Wolf's Hour

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This book is a remarkable tale of pulse-pounding excitement with a uniquely sympathetic, fascinating portrait of the werewolf as nobel warrior-and conflicted being. Complex, compelling and utterly real.
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This book is a remarkable tale of pulse-pounding excitement with a uniquely sympathetic, fascinating portrait of the werewolf as nobel warrior-and conflicted being. Complex, compelling and utterly real.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780671664855
  • Publisher: Pocket Books
  • Publication date: 3/28/1989
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback

Meet the Author

Robert McCammon is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of nineteen novels, including the award-winning Boy’s Life and Speaks the Nightbird. There are more than four million copies of his books in print.

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The Wolf's Hour

By Robert R. McCammon


Copyright © 1989 The McCammon Corporation
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-3154-8


Again the dream awakened him, and he lay in the dark while the gusts bellowed at the windows and an errant shutter flapped. He had dreamed he was a wolf who dreamed he was a man who dreamed he was a wolf who dreamed. And in that maze of dreams there had been bits and pieces of memory, flying like the fragments of an exploded jigsaw puzzle: the sepia-toned faces of his father, mother, and older sister, faces as if from a burned-edge photograph; a palace of broken white stones, surrounded by thick, primeval forest where the howls of wolves spoke to the moon; a passing steam train, headlight blazing, and a young boy racing along the tracks beside it, faster and faster, toward the entrance of the tunnel that lay ahead.

And from the puzzle of memory, an old, leathery, white-bearded face, the lips opening to whisper: Live free.

He sat up on his haunches and realized then that he had been lying not in his bed but on the cold stone floor before the fireplace. A few embers drowsed in the darkness, waiting to be stirred. He stood up, his body naked and muscular, and walked to the high bay windows that overlooked the wild hills of northern Wales. The March wind was raging beyond the glass, and scattershots of rain and sleet struck the windows before his face. He stared from darkness into darkness, and he knew they were coming.

They had let him alone too long. The Nazis were being forced toward Berlin by a vengeful Soviet tide, but Western Europe—the Atlantic Wall—was still in Hitler's grip. Now, in this year of 1944, great events were in motion, events with great potential for victory or terrible risks of defeat. And he knew full well what the aftermath of that defeat would mean: a solidified Nazi hold on Western Europe, perhaps an intensified effort against the Russian troops and a savage battle for territory between Berlin and Moscow. Though their ranks had been thinned, the Nazis were still the best-disciplined killers in the world. They could still deflect the Russian juggernaut and surge again toward the capital of the Soviet Union.

Mikhail Gallatinov's motherland.

But he was Michael Gallatin now, and he lived in a different land. He spoke English, thought in Russian, and contemplated in a language more ancient than either of those human tongues.

They were coming. He could feel them getting nearer, as surely as he sensed the wind whirling through the forest sixty yards away. The world's tumult was bringing them closer, to his house on this rocky coast that most men shunned. They were coming for one reason.

They needed him.

Live free, he thought, and his mouth curled with the hint of a smile. There was some bitterness in it. Freedom was an illusion, in the shelter of his own house on this stormy land, where the nearest village, Endore's Rill, lay more than fifteen miles to the south. For him, a great part of freedom was isolation, and he had come to realize more and more, as he monitored the shortwave broadcasts between London and the Continent, listening to the voices speak in codes through the blizzards of static, that the bonds of humanity had chained him.

So he would not refuse them entrance when they arrived, because he was a man and they would also be men. He would listen to what they had to say, might even consider it briefly before he refused. They had come a long way, over rough roads, and he might possibly offer them shelter for the night. But his service to his adopted homeland was done, and now it was up to young soldiers with mud-grimed faces and nervous fingers on carbine triggers. The generals and commanders might bark orders, but it was the young who died carrying them out; that was the way it had been throughout the ages, and in that respect, the future of warfare would never change. Men being what they were.

Well, there was no keeping them away from his door. He could lock the gate, way up at the end of the road, but they would find a way over it, or cut the barbed-wire fence and walk in. The British had a lot of experience in snipping barbed-wire. So it was best just to leave the gate unlocked, and wait for them. It might be tomorrow, or the day after that, or next week. Whenever; he would still be here.

