2. Nora

2

NORA

The questioning was fairly basic and only lasted an hour, but I spent the rest of the day thinking about it. Mostly about how quiet the Dean had been and the concern that pinched his brows even further together. I was asked to be available for the next week as they tried to narrow down suspects, and I offered my services as a psychologist if needed, which they did not seem to care about.

Two professors had been brutally murdered. One was still missing and presumed dead. According to the officers, the bodies had been ripped open by something that was most likely an animal, but that wasn’t the cause of death. Stab wounds from a knife had killed them. A trail of blood had led deeper into the woods until disappearing, and there was a search for the third professor.

Considering our faculty wasn’t that large to begin with, it certainly cast a worrisome haze over the rest of the year.

Gruesome thoughts rolled through my mind continuously as I cleaned my new home. There was a sick part of me that desperately wanted to know more about the murders. Why had the killer done it? And when? I didn’t recall anyone murderous at the dinner last night.

But that was the thing about killers—they could slip through society unseen, unsuspected.

The amount of dust that gathered in the tower, since aired and swept out, had been exorbitant. After a bath, I pulled on a set of camel coloured trousers, a black turtleneck and a long jacket. I tucked my brown hair up into a hat and rode my new bicycle down the dirt road until I hit the cobblestone streets that quickly brought me to Market Street.

The university and town were wrapped around each other, blended together into a single local moniker known as Twine. While that wasn’t the name of the town or university, it made sense, as everything was intertwined together. A bar would be between a meat shop and study hall, St. Thorn’s wrapping around the village like a vine.

On my way to Scotland, I’d poured over maps so I had a good mental image of the campus. My office was situated in the west wing of the school, with gothic arches, stained glass windows, and all.

The village and university were busy. Most of the students should have been moved in by now, arriving the same time I did, if not before. I ignored curious glances as I rode down the street, only stopping when I found the sign.

Prince Pub. Est 1469

I pulled my bicycle between two oak trees that sprung out of stone and slung my bag over my shoulder. The pub was one bad storm away from falling apart, but it was also the nesting ground for some of the greatest minds to come out of Thorns. It reminded me of my favourite place in London, a tiny hole in the wall nestled between the steam slums and the university I’d spent a good portion of my life in.

I darted towards the front door, but the moment my foot hit the entrance, a large man blocked my way.

“Lost, are we?” he asked.

I craned my head back, taking him in. “No. I’m a professor,” I said lightly. “Please move.”

“A woman? A professor? Not likely. Maybe you?—”

“Hey now, Bill, let her through!”

A professor that I recognized from the dinner the night before interrupted, giving Bill a light shove to the side. He was taller than me, lanky, and had fair skin and ruddy cheeks. He offered me an apologetic dimpled smile despite the scratch on his neck, his ruffled brown hair bronzed from the golden light within. He seemed to be in a good mood despite the murders of our colleagues.

Bill scowled at me as I grabbed my hat and pulled it free, letting my hair loose. I tucked the hat in my bag as I addressed him.

“My name is Nora Woulfe,” I said, again keeping my tone pleasant. “I am a psychology professor. I have every right to come to this pub.”

The man from the dinner grinned, giving Bill a wagging finger. “Let her in. I’m Professor Harold Neumann. I teach steam science, the science of the future!” His booming voice had a slight German lilt to it, his cheeks reddening as he smiled. His exclamation earned a few glares from others within, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I appreciated the energy that seemed to pour off him in waves. “Come inside, Professor Woulfe.”

Bill and I stared at each other a moment more until he grumbled under his breath and stepped aside. “Sorry ‘bout that. Won’t forget ya.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He offered a much nicer smile now .

Harold gave me the crook of his arm. I didn’t want to touch him, but I still took it reluctantly, allowing him to steer me within the warm depths of the pub. The atmosphere was heavy. Smoke hazed the air as men puffed on cigars, some sipping whisky as they spoke in hushed, sometimes heated tones. I could make out several different languages spoken around us. English, Spanish, Deutsch, French, Portuguese. I wasn’t fluent in most of them, but I still knew enough here and there to pick up snippets of conversation, especially from the romantic languages.

Aunt Margaret had been a language fanatic, much to my grandfather’s disapproval. Still, while she was alive, she’d given the world a run for its money, learning seven different languages fluently, travelling, and even working in translation. She’d never married, never had children, and lived her short life to the fullest. I liked to think I was more like my aunt than my mother, who had refused to learn to read beyond basics because she trusted my father so entirely.

“Sorry about Bill. He’s there to keep students out. We don’t want to work before Monday. And well, with the murders…I’m sure you can understand.”

