Chapter 5 The History Project (Vivienne POV)
Mr. Patterson announces the project partnerships, and I hear Declan's name paired with mine before my brain fully processes the words.
"Miss Ashford and Mr. Hartley," Patterson repeats, consulting his list. "British folklore and mythology, focusing on regional legends of Yorkshire and the surrounding moors. Twenty-page research paper, oral presentation to the class. Due before winter holiday."
I glance across the classroom. Declan's knuckles have gone white where he grips his pen.
"Any questions?" Patterson surveys the room.
A girl named Claire raises her hand. "Can we switch partners if…"
"No switching. These partnerships were selected based on complementary academic strengths." He moves on to the next pairing, and I'm left processing the fact that I'll be spending the next six weeks working closely with the boy who has being acting weird since three days ago.
The boy who's been avoiding me ever since.
When the bell rings, I gather my books slowly, hoping to catch Declan before he disappears. But he's out the door before I've even closed my notebook.
"That went well," Sophie says, appearing at my elbow. "He practically ran from the room."
"Maybe he had another class."
"Or maybe he's terrified of being alone with you." Sophie grins. "Can't say I blame him. You've got that whole mysterious new girl thing going on."
"I don't have a 'thing.'"
"You absolutely do. Half the sixth form are taking bets on who'll ask you to the winter formal."
The thought makes my stomach turn. "I'm not interested in any of them."
"Not even Marcus? He's been making eyes at you all week."
"Especially not Marcus." I shoulder my bag. "I should probably find Declan. We need to schedule our first meeting."
Sophie's grin widens. "Right. For the project. Very academic."
"It is academic."
I extract myself from her grip. "I need to go. I'll see you at dinner."
I find Declan by his locker, shoving books into his bag with more force than necessary. His teammates cluster nearby, the tall one Sophie identified as Callum, another called Owen, and a few others whose names I haven't learned yet.
They all go quiet when they see me approaching.
"Declan?" My voice sounds small in the sudden silence. "About the project. We should probably meet to discuss…"
"Library. Six o'clock tonight." He doesn't look at me, focused intently on his locker. "Don't be late."
"I won't."
He finally meets my eyes, and something in his expression makes my breath catch. He looks exhausted. Haunted.
"Six o'clock," he repeats, then shoulders his bag and walks away.
His teammates follow, but Callum glances back at me, his face unreadable.
The library is nearly empty when I arrive at five minutes to six. I choose a table in the back corner and spread out my notebook and laptop.
Declan appears exactly at six, carrying a leather satchel and looking like he hasn't slept in days.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi."
He sits across from me, maintaining careful distance, and pulls out his own materials. For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
"So," I finally say. "British folklore."
"Right." He opens his notebook to a blank page. "Patterson wants us to focus on Yorkshire legends specifically. Barghests, boggarts, that sort of thing."
"What about werewolf legends?"
His pen stills. "What?"
"Werewolves. They're prominent in British folklore, aren't they? Especially in rural areas like Yorkshire." I pull up an article on my laptop. "I was doing some preliminary research. There are dozens of documented sightings in this region dating back centuries."
"Documented by whom?"
"Local historians, mostly. Parish records, personal journals, newspaper accounts." I scroll through the article. "There's one from 1873 about a 'beast' that terrorized farms near Whitby. Killed livestock, left tracks too large for any natural wolf."
Declan leans forward slightly, reading the screen. "And what did the locals think it was?"
"Most assumed it was an unusually large wolf. But some claimed it walked on two legs. That it had human-like intelligence." I look up. "Your family's from Yorkshire originally, right? Have you heard any local legends?"
"A few." His voice is carefully neutral. "Why the interest in werewolves specifically?"
"My father's research involves predatory behavior patterns. He's studied wolf populations across Britain." The lie comes easily, Father's taught me well how to deflect questions about his actual work. "He has some fascinating theories about how folklore develops around misunderstood animals."
"Such as?"
"Such as how human fear of natural predators gets amplified into supernatural mythology. Wolves become werewolves. Large cats become monsters. It's a way of making sense of things that frighten us."
Declan's expression is difficult to read. "So your father thinks werewolf legends are just... misidentified animals?"
"Essentially. Though he does believe some accounts might have basis in reality." I pull up another file…one of Father's older research documents that I found on his laptop. "Look at this. These are wolf track measurements from various sites across Yorkshire. Notice anything unusual?"
Declan studies the data, his jaw tightening. "The tracks are too large."
"Right. By nearly forty percent in some cases. And the stride length suggests bipedal movement in several instances."
"Which your father attributes to..."
"Measurement error, mostly. Or hoaxes. People wanting to believe in monsters." I close the file. "He's very skeptical about supernatural explanations."
"But you're not?"
The question catches me off guard. "What makes you say that?"
"The way you talk about it. Like you want the legends to be real."
Do I? I've spent seventeen years listening to Father dismiss anything that doesn't fit his scientific worldview. But something about the legends appeals to me, the idea that the world might be larger, stranger, more dangerous than we're told.
