Camwolf

by J. L. Merrow

  Nick looked up. “It means, you may go.” Dear God, please just go.

  “But…”

  “Get out, damn it!”

  Casting nervous glances at one another, they left. Exhausted, Nick sank into his chair.

  This could not go on. He needed to be searching for Julian, not nurse-maiding over-privileged adolescents. Suddenly Nick couldn’t bear to stay in this place a moment longer. Grabbing his jacket, he slammed the door of his rooms behind him and half-ran down the stairs and out of college.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tiff picked at her shepherd’s pie, which had all but gone cold. She’d sat at the end of one of the three long tables in Hall, so that Crack would be able to find her easily if he ever bloody turned up. It also made her nice and conspicuous to all the idiots who liked to point and gossip. She jumped as the chair next to hers was pulled back with a scrape and Crack folded himself into it like a piece of Goth origami. He’d gone for the veggie bake, she noted, looking at his tray. Somehow she wasn’t surprised.

  “Have you got it?” she asked.

  A couple of girls sitting across the table from Tiff gave her startled glances. Probably thought they were witnessing a drug deal. Tiff felt her mouth quirk up, slightly amazed she could still smile at a time like this.

  “Yeah, I’ve got it,” Crack said in a low voice, managing to look shifty even as he shoveled vegetables into his mouth.

  “Well?”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  The girls across the table were still watching intently out of the corners of their eyes. Tiff bit back a retort that it was none of his sodding business. “I’m going to give it to Dr. Sewell,” she told him as quietly as she could. One of the girls dropped her fork. Tiff rolled her eyes.

  “Not the police?” Crack mumbled indistinctly, his mouth full.

  “If I was going to tell them, do you think I’d have needed you? Look, eat up and we’ll talk about it outside, okay?”

  Crack set to like he’d been starving for a week, which, looking at him, didn’t seem that unlikely. Tiff tried to force a couple more forkfuls down, then gave it up as a bad job. Any more of this and she’d be losing weight. The friend-in-mortal-peril diet.

  She couldn’t see it catching on.

  Tiff was grateful for the fresh, cold air on her face when they finally got out of Hall. She stood for a moment on the stone steps, breathing it in as Crack stepped up beside her. The college looked smaller in the dark, somehow. It wasn’t like Kings, or Jesus, with great big lumps of architecture preening in the spotlights. All Saints was just small, unassuming and homey. At least, it had been until Julian’s ex had arrived on the scene. Tiff shivered, drawing Jools’ jacket more tightly about her. Her insides seemed to tie themselves in knots as she wondered if he was all right, and suddenly she was glad she hadn’t been able to eat much. “So, what have you got?” she asked abruptly.

  Crack looked startled for a moment, then dug into his jeans pocket. He handed her a wodge of A4 paper, folded half-a-dozen times and still warm from his body heat. Tiff opened it up impatiently. There were…she counted eight addresses on the sheet, in round, childish handwriting. “That’s it?”

  Crack shrugged. “Places round here don’t stay empty for long. These are the ones we know about that were empty just after the start of term, and still haven’t had anyone move in.”

  “Right. Thanks, Crack.” About to head straight off, Tiff paused. “How did you get this list, anyway?”

  “One of the girls I’m sharing the house with is going out with an estate agent. Don’t spread it around, though. I mean, his place doesn’t handle any of these properties, but it’s still a bit iffy.” Crack gave her a sidelong look, as if he was wishing he hadn’t said so much.

  Tiff managed not to tsk under her breath. Like she’d be going around spreading gossip at a time like this. “Thanks,” she said again and strode off towards Dr. Sewell’s rooms. She was annoyed to find Crack tagging along beside her.

  “So, is it true, then?” he asked before she could think of a way to tell him to piss off without sounding ungrateful.

  “Is what true?” she asked impatiently.

  “Julian and Dr. Sewell. That they’re shagging.”

  Tiff gave a little huff of irritation. “Well, not right now, they’re not.”

  Crack nodded. “So, what about you and him? Julian, I mean. Weren’t you supposed to be going out with him?” He nudged her with one bony elbow. “Or is it some kind of kinky threesome?”

