Hey guys! I'd planned to hold out the interlude chapter from you until much later, but Barricade Day lined up so perfectly with my posting schedule that I figured it was a sign from the universe and decided to give it to you today.

After this, I am going on hiatus to get ahead with my writing for the next installment in the series, "Daughter of a Wolf." I have the first five chapters written, but I want to get the first nine done before I start posting. I'm a tad neurotic like that. I promise though, I'm coming back to this story soon. Probably in about two weeks. Not that bad, right?

Until then, I offer you this little snippet to taunt you further. Enjoy!

No Way of Knowing

Courfeyrac had made it his job to be everyone's best friend long ago. It had just made sense to him because people were just so cool and it seemed stupid to miss out on anyone. So he talked to just about everybody that he met, and tried to learn everything there was to know about the people he liked. And somehow, people seemed to like him and trust him as well.

He knew that Marius still (after two years) got uncomfortable and sad every time his Grandfather tried to send him money. The day that Marius slammed their dorm room door in tears and announced very loudly that his father had just died was one that Courfeyrac wouldn't forget anytime soon. They'd only been living together for a few weeks, but he tried to comfort his roommate however he could, asking Marius to tell him about the man. It was probably the worst thing he could've asked because Marius' response was furious, and the kid tried to take it out on the dresser.

"I'll never know!" he'd screamed. "Because I also just found out that my Grandfather was the one keeping me from knowing him all these years!"

Apparently, his father had done something in the marines that moved him around a lot. And since his Grandfather didn't want that lifestyle for Marius, he'd taken him away. Courfeyrac had gone to George Pontmercy's funeral to be there for Marius, and had watched the blowout between grandfather and grandson that had caused his roommate to walk away from the rest of his family for good.

Every few months, Marius would storm back to their room in a terrible mood and toss him an envelope, saying "it's yours if you want it."

And he never told Marius, that he always mailed the money back to his grandfather with notes, promising that Marius was doing alright, and that he would look after him.

Courfeyrac also knew that if Cosette hadn't watched her Mother die when she was five years old, the beautiful blonde would have become a pastry chef. Instead, she spent a year of her childhood sitting next to her on a hospital bed and listen to her screaming out, asking where she'd gone and begging her to come back.

Sometimes, Courfeyrac wondered if that's why Cosette spent so much energy on how she looked, and the attention-drawing mannerisms that made everyone love her. For a child to try to reassure her screaming mother that she was right there, and not even be seen, it must be devastating.

Cosette loved her choice in major, and Courfeyrac had no doubt that she was going to make a major breakthrough in medical research. But he couldn't help but be wistful for what she could've done every time she brings him and Marius her nutmeg madeleines and hibiscus tea sorbet.

He knew that Éponine almost always carried a knife around with her. And not only did she carry a knife; the feisty little freshman owned several. For the most part, he only saw them clipped to the inside of her jeans, but that day at the cafeteria when she pulled one out (with an intricate flipping trick to boot) to cut into a particularly tough brand of cafeteria steak, the entire table was in shocked awe. Courfeyrac never found out why she carried them around, because Éponine always played things close to the vest, but he knew based on the way her hand had flown to her waistband the first time they'd met that she wouldn't hesitate to use it on a person if need be.

He knew that Jehan was the secret badass of the group. The innocent little poet with maybe four pairs of jeans and layers of shirts and sweaters for his only clothes had faced more than Courfeyrac ever had. And the most amazing part of it all was how he came out so good.

Even as his father had pinned him down and beaten him up, even when his mother refused to say anything to stop it, even when he took a crowbar to the temple, Jehan never backed down. And not even when his mother visited him in the hospital to tell him "it's better if you didn't return." He stayed out and proud, continued to write about the flowers, and found some way to make it here to college on a full ride scholarship.

It wasn't because he couldn't defend himself either. Courfeyrac still hasn't gotten over the rush of satisfaction he felt over seeing Jehan's roommate's bruised face the day after the poet came to stay the night with slightly bloody knuckles. Courfeyrac had half thought he was joking when he'd said "you should see the other guy's face." But seeing that jackass's face more purple than skin-colored felt good.

