It paws the earth.
Paces.
Its snout is longer than a child’s arm, its fangs–and let us make no mistake, for they are fangs–are ancient bone flecked with spittle and blood. Its lips curl back from its mouth in a great growl that sends vibrations pulsing through its flesh like ripples over muddy water. By day it is still too weak to break through the city gates, the ancient, unseen gates of London which stand guard against the nightmares. There’s thousands of years of magic in those old black stones, too strong to penetrate while the sun shines. But by night… by night when the minds of the city are sleeping, and the barriers between what is and what is perceived grow thin, by night there is nothing to hold it back.
It growls at the setting sun, willing it to sink faster, and as it paces the shadow lands beneath the veil of what is seen, its footsteps burn the earth.
The scholars call it–or possibly him, although no one has got close enough to speculate–the Lady’s Companion, for whereas Greydawn is a comfort in the night, her companion is the terror of the dark. The goblins call him Great Growling and hide their spawn from him as he goes out to hunt. To the White City Clan his are the mad eyes that they paint on the columns beneath the city bypasses; to the Neon Court he is Blackpaw, the footstep in the dark from which there is no hiding.
To everyone else, to the Friendlies who dare not whisper his name, to the shamans and the sorcerers of this city who know enough to fear the rumours, he is simply known as Dog, the companion of Greydawn, loyal and unstoppable.
Dog has lost his mistress.
Time to get her back.