Living with a werewolf, it turned out, had some surprising advantages.
The first had been the dramatic improvement in our flat's security. Word had apparently gotten around the neighborhood about the "very large dog" that lived in our building, and our break-in rate had dropped to zero. Even the persistent graffiti artists who'd been tagging the building next door had found somewhere else to practice their craft.
"I think they can smell me," Marcus had explained when I'd mentioned the sudden absence of antisocial behavior in our area. "Predator scent. Makes people nervous on a subconscious level."
"That's actually quite useful."
"One of the few perks of the condition."
The second advantage had been Marcus's supernatural hearing, which had proven invaluable during exam season.
"Your upstairs neighbors are having a party," he'd announced one Tuesday evening.
"I don't hear anything."
"Trust me. It's about to get loud."
He'd been right. Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Patterson's flat had erupted in music and laughter that had continued until well past midnight. But Marcus had given me enough warning to relocate to the library, saving my organic chemistry revision from disaster.
"How far can you hear?" I'd asked the next morning.
"Couple of blocks when I concentrate. It's not as useful as you'd think, though. Mostly just an endless stream of television shows and domestic arguments."
"Must be distracting."
"You learn to filter it out. Like living near a train station."
The third advantage had been completely unexpected: Marcus had turned out to be an excellent judge of character.
"I don't like your new girlfriend," he'd announced after meeting Sarah for the first time.
"What's wrong with Sarah?"
"She smells wrong."
"She smells wrong?"
"Not physically. It's more... her intentions smell wrong."
"Marcus, that doesn't make sense."
"Has she asked to borrow money yet?"
She had, actually. The following week. Fifty pounds for a "temporary cash flow problem" that had turned into several temporary cash flow problems before I'd finally realized Marcus had been right.
"How did you know?"
"Desperation has a scent. So does deception. She reeked of both."
"That's deeply disturbing."
"But useful."
"But disturbing."
"Would you rather date someone who's planning to fleece you?"
"Point taken."
The fourth advantage had been the most surprising: Marcus had become an excellent flatmate.
All the consideration he'd learned to apply to his lycanthropy had carried over into his daily life. He'd started doing his dishes immediately after use, cleaning the bathroom without being asked, and even taking initiative on household maintenance tasks.
"The washing machine's making that noise again," he'd informed me one morning. "I've already called a repair service."
"You called a repair service?"
"Seemed like the responsible thing to do."
"Who are you and what have you done with my disaster-prone flatmate?"
"I prefer 'formerly disaster-prone,' thank you."
"What brought on this sudden burst of domestic competence?"
"I figured if I could learn to manage lycanthropy, I could probably manage laundry."
"That's surprisingly mature."
"I have my moments."
By autumn, we'd developed what could only be described as a functional partnership. Marcus would handle anything requiring supernatural senses or unusual strength, while I dealt with paperwork, phone calls, and any situation requiring normal human interaction during daylight hours.
"We make a good team," I'd observed one evening while we tackled our respective homework. Marcus had started taking night classes in wildlife management, which seemed both appropriate and slightly concerning.
"We do," he'd agreed, looking up from an essay about predator-prey relationships. "I never thought I'd find someone who could live with the werewolf thing."
"I never thought I'd find someone who could make lycanthropy seem like a minor inconvenience."
"Is that what this is? A minor inconvenience?"
I'd considered this, watching him absently scratch behind his ear in a gesture that had become more pronounced as the full moon approached. "Well, you're still the messiest eater I've ever lived with, you shed constantly, and you have the worst taste in television."
"What's wrong with my taste in television?"
"Marcus, you watch cooking shows while eating raw meat. It's disturbing."
"It's aspirational."
"It's weird."
"But you're not moving out."
"Where am I going to find another flatmate who can hear burglars three blocks away and scares off problem neighbors just by existing?"
"That's practical rather than sentimental."
"I'm a practical person."
"And?"
"And..." I'd paused, surprised by the direction of my thoughts. "And you're not terrible company, when you're not destroying furniture."
"High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
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