by JL Merrow
And then Calum changed. Once again, the process seemed fantastically fast: impossible to follow, like trying to separate a stream of water into its individual droplets. Too much happened at once for Martin’s eyes to take it in; and how the hell did a full-grown man shrink down to the size of a wildcat in any case? Did it hurt, growing a tail?
Martin tried to imagine how it must feel. Surely he could do it himself now, if he only knew how to start? He tried to imagine his limbs flowing, shrinking—but what if he got stuck halfway? Or even all the way, and had to spend the rest of his life in cat form? Martin shivered at the sheer unnaturalness of it all.
God, what had he been thinking of, to find this all exciting? There was a reason shape-shifters were associated with dark magic, murder, and unnatural lusts. This was an infection eating away at him, a corruption of both body and soul. Feeling sick, Martin made his way blindly to the back door of the cottage and flung it open. He stood there on the threshold, gulping in the fresh, Highland air as if it could cleanse him from this taint. There was freedom here. All he had to do was start walking.
But where to? Martin felt his whole body clench in despair. No. There was no freedom. No escape.
Dropping his head down and wrapping his arms around his body against the sudden chill that gnawed at his bones, Martin trudged back inside.
CALUM slunk back into the cottage as twilight was beginning to fall.
“I cooked. It’s on the stove,” Martin said coldly, not raising his eyes from the TV. “Or have you already eaten?” he couldn’t help throwing in spitefully.
Calum just stared at him and then seemed to remember how human speech worked. “I came back when I got hungry.” He disappeared into the kitchen and started clattering with plates and saucepans. Martin remained in the living room, flicking through the channels until he came to a football match between two teams, neither of which he cared about. Eventually Calum returned and sat down on the sofa. “The pasta was good,” he said after a minute.
Martin wasn’t in the mood for olive branches. “No, it wasn’t. I’m crap at cooking.”
Calum just shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“I watched you change,” Martin said, unable to keep the accusing note out of his voice. “You made it look like it was as easy as breathing.”
Calum stared at him levelly for a moment, then dropped his gaze.
Abruptly Martin was furious. “What the hell is going on here, Calum? Why won’t you talk to me? Did you ever even give a damn about me? Or was it all about making sure nobody found out about your secret?”
At that Calum’s head jerked up. Martin’s anger faltered at the look on his face. Calum’s gaze dropped again as he ran a hand roughly through his curls. “You know there’s no one for me but you, Martin, don’t you now?”
“What? No. No, I don’t know that. Of course I don’t bloody well know that! Bloody hell, Calum, you haven’t even touched me since the night I got bitten!”
“And you want me to touch you? This is all my fault, Martin, if you’ll recall!”
Martin’s mouth was dry. He did recall. But—God, how could he stay mad at Calum when he so obviously felt awful about it? “It wouldn’t have happened if I’d stayed in bed. You were against them turning me—I heard you arguing with them. And you tried to fight for me. It wasn’t your fault.” Martin paused for breath, feeling like he was trying to convince both of them. “Look, I should probably be grateful. I mean, how many people have the chance to become another creature?”
He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed Calum’s smile. “God, Martin, you’re incredibly accepting of this, you know that? You’re the first one—the first one I’ve tried to tell who’s not run screaming or called the fucking head doctors.”
Martin felt a stab of guilt at just how far off the mark Calum was. “You’ve told other people?”
“Not told them. Played games, like I did with you that night. Got them wondering, that’s all. Trying to see if they’d be open to it.” Calum took a deep breath. “I’m just sick of it, okay, Martin?” He sprang up from the sofa and started pacing furiously. “I’m just fucking sick of hiding half my nature from the guys I’m with. The cat is part of me, Martin. You can’t have the one without the other. I wanted you to know that, on some level, even if you didn’t know. And I wanted”—he broke off, running his hand roughly through his hair—“I wanted you to know it was me you’d saved, and that—that I was grateful. Fuck, Martin, I thought I was going to die that day. I’d gone half crazy, trying to get out of that bastard snare and pulling it tighter all the while. Then you turned up….” Calum sat down heavily and rested his head in his hands.
