Camwolf

by J. L. Merrow

  “Perfectly,” Nick lied through gritted teeth. “Well, I mustn’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you are extremely busy.”

  “Oh, indeed, indeed. You young fellows, you don’t know what work is.” Lemon emptied his sherry glass, frowned at it and got up to give himself a refill.

  Remaining there barely long enough for politeness, Nick stomped back to his rooms. After ten minutes of angry pacing, he swore, and changed into his running kit. If he stayed inside he’d go mad. And if he’d had to stay one more minute with Angus Bloody Lemon he’d have ripped his bigoted throat out.

  His route, this time, took Nick both along the Backs and past the Rat and Ferret, but there was no sign of Julian. Nick wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

  Tiff sat alone in the college bar nursing her half of cider and black and wishing Julian would bloody well hurry up. She kept feeling like people were staring at her. Probably because they were staring at her. Either word had got round about her and Jools being an item, or she’d come out with her skirt tucked in the back of her tights. Tiff tried to make it seem like she was just twisting round to look at something on the other side of the room while she discreetly checked her clothes. Nope, she wasn’t flashing her undies. Must be the gossip, then.

  It was too early to be really busy, but there were a few groups sitting round tables, somehow making her feel even more like a sore thumb. The rugby club were in their usual corner, being surprisingly un-rowdy. Maybe they were still hung-over from yesterday. And at a table in the centre, surrounded by his fan club, the college drug dealer—at least, she’d always assumed that was why people called him Crack. His brand of seedy heroin chic seemed to act as a magnet for half the girls in the college. He played it up, too—skinny as a rake, his jeans so tight it was a wonder his bits didn’t get gangrene and drop off. And he always wore black. Lots and lots of black. Tiff grinned as she looked at him. Maybe he’d just never learned to colour coordinate.

  Tiff blushed as she realised Crack had noticed her smiling at him, and looked away hurriedly—right into Jools’ teasing eyes. “Do I need to worry you’re going to throw me over for some Goth you met in a bar?” he asked as he slid into the seat next to hers and took a swig from her drink without asking. “This stuff is quite disgusting, by the way. Why don’t you drink wine?”

  “Because you haven’t bought me any,” Tiff retorted, smiling sweetly and hoping her face wasn’t still red. Julian sighed, but padded gracefully to the bar, returning with two large glasses of what would probably turn out to be extremely dry white wine.

  “Aren’t we going to hold hands or something?” Tiff asked as he sat down. Somehow he managed to look elegant even perched on a low bar stool. “You don’t want people thinking we’ve broken up.”

  Julian looked up at her, surprised. “Oh. Didn’t I tell you? We don’t need to do that anymore. I’ve spoken to Dr. Sewell.” He smiled far more smugly than anyone drinking that dry a wine had any right to. “I think things will work out very well.”

  “Good,” Tiff said tightly. She took a large swallow of her wine.

  Suddenly she didn’t give a shit what it tasted like.

  Chapter Seven

  When the knock came on his door a few days later, Nick’s heart started to race a little even before he called out “Come in.” Somehow he wasn’t surprised to see Julian walk into his room. Had he sensed him, without even being aware of it himself? A sort of werewolf gaydar? If so, it was a damned shame it hadn’t kicked in a bit earlier.

  It was the first time he’d seen the boy to speak to since he’d brought Nick the books. They’d been an eclectic bunch: a translation of Oscar Wilde, which he might have expected; a romance novel, which he most definitely had not; and a collection of short stories by Heinrich Böll. Nick had never really got on with Böll; reading his work always left Nick with the firm impression that one or the other of them was entirely lacking in a sense of humour. And then the biggest surprise of all: Erich Kästner’s Drei Männer im Schnee. Not only did Nick already own a copy, it was in fact one of his favourite books; an old-fashioned story of two men from vastly different backgrounds who become unlikely friends whilst shoveling snow. It was a book he often turned to when he was ill or in need of comfort, and it had never failed him. The copy Julian had lent him was inscribed to Julian in his mother’s elegant script, and was well-thumbed.

  Nick found himself smiling up at the boy from his desk. Julian appeared a little flushed. As usual, he was rather more nicely dressed than the average student, in well-fitting jeans and a soft cream sweater Nick strongly suspected to be cashmere.

  “I wanted to ask, have you enjoyed the books?” Once again, his tones were oddly formal and German-sounding.

  “Ah, yes, thank you—although I should return this one to you,” Nick said, handing over the Kästner with an inexplicable feeling of reluctance. “I already have a copy. It’s a favourite of mine, as it happens.”

  Julian smiled. Nick wasn’t prepared for the feelings that engendered in him, either. “I’m glad. I have read his other books, but I like this one the best.”

  Nick nodded, feeling a little foolish at not quite knowing what to say. “Ah—can I offer you a coffee?” he asked. Surely, even among werewolves, the offering of refreshment was traditional? Although, of course, a pack-raised werewolf might have very different ideas of what refreshment to offer. No. He was being absurd.

  “Thank you. White, no sugar, please.”

