous laugh. “Just the storm,” he told himself, though his pulse quickened.

  He froze. Something moved in the darkness, something that wasn’t driftwood or a fallen tree. It had dark fur, and its head was crowned with flat, sprawling antlers. It stood taller than three men stacked atop one another, its eyes glinting in the faint light.

  Brian barely had time to gasp as the beast screamed, a guttural, primal sound, and charged.

  He fumbled for the barn door, his hands trembling, but it was too late. The creature struck with the force of a landslide, and the world went dark.