I didn’t remind Harold that Bill had blocked my entrance because he perceived me as a woman , not a student or a murderer.

There was a wooden booth near a window where two other men sat.

“Join us?” Harold asked.

“Sure,” I said. “What happened to your neck?”

“My neck—oh,” he said, touching the scratches absentmindedly. “An angry cat.”

“Dreadful,” I said, even though the marks were too large for a cat’s claws.

He chuckled nervously. “They can be fickle.”

He gestured to the booth and I slid in, holding out my hand to the two men who sat across from us.

“Professor Nora Woulfe,” I said.

“Nice to meet you. I didn’t catch time with you at dinner last night, I’m afraid. I’m Jacob Wright, chemistry. Just call me Jacob though, no need for pleasantries.” Jacob’s voice was soft, his manner gentle. He was extremely handsome, with dark brown skin and a neatly trimmed beard, and appeared to be in his upper thirties. In fact, everyone at this table seemed far younger than our greying colleagues that sat around us.

The other man gave my hand a firm shake. He had a broad smile, short blonde hair, tan skin, a sharp jaw, and a square chin with a dimple in the centre. “Louis Brown. I teach philosophy,” he beamed.

“I’ve always imagined only broody people made it into philosophy,” I said.

He laughed and shrugged. “Not the first to wonder how I made it through. Still waters run deep, but when has stillness ever been a measure of depth?”

“Indeed,” I chuckled, settling in.

My shoulders relaxed as the environment exhaled around me, all of my anxiety shaking loose. I was far more comfortable in a place like this than at the dinner party I’d suffered through last night. Fire danced through my thoughts and I blinked it away, focusing on the present.

The questions from earlier were still sitting in my mind. The three professors that were murdered were all men—an archaeologist, an astronomer, and a geneticist. What bothered me was that they claimed there were no witnesses, but the party had all taken place in Thorn Hall next to the chapel. The bodies had been found in the woods west of the cemetery outside the campus.

“I can already see that you think too much,” Harold teased.

“It’s hard not to think about what happened,” I said.

I needed a good whisky and—despite the situation— I needed to try and get in with some of the tenured professors here.

Basically, I needed friends.

Part of me wished that I knew someone here already, but I’d accepted the position knowing I would be the odd one out. Not to mention, psychology as a field was still new to our world, and me teaching it would be a source of controversy for some. Still, I’d learned from the greatest minds in the subject. I had no doubts that I would eventually fit in here.

And if I don’t, I can run away.

Harold cleared his throat. “Right. The murders. Quite awful, really.” There was that unusual demeanour again, similar to the Dean’s. “We shouldn’t speak of the dead. Have you taught at university before?”

“You haven’t even given the gal a drink, and you’re already asking her about work?” Louis teased. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, offering it to me.

“Ah, thank you. I don’t smoke,” I said. “I’ll take a whisky, though, if?—”

“I’ll get it,” Jacob said immediately.

I winced as chaos unfolded. Jacob damn near climbed over Louis, who was attempting to light up his smoke as he rose from his booth, the two of them tumbling over each other. Jacob managed to get free and Louis clapped him by the shoulders, steadying him. Something passed between them, but I did not know either of them well enough to understand it. Jacob went to the bar and Louis plopped back down, smoke curling from his lips as he breathed out.

“Well,” Harold snorted. He gave me a slightly apologetic look. “Anyway. You are quite the mystery, Professor Woulfe. Everyone wondered more about you after your brief intro last night. You’ve been studying for over a decade, have written some riveting papers, and are hellbent on…what was it?”

“Understanding how humans are affected by basic instincts, and how that affects the mind and behaviour today,” I answered. “I study amygdalar activity and its impacts on the autonomic nervous system when environmental stressors are introduced.”

“Interesting. Cannot philosophy discuss such matters? It is a pursuit of fundamental truths.”

“Perhaps. But not in a scientific, methodical way,” I said. “I’m not keen on the subject of the soul, such as you are. I want to know why our brains developed the way they did. It goes beyond musings on the meaning of life and our behaviour. It goes beyond simply searching for a theoretical truth. It’s the why . Why do our minds react in certain ways? Why can one person handle the death of a loved one while another decides to follow suit? Why can one fall into a deep spiralling depression whilst another can retain foolish happiness, even in the face of despair? How come someone chooses to murder another being instead of working it out peacefully?”

“How grim,” Louis snorted, but grinned, clearly not offended. “You don’t mince words, to reduce my entire field to musings , Professor Woulfe.”

I wrinkled my nose. “We both know the field is much more than that, or else you would not be seated here. Man cannot imagine a world without gods and dreams.”

