Werecats run wild through the streets of Britain, unaffected by the sunlight. But in the dark forests, a powerful force is growing, ready to take on the not-so-cuddly cats. The werewolves are coming.
The narrow alleyways were silent, everything submerged in shadow. But in the moonlight, dark shapes were moving, lithe creatures able to climb unscaleable walls, and jump the farthest gaps from rooftop to rooftop. One creature sat above the others, its perch a second floor balcony, the rusting wire rail no obstacle for the ancient, sharp-clawed monster.
Through the darkness an amber light pierced. The werecat opened its one remaining eye, a yellow orb in the darkness. "The age of the cat has come," its yowl ripped through the quiet of midnight, and, down below, the writhing mass of shadows answered.