The guy had been stealing Jehan's medication for months, and the poet hadn't said a word, hadn't let him or Bahorel lay a finger on him. The instant Jehan saw his roommate slipping something in a girl's drink however, he'd laid him flat on his ass in half a second.

Courfeyrac could do this for all of his friends too. He knew that Bossuet used to have night terrors as a child and would always throw himself off the bed, so his parents had to pad everything within a five foot radius.

Feuilly was an orphan back in Poland and had to teach himself how to read and write. Somehow, he'd learned to be hardworking on his own, even finding a job by the time he was twelve.

Joly had taken glassblowing lessons since he was in the fifth grade because he was afraid he had weak lungs, and this was his parents' solution. The pre-med was freakishly good at it by now, and every few weeks, he would go to the art building to make more of his bizarre artisan glasswork because of his boyfriend's clumsiness.

Grantaire was obsessed with 90's sitcoms, especially Friends. One night at the Corinth, when both of them had entered the maudlin stage of wasted, he'd asked the cynic about it. Why Friends? Probably not even realizing what he was revealing, Grantaire had said, "for years it was like the dream, y'know? I never thought I'd get the chance to have, like, multiple friends, so just a group of close friends, hanging out every day and bitching about work and dating. It… it was good." Courfeyrac, not knowing what to say to that, had just clapped the cynic on the back and bought him his next drink.

Bahorel was the most observant person he'd ever met. Even if the ginger didn't understand or deeply analyze what he saw, he could scan a Where's Waldo page for ten seconds and could tell you about the entire scene without fail, including the location of Waldo.

Combeferre never told anybody that he would walk thirty minutes each way into town every Friday to attend Shabbat at the town's synagogue.

Enjolras was always the hardest to learn about. Their leader very rarely talked about himself or his past. But he'd managed to learn about a recurring dream Enjolras had been having since he was nine years old during hibernation last year.

Enjolras had been very sleep-deprived at the time, so he hadn't learned much. Just something about a child at the window. But it hadn't taken much of an effort to realize that the dream always left him shaken, and that Enjolras always drank his coffee black after he'd had the dream. Usually it was before rallies and protests, sometimes before he was about to go home for break.

Enjolras had been drinking black coffee for the past four days straight.

So when Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Bossuet all received text messages simultaneously while eating dinner together in the cafeteria, after four days of Enjolras drinking black coffee, several weeks of Éponine carrying a knife around almost every day without fail, and months of not seeing Grantaire, Courfeyrac had an odd sensation that something was coming to a head.

S.O.S

That in and of itself was the first warning sign that something was really wrong. Bossuet had long since convinced Joly to write 911 when it was one of his many "medical emergencies," to save them all the worry. But S.O.S meant that there was a real crisis.

evry1 get 2 ep & aire's asap. btw does any1 no a "Claquesous?" 30s-40s, in white on campus.

Immediately, the three of them stood up and gathered up their things, ready to start walking to The Earl of Sandwich shop to find out what had happened. They didn't need to speak to each other to communicate and understand that their friends needed them, and therefore they'd sprint all the way there if they had to.

A few blocks later, he realized that Enjolras had his eyes trained on the ground, a sort of angry pout on his face. Courfeyrac knew that look. Enjolras was one of the first friends he'd made on campus freshman year, and even though he wasn't Combeferre, he felt safe in saying he knew the blond pretty well. That expression meant that he was thinking about something, or trying to remember something.

"What is it, Enjy?" he asked, wanting to clear the air before they got to Éponine's apartment, because now really wasn't the time for whatever was bothering their leader. Especially if it had anything to do with why Grantaire took off almost seven weeks ago.

"Claquesous," Enjolras muttered softly. "Why does that sound so familiar?"

Courfeyrac made it his job to be everyone's best friend. People were just too interesting to miss out on, so he had always tried to get to know everything about everyone he met. He'd never heard the name Claquesous in his life, and that left a bad taste in his mouth. Enjolras didn't know people from college life that Courfeyrac didn't know, and it was highly unlikely that he'd met this forty-something in grade school. So where else could this man have come from?

And why Éponine and Grantaire's apartment instead of the Musain or the Earl?