  They’d reached the bottom of the staircase. Dr. Sewell’s sign said he was out, but it probably said that permanently these days. If Tiff had been him, she’d have wanted to avoid people as much as possible, at any rate. “That was just a joke, me and Jools,” she said, jogging up the stairs in the hope Crack would lose interest if he had to make any actual effort to keep up with her. Annoyingly, his long legs matched her pace effortlessly.

  “Yeah? A joke on who?”

  “Nosy, aren’t you?” Tiff muttered, and knocked on Dr. Sewell’s door.

  He didn’t answer. She tried again, banging a bit harder this time.

  After the third time, when she’d actually shouted through the door and still got no response, Tiff swore under her breath. Where the bloody hell was Nick Sewell? Just when she had something for him, he had to disappear off the face of the earth.

  Just like Julian, she thought with a sudden chill.

  No, that was stupid. Boris had Julian; why would he leave him to come after Dr. Sewell? Most likely Dr. Sewell was just out somewhere, hunting Julian. She hoped.

  “Tiffany?”

  “What?”

  “I said, why don’t we ask at the Plodge? They might know where Dr. Sewell is.”

  Tiff stared at him, her tangled thoughts taking a moment to unjumble themselves. “Yes, all right. That’s a good idea.” She jogged down the stairs, annoyed that Crack’s long legs were keeping up with her without the slightest sign of haste. “And call me Tiff, okay? I hate that name.”

  Tiff was surprised to find Crack hanging back as they reached the Porters’ Lodge. “You’d better go and ask on your own,” he muttered. “The porters don’t like me much.”

  “Oh? I wonder why?” Tiff rolled her eyes and went inside, taking a deep breath. The head porter, Mr. Sands, was on duty. In his bowler hat and formal clothes he looked a lot like she imagined Jeeves’ dad would have looked. Implacable, inscrutable, terrifyingly respectable. And probably lots of other words ending in —able. “Mr. Sands?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Um. I was wondering if you might know where I could find Dr. Sewell? He’s not in his rooms and I really need to speak to him.”

  The craggy lines of the porter’s face didn’t alter. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until he’s back in college.” He turned to some papers on the desk in front of him.

  “Please!” Tiff blurted out. “Look, I really need to see him, and it can’t wait.” Tiff found her voice shaking a bit and was horrified to feel a tear pricking at her eyelids. “It’s about J-Julian,” she continued. “It’s really important.”

  Sands pressed his lips together and fixed her with a look that was suddenly a great deal more sympathetic. “If you think you know where he might be, it might be better to talk to the police,” he began. Then he broke off and nodded to himself. “But I’m sure Dr. Sewell will inform them if he thinks it necessary. I’ll give him a call on his mobile.”

  Tiff waited anxiously as he dialed and then stood there listening for a few moments. “Dr. Sewell? It’s Sands from the Porter’s Lodge. I’d be grateful if you’d give me a ring when you get this message.” Tiff almost groaned out loud as she realised Dr. Sewell must have his bloody phone switched off. Didn’t it even occur to him that people might want to get in touch?

  “Could you try Dr. Pawlaczek?” she asked as he put the phone down. “They’re friends, aren’t they? So she might have an idea how to get in to
uch with him.”

  Sands gave her a long-suffering look, but picked up the phone again. This time, he didn’t speak at all before putting it down. “Went straight to answer-phone. I’m afraid she does tend to do that in the evenings.” He seemed to be considering something for a moment. “I really shouldn’t do this, but…” He sighed. “Dr. Pawlaczek’s address is thirty-three Pennington Way. It’s not far.”

  Tiff could have kissed him. “Thank you. Really—thank you.” She ran out of the Plodge the way she’d come in, remembering in time that it’d probably be polite to tell Crack what was going on. If he was still there.

  A long, thin shape detached itself from the shadows where it had been leaning against the wall like a discarded umbrella. “Where to now?” Crack’s voice asked.

  “Dr. Pawlaczek’s. I’ve got her address. We’ll need bikes.” She was about to tell him he didn’t need to come, but then she remembered the feeling of dread as she’d been stalked by the wolf in the bike sheds. It was a million to one it’d be there tonight, but still… “You coming?”