  Well, if Nick wasn’t behaving how a werewolf should, Julian at least seemed to be taking it into his stride. Perhaps Nick would pluck up the courage to offer him a digestive biscuit. Or, if he was feeling really brave, a Jaffa Cake. Nick grinned at himself under cover of boiling the kettle.

  As they sat together with steaming cups of instant, Nick found himself hoping like hell Julian would take the conversational initiative soon, or any minute now he’d be saying “Well, this is nice, isn’t it?” like a member of the Women’s Institute taking tea with the vicar, and then he’d have to kill himself. He managed not to sigh in relief as Julian rested his mug on his knee and cleared his throat.

  “We should go for a run together, sometime. You know, as wolves.” Julian’s manner was a little hesitant, and his finger traced a circle around the top of his mug.

  Was he offering because he thought he ought, or because he wanted to? “I—well, are you sure that’s wise?” Visions of Carl shot through Nick’s head. God, there’d been so much blood…

  “As long as we don’t go to Coe Fen, why not?”

  “You don’t think we might, well, fight?”

  From the look Julian gave him, one might have thought he’d just suggested they invite the Master and all the fellows along for the trip. “Of course we would not fight.” He blinked. “You have places you like to go?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, a place. Some woods out to the south of town.”

  Another sidelong look. “You think it’s safe to go to the same place all the time?”

  “Well, it’s only once a month, after all.”

  “Once a month? You mean you don’t change any more frequently than that?”

  Nick was getting rather tired of Julian’s incredulous expressions. “Since that is the approximate frequency of full moons, no, I don’t,” he told him rather shortly. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Julian stared at him in that curious way of his, tilting his head away and looking at Nick out of the corner of his eye. “You mean you’ve never changed except at full moon?”

  “I wasn’t aware that it was even possible,” Nick said slowly. “In any case, why on earth would I want to? It’s hardly a barrel of laughs. Why would anyone want that kind of pain any more often than they had to endure it?”

  Julian drew in a sharp breath. “If you change more frequently, the pain lessens. Considerably. I can’t believe you didn’t know that.”

  “Well, forgive me for not having been brought up by werewolves!” Nick regretted his t
emper immediately, as Julian’s face took on that closed look he’d seen all too often. “Look, I’m sorry,” Nick forced himself to say. “It’s just a little galling—I’ve been a werewolf for three years now, and here you are, telling me I’ve been doing it wrong all this time!”

  Julian shifted position on the sofa, looking uncomfortable. He looked at the mug in his hand for a moment, then carefully placed it on the floor by his feet. “What about the one that turned you? Didn’t he teach you anything?”

  Nick snorted. “Apart from not to go sneaking round my boyfriend’s house on full moon nights to see if he was cheating on me, no, he didn’t.”

  He sighed, remembering. He’d met Carl whilst doing his PhD at Durham University, a place he’d chosen on a whim because he’d never really been up North and he’d fancied a change of scene. It hadn’t hurt that it had something of a reputation as a home from home for Oxbridge graduates. Carl had been a postgrad Modern Languages student doing French and German.

  They’d met at the Durham version of the CUGS Stammtisch, which Nick had been disappointed to discover involved rather less beer and rather more discussion of worthy topics than its Cambridge counterpart. They hadn’t hit it off straight away, and in truth the relationship had always been a little uneasy, each of them seeming to feel a need to score points off the other. Nick had been rather appalled to discover this hitherto unsuspected side of himself.

  And then one afternoon Carl had told Nick abruptly that he wouldn’t be seeing him that evening. Somehow Nick hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that Carl wasn’t telling the truth about his reasons.

  So, fired by motives he hadn’t cared to examine too closely, he’d borrowed a friend’s car and driven out to Carl’s little rented cottage, way out in the back of beyond. There had been a light shining from the living room window. Nick had been planning to simply knock on the door—of course he had—but hadn’t been able to resist just taking a look through the window. Just to reassure himself. As he’d made his way around the house, something had leapt at him. He’d been knocked flat on his back, looking into bloodthirsty eyes. Hot, reeking breath had flooded his nose, making him gag, and he’d been paralysed with fear. And then the creature had bitten him. Hard, on the shoulder, tearing his flesh and drawing blood—lots of blood. Nick had never known pain like it. He’d screamed with the agony of it, but there had been no one there to hear. And then the creature had howled, and he’d passed out.

  He’d woken up on Carl’s sofa, his shoulder feeling so bloody awful he’d actually checked to see if his arm was still there. Carl had been hovering around agitatedly. He’d had the gall to blame Nick for what had happened. Said it wasn’t his fault Nick had come sneaking around. Had said a lot of rather confusing stuff about instincts and claiming that Nick hadn’t understood at all. Not at the time, anyway.

  These days, of course, he understood it all rather too well.

  And then had been the worst part—Carl telling him he’d been the beast that had attacked Nick. That he was a werewolf—had been bitten by one during his year studying in Heidelberg and turned into one himself. Nick hadn’t believed a word of it, of course. He’d let Carl drive him back to town, where he’d gone straight to the doctor’s for a rather better patch-up job than Carl had managed, and a tetanus jab. They’d parted on extremely strained terms, as was only to be expected.

