O’Breen rose and began to pace around the office. “We don’t seem to be getting very far, do we? I’m to take it that you refuse to state the nature of your relations with Gloria Garton?”

“I see no reason why I should do otherwise.” Wolf was beginning to be annoyed.

To his surprise, the detective relaxed into a broad grin. “Okay. Let it ride. Tell me about your department. How long have the various faculty members been here?”

“Instructors and all?”

“Just the professors.”

“I’ve been here for seven years. All the others at least a good ten, probably more. If you want exact figures, you can probably get them from the dean, unless, as I hope”—Wolf smiled cordially—“he throws you out flat on your red pate.”

O’Breen laughed. “Professor, I think we could get on. One more question, and you can do some pate-tossing yourself. Are you an American citizen?”

“Of course.”

“And the rest of the department?”

“All of them. And now would you have the common decency to give me some explanation of this fantastic farrago of questions?”

“No,” said O’Breen casually. “Goodbye, professor.” His alert green eyes had been roaming about the room, sharply noticing everything. Now, as he left, they rested on Wolf’s long index finger, moved up to his heavy meeting eyebrows, and returned to the finger. There was a suspicion of a startled realization in those eyes as he left the office.

But that was nonsense, Wolf told himself. A private detective, no matter how shrewd his eyes, no matter how apparently meaningless his inquiries, would surely be the last man on earth to notice the signs of lycanthropy. Funny. “Werewolf” was a word you could accept. You could say, “I’m a werewolf,” and it was all right. But say “I am a lycanthrope” and your flesh crawled. Odd. Possibly material for a paper on the influence of etymology on connotation for one of the learned periodicals.

But, hell! Wolfe Wolf was no longer primarily a scholar.

He was a werewolf now, a white-magic werewolf, a werewolf-for-fun; and fun he was going to have. He lit his pipe, stared at the blank paper on his desk, and tried desperately to draft a letter to Gloria. It should hint at just enough to fascinate her and hold her interest until he could go south when the term ended and reveal to her the whole wonderful new truth. It—

Professor Oscar Fearing grunted his ponderous way into the office. “Good afternoon, Wolfe. Hard at it, my boy?”

“Afternoon,” Wolf replied distractedly, and continued to stare at the paper.

“Great events coming, eh? Are you looking forward to seeing the glorious Gloria?”

Wolf started. “How—what do you mean?”

Fearing handed him a folded newspaper. “You hadn’t heard?”

Wolf read with growing amazement and delight:

GLORIA GARTON TO ARRIVE FRIDAY

Local Girl Returns to Berkeley

As part of the most spectacular talent hunt since the search for Scarlett O’Hara, Gloria Garton, glamorous Metropolis starlet, will visit Berkeley Friday. Friday afternoon at the Campus Theater, Berkeley canines will have their chance to compete in the nationwide quest for a dog to play Tookah the wolf dog in the great Metropolis epic “Fangs of the Forest,” and Gloria Garton herself will be present at the auditions.

“I owe so much to Berkeley,” Miss Garton said. “It will mean so much to me to see the campus and the city again.” Miss Garton has the starring human role in “Fangs of the Forest.”

Miss Garton was a student at the University of California when she received her first chance in films. She is a member of Mask and Dagger, honorary dramatic society, and Rho Rho Rho sorority.

Wolfe Wolf glowed. This was perfect. No need now to wait till term was over. He could see Gloria now and claim her in all his wolfish vigor. Friday—today was Wednesday; that gave him two nights to practice and perfect the technique of werewolfry. And then—

He noticed the dejected look on the older professor’s face, and a small remorse smote him. “How did things go last night, Oscar?” he asked sympathetically. “How were your big Walpurgis Night services?”

Fearing regarded him oddly. “You know that now? Yesterday April thirtieth meant nothing to you.”

“I got curious and looked it up. But how did it go?”

“Well enough,” Fearing lied feebly. “Do you know, Wolfe,” he demanded after a moment’s silence, “what is the real curse of every man interested in the occult?”

“No. What?”

“That true power is never enough. Enough for yourself, perhaps, but never enough for others. So that no matter what your true abilities, you must forge on beyond them into charlatanry to convince the others. Look at St. Germain. Look at Francis Stuart. Look at Cagliostro. But the worst tragedy is the next stage: when you realize that your powers were greater than you supposed and that the charlatanry was needless. When you realize that you have no notion of the extent of your powers. Then—”

“Then, Oscar?”

“Then, my boy, you are a badly frightened man.”

Wolf wanted to say something consoling. He wanted to say, “Look, Oscar. It was just me. Go back to your halfhearted charlatanry and be happy.” But he couldn’t do that. Only Ozzy could know the truth of that splendid gray wolf. Only Ozzy and Gloria.

The moon was bright on that hidden spot in the canyon. The night was still. And Wolfe Wolf had a severe case of stage fright. Now that it came to the real thing—for this morning’s clothes-complicated fiasco hardly counted and last night he could not truly remember—he was afraid to plunge cleanly into wolfdom and anxious to stall and talk as long as possible.

“Do you think,” he asked the magician nervously, “that I could teach Gloria to change, too?”

Ozymandias pondered. “Maybe, colleague. It’d depend. She might have the natural ability, and she might not. And, of course, there’s no telling what she might change into.”

“You mean she wouldn’t necessarily be a wolf?”

“Of course not. The people who can change, change into all sorts of things. And every folk knows best the kind that most interests it. We’ve got an English and Central European tradition, so we know mostly about werewolves. But take Scandinavia and you’ll hear chiefly about werebears, only they call ’em berserkers. And Orientals, now, they’re apt to know about weretigers. Trouble is, we’ve thought so much about werewolves that that’s all we know the signs for; I wouldn’t know how to spot a weretiger just offhand.”

Tags: Neil Gaiman Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net