Michael listened to the song of the wild for a moment, his head cocked slightly to one side. Then he returned to the flagstone floor in front of the fireplace, lay down and curled his arms around his knees, and tried to rest.


"He picked a damn lonely place to live, didn't he?" Major Shackleton lit a cigar and cranked down the glossy black Ford's rear window on his side to let the smoke seep out. The cigar tip glowed red in the gloomy twilight of late afternoon. "You Brits like this kind of weather, huh?"

"I fear we have no choice but to like it," Captain Humes-Talbot answered. He smiled as politely as he could, his aristocratic nostrils flared. "Or at least accept it."

"Right." Shackleton, a United States Army officer with a face like the business end of a battle-ax, peered out at the gray, low clouds and the nasty drizzle. He hadn't seen the sun for more than two weeks, and the chill was making his bones ache. The elderly, stiff-backed British army driver, separated from his passengers by a glass window, was taking them along a narrow pebbled road that wound between dark, cloud-shrouded crags and stands of thick pine forest. The last village they'd passed, Houlett, was twelve miles behind them. "That's why you people are so pale," he went on, like a bulldozer through a tea party. "Everybody looks like a ghost over here. You ever come to Arkansas, I'll show you a springtime sun."

"I'm not sure my schedule will allow it," Humes-Talbot said, and cranked down his window a turn and a half. He was wan and thin, a twenty-eight-year-old staff officer whose closest brush with death had been diving into a Portsmouth ditch as a Messerschmitt fighter screamed past seventy feet overhead. But that had been in August of 1940, and now no Luftwaffe aircraft dared to cross the Channel.

"So Gallatin served with distinction in North Africa?" Shackleton's teeth were clenched around the cigar, and the stub was wet with saliva. "That was two years ago. If he's been out of service since then, what makes your people think he can handle the job?"

Humes-Talbot stared at him blankly with his bespectacled blue eyes. "Because," he said, "Major Gallatin is a professional."

"So am I, sonny." Shackleton was ten years the British captain's senior. "That doesn't make me able to parachute into France, does it? And I haven't been sittin' on my tailbone for the last twenty-four months, I'll guaran-damn-tee you that."

"Yes sir," the other man agreed, simply because he felt he should. "But your ... uh ... people asked for help in this matter, and since it's of benefit to both of us, my superiors felt—"

"Yeah, yeah, that's yesterday's news." Shackleton waved the man quiet with an impatient hand. "I've told my people I'm not sold on Gallatin's—excuse me, Major Gallatin's—record. His lack of field experience, I ought to say, but I'm supposed to make a judgment based on a personal meeting. Which isn't the way we work in the States. We go by the record over there."

"We go by the character over here," Humes-Talbot said, with a bite of frost. "Sir."

Shackleton smiled faintly. Well, at last he'd gotten a rise out of this stiff-necked kid. "Your secret service might have recommended Gallatin, but that doesn't swing a shovelful of shit as far as I'm concerned. Pardon my French." He snorted smoke from his nostrils, his eyes catching a gleam of red. "I understand Gallatin's not his real name. It used to be Mikhail Gallatinov. He's a Russian. Right?"

"He was born in St. Petersburg in 1910," came the careful reply. "In 1934 he became a citizen of Great Britain."

"Yeah, but Russia's in his blood. You can't trust Russians. They drink too much vodka." He tapped ashes into the ashtray on the back of the driver's seat, but his aim was off and most of the ash fell on his spit-shined shoes. "So why'd he leave Russia? Maybe he was wanted for a crime over there?"

"Major Gallatin's father was an army general and a friend of Czar Nicholas the Second," Humes-Talbot said as he watched the road unreel in the yellow gleam of the headlights. "In May of 1918, General Fyodor Gallatinov, his wife, and twelve-year-old daughter were executed by Soviet party extremists. The young Gallatinov escaped."

"And?" Shackleton prodded. "Who brought him to England?"

