Camwolf

by J. L. Merrow

  “Coffee any good here?” I asked. Actually I’d been here a few times before and I knew it was shite. But they were really good about letting you hang around all day when it was cold outside, and one waitress in particular was always good for a free refill if you flashed her a smile.

  Russell looked worried, like he thought it was some kind of test.

  “Not that I’m fussy, mind,” I added to put him at his ease. Never a truer word, and all that.

  “It’s—it’s all right, I suppose.” His eyes darted up to me briefly, and then returned to the safety of the coffee cup. “Their tea’s better,” he ventured.

  I shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not fussy. As long as it’s hot and wet, it’ll do me.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, and made my tone low and suggestive. Habit, really, more than an urgent desire to get into Russell’s C&A slacks.

  Russell blushed. Ye gods. Well, at least his innuendo detectors were working just fine. “Tom said…he said you needed somewhere to stay for a bit,” he said, looking up briefly from under his hair and then ducking back down for cover again.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know it’s a pain, but I need somewhere by the weekend. Tom reckoned you might be able to help me.” He still wasn’t looking at me, which wasn’t helping at all, so I made my voice as warm and seductive as possible and reached across the table to place a hand on one of his.

  He jumped a bloody mile and this time he did spill the coffee. “Shit! Oh, God, sorry!”

  “Hey, don’t sweat it,” I told him easily, seeing as about one drop had gone on my sleeve and the rest was soaking into his sweater. Shame it hadn’t gone in his lap, but I made the best of it. I must have used half the paper napkins in the place to mop him up, even the bits that didn’t strictly need it. He appreciated it. Believe me, I could tell. “Come on, we’d better get you home and into some dry clothes,” I said, taking his arm.

  Russell lived in a development near the docks. Not the posh end, by Ocean Village where Sebastian lived so he could go and wank over his yacht any time he wanted, but it wasn’t totally downmarket. His flat was on the second floor, up four flights of stairs. It was all right, I suppose. Nothing like Sebastian’s, of course, but I’d known I wouldn’t get that lucky again. There was a tiny hall that led into a smallish lounge/diner, with other doors off that must be to bed and other rooms. “Great place you’ve got here,” I said, slinging my rucksack on the floor.

  Russell looked pleased. “You like it? I know it’s a bit bare—I haven’t had time to do it up much yet.”

  “No, it’s great,” I told him, walking past the squashy, lived-in sofa to the window. “That view is amazing,” I added, with a lot more sincerity this time. The flat looked out over Southampton Water, and you could see the lights of ships passing by underneath in the twilight. Farther up to one side was a bridge over the river with tiny little cars driving over it, visible only by their headlamps. Somehow it made me feel like we were right in the heart of things, but in our own little world; part of the city, but above it too.

  “It’s great, isn’t it?” Russell said, coming up behind me. “It’s why I bought the place. Just fell in love with that view. You look at that and you feel you can go anywhere, do anything.” It was more words than he’d strung together the whole time in the café.

  “Yeah? You always lived here alone?”

  Russell nodded once, clamming up again. “I’ll just get changed.”

  He disappeared into what must be his bedroom, and I looked around a bit, checking out the bookshelves and the DVD collection like you always do, although hopefully I’d have plenty of time to do that later. There were the engineering books like you’d expect, and the complete works of Terry Pratchett snuggled up to Gormenghast and The Lord of the Rings, but there was also a whole shelf full of books in French, mostly crime stories, which made sense. You don’t need half as big a vocabulary to read thrillers in a foreign language as you do for science fiction. There were a couple of Arsène Lupin paperbacks that looked familiar from my teenage years, and a solitary Maigret. It made me nostalgic for childhood holidays in Brittany. Back when my dad had still been speaking to me.

  “Do you speak French?”

  Russell’s voice had startled me, and I spun ’round. He’d changed into jeans and a baggy red T-shirt that made him look like his own kid brother. “Haven’t done in years,” I said, shrugging.

  He gave a shy smile. “You’d probably pick it up again all right if you tried. Um. Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet, no,” I told him with a smile, sitting on the well-stuffed sofa and putting my arm along the back. I casually rested my right ankle on my left knee, giving him a good look at my package. Laying my cards out on the table, so to speak. “What do you fancy?”

  I watched him perch awkwardly on the edge of an armchair and tried not to sigh. He was like a tortoise, I decided. Retreating into his shell every time I tried to get close.

  Was he even actually gay?

  Still, as long as he let me stay here until the end of Finals, what did I care? I sat forward again. “If you’ve got some food in, I’m not bad at cooking. Or we could get a takeaway? If you’ve got the money, that is,” I added, as it was probably time we got the business details out of the way. “Tom told you I’m skint, right? So I can’t afford any rent, but I’m happy to pay my way in other ways. You know—you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Or, you know, any other bits you want scratching…” I left it hanging, but I didn’t lick my lips. I’ve got some class. And he’d probably have run off screaming.

  I could see Russell’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. “Tom said…he said you didn’t have any money.” He frowned. “But you don’t need to…you know.” He stopped, looking like he’d rather be at the salon getting a back, sack and crack.