Martin’s heart clenched. Calum had been trying to come out to him. Tentatively, Martin put an arm around him.
It didn’t get the reaction he’d hoped for. Calum jerked away and leapt to his feet once more. He wouldn’t look at Martin. “I’m sorry, Martin. I just can’t. Jesus, I just fucking can’t. I’m going to bed, all right? I’ll see you in the morning.”
THE next day was almost unbearable. Martin had hardly slept, and he felt like he was about to throw up. Calum was wound up so tightly Martin could imagine getting an electric shock if he happened to touch the man. Not, of course, that touching seemed to be on the agenda now or ever again, Martin thought angrily. He hated this feeling. It was obvious Calum was only staying with him to see him through his first change. God, he’d thought last night—fuck it. He’d been wrong. Stupidly wrong. Calum couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with him for more than an hour or two. And it hurt, damn it. He was angry with Calum. He felt used and betrayed by Calum—but even now he couldn’t help wanting him.
He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t woken up that night, if he’d never been bitten. Would he still have been with Calum now? Martin couldn’t work him out. Was it guilt that was keeping him out of Martin’s bed, or just indifference?
Or was there still something Calum wasn’t telling him?
“Did you send your sister a postcard?” Calum asked out of the blue, making Martin jump.
“What?”
“Your sister. The one who lives in Guildford. Did you send her a postcard? And your parents too? You’ve still got parents, right?”
“I haven’t sent any postcards. Why?”
Calum seemed to be consulting someone in his head. “You should send them. I’ll go grab you a couple from the post office.”
“Right. Fine. Whatever.” Martin looked around for his shoes. “It’ll do me good to get out of here for a bit anyway—”
“No! No, you stay here,” Calum said, cutting him off. “I’ll get them.” He was out of the door and driving off before Martin could work out what the hell was going on. Was he a prisoner here, now? Or was Calum just ashamed to be seen out with him?
Martin had never been one for senseless acts of violence against inanimate objects, but bloody hell, that chair had it coming.
Calum came back half an hour later with a selection of cheap picture postcards. He handed them to Martin with a pen and stood there expectantly.
“Turned into my mother, have you? I’m not feeling like writing postcards right now,” Martin said, annoyed at Calum and even more annoyed at himself for sounding so childish.
Calum rolled his eyes. “Well, just write the addresses now. You can do the rest later.”
“Want to know where to send the ransom note, do you?” Martin challenged, only half-joking.
Calum looked startled. “What?” His face seemed to close off. “Look, just do whatever the fuck you want, all right?” he snarled, and stomped into the kitchen where he started doing something that apparently involved a lot of slamming of cupboard doors.
Martin swore under his breath. “Dear Mum and Dad,” he wrote, “Weather is lovely up here. Am being held captive by an insane Irishman. Wish you were here.” Signing and addressing it, he left it in the middle of the sofa where Calum was sure to see it and shut himself in the be
droom.
Why was it, Martin wondered as he lay on the bed staring at the tiny cracks in the ceiling, that every time he found someone he cared about, he managed to bollocks it up somehow? I ought to be used to it by now, he thought angrily. After all, if he couldn’t hang onto someone who’d been his best mate since primary school….
Martin flung his arm across his eyes, but it didn’t stop him seeing Jonathan’s handsome, slightly lopsided face, clear as if he were in the same room. They’d been friends for countless years, and lovers for three, and Martin had never even looked at another bloke while they were together. He’d thought it hadn’t bothered Jonathan that he’d wanted it all to be kept secret, that he hadn’t been ready to come out of the closet.
Of course, he’d been wrong. They’d been lying side-by-side in Jonathan’s old two-man tent in a farmer’s field near Horton in Ribblesdale, still naked and flushed from making love, when Martin’s comforting illusion had been shattered. “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Jonathan had said abruptly.