“And monsters.” Louis took another puff and leaned back against the booth, his brown eyes dissecting me.

Harold let out a soft hum. “I cannot say I know shit about either of your fields, but I do know about steam. Our world will be vastly different in twenty years.”

“Can you solve the steam slums?” I asked sharply.

Harold raised a brow. “I’ve never heard them called slums . ”

“Oh, they very much are. Have you not been to London since steam became our main source of power? There’s an entire district that is becoming more and more polluted.” In the last ten years, parts of the city had started to become unbearable. I feared that if it continued, the atmosphere itself would turn on us, and soon.

Harold didn’t shrug, but he might as well have. “It’ll be a temporary side effect, I’m sure. It’s worth the innovative progress we’re making in such a short amount of time.”

I wanted to argue. Instead, I merely pressed my lips together, giving a slight nod.

“Last night, our benefactors seemed to know you,” Louis said. “Lord Cambell. Sir Reginald Boxhower….”

The Woulfe name went far in such circles, but given that I was the last one standing, I didn’t wish to talk about the family. The benefactors were aware of me due to the longstanding history our family had in academic circles, especially when it came to funding. When my father was alive, there had been countless times he’d taken me to science shows and demonstrations. It was no wonder that I ended up as a professor. I pushed away the familiar ache I always had when thinking about my father. It had been years since he passed, but I still missed him.

“I’m a woman teaching psychology. Of course they know who I am,” I said, dismissing their fishing for information.

“Right, right,” Louis echoed. “It’s a new century. Personally, I find it exciting that women are entering the fields. My sister is smarter than I am, even if our father never would admit it, and I wish she would have kept on instead of giving up on her studies.”

Harold chuckled next to me. “Agreed. Do you know any of the other professors here? At least, ones that are alive?”

“ Harold ,” Louis scolded.

“Are you not scared of someone murdering you?” I asked, perplexed. I’d expected there to be some sort of fear or worries from my colleagues, but so far I'd detected no hint of any. “Or of someone attacking us? The murders were brutal.”

“No,” Harold said sharply. “More than likely, those three were doing something they shouldn’t.”

Interesting. I glanced around the pub, spotting for familiar faces. At least six of them, I’d run into at some point in London—a function, a lecture, a party, or we’d walked the same halls in passing.

“Dr. Bart Bolton recommended me to the Dean. He’s probably the closest I have to a friend that knows this place well,” I said. “I recognize many here, but can’t say that I am close to them.”

“Most of them are old and stodgy,” Louis mumbled, casting a glance back over the room. There was a moment there, if brief, where there was a crack in his friendly, dog-like energy.

Jacob came back to our booth with a round of whiskies, setting them on the oak table.

“Such a gentleman!” Harold exclaimed.

“A true man,” Louis bellowed.

I laughed as I reached for a glass. “Thank you, Jacob.”

Louis got up so Jacob could slide in, and finally the four of us were settled again.

“Are you staying on campus?” Harold asked.

“The Dean put me in a tower at the edge,” I said. I took a sip of my whisky, the burn familiar and grounding. “He claimed it would be best.”

The three of them scowled.

“ Thorn Tower? ” Jacob asked.

“Yes. Why do you ask it that way?”

“It’s supposedly cursed,” Louis said very seriously. “And it’s quite out of the way for a lady. How could you be expected to walk so far each day? ”

“I have a bicycle,” I said, bristling. “I’ll be fine. The exercise is good. I don’t believe in ghosts or the occult.”

I expected them to agree, given that all three of them were in academic disciplines at a university, but Jacob and Louis glanced at each other, and Harold cleared his throat nervously.

“Just be careful,” Harold warned. “And well, you have three new friends. If something happens, you may call on us anytime.”

I was caught between asking for more information about the tower and leaving the conversation behind us. Curiosity was my downfall, though, and I couldn’t help but press.

“Well, do tell me what you know,” I insisted. “Since the three of you clearly know something.”

“It’s just rumours,” Jacob sighed. “Really nothing.”

“But it’s clearly something .”

They were about to answer me, when the door to the pub slammed loud enough that all four of us looked up. There was a silent lull as a man stepped in, tall and lean and out of place, almost out of time. He had near shoulder length dark hair, brooding brows, and a dark moustache and trimmed beard. He wore all black like the reaper himself, his steel grey eyes sweeping across the room.

An unwelcome shiver swept through me, tinged with curiosity. His gaze fell to me, and I held it, even though it was uncomfortable.

He looked away, nostrils flaring. Finally, conversations resumed, but the uneasiness in the pub had yet to dissipate.