"He came by himself, working aboard a freighter," the captain said. "In 1932."

Shackleton smoked his cigar and thought about it. "Hold on," he said quietly. "You're sayin' he hid from the murder squads in Russia from the time he was eight to when he was twenty-two years old? How'd he do that?"

"I don't know," Humes-Talbot admitted.

"You don't know? Hell, I thought you boys were supposed to know everything about Gallatinov. Or whatever. Haven't you got his records verified?"

"There's a gap in his records." The younger man saw the dim glow of lights ahead, through the pines. The road was curving, taking them toward the sparkle of lanterns. "The information is classified, for the top echelon of the secret service only."

"Yeah? Well, that's enough to tell me I don't want him on the job."

"I presume Major Gallatin named those individuals who remained loyal to the memory of the royal circle and helped him survive. To expose those names would be ... shall we say, less than prudent?" The small houses and clustered-together structures of a village were coming out of the drizzle. A little white sign on a post said ENDORE'S RILL. "I will pass on a bit of rumor, if I may," Humes-Talbot said, wanting to throw a smoking grenade back at the ugly American. "I understand that the mad monk Rasputin was in Saint Petersburg and enjoyed ... liaisons with several ladies of breeding in 1909 and 1910. One of those ladies, dare I say, was Elana Gallatinov." He looked into Shackleton's face. "Rasputin may have been Michael Gallatin's real father."

A small cough of cigar smoke came from Shackleton's throat.

There was a tapping noise. Mallory, the driver, rapped his knuckles on the glass and put his foot to the Ford's brake. The car was slowing, the windshield wipers slapping away the sleet and rain. Humes-Talbot rolled the glass barrier down, and Mallory said with a crisp Oxford accent, "Beg your pardon, sir, but I think we should stop for directions. That might be the place." He pointed at a lantern-lit tavern coming up on the right.

"Indeed it is," the young man agreed, and rolled the glass back up as Mallory cruised the big car to a stop in front of the tavern's door. "I'll be back in a minute," Humes-Talbot said as he pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck and opened the door.

"Wait for me," Shackleton told him. "I could use a drink of whiskey to get my blood warm again."

They left Mallory in the car and went up a set of stone steps. A sign creaked on chains above the doorway, and Shackleton glanced up at it to see a painted sheep and the words THE MUTTON CHOP. Inside, a cast-iron stove burned with the sweet musk of bog peat and oil lamps hung from pegs on the wooden walls. Three men who were sitting at a back table talking quietly and drinking ale looked up from their conversation at the uniformed military officers.

"Welcome, gentlemen," an attractive black-haired woman behind the bar said with a heavy Welsh accent. Her eyes were bright blue, and they quickly examined the two visitors with a thoroughness that seemed casual. "What may I do for you?"

"Whiskey, babe," Shackleton said, grinning around his cigar. "Best poison you've got."

She uncorked a jug and poured him a murky shot glass full. "Only poison we've got, if you don't count the ale and bitters." She smiled faintly, a sultry smile with a challenge in it.

"Nothing for me, but I would like some information." Humes-Talbot warmed his hands before the stove. "We're looking for a man who lives around here. His name is Michael Gallatin. Do you—"

"Oh, yes," she said, and her eyes glinted. "I do know Michael."

"Where does he live?" Shackleton took a whiff of the whiskey and thought his eyebrows had been singed.

"Around. He doesn't entertain visitors." She stroked a cloth across the jug. "Much."

"He's expectin' us, babe. Official business."

She considered that for a moment, looking at the shine of their buttons. "Take the road that runs through the Rill. It goes on for eight miles and then it turns into dirt, or mud, as the case may be. It splits into two. The road on the left is the rougher one. It goes to his gate. Whether it'll be open or not is up to him."

"We'll open it if it's not," Shackleton said. He took the cigar out of his mouth and, with a grin at the bartender, swallowed the local whiskey.

"Bottoms up," she told him.

His knees buckled as the whiskey seared down his throat like a trail of lava. He thought for a second that he'd swallowed crushed glass, or bits of razor blade. He felt sweat boil out of his pores, and he squeezed a cough down in his chest because the bartender was watching him, smiling knowingly, and he was damned if he'd fall on his ass in front of a woman.

