Page 2 of The Wolf Professor

Absolutely not!

Charlie tossed her dark hair over her shoulders. Normally she bundled her corkscrew curls into a ponytail, but now she made the snap decision to leave them down.

Back in her room, she slipped a pair of high heels into her luggage, just in case she needed something to go with her party frock, then zipped up her case. She walked over to her dresser and picked up Max Hunt’s latest book. It was a thick tome, about the tumultuous period leading up to the Great War two hundred years ago, when monsters were defeated by humans, then herded into the sandy coastal basin and walled in. Humans had expected the rag tag of species to destroy one another, but instead, they’d pulled together behind their mothman leader, Athelrose Motham, and built the city that bore his name.

The book, aptly titledThe Great War,had been one of their compulsory college texts; she’d read it several times, and attended one of Max Hunt’s lectures last year. Turning it over, Charlie gazed at the author photo on the back.

Arms folded across his chest, Max Hunt stared broodingly into the camera. His arrow-sharp cheekbones and angular jaw were framed by a thick mane of dark hair, his topaz eyes mesmerizing even behind his glasses. He was mega-watt handsome, but Charlie doubted that he laughed much. Or partied. Which was kind of sad.

A frisson of warmth spread low in her belly as she ran her fingers round his brow and down the strong column of his neck. Across that broad chest.

She couldn’t help wondering what the professor was like underneath that suit.

Stop it, Charlie Sullivan!she scolded.Work, not play for you. And a handsome pay check at the end of it.

Plus a glowing reference, she hoped, for her next career move.

Charlie put the book down, left a note for the girl who was subletting her apartment, then hurried out to her car and put her suitcase and laptop in the boot.

Hopping into the driver’s seat, she took a deep breath and tilted up her chin.

Oh yes, she was so ready for this…

CHAPTER 2

Max unloaded the last box of books onto his desk and strolled over to the window. He’d only been in this house for a week, but he was getting to enjoy his stay. Three stories high, the property sat on the boundary between old Motham and the elite Motham Hill area. There was enough bustle in the streets below not to feel isolated, and a nice front yard with mature trees that gave some privacy. It belonged to an academic he knew vaguely, who’d gone to work in a city to the south and had kindly offered it to him for the duration of his stay.

Yes, it was the perfect location. He was close to Motham Library, and walking distance to Motham Palace, so he could easily access their extensive archives.

Now all he needed was his research assistant to arrive and he could get started in earnest. He was expecting an eager-faced young human, the kind that liked to mix with monsters, all very woke and enthusiastic about rewriting the past. Most likely they’d be full of apologies for their ancestors’ atrocities. Charlie Sullivan, the young guy’s name was. Max had gotten the paperwork, looked at Charlie’s degree results, a high distinction in monster/human history, and decided he’d do. Truth be told,this young guy was his only human applicant. And he needed a human, it gave credence to his research in the human world.

Hopefully it would mean more humans bought his new book.

The Making of Motham, he’d decided to call it. It would be full of heroic actions, scandals, and bloodshed. Of heinous acts perpetrated on all sides. No one would come out a winner, certainly not humans. So yeah, he needed to cite this human as a contributor if there was any hope that humans would read it.

Max’s eyes strayed over to the smog above East Motham and beyond to the hazy shape of the mountains that divided the valley lands from the rest of the world. He sighed, stroked a big hand over his mane of dark hair. He guessed he should touch base with his relatives while he was here.

No, damn it, why should he?

He had only vague memories of the Hunt pack anyway, had barely seen any of them since he was ten years old, when his mom had abruptly decided they’d stop visiting Motham once and for all. Only his first cousin, Benjamin—aka Benjy—and his wife Janine had turned up to his mom’s funeral last year, and that had felt awkward; he’d really had nothing to say to them, they’d seemed more like strangers than pack.

Face it, he had nothing in common with the Motham Hunts. They all lived somewhere out there in East Motham, squashed together in ramshackle dwellings in the same compound, scratching a living running a wrecking yard and other questionable pursuits, including organizing the twice-yearly Solstice Ruts.

The Motham Hunt pack were a motley crew, not quite ferals, but living so close to the Wastelands they might as well be.

Max shuddered.

Thank the gods, his mother had the sense to get out.

Blood was most definitely not thicker than water. Not as far as he was concerned.

Max strolled back to his desk, flicked through his papers. His diary showed his work schedule for the next few weeks, with an appointment tomorrow at Motham Library, and a question mark over viewing times of the historical texts in the Motham Palace archives. Hopefully he would hear back from their curator any day now.

He was so deep in thought that the ring of the doorbell made him jump.

He checked his watch. Ah, yes, it was already 10 am. Wasn’t that when this Charlie guy had said he’d be here?

He almost sprinted to the front door, realizing he was quite eager to have someone to talk to. Someone to share his enthusiasm about his research with. Since he’d gotten here, he’d really only spoken to his agent, and the housekeeper, a bustling no-nonsense brownie who came in twice a week to clean and left cooked food in the freezer.

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