"I think," I say carefully, "that dismissing everything we can't explain is arrogant. Maybe werewolves don't exist. But maybe there are things out there we don't understand yet."
Declan's grey eyes hold mine, and I feel that same electric current from the library. That sense of recognition, of something clicking into place.
"For the project," he says, his voice slightly rough, "we should probably stick to documented folklore. Patterson wants academic rigor, not speculation."
"Right. Of course." I open a fresh document. "So we could structure it chronologically? Start with medieval accounts, work our way forward?"
"That works."
We fall into a rhythm, discussing sources and outlining sections. Declan knows far more about local legends than I expected, he rattles off names and dates with easy confidence, suggesting obscure historical texts I'd never have found on my own.
"How do you know all this?" I ask after he references a third rare manuscript.
"My father was interested in local history." He doesn't look up from his notes. "We used to explore the moors together. He'd tell me stories about the old families, the legends attached to different territories."
"That sounds nice."
"It was." Something in his voice suggests past tense is deliberate. "He died two years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You didn't know." He finally looks at me. "What about your mother? You mentioned your father's research, but..."
"She died when I was a baby. I don't remember her."
"How?"
The question everyone asks, the one I've learned to answer without emotion. "Animal attack. My father was working abroad, some remote research site. They were staying in a cabin. Something came through the window while she was putting me to bed."
Declan's face has gone very still. "What kind of animal?"
"Father won't talk about it. He just says it was something that shouldn't have been there. Something dangerous." I trace the edge of my notebook. "He's never forgiven himself for not being there to protect us."
"It wasn't his fault."
"Try telling him that. He's spent my entire life making sure I'm safe. Sometimes I think he sees threats everywhere because he couldn't see the one that mattered."
Declan is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer. "Is that why he moves around so much? Why you've never been to regular school before?"
"Partly. He says his work requires it, but..." I shrug. "I think he's running from something. Or looking for something. I've never quite figured out which."
"Maybe both."
I look up, surprised by the understanding in his voice. "Does your pack…I mean, your team…do they know about your father?"
"Pack?" His shoulders tense.
"Team. Sorry. Sophie called them your pack the other day, and it stuck in my head. You're all so close, it's almost like a family unit."
"Right. Yeah. They know." He relaxes slightly. "We've been together since we were kids. They're... they're everything to me."
The way he says it, with such fierce protectiveness, makes my chest ache. I've never had that. Never had a group of people who felt like home.
"You're lucky," I say.
"I know."
We work in silence for a while, the scratch of pen on paper the only sound. But I'm hyperaware of Declan's presence, the way he shifts in his chair, the way he occasionally glances at me when he thinks I'm not looking.
And I notice something else: he keeps moving closer.
It's unconscious, I think. Every few minutes, his chair edges forward slightly. His elbow crosses the invisible line dividing the table. His knee nearly touches mine under the desk before he jerks back, putting distance between us again.
"So," I say, breaking the silence. "The barghest legend. Father has some notes on that, actually."
Declan's attention sharpens. "What kind of notes?"
"Behavioral patterns, mostly. The barghest is supposed to be a large black dog that appears before someone's death, right? Father mapped reported sightings against mortality data for the region."
"And?"
"And he found a correlation. Not causation, obviously…he thinks people retroactively attributed natural deaths to barghest sightings. But the pattern was there." I pull up another file. "Look. These are the documented sightings from 1800 to 1900. And these are deaths in the same time period."
Declan studies the data, and I watch his expression change. Shock, then something darker. Fear, maybe.
"This is very thorough," he says quietly.
"Father's nothing if not meticulous. He's been collecting this kind of data for years. Wolf sightings, attack patterns, territorial behaviors." I scroll through more files. "He has entire databases dedicated to tracking predatory movements across Britain."
"Why?"
The question is sharper than I expected. I look up, startled by the intensity in his eyes.
"Why is your father so obsessed with tracking predators?"
"I told you. His research…"
"No researcher needs this level of detail." Declan gestures at the screen. "This isn't academic interest, Vivienne. This is... this is surveillance. This is someone hunting something."
The accusation makes my stomach drop. "He's a wildlife researcher."
"Is he?"
"What are you suggesting?"
Declan seems to realize he's said too much. He sits back, running a hand through his auburn hair. "Nothing. I'm sorry. I'm just tired."
"You think my father is hunting wolves?"
"I don't know what your father's doing." But his voice says he has suspicions. "Look, it's getting late. We should probably wrap up for tonight."
"Declan…"
"We can meet again Friday. Same time." He's already packing his bag, movements quick and agitated. "We'll divide up the research sections, work on them separately."
"Wait." I reach across the table, my hand landing on his wrist before I can stop myself.
The contact is electric. Declan freezes, staring at where my fingers touch his skin.
"Did I say something wrong?" I ask. "If I upset you…"
"You didn't." But he doesn't pull away. "It's not you. It's just... complicated."