  Shit. He wasn’t gay. I was going to kill Tom.

  The seduction of his enemy is the ultimate hunt…

  A Thread of Deepest Black

  © 2011 Finn Marlowe

  When his mortal enemy, the handsome and deadly Colton Dècarie, shows up on his doorstep asking an unspeakable favor, Killian Frost is cautious—and curious. What could drive a shape-shifter to beg a werewolf for an honorable death in the line of duty—defending humans from soul-stealing Lycans? Moreover, why ask Killian, who has kept his own feet off that dark path?

  Colton’s conflicted heart can take no more of the violence that consumes more of his humanity with every hunt. Even now, Killian’s werewolf scent makes him burn with the instinctive urge to shift and destroy. Death would be a mercy, but the price is impossibly simple: one night of submission in Killian’s bed.

  Yet as Killian extracts payment in flesh and pleasure, Colton finds himself giving all that’s demanded of him and more, feeling something he hasn’t felt in a long time. Alive. And Killian discovers the hidden cost of sleeping with the enemy. To keep the balance between light and dark, Bella Luna binds his Lycan blood with a quest to unravel a conspiracy threatening all his kind. If he’s brave enough, he’ll discover a love that means more than the power of a dead man’s soul.

  Warning: Contains plotting and scheming, a wicked, whip-wielding werewolf whose favorite word is “Mine” and a sexy shifter bound with red ribbon whose favorite reply is “I hate you.”

  Enjoy the following excerpt for A Thread of Deepest Black:

  Despite his nightly fantasies and imaginings of whispered words, Killian didn’t expect to speak to the crazy shape-shifter again—ever. See, yes, they did share the same city and their paths did cross from time to time. Mostly they avoided each other, his family and theirs, having their separate interests and purposefully keeping them separate. Hostility was the only possible outcome of inadvertent meetings, and in the dark, hostility could lead to worse things.

  When the house phone rang Killian always checked the call display, refusing to speak to people he didn’t want to—family, mostly. Usually they called to forward their latest scheme, unless
it was his mother. She called to forward her plans regarding her latest hand-picked Lycan woman. It was her opinion that he’d stalled long enough and it was time to mate with the chosen female and propagate the species. Mate was the word too. It wasn’t like he was allowed to have an opinion, just a ready and able penis. The phone number flashing on the display made him forget all annoyance with pestering mothers.

  C. Décarie. It had only been a day or two since he quit mouthing What the hell? all the time and now he was right back at it, instantly, and out loud too. The phone almost switched to the answering machine before he snatched up the receiver and sputtered, “What?”

  “Killian?”

  Just one word and he was breathing harder. “Yeah?”

  “It’s Colton Décarie.”

  “I know.”

  “Can we meet somewhere?”

  His cock agreed first. Yes, absolutely, it said. Surely the boy wasn’t considering his impossible condition? Soundlessly, he gulped in a needed mouthful of air. All his blood, and therefore oxygen, was rushing downward real fast. “Where’d you have in mind?” Come here and come alone, he silently wished.

  “I was thinking the park. Downtown, at the lake.”

  Damn. Could you get more public than that? Guess the shifter wasn’t considering his proviso after all. Masterfully, he schooled his voice to his I-could-care-less mode. “When?”

  “Tonight?”

  My, my, someone was in a hurry. “I guess. What time?”

  “Late. Midnight?”

  “But then it would be tomorrow and not tonight.”

  A puff of annoyed breath crackled his way. “Are you coming or not?”

  Not very patient, either. “I’ll be there. Where exactly?”

  “Under the willows. It’s private.”

  “What? Don’t want to be seen with me?”

  “No. Not really. Hurt?”

  “Not at all. I’ll come.”

  The phone went dead without so much as a goodbye, making Killian smile. Snappy and impatient? Maybe Blondie was considering certain…exchanges?

  The hours crawled by, painfully slowly, just about killing him. His curiosity was burning him up. It was like waiting for Christmas Day and a hoped for, but not really expected, present under the tree. At 11:30 p.m. he locked his door and made for the park, speeding recklessly and fearing another ticket—sooner or later they’d land him in jail if he didn’t cool it.

  It was very warm. Killian loved summertime. Evidently humans loved it too, since there were quite a few of them strolling about the brightly lit walkway. The water shimmered softly with the reflection of streetlamp and bright moon shine. Fearless, he crossed the bridge and made for the willows at the water’s edge. Lurking bad guys would be wise to watch out for him; the moon was out. Not that there would be any left for him; Colton would have cleared them out already.

  Speaking of Colton, he was here. Killian caught his scent quickly and felt his power vibrating. The ground at the edge of the lapping lake was squishy and rank, but solid and oddly fragrant under the massive willows. Colton’s scent drove him forward and mapped his way to where Killian found him sitting on a purloined picnic table parked next to the massive tree trunk. Enough light filtered under the wispy branches to identify the man’s face and features cast into sharp relief by shadow. In the shadows he looked more handsome and less pretty.

  “You came,” Colton said.

  “I said I would.”

  When Colton flung himself off the table like a teenager, Killian took his spot, slightly warmed. The shifter’s pacing said a thousand words his voice could not.

