Chapter 1

ELVIRA'S POV

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The growl of a shifting werewolf hits me before the car even stops moving.

The growl was low and rolling. It was the kind of sound that lives in your spine instead of your ears. I was out of my seatbelt and half out of the car door even before my mum can ask what's wrong, because my body already knows the answer to her question. I’m not asking permission anymore. Not after what I experienced last year.

"Elvira…"

"I'm fine." Was my reply to her. My hands won't stop shaking even though I knew I wasn’t fine.

Two boys are were in close combat with each other on the front lawn of Wolford Academy, right in front of the blue-stone entrance. One of them slams the other into the gravel hard enough that I could feel it in my teeth. A crowd of students has gathered in a circular form around them, some cheering, none of them running for a teacher. The boy on top rears back, and for one horrible second his face isn't his face at all — his jaw stretched wrong, his eyes gone gold and feral — and I'm not looking at a fight anymore…. He was transforming into his wolf form.

Within a few minutes, I could see the boy on the lawn struggling with transforming into a full wolf. He shakes himself back into a human shape like he's shrugging off a coat, laughing, and the crowd laughs with him. Nobody else in the vicinity seems to think two teenage werewolves half-shifting in broad daylight is anything special, especially in Wolford Academy.

"That happens a lot here," says a passing girl to no one in particular while hitching her school bag higher. "First years always fight themselves the first week."

"Are you okay?" My dad asks quietly, and I hate how gently he says it, like I'm still his baby.

"I’m great, Daddy," I say, while putting on the smile I've been practicing in the mirror for some days now.

My parents never believe me. They never do. But my mother holds my hand while my father wheels my cases toward the beautifully carved wooden doors. The school booklet is still crumpled in my fist from the drive down here, its cover glossy under my thumb: Wolford Academy — a finishing school for all Versipellis, founded in 1779.

I had read the booklet from front to back twice on our way here while the car sped toward my future at ninety miles an hour.

Versipellis is the Latin word for werewolf. It's the word we use for ourselves when we are among humans; it makes us sound more civilized than "persons who turn into an apex predator under enough stress." It just makes us sound like we went to werewolf schools to learn about ourselves. Which is exactly what I am now doing in Wolford Academy.

"Are you excited, darling?" My mum asks, holding her arm through mine as we cross the gravel and walk toward the school’s reception.

"Yes, mummy," I lie without hiding my emotions.

To be honest. I'm not excited. Everyone in my year group has known each other for a full year already, and I'm joining them now. I was meant to start at sixteen with the rest of my classmates, back when the worst thing that could ever happen to me was a bad haircut. Now I'm joining them at seventeen, dragging a year of physical therapy and hunter-shaped nightmares behind me like extra luggage. I was about to walk into a school where every single person already has their friend group, their gossip, their inside jokes.

My only saving grace in this school is Anika.

We went to high school together for four years. she got her letter to come to Wolford academy the same time but was delayed a year before I could join her here. I messaged her the second I knew I was coming to join her in September. She was happy and asked if I wanted to be in her dorm, and I accepted without hesitation.

It'll just be me, Anika, and two girls she's friends with in the dorm. At least, I won't be doing this semester completely alone.

"Has Anika texted you this morning?" My mum asks.

"Yes, mummy. We've spoken."

"That’s good to know. I was so worried you felt like you were starting from nothing; now you have her as a friend."

Me too, Mum. I replied.

The academy suggested I arrive a week after the new term has started — it was the headmistress's idea, apparently. She wanted the other students to have "settled in" before the new girl, which was me, showed up. I don't know if a week after the term begins makes any difference, as she suggested. I don't feel like it did much for whatever just happened on that lawn.

The building itself is beautiful, in the way that old, powerful things usually are. It was built with blue stone, five storeys, a steep mansard roofline stacking up into the sky, with arched windows, and walls thick with Boston ivy that's just starting to blush at the edges with autumn. It should be daunting. It mostly just feels like something I have to get through.

My parents help me with my cases at the wooden carved front doors. I smooth down my skirt and try to look like a person who belongs here.

"You look lovely, darling," My mum says.

"Thank you, Mummy," I reply weakly.

My dad insists on wheeling my suitcases himself. We're told to wait in reception for the headmistress of the academy. After a few minutes, a woman appears — she looks official, with sharp eyes, the kind of stern that makes you sit up straighter without meaning to.

"You must be Elvira Giamatti," she says, and then her whole face changes, warms up. Her face transforms with a smile that reaches her eyes. "I'm Mrs. Bellary, the headmistress." She says

I shake her offered hand. "Nice to meet you."

She turns to my parents. "A pleasure, Mr. and Mrs. Giamatti. I'll take excellent care of your child — you can leave Elvira with me now."

My parents look at me like leaving me is a physical pain they couldn’t endure. I smile, with the aim of showing my parents I was strong.

"I'll be fine, mummy. I'll see you at the mid-term break."

My mum crushes me into a hug that steals the air away from my lungs.

"Please message me constantly, do you hear me? And anything you need, we're one phone call away from you, darling."

"I know, Mummy. I'll be okay."

I don't fully believe all my reassurances to her. But I say them anyway, because some lies are worth telling twice.

When they've gone, Mrs. Bellary leads me through the entrance hall of the school; we pass a reception desk and a girl juggling three ringing phones. Mrs. Bellary starts pointing out landmarks like she's done this a thousand times, which she probably has. My eyes catch on the packed noticeboard, the trophy cabinet stuffed with silverware, the low sound of hundreds of conversations happening behind closed classroom doors we passed.

Then I could feel it.

There was a prickle at the base of my skull. The distinct, unmistakable sensation of being watched by something with better eyesight than me.

I glanced up toward the mezzanine, where a boy was leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, watching the entrance hall as if he owned it. He had grey-black hair that fell messily over grey-black eyes. There's a leather satchel slung over one of his shoulders, monogrammed in gold — EW. Something about the way he's looking down at everyone, like he was bored and untouchable.

He notices me looking at him. His mouth curls into something that isn't quite a smile.

"Elvira?" Mrs. Bellary calls out, and I realize she's asked me a question I completely missed while I was observing the boy at the mezzanine.

"Sorry — yes?"

When I look back up at the mezzanine, he's gone.

Great start, Elvira. You nearly had a panic attack on the front lawn, and now you're staring at strange boys. Very smooth.

Mrs. Bellary doesn't seem to have noticed my distraction. She keeps walking and keeps talking. I keep nodding along, filing away everything I can while trying very hard not to think about gold eyes on the lawn or grey ones on the mezzanine.

I have a horrible feeling this year is going to be a lot louder and busier than the one I just spent hiding from it.