“Alec Briar thinks he’s a god,” Louis muttered.

“So, he’s a mathematician then?” I asked.

That broke the tension at our table. Harold barked out a laugh, Jacob cackled, and Louis grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

“You’d think. No, he’s just a botanist,” Jacob chuckled. “With a specialty in rare plants and poisons. His greenhouse, yes his , is entirely funded by the university and he is as tenured as one could possibly be, even though he is young. He only teaches one class a semester, and to get in, there are a ridiculous amount of rules and regulations. Waivers signed. Firstborns damn near promised. That’s a joke…”

“Strange,” I said. “Why would they need waivers?”

I couldn’t take my gaze from him as he went to the back of the pub. I wasn’t the only one, either. When he moved, others watched. It was as if a wolf had walked into a pen of lambs.

Steel eyes met mine again, and I looked away. The back of my neck prickled, my heart beating a little louder.

“In case of a student death. It happens often, unfortunately,” Harold sighed. “Typically five a year.”

Five student deaths? Was death really so common here? The way he said it was as if he’d just read a newspaper title about another country, something that was just a far-fetched tragedy but bore no impact on him. “That’s dreadful. There shouldn’t be that many deaths at a learning institution.”

All three of them looked at me, and there was almost an air of sadness, as if they were breaking very bad news to me.

Jacob was the one to say it, his voice gentle. “Did your friend not tell you about the real St. Thorn, Professor Woulfe? Everyone knows this place has its secrets, and those secrets kill. What happens at St. Thorn stays at St. Thorn. Such as the professors’ death. The constable investigating will search for a culprit, yes, but eventually it’ll just become another Thorns tragedy.”

“Then why come here?” I was exasperated by their dismissal of such dire misfortunes.

“Why indeed?” Louis mused.

I hate philosophers.

I pressed my lips and drained the rest of my whisky. Our conversations took a lighter turn for the rest of the evening, and despite their warnings, I was thankful that I’d been able to find a small group of people to try and befriend. Whilst I could spend my time with books and be just fine, it helped to have other people to talk to, especially in such a grey rainy place.

I certainly knew how the mind could turn to darkness when alone.

When I looked up again, I realised that the infamous and striking Alec Briar had disappeared. He’d piqued my curiosity and I felt a tug in my stomach.

The very last thing I would do my first year as a professor would be to date another professor. That was how you ruined a career, and I’d worked too damn hard to get here.

The evening wound down and I bid Jacob, Harold, and Louis goodnight. It took ten minutes of arguing for them to finally let me take myself home. Jacob walked me to my bicycle and grabbed my shoulder firmly, startling me.

“My final warning,” he said, his voice low. The streets were quiet and the lights cast a golden glow over half his face, dipping the other half in shadow. “If you ever hear something—a scream, a cry, a howl, a beg, whatever it might be— run . Do not investigate it, Professor Woulfe. Do not let your curiosity kill you.”

“But—”

“Do you promise me?”

I hesitated. Was he the killer, or was this just a warning? “I promise.” A complete lie.

He held my gaze for a moment longer and then released me. “I lost a student last year,” he whispered. “Whatever lurks in the shadows, it does not deserve your light. Remember that.”

“I will,” I whispered.

He nodded solemnly, and then his expression became much happier, his tone pleasant. “Dinner next Thursday with us? ”

“Yes,” I decided. “We need a name for our little group.”

“Well, we already have one,” he laughed. “The Hunt.”

“The Hunt?” I asked. “Like the goddess Artemis.”

“Something like that,” he said.

“But what do you hunt?”

“Are you sure you can get home?”

I scowled at him, and the redirection, but nodded. “Yes. Dinner Thursday. Goodnight, Jacob.”

I swung my leg over my bicycle and blew out a breath as I took off down the street. I’d had way too much whisky, and driving this thing took more focus than it should have.

Eventually the cobblestone gave way to gravel, and I could see the silhouette of Thorn Tower basking in the full moon, a silver obelisk that ended in a javelin spire. The moon was painfully bright, a beam in the sky, illuminating the oak trees that eventually created a tunnel, marking the path in front of me.

Somewhere out here was a killer.

A howling scream made me skid to a halt. Gravel kicked up from the tires, the back of my neck prickling.

It sounded human. The scream became wailing, desperate with cold pain. I shivered, my breaths puffing out as I listened.

Jacob’s words came back to me, and despite the pressure of my curiosity, I started pedalling faster and didn’t stop until I made it back to Thorn Tower.

By then, the screaming had stopped, but the dread clawing at my chest had yet to release.