Free Fool Moon by Jim Butcher

said.
    “Exactly. It leaves you with your own intellect and reason, but the spirit handles everything else.”
    I frowned. “Sounds a little easy.”
    “Oh, sure,” Bob said. “It’s really easy. And when you use a talisman to turn into a wolf, you lose all of your human inhibitions and so on, and just run on your unconscious desires, with the talisman-spirit in charge of the way the body moves. It’s really efficient. A huge wolf with human-level intelligence and animal-level ferocity.”
    I eyed Bob, and gathered up the other ingredients for the stimulant potion: a morning doughnut, for taste; a cock’s crow, for hearing; fresh soap, for smell; bits of a washcloth, for touch; and a beam of dawn sunshine for sight; a to-do list, for the mind; and a bit of bright, cheerful music, for the spirit; and the potion was simmering along nicely.
    Bob said nothing while I added the ingredients, and when I was finished I said, “Most people don’t have the strength to control a spirit like that, I’d think. It would influence their actions. Maybe even control them. Suppress their conscience.”
    “Yeah. So?”
    “So it sounds more like you’d be creating a monster.”
    “It’s effective,” Bob said. “I don’t know about the good or the evil of the thing. That’s something that only you mortals worry about.”
    “What did you call this flavor again?”
    “Hexenwolf,” Bob said, with a strong Germanic accent. “Spell wolf. The Church declared war on anyone who chose to become a Hexenwolf, and burned a huge number of people at the stake.”
    “Silver bullets?” I asked. “Bitten and turn into a werewolf?”
    “Would you get off this ‘bitten and turn into a werewolf’ kick, Harry?” Bob said. “It doesn’t work that way. Not ever. Or you’d have werewolves overrunning the entire planet in a couple of years.”
    “Fine, fine,” I sighed. “What about the silver bullets?”
    “Don’t need them.”
    “All right,” I said, and continued jotting down information to put together for Murphy in a report. “Hexenwolf. Got it. What else?”
    “Lycanthropes,” Bob said.
    “Isn’t that a psychological condition?”
    “It might also be a psychological condition,” Bob said. “But it was a reality first. A lycanthrope is a natural channel for a spirit of rage. A lycanthrope turns into a beast, but only inside his head. The spirit takes over. It affects the way he acts and thinks, makes him more aggressive, stronger. They also tend to be very resistant to pain or injury, sickness; they heal rapidly—all sorts of things.”
    “But they don’t actually shape-shift into a wolf?”
    “Give that boy a Kewpie,” Bob said. “They’re just people, too, but they’re awfully fierce. Ever heard of the Norse berserkers? Those guys were lycanthropes, I think. And they’re born, not made.”
    I stirred the stimulant potion, and made sure it was at an even simmer. “And what was the last one? Loop what?”
    “Loup-garou,” Bob said. “Or that was the name Etienne the Enchanter used for them, before he got burned at the stake. The loup-garou are the major monsters, Harry. Someone has cursed them to become a wolflike demon, and usually at the full moon. That someone’s got to be really powerful, too, like a major heavyweight sorcerer or a demon lord or one of the Faerie Queens. When the full moon comes, they transform into a monster, go on a killing spree, and slaughter everything they come across until the moon sets or the sun rises.”
    A sudden little chill went over me, and I shivered. “What else?”
    “Supernatural speed and power. Supernatural ferocity. They recover from injuries almost instantly, if they become hurt at all. They’re immune to poison and to any kind of sorcery that goes for their brain. Killing machines.”
    “Sounds great. I guess this hasn’t happened all that often? I’d have heard something by now.”
    “Right,” Bob said. “Not often. Usually, the poor cursed bastard