Black Wilder has waited a long, long time to come Whitfield. But he is no stranger to patience. A Year, ten years, a hundred years. Time has no meaning for him. He just waits until the moment is right and then emerges—silently and unmercifully.
As night falls heavily on the small prairie town, red-rimmed eyes look out from tightly shut windows. An occasional snarl rips from once-human throats. Shadows play on dimly-lit streets, deepening the gloom of the alleys, bringing with the darkness and almost tangible aura of fear. For the time is now right in Whitfield. The Beasts are hungry, the Undead are awake, the putrid stench of evil hangs in the air---and the inhabitants of Whitfield are about to be touched by . . .
The Devil’s Kiss