  “What did you want, Blondie?”

  Stopping abruptly, Colton faced him, not liking the insulting nickname. It might be dark, but defiance had its own light. “I wondered if you reconsidered your ridiculous demand.”

  “Not one bit.”

  Arm swinging replaced the pacing. “How could you ask that? How? It’s sick!”

  “What part? The fact that I’m a Lycanthrope and you’re a Therianthrope and therefore my mortal enemy? Or the fact you know I want you on your knees serving me?” Smiling to himself, Killian went on as ruthless as before. “Or is it the fact I’m a man?”

  It required further grinning when he realised he’d rendered the shifter speechless.

  “Well? You were all talkative a second ago—”

  “All three,” Colton complained. “And the first two much more so than the last.”

  Ah, good God! Killian closed his eyes for a second. What did I do to deserve such a blessing? Is it because I’ve never killed anyone despite the blood-borne desire to want to?

  “Do you have any idea how impossible that would be for me? To have you touch me?”

  “I’ve already touched you.”

  “And it burned!”

  Killian flicked his eyes open. He’d forgotten that completely. Shifters suffered. They suffered a lot. During growth spurts until they reached manhood, they had to endure fierce burning in their bones for days at a time and then to shift—that burned too. More pain. But the worst part, in his estimation, was the whole sex thing. Almost made you feel sorry for the pathetic creatures. That hurt too. Sexual desires and sensing werewolves hurt roughly equally, one confused with the other, but that was only until they were grown and got control of their emotions and their abilities. Was it because Colton was gifted? There was no reason his touch should hurt. “Why did my touch hurt you, Blondie?”

  “Why do you think?” he snarled.

  “I don’t know. You’re all grown up—I should think you’d be over that by now.”

  Clenching his hands into fists, Colton glared at him. In the dark he looked much more like the demonic thing he was. “You’re still a werewolf!”

  Killian shuddered. “Why don’t you say that a bit louder, Blondie? There might be one or two humans left in the park who didn’t hear you.”

  “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “See? This is pointless.”

  “Do I really smell that bad?”

  “Yes!” he hissed. “Your blood does, it calls to me, calls to my blood, makes me want to…” He shrugged and left the rest unsaid. “Your body smells…slightly better.”

  “Hmm.” Perhaps it was an insurmountable problem. Or was it just a question of familiarity? “Maybe you just need to get used to me.”

  Colton gave him a dirty look for his suggestion.

  “Come stand closer.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Like sucking in flames, is it? Burning gasoline? Rotting meat? All three?”

  “Yes! Almost the same. I’ve been around your kind enough that it’s not that bad anymore. But you still make me want to shift. I long to shift.”

  “Get over it.”

  “I can’t! I’ve tried. God knows, I’ve tried.”

  The desperation in his voice was pure. It had something to do with the whole suicide-by-werewolf thing, but Killian knew this was one subject not to broach; it wasn’t a pushable button right now. Nimble also, he launched himself off the table, and Colton’s reflexes instantly reacted, sending him into a defensive posture. “Relax, shifter,” he cautioned. “You’re going to have to relax.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to touch you.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  “I am. You just need to get used to me, as I said.” Tentatively, he took a small step forward. Colton’s nostrils flared. “Relax. Stop breathing so hard. Slow down.”

  “I hate you! Why can’t you just kill me like a decent werewolf?”

  It was an absurd statement, and he laughed. “I’m not decent. In fact, the things I want to do to you are all indecent. You give me what I want and I’ll consider giving you what you want.”

  “That’s such a crappy argument, you know. You’ll consider it? How ’bout I give you what you want and you give me what I want?”

  “Nope. You’re asking for so much more than I am. It’s not a fair deal and us Frosts re
ally hate to get taken of advantage of.” Less tentative this time, he moved closer. “Now stop stalling and come here.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I know. That’s the best part.”

  Camwolf

  J.L. Merrow

  To save his lover, he must become his own worst nightmare.

  Dr. Nick Sewell. Non-conformist. Werewolf. The first puts him at odds with his colleagues’ idea of how an All Saints College lecturer should behave. The second, bestowed upon him by an ex-boyfriend, puts him at odds with himself.

  There’s his tendency to change into a wolf on the full moon. And his visceral attraction to Julian Lauder, a troubled young German student. Despite his determination not to act on his desire, Nick’s brutal response to seeing Julian with another man frightens them both. At first.

  Then Nick learns that Julian is not only a naturally submissive werewolf, but one who has learned better how to deal with just being a werewolf. That explains the attraction, but it doesn’t make it any easier when the tables are turned, and Julian—once the student—is now teaching Nick…who still isn’t happy about conforming to the “werewolf way”.

  Meanwhile, reports of a strange wolf stalking the town barely register on Nick’s radar—until Julian disappears. Accusing eyes—both wolf and human—are turned toward Nick. Even with the help of friends, hope is growing as cold as the kidnapper’s trail. Unless Nick gives free rein to the wolf’s inhuman power…

  Warning: Contains hot outdoor sex, alliterative insults, allusions to abuse, and really awful sherry.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.