The last item on the timetable for today is our first Tutor Group session. Each student is assigned a tutor. Most of the Tutors are lecturers or other teachers, but the few postgraduates are also expected to each host a group. We get one session a week, and we’re going to have the same Tutor for our whole time at Grenville, but not the exact same group because the groups are a mix of years and change as students graduate and new Freshmen start. I’ve got the Fibre Arts teacher, Mrs Bird, who looks nothing like her name and resembles a cuddly, fuzzy, colourful cushion, but sounds like a sergeant-major. The Moon Goddess continues to smile at me. I have both Jade and Reese in my group. There’s an inevitable but short round of introductions and a quick explanation of what tutor sessions are for, and then Mrs Bird hands me a letter. A small parcel, really, one of those padded envelopes. It’s addressed to “Aiden Cooper, Grenville School of Art, London,” and a zip code. I sh

I’m floating as I head to Grenville, my feet hardly touching the ground. I want more mornings like that. I want every morning to be like that. I have a key to Sarah's apartment in my pocket, food for the day in my bag and a smile on my face that probably tells everyone I meet exactly whet I got up to when I woke up. And then got up to again in the shower. And almost got up to a third time in the hallway against the front door, but couldn’t because we ran out of time. “Oh man,” Jade grumbles when she sees me, and shoves me in the arm. “New Girlfriend Syndrome. Keep your well-f***ed vibes away from me. Or find me a girlfriend too.” “Let him enjoy it while it lasts,” Shelley defends me. “Don’t go wishing a breakup on me already,” I plead. “Everything has an end,” Shelley intones gravely. “Pessimist,” Jade accuses her. Shelley draws a circle in the air with a finger. “You have to have an end, or you can’t have a beginning.” “Very Z

A horrible crashing of bells drags me by my ears from a dead sleep. An explosion of movement right by my side sets me on the verge of shifting, my instincts screaming “Danger!” There’s a muffled curse and a soft thud beyond it, then a louder thump as the presence at my side disappears. Shaking my head quickly to dispel the confusion of sleep, I crawl over the bed. Sarah’s bed. I’m at Sarah’s place. The screaming of the bells cuts out, and I can hear Sarah’s voice. I peer over at her where she’s huddled on the floor, clutching her phone to her ear, and I feel her distress at whatever it is she’s hearing. If I concentrate, my ears are sharp enough to pick up both ends of the conversation. “If you’re safe, you don’t need to come.” It’s a woman’s voice, a little tinny through the phone line. “You might be safer where you are.” “What happened?” Sarah asks. She’ll be getting cold. I gather up the duvet, climber down beside her and bundle it about her as she listens

I can sense Sarah’s anticipation as the car turns off the freeway onto a wide two-lane road. The scenery quickly grows wild, rough and bleak and windswept. There’s something very primal about the land here. It feels both exposed and secretive. The low-growing grass and scrub is a thin skin stretched over bone. Ragged clouds chase across a hazy blue sky, and the sun is pale and watery. Sarah opens the window, letting the chill air flood in, and beyond the bitterness of dry earth and the faint spice of grassland flowers I catch the scents of salt and rotten eggs.The snake of a single-track rail line edges towards the road then runs alongside it, sun glinting off the rails. Up ahead I see a small train station building sticking up out of a line of pale rock, like a single tooth left in a jawbone.“This is the border of the estate,” Sarah says as we draw level with the station. “It belongs to Blackmarsh, but it isn’t Blackmarsh itself.&

I’ve been preparing myself to meet Sarah’s father. I haven’t been preparing myself to meet another werewolf. We recognise each other for what we are as soon as I step into the room. Sarah is pulling me along by my hand, but I manage to slip out of her fingers and come to a halt. The other werewolf is the only other person in the kitchen. He must be the Estate Manager, Baxter. He’s not young, but he’s well muscled and sturdy. His face is grizzled, his hair thick and threaded with silver, his beard streaked with white. Sarah would have mentioned it if the family already knew a werewolf. That means they don’t know what Baxter is. There’s a phrase I heard once. Mutually assured destruction. Baxter can’t tell them what I am without telling them what he is. I have the advantage of intending to tell them what I am anyway. All that runs through my mind swiftly. Sarah’s touch on my arm reminds me that I’m not here to be introduced to the Estate Manager. I turn to Tony