Martin hadn’t understood, at first. He’d just laughed. “Yeah, it’ll be a while before I’m ready for the next round.”
Jonathan had rolled over then, and looked him straight in the eye. “No. That’s not what I mean. I don’t want to be your dirty little secret anymore, okay?”
“What? So what is this, then? You’re dumping me?” He’d said it to wound, not because he’d really believed it might happen.
“No, I’m just saying that if you want us to stay together, we have to be a proper couple, all right? And that means telling people we’re a couple.”
Martin’s temper had erupted. “So it’s an ultimatum, is it? Come out, or you’ll leave me? Well, sod that, Jonathan! I’m not letting you blackmail me into this! Have you got any idea what it’d be like at work—God, what my parents would say?”
“What, like I haven’t already been through it? Yeah, it’s difficult at first—”
Martin had sat up and started angrily pulling on his clothes. “I knew you wouldn’t understand! Just because your family doesn’t give a shit doesn’t mean mine won’t!” He’d scrambled out of the tent and sat by the remains of their campfire, staring at the stars in a haze of self-pity. Why can’t he see I just want a normal life? Martin had asked himself, blind at the time to the irony in his plea.
He’d waited a long time for Jonathan to come outside and tell Martin he was sorry and that things could just go on as before. In the end he’d just gone back to the tent and tried to sleep.
They’d split up after that, barely even talking to each other anymore. Jonathan hadn’t taken long to find a new boyfriend. Martin had heard they’d moved in together now. Martin had embarked on an ill-fated and short-lived relationship with a girl from work, prompting his mother to remark how glad she was that he’d “got all of that nonsense with Jonathan out of his system.” Martin wasn’t sure what had shocked him most—the fact that she’d known about them all along, or her blithe certainty that it was just something he’d grow out of.
He should have told her. Should have stopped pretending. Should have stopped being such a bloody coward.
Martin thumped the duvet angrily. Suddenly tired, he rolled over and buried his head in the pillow. After a long while, he thought he heard the door open softly, and had the strangest feeling that someone was standing over him. He could almost feel the heat of a hand about to stroke his hair. He lay still, eyes shut, so as not to scare Calum away.
But nothing happened, and when Martin eventually looked up, there was no one there.
IT WAS a relief when darkness finally deigned to fall, after they’d shared a silent meal of burnt sausages and mushy baked beans, during which Calum looked anywhere but at Martin.
“What now?” Martin asked, as they watched the sun’s rays disappear over the horizon, taking with them the last of his irritation with Calum and leaving behind only a wistful longing overlaid with a sharp, cold tension. His voice sounded rough and unnaturally loud after the long quiet.
“We go outside.” Calum glared out of the window as if the sunset had been a personal insult.
“Should I undress?”
Calum roused himself and turned to Martin. “You just need to take your shirt off. You’ll slip out of your trousers easy enough, when the change comes.” He laughed without humor. “Wouldn’t want to get caught with your pants down if a neighbor happened to call, now would you?”
Martin bit back the retort that around here, the neighbors probably dropped ’round on four legs anyway, and pulled off his T-shirt. They went out through the back door of the cottage, which opened onto a wide field with woodland at the edges. Calum locked the door and carefully placed the key under a stone by the door that might as well have had “Burglars, please find key here” engraved upon it. Martin studied the sky. It was inky blue, rather than black, just yet. The night was clear, and already the stars were shining far brighter than they ever did at home in London.
London. It seemed so far away—well, it was actually quite far away, Martin reminded himself, but it seemed now as though it was not just in a different country, but in a whole other universe. “There’s no moon,” he said aloud.
“It’ll rise soon,” Calum told him tightly. Martin wondered if he’d looked it up, or whether he could sense it, somehow. Martin certainly felt a strange sense of excitement, of potential, but it was very possibly all down to nerves.