  Crack’s teeth gleamed whitely in the light of the college lampposts as he grinned and nodded.

  The streets were quiet at this time of the evening. Most people were either still eating or getting a bit of study in before venturing out for the night. She’d thought Crack would look weird on a bike, all knees and elbows, but in fact he had an oddly streamlined silhouette. “You’re asking for trouble, riding without lights,” she muttered as they locked their bikes together up against Dr. Pawlaczek’s garden wall.

  “Yeah, well, that’s me. Live dangerously.” He laughed suddenly. “Nah, I left them on my bike one night and some bastard nicked them.”

  Tiff rang the doorbell and did that awkward shuffling thing you did while you waited for the answer. Crack just leaned against the wall in what she’d come to recognise as his nonchalant pose. Pose being the operative word. Tiff frowned. “Your eyeliner’s gone splodgy. Here.” She licked a finger and reached up to wipe away the smudge. Crack looked a bit startled, but Tiff had no time to worry about that as just then the door was opened by a mad old woman with wild-looking grey hair. There was a bloody enormous scarf wrapped round her neck, which Tiff realised was still attached to a pair of knitting needles.

  “Oh, hello, dears. Are you looking for Nadia?” she asked brightly.

  “Er, Dr. Pawlaczek? Yes,” Tiff told her, trying not to stare.

  “Come in, come in.” Exchanging looks, Tiff and Crack followed her fuzzy slippers down the hall. “This way.” She opened a door, and waved them into a cozy little sitting room. Dr. Pawlaczek was sitting on a squashy-looking sofa wearing an identical pair of fuzzy slippers and a worried look. The rest of the sofa was taken up by several furry cushions. Wondering if she should sit down, Tiff jumped as one of the cushions stretched and yawned, revealing itself as a long-haired cat. She decided to stay standing.

  A cough drew her attention to the other side of the room. Standing by the fireplace, with dark circles etched deep under his eyes and something scarily dishevelled about his hair and clothes, was Dr. Sewell. “Oh, thank God! Dr. Sewell, I need to talk to you.”

  Nick felt his hackles rise as he saw Tiffany’s companion. Since when had the girl acquired a Goth shadow? And why the hell did anyone else have to be privy to discussions about his private life?

  Nadia, bless her, came to the rescue. “Marje, dearie, why don’t we take this young man into the kitchen and see if we can’t feed him up a bit? He’s looking a bit peaky in my view.”

  There was something about Crack’s horrified expression as the ladies dragged him into the kitchen that Nick vaguely registered might have been amusing in other circumstances. “What is it, Tiffany?” he asked, probably a little more brusquely than he ought. But Tiffany wouldn’t have come all the way out here if she didn’t have something important to say.

  She hesitated before speaking. Nick had a sudden urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake it out of her. “It’s about Julian. About where he might be, I mean.” She stopped again, damn her. “Look, maybe you’re doing this wrong. I mean, you’re trying to find him as a, well, as a wolf. Maybe you need to think more like a human?”

  Nick resisted the impulse to ask sarcastically whether he should try to think like a bloody psychopath. “I think you need to be a bit more specific there,” he said tightly. His nerves were screaming at him to pace around like a caged tiger, but he was damned if he’d give in to his animal instincts in front of one of his students.

  Tiffany nodded with maddening slowness. “Well, this Boris—he’s not going to stay as a wolf all the time, is he? So he must have somewhere to live. But he’s probably not very, well, comfortable around humans.”

  “Is this going somewhere?” Nick snapped. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Please go on.”

  “I think he’s probably found somewhere abandoned to live. In town, I mean. I was going to tell you how I…but it doesn’t matter. Look,” she went on more briskly, “here’s a list of properties you might want to check out, okay?” She thrust a folded piece of paper at him. “They’re houses that were empty at around the time Boris might have got here and still haven’t got anyone living in them officially. He could be squatting in one of them.”

  Nick swallowed. It might not be anything useful, but it was still a damn sight more than he had. And at least it would give him something to do. “Thank you.”