  He hadn’t seen much of Carl after that. He’d been aware that something was—not quite right, as the weeks went on, but he’d put it down to the trauma of being attacked by a ravening beast and the same night finding out his boyfriend was insane.

  On the afternoon of the next full moon, Carl had turned up out of the blue and practically forced him into his car. Nick hadn’t known what had appalled him more—Carl’s almost violent manner, or his own reaction to it. He’d had to restrain himself from attacking the man, had felt a fierce urge to fight him, to dominate.

  When they’d reached Carl’s cottage…the angry wait for the moon to rise—after all, might as well humour the madman…the almost comical shock of seeing Carl strip in preparation for the transformation that Nick was firmly convinced would not happen…and the tearing, gut-wrenching agony of his own first transformation.

  And then, it seemed, the wolf’s instincts had taken over.

  Julian was looking at him. As Nick registered this, the boy’s eyes dropped once more. Nick took a deep breath, trying to control himself. Thinking about Carl when he was with Julian was, he decided, a very bad idea. Although the instinct involved was rather different.

  Had Julian’s father taught him this? All this submissive behaviour? Nick felt a surge of anger. “No,” he repeated. “He didn’t teach me anything. And we realised after the first full moon together that it wasn’t safe for us to be anywhere near each other in wolf form.”

  “You fought?”

  Nick felt a chill at the memory. He fervently hoped he’d never again be as close to committing murder as he had on that night. “Christ, pretty much all night, or at any rate it seemed like it. He—he wouldn’t stop. I mean, it was clear I was—the stronger, but he wouldn’t back down.” He swallowed, guilt turning his stomach. Because he hadn’t backed down, either. “We kept having to break off—we were both exhausted—but then it’d start again. And again.” He’d woken up with Carl’s blood in his mouth, barely able to stand. “I thought that was what it would always be like, with other werewolves. Until you said what you did about having a pack.”

  Julian shrugged, one-shouldered. “It just means you were both dominants. Both alphas. And both of you unused to the presence of other wolves. It was natural that you would fight. Where were you?”

  It was an intelligent question. “At his cottage—on his territory, I suppose you’d say. I think that’s why he wouldn’t back down. Why he fought on so long,” he added a little shakily.

  Julian gave a strange smile. “And you won.”

  “I suppose I did. I assure you I took no pleasure in having practically ripped my ex-lover’s throat out. If it hadn’t been for the change back somehow healing the worst of it—” Nick trailed off. He still wasn’t sure what he’d have done if Carl had died. And he was damned sure he didn’t want to think about it now. He’d been thinking quite a lot about the existence of wolf packs, since Julian’s revelation. About how individual wolves filled different roles within a rather rigid framework—at least, if true wolves were anything to go by. “And what about you?” he asked, tensing in anticipation of the answer. “I mean, you don’t seem…”

  Julian gave a bitter smile, not looking at him. “I’m not a dominant. I’m what is sometimes known as an omega. The lowest of the low. I should have thought you’d have worked that out by now.”

  “So…we would be safe, together?”

  Julian gave a jerky little movement that would undoubtedly have spilled his coffee, had he still been holding it. “I would obey you.”

  Nick took a deep breath, feeling arousal spread through him at Julian’s words. Julian would obey him. Would do anything he wanted. He found he was clenching his fists, trying to fight the feelings down. This was…not right. And the fact that Julian was so matter-of-fact about it only made things worse. “You had to obey the other wolves in your father’s pack?”

  Julian seemed smaller, somehow, as he answered. “Yes.” It was barely more than a whisper.

  “I would never expect that of you!” Nick told him fiercely.

  Julian looked him directly in the eye, just for a moment. Nick could feel anger growing within him, until Julian’s gaze fell once more. “Yes, you would,” Julian said calmly. “It’s all right. I trust you.”

  Nick was staggered by that simple statement.

  That evening, Nick looked out of his window over Main Court. He realised he was only putting things off. Julian had said he could change whenever he wanted to. So Nick should be able to do so as well. Should he try it here? In his rooms? But what if he couldn’t change back? What if he got stuck as a wolf unti
l next full moon?

  Get a grip, Sewell, he told himself, disgusted at his own cowardice. If you can do it one way, you can do it the other. Feeling a little foolish, he checked the door was locked, pulled the curtains and started to undress. Standing there naked, looking at his desk covered in third-year essays, he felt even more absurd. And how the hell was he supposed to accomplish this in any case? When he changed at the full moon, it just happened. It was beyond his control. And the pain—dear God, the pain. Why the hell would anyone invite that sort of agony? It was ridiculous, and unnecessary.

  And he was being a coward again. Nick forced himself to calm down, and tried to—what? Think hairy? He got down on all fours and tried to imagine his limbs changing, face lengthening.

  Nothing.

  “Damn it!” he swore under his breath and pulled his clothes back on angrily.

  Tiff trudged up the last flight of stairs to Julian’s room, breathing hard. Maybe she ought to start going to the gym. On the other hand, maybe that’d just make her feel even more knackered. Julian had better bloody well be in after all this. She knocked on the door, and almost immediately there was a reassuring cry of “Come in!” rather than a curt “Yes!” That usually meant Jools was in a good mood.