"How do you like it, babe?" she asked, all innocence.

He feared returning the cigar to his mouth, in case the smoke caught fire and blew his head off. Tears burned his eyes, but he clenched his teeth and slammed the shot glass down on the bar. "It ... needs ... agin'," he managed to croak, and his face flamed when he heard the men laugh at the back table.

"That it does," she agreed, and her soft laughter was like the rustle of a silk curtain. Shackleton started to reach for his wallet, but she said, "It's on the house. You're a good sport."

He smiled, more sickly than sporty, and Humes-Talbot cleared his throat and said, "We thank you for the information and hospitality, madam. Shall we go, Major?" Shackleford made something that might have been a grunt of assent, and followed Humes-Talbot to the door on leaden legs.

"Major, dear?" the bartender called before he went out. He looked back, wanting to get out of this suffocating heat. "You can thank Michael for the drink when you see him. That's his private stock. Nobody else'll touch the stuff."

Shackleton went out the door of The Mutton Chop feeling like chopped mutton.

Full dark had fallen as Mallory drove them away from Endore's Rill, between the wind-lashed woods and mountains carved by the fingers of time. Shackleton, his face tinged the shade of tallow, forced himself to finish the cigar and then thumped it away out the window. It blew a trail of sparks, like a falling comet.

Mallory turned off the main road—a mud-puddled wagon track—and onto the rougher one on the left. The axles groaned as the Ford's tires plowed through potholes, and the seat springs yowled like pressured steam vents as Shackleton was thrown and jostled. The young British captain was used to uncomfortable roadways, and he clenched the hand grip over his door's window and lifted his rear an inch or two off the leather.

"Man ... don't wanna ... be located," was all Shackleton could say as the Ford shook harder than any tank he'd ever driven. Lord have mercy on my achin' tailbone! he thought. The road went on, a path of tortures, through the dense green woods. Finally, after two or three more brutal miles, the headlights found a high iron gate. It was wide open, and the Ford continued through.

The muddy road smoothed a bit, but not by much. Every so often they hit a bump and Shackleton's teeth cracked together with a force that he knew would cut his tongue off if he didn't keep it rolled up in his head. The wind swirled through the forest on both sides of the road, the sleet pelted down, and suddenly Shackleton felt a long way from Arkansas.

Mallory stepped on the brake. "Here! What's that!" Humes-Talbot said, looking along the cone of the headlights. Three large dogs were standing in the road, the wind ruffling their fur. "My God!" Humes-Talbot took off his glasses, hurriedly wiped the lenses, and put them back on. "I believe those are wolves!"

"Hell, lock the damned doors!" Shackleton hollered.

The Ford slowed to a crawl. As Shackleton's fist hammered down the lock on his side, the three animals lifted their muzzles to the scent of hot metal and engine oil and vanished into the dark wall of trees on the left. The Ford picked up speed again, Mallory's age-spotted hands steady on the wheel, and they took a long curve through the forest and emerged onto a driveway paved with fieldstones.

And there stood the house of Michael Gallatin.

It looked like a church, made of dark red stones chinked together with white mortar. Shackleton realized that it must have been a church at one time, because it had a narrow tower topped with a white spire and a walkway around it. But the truly amazing thing about the structure was that it had electricity. Light streamed from the windows on the first floor, and up in the church's tower panes of stained glass gleamed dark blue and crimson. Off to the right was a smaller stone building, possibly a workshed or garage.


Excerpted from The Wolf's Hour by Robert R. McCammon. Copyright © 1989 The McCammon Corporation. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents


One – Rite of Spring,
Two – The White Place,
Three – Grand Entrance,
Four – The Change,
Five – The Mouse Trap,
Six – Berserker,
Seven – The Brimstone Club,
Eight – Youth's Last Flower,
Nine – The Devil's Kingdom,
Ten – Destiny,
Eleven – Unforseen Circumstances,

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 5
( 40 )
Rating Distribution

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 40 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 27, 2012

    My favorite!