"What is?"
"Everything." He looks at me, and the raw emotion in his eyes steals my breath. "You're complicated, Vivienne. Your father. This whole situation."
"I don't understand."
"I know. That's part of the problem."
He pulls his wrist free, and I feel the loss of contact like a physical thing. He stands, shouldering his bag.
"Friday," he says again. "Six o'clock."
"Declan…"
But he's already walking away, leaving me alone at the table with my laptop still open to Father's predator tracking data.
I stare at the screen, seeing it with new eyes. The meticulous documentation. The obsessive detail. The patterns mapped over decades.
This isn't academic interest. This is someone hunting something.
My mobile buzzes. A text from Father: How are your lessons going? Making friends?
I close the laptop without answering, my hands shaking slightly.
For the first time in my life, I wonder what exactly my father has been researching all these years.
And why Declan looked so afraid when he saw the data.
Taking a leave from the library to go and rest.
I find Sophie in our room, lying on her bed with a magazine.
"How was the study session?" she asks without looking up. "Still have all your clothes on, so I'm guessing it was less exciting."
"It was fine. We outlined the project."
"Mmm. You sound thrilled."
I sit on my bed, pulling my knees to my chest. "Sophie? What do you know about Declan's father?"
That gets her attention. She sets down the magazine. "Not much. He died a couple years ago. Car accident, I think? Or maybe it was a hiking accident. Something sudden."
"And Declan's been captain of the football team since then?"
"Yeah. Owen told me Declan basically held the whole group together after it happened. They were all pretty close with his dad, used to spend summers at Declan's family estate in the moors." She studies my face. "Why?"
"No reason. He mentioned his father during our meeting. I was just curious."
"Vivienne." Sophie sits up. "What's going on with you and Declan?"
"Nothing. We're project partners."
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England." She crosses her arms. "You've been obsessed with him since you got here. And he's been equally obsessed with you, in that brooding, tortured way of his. Something's happening between you two."
"It's complicated."
"Everything's complicated at seventeen." She grins. "Come on. Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about. He barely looks at me. He ran out of the library like I had the plague."
"Because he's fighting it. Anyone with eyes can see he's gone on you. The question is why he's resisting."
I think about the way Declan looked at Father's data. The fear in his eyes. The accusation: This is someone hunting something.
"Maybe," I say slowly, "he knows something about my father. Something that makes him not trust me."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. But tonight, when I showed him some of Father's research... he got angry. Scared, almost."
Sophie frowns. "What kind of research?"
"Wildlife tracking data. Wolf populations, behavioral patterns, that sort of thing." I pull out my mobile, pulling up one of Father's files. "Look at this. Doesn't it seem excessive?"
Sophie studies the screen, her frown deepening. "This is years of data. Maybe decades. How long has your dad been doing this?"
"Since before I was born, I think. Maybe longer."
"And he's specifically tracking wolves?"
"Large predators in general. But yes, mostly wolves."
Sophie hands back my phone. "Vivienne... I'm probably reading too much into this, but doesn't your dad's obsession seem a bit... I don't know. Personal?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, normal researchers study animals to understand ecosystems, right? To promote conservation. But this..." She gestures at my phone. "This looks like he's hunting them. Like he's trying to find something specific."
The same conclusion Declan reached.
"My mother was killed by an animal," I say. "Maybe Father's just trying to understand what happened. To prevent it from happening to someone else."
"Maybe." But Sophie doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe he's got some kind of vendetta. Like he's spent seventeen years tracking down the thing that killed his wife."
The suggestion makes my skin prickle. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it? People do crazy things when they lose someone they love."
I think about Father's face when he talks about Mother. The way his expression goes blank, like he's forcing down emotions too big to process. The way he watches me sometimes, like he's seeing someone else.
"He would have told me," I say, but my voice lacks conviction. "If he was doing something like that, he would have told me."
"Would he? You said yourself he keeps secrets. That he moves around constantly, that he's obsessed with keeping you safe." Sophie leans forward. "What if the reason he's so protective isn't just general paranoia? What if he knows something specific? Something dangerous?"
"You're saying my father hunts dangerous animals."
"I'm saying maybe Declan has a reason to be scared of your father's research. And maybe you should figure out what that reason is before you get in deeper with him."
I want to argue. Want to defend Father. But Sophie's words echo Declan's fear, and I can't shake the feeling that something important is being kept from me.
"I need to call Father," I say, standing up.
"Now?"
"I have questions. And I want answers."
I step into the corridor, dialing Father's number. It rings five times before going to voicemail.
"Father, it's me. I need to talk to you about your research. About the data you've been collecting. Call me back."
I hang up, staring at my phone.
In the window's reflection, I see my own face—and for just a moment, my eyes look silver instead of violet-grey.
I blink, and they're normal again.
But the image stays with me as I return to my room, a whisper of something impossible trying to surface from the depths of my forgotten past.