Page 3 of Waifs And Strays
His face took on the aspect of a sullen adolescent. ‘Nothing.’
‘In that case,’ I shot back, ‘whoare you running from?’ He didn’t reply. I softened my tone. ‘This is my home. If I’m going to let you live in the same building, there are things I need to know for my own well-being as well as yours.’
He appeared to consider this. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s my uncle. He wants me to join his pack but I’d rather be a lone wolf.’
Hmm. Lone werewolves were scarce, far scarcer than most people realised. Typically, children were bound to a pack by the time they could walk, a simple, painless ritual that went some way to ensure both their safety and the pack’s future. Disentangling from a pack was a far more complicated process and certainly not something I’d want to get involved in. I’d immediately be accused of unlawful interference, and no pack would allow an outsider to even consider such a thing without considerable bloodshed. I enjoyed a quiet life these days; stirring up werewolf politics was not on my agenda.
‘I cannot?—’
Nick interrupted me. ‘I’m not bound – I’m not in a pack. I don’t have to be. And I’ve got a friend who’s not in a pack. He has a great life. He does what he wants – he doesn’t have to abide by stupid rules.’ He tilted his acne-ridden chin defiantly. ‘Besides, I’m not from Coldstream.’
Nowthatwas even more interesting. It also explained the shiny trainers.
‘I know the rule is that Preternaturals usually live here,’ Nick went on.
It was more of an unwritten rule than a law, but he wasright. Birds of a feather flock together and almost every Preternatural in Britain lived in Coldstream. Once upon a time it had been a sleepy village but now it was a sprawling city filled with magical beings of every type. The deep enchantments that had settled into the bones of the border between Scotland and England had drawn us here, together with the idea of living in a like-minded community. Very few Preternaturals chose to live elsewhere.
Nick shrugged as if it were not a big deal. ’My parents wanted to try a different life. They left their packs and Coldstream before I was born. We lived in Glasgow until this summer.’
‘Both your parents are werewolves?’
His expression closed off. ‘They were. They died last month in an accident.’
Oh. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said gently.
His body was stiff. ‘Why? You didn’t know them.’ He folded his arms across his chest defensively. His pain was obviously very raw and very deep; he was clearly still grieving deeply.
I inclined my head in acknowledgment of his feelings. ‘Your uncle—’ I began.
‘He has no claim on me! He doesn’t know I’m here and he probably wouldn’t care if he did. All I want is some peace and quiet to live out my life. I don’t want a pack and I definitely don’tneeda pack. I’m fine on my own.’
I suspected that what Nick needed was time to come to terms with his parents’ deaths. He suddenly looked very young and vulnerable, although I doubted he wanted to be seen that way.
I drummed my fingers on the table and decided to meet him on his own terms; the rest could come later, when he was ready.
‘Okay,’ I said briskly. ‘I need two months’ rent as a deposit,which will be returned to you at the end of your tenancy once any property damage has been taken care of. Water and electricity are included in your rental payments, which must be paid on the first of every month. Miss a payment and you’re out.’
The pain in his eyes had been replaced with relief. This was what he wanted, to be treated like an adult and not handled with kid gloves. ‘No parties,’ I told him. ‘No guests after 10pm. Do you have a job?’
‘I’m going to look for one first thing tomorrow.’ He was grinning now, his smile stretching from ear to ear.
‘Fair enough. What questions do you have for me?’
Nick blinked: it didn’t appear to have occurred to him that he had the right to ask questions of his own. ‘Uh … your advert said the flat was furnished?’
I nodded. ‘There’s a sofa, a table, four chairs, a cooker with a built-in oven and a bed. There’s no washing machine but there’s a laundrette at the end of the street.’
His brow furrowed; it would have been cute if I hadn’t felt sorry for him. He was a man-child pretending to be an adult. ‘Bedding?’
‘I can arrange some for you before night falls.’
He was on a roll. ‘And a television?’
It was a rare evening when you could get any sort of signal here, and the same went for the internet. Something about the magic that was bound into Coldstream messed with both of them, although the old landline telephone system worked well enough. Despite his upbringing, Nick ought to have known that.
‘No chance,’ I told him. ‘And no point.’
‘Fucking Coldstream,’ he muttered.