  She nodded.

  “Wait—have you told the police?”

  “I didn’t think that would be a good idea,” she replied, looking uncertain, her arms wrapped around herself. She was still wearing Julian’s jacket. Nick wanted to ask for it back, but stopped himself. She’d earned it. “Be careful, won’t you?” she said softly and headed to the kitchen.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The moment Tiffany had gone, Nick started ransacking Nadia’s bookshelves until he found an A-Z. He checked out the addresses—three of the streets were already known to him, but the others weren’t. He tried to work out which might be the most likely from location alone, but the most he could come up with was that several were significantly closer to Coe Fen than the others, which might not mean anything at all. Still, he had to have some kind of starting point.

  The skies were as dark as they’d get, in the middle of town with all the streetlights reflected off the clouds, but it’d still be madness to try to check out the properties in wolf form. Far too many people around, and the distance between them was enough that he’d do much better by car in any case. At this time of night, traffic shouldn’t be a problem, always assuming he could manage to avoid drunken cyclists. He grabbed his keys, then hesitated. Should he tell Herrscher? Nick fought down his instinctive thought of “to hell with Herrscher”. This was about saving Julian, not scoring points over his father. Still, he was relieved when Herrscher’s phone clicked straight over to voicemail. He rattled off the list of addresses as fast as he could, then jammed the phone back in his pocket.

  As he slammed Nadia’s front door behind him, it occurred to Nick that he ought perhaps to have said goodbye. Too late to worry about it now. There was a brisk breeze blowing, but the stars were still obscured by thick clouds that glowed Halloween orange in the reflected light of the streetlamps. Nick shivered for a moment before climbing into the Mini Cooper and driving off.

  The first property Nick pulled up outside—or rather, a cautious five or six doors down from—was clearly occupied. Music blared from the windows, light shone through the blankets hung up to serve as curtains, and there were even signs of some attempt to tidy up the garden. Nice to know some squatters had standards. It was all clearly far too bloody normal for Schräger to be here. Nick got back into the car in resignation, sent a quick text to inform Herrscher of his failure, and set off once more.

  The second house was also occupied, and a terrace besides, making it hardly suitable for concealing a prisoner. The third had been demolished and the debris hidden behind builder’s hoar
dings. The fourth was empty and cold. Nick risked breaking a window to investigate further, but the only signs of life were the cobwebs on the ceiling and the mouse droppings upon the floor. His texts to Herrscher becoming more brusque with every disappointment, Nick had begun to lose hope by the time he pulled up by the fifth property.

  This house was large, detached from its neighbours, and derelict-looking. Boards hung loosely from broken windows, and tiles from the roof littered the scrubby front garden, long ago abandoned to thistles and stinging nettles. Nick couldn’t imagine any self-respecting student wanting to squat here. God alone knew why the site hadn’t been redeveloped. Perhaps the owner was just waiting for the property market in Cambridge to rocket from sky-high to astronomical.

  Nick sniffed at the air, once again regretting the limitations of his human form. As he moved closer to the front door, the sickly smell of rotting wood overlaid with the foul odour of other refuse grew stronger. He felt a tingle of excitement in his belly and wondered if it was his subconscious reacting to Julian’s scent. Consciously, he could detect no sign of it, but perhaps he didn’t need to? His breathing coming quicker, Nick paused at the front door. It might well be rotten enough to kick down, but did he really want to announce his arrival so clearly? He listened, but could hear no sound from within.

  Taking care to tread as noiselessly as possible, Nick moved round the back of the house. Long grass and weeds clutched at his trouser legs, and the hairs on his neck rose under a curious sensation that he was being watched by someone long gone.

  The wolf. The wolf must have passed this way, he realised. Heart pounding in his throat, Nick lifted a corner of a loose board on one of the ground-floor windows. He was in luck. The glass beyond had been completely shattered and had been swept to one side. He had found the squatter’s way in, and he was now certain he knew who the squatter was. Nick climbed gingerly through the window and crept farther into the house, thankful for his soft-soled shoes that allowed him to tread silently upon the bare wooden floorboards.