    I bought this book when I was in high school to bring along on a hunting trip with my father. I wore my copy out. Twice in one week and several chapters over and over. I found another copy at a thrift store last year and bought it because it is so rare to find a hard copy anywhere. Look on ebay. They are going for anywhere up to several hundred hundred dollars. Now I have a digital copy to read any time.

    I have read other books by Robert McCammon. None have appealed to me like this one. However, the Matthew Corbett series is excellent. Speaks the Nightbird reads smoothly.

    McCammon has an amazing ability to paint images of his characters in the readers' minds. This trait makes character development a joy throughout the read. Read this one. Then move on to his other books. McCammon never fails to leave the reader hungry for more.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 23, 2012


    I read this many years ago as well all his books. But as much as i loved his other books , this one has stuck with me for years. And i just bought his sequel. Its out people!!!!!!!!! All his books are fantastic and its a crime his work isnt as available to get. Gotta read swan song again too.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 5, 2012

    Prime example

    This novel is easily one of, if not the best werewolf story in literature. So attached to the characters, I hated for the book to end. Sequel released in 2011!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted October 14, 2011

    Great Read!

    Read the actual book, years ago and loved it. If you like Dean Koontz style books, you will most likely love Robert McCammom!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 18, 2003

    Another excellent McCammon experience

    In addition to Swan Song, this is another novel that represents McCammon's best work. A unique take on werewolf mythology, the plot revolves around a lycanthropic super-spy who uses his abilities to fight evil nazis and such. James Bond meets Lon Cheney. It also contains quite a few kinky moments some of which border on beastiality! A great summer read.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 30, 2013

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 24, 2012

    one of McCammons best


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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 18, 2012


    But she always says stuff like that. With how strict she is you would be surprised that i will be 18 next year.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 18, 2012



    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 16, 2012


    Shadowstar}•{ Pads to result one.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2012


    Runs in and lays in her nest sobbing.... < Wolfscar

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2012


    She purred.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2012


    He turned his face a bright red. He took the leaf and ran as fast as he could to the fith result. :)Tigergod(:

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 9, 2012


    I looked in. 'I guess this must be where I stay, the Warriors Den,' I thought. I begin making my nest out of moss, and layed down my prize foxed pelt over the bed. I smile and lay down in it to test it. Perfect. 'Well, I guess I'm done here for now.' I padded out.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 2, 2012

    WolfClan Territory - Warriors' Den


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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 20, 2012


    I love this book

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted September 12, 2012

    James Bond meets the Werewolf.

    This book is so full of action, romance and intrigue, you won't want to put it down. The character that McCammon creates is so intriguing, you will never forget him. It tells how he becomes a werewolf and how he becomes a spy during WWII. The book leaves you begging for more of this character. I only wish that McCammon would write a series of books about Michael Gallatin.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 14, 2012

    One of my favorite reads

    Mystery, spys, and werewolves! Who could ask for anything more?

    My paperback copy had been read so many times it fell apart.
    McCammons at his best. A must read

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  • Posted April 11, 2011

    Loved this book

    If you love stories about werewolves, Nazi's, WWII, espionage and love, this is the book for you. It combines the story of how the character became a werewolf and his life with his pack and his life as an alli spy. I could not put the book down. The characters were fully developed and the story captivating. I even went back and reread the last several chapters of the book because it had so captured my imagination. I did not want the story to end. I want more of this character and hear that Rober R McCammon is working on a sequel of short stories. I will definitely buy that book when it comes out. I strongly recommend this book.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 6, 2008

    A Very Memorable Book

    I've never read a book twice. I read so many books I often can't remember the title of some of them, and I can't always remember what they're about. I read this book a long time ago, and I've never forgotten who wrote it, or what it's about. I would definitely read this one again if I could put my hands on it. I must have borrowed this book because I keep every book I read, and I can't find it anywhere. If I could find it in any store I would definitely rebuy it. I've read a few of Robert McCammon's other books and it's a shame that he hasn't written anything for a long time. To sum it all up, I highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys reading, regardless of the type of books they usually read.

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