Martin jumped as a pale face rounded the corner of the cottage.
It was Aggie Campbell, this time wearing black lipstick to match her clothes and eyeliner. In the dim light that fell from the cottage windows she looked like nothing so much as the face of Death. Martin flinched involuntarily at the memory of her biting him. God, that had hurt.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here, bitch?” Calum snarled, whirling to face her as if he’d heard her approach, although to Martin’s ears she’d been silent as the grave.
“I’ve come to see. It’s my right.” She spoke defiantly, chin up, but Martin thought she looked afraid. As Calum stalked toward her she looked tiny in comparison. “You think I don’t care?” she spat, stopping him in his tracks.
“Care about what?” Martin asked.
She turned to Martin, her eyes impossibly large in her moon-pale face. “He hasn’t told you?”
He’d known Calum was keeping something from him. “What hasn’t he told me?” Martin strode toward her, his desperate need to know overriding his fear.
She didn’t speak, just turned her black gaze to Calum.
Martin spun around and retraced his steps over to where Calum stood. “What? What is it? Tell me, damn you!” All the frustrations of the last twenty-four hours came surging out as Martin grabbed Calum by the shoulders and shook him hard.
Angrily Calum shoved him away. “You might die, all right?” he shouted back.
Stumbling backward, Martin nearly fell over in shock. “What? I thought—I mean, I got through the fever….”
“The fever was just the first step! Do you have any idea what the infection did to you? It rewrote your whole fucking DNA! The first change is the test, Martin. This is where you find out if it got its fucking spelling right. Christ, Martin, haven’t you thought about this? Your body is about to rip itself apart and rearrange itself into a completely alien form! It’s—why the fuck do you think there are only a handful of were-cats left? It’s because the survival rate’s so fucking piss-poor!” Calum was breathing hard, and his eyes were bleak.
Aggie’s girl-woman voice cut across them like broken glass. “That’s why he’s been keeping you here, away from everyone. So no one will connect him to you if you disappear.” She smiled, and it turned Martin’s stomach to see those white teeth of hers shining in the darkness. “Mrs. McPherson will swear blind you left her house of your own free will Monday morning.”
Martin swallowed. “Is this true, Calum?”
Calum wouldn’t look at him, which was all the answer Martin nee
ded, really.
“What are you planning to do with the body?” he asked shakily. “Throw me in the loch?” Another thought occurred to him. “Is this what the postcards were about too? So you can send them from somewhere miles from here? A bit of misdirection?” He felt sick to his stomach.
“Jesus, Martin, that wasn’t it! I just wanted—I thought if I had your family’s address, I could, you know, look out for them.” Calum turned toward him now, his face begging Martin to believe his words.
Martin felt as if he’d been turned to ice. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He’d meant it to sound angry, and he hated the plaintive note that had crept in unbidden.
“Fuck, Martin, what do you think the last couple of days would have been like if I had?”
“They’d have been honest!” Martin’s voice cracked a little on the last word, and he drew in a shaky breath, trying to calm himself. Was he being fair to Calum? God, what would he have done himself, if their positions were reversed? He’d probably have decided it was better not to know. And fuck—even if he died tonight, did he want Calum getting into trouble? Maybe having to go on the run?
And who was he to talk about being honest with people, anyway?
Calum was still watching him, eyes wide and pleading. The anger seemed to drain out of Martin like water into a sinkhole. “The survival rate. How poor is it?” he asked softly.
“How the fuck do I know? It’s not on fucking Wikipedia!” Calum closed his eyes briefly, and when he reopened them his voice was much quieter. “Fifty percent, maybe? Honestly, Martin, I don’t know.” He hugged himself, looking defeated. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Martin had the strangest sensation that the world had just tilted slightly on its axis. “How long until moonrise?” he asked hoarsely.
Calum looked up sharply. He glanced at the sky. “Five minutes, maybe?”