by JL Merrow
“You didn’t turn him.” Julian sounded confident of that.
“No, but… damn it!” Nick sighed again and rolled over onto his stomach, staring at the fireplace. “I found that towards the full moon, I became… possessive.”
“What happened?” Julian asked, his tone neutral. Nick felt a soft hand stroking his back.
“I—Julian, you must understand that I would never lift a hand to you.” Nick rolled over again, and cool blue eyes met his own calmly.
“You hit him?”
More than once, actually, but Nick couldn’t bring himself to tell Julian that. “Yes. Matthew—that was his name—he was, well, chatting with another man. I accused him of flirting and things got out of hand.”
He’d lost all control, blinded by an all-consuming rage of which he’d never imagined himself capable. His fist had flown—and only the look of mingled terror and disbelief on Matthew’s bloodied face had brought him to his senses. It was a miracle he hadn’t caused a major injury. Nick had been damn lucky Matthew had listened to his guilt-stricken, horrified apologies and refused to press charges.
All it had cost him was his boyfriend, most of his friends, and any hope of ever finding love. Until now.
Or was he just fooling himself? Did whatever it was he had with Julian bear any relation to love? In some ways it seemed more like a marriage of convenience, with Julian trading sexual favors for what he perceived as Nick’s protection of him. God, that was fucked-up.
Nick knew he should end it—but damn it, it wasn’t like Julian would take a vow of celibacy if Nick dumped him. From what he’d seen and heard, quite the opposite, in fact. Surely he’d be better off with someone who cared for him?
Nick sighed. “You should probably be going.”
Julian nodded and rose. As he collected his clothes, Nick watched the slender, scarred form with an odd feeling of regret. That he was leaving? That he’d suffered so much? Or that they hadn’t met under different circumstances? Nick wasn’t sure. Probably all three.
Julian turned when he reached the door. “Tomorrow evening,” he began.
“You’d like to go out?” Nick finished for him. “I mean, for a run?”
Julian smiled. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”
AROUND ELEVEN o’clock, just as Tiff was thinking of having an early night, Julian walked into her room without knocking as per bloody usual.
“Some of us have essays to write, you know,” she muttered, not looking up from her notes.
A loud flump signaled Julian throwing himself down on her bed. “I could probably put in a good word for you with your supervisor, you know,” he teased.
“Yeah, right. The more you ask him to go easy on me, the more he’s likely to fail me out of spite. He hates me now, or hadn’t you noticed?”
There was a pause. Tiff underlined a couple of key points in her notes.
“He doesn’t hate you. He has no reason to.”
Sometimes, men were so bloody clueless. Tiff threw down her pen. “Tell him that, then. Maybe he’ll lay off the sarcasm in supervisions.”
“I’ll tell him. It’s not his fault.”
“I never said it was his fault. Mr. Let’s-pretend-we’re-shagging-and-make-him-jealous.”
“Sorry.” At least Julian sounded like he meant it.
Tiff ripped off the last sheet of notes from her pad and filed it with a snap of the ring binder.
“Maybe you should start seeing someone?” Julian said, as if it was so bloody easy.
“Like you said, there isn’t anyone I fancy. And besides, everyone thinks I’m going out with you. I’d have thought you’d want to keep it that way—or are you and Dr. Sewell planning to go public?”
Silence.
“Jools?” Tiff asked, turning around. Julian was sitting on her bed, all sort of curled up into a ball. “What’s wrong?”
“You think we should do that? Tell people what we are?”
Tiff frowned, confused. “You’re not making sense. Everyone knows you’ve had boyfriends, and I don’t s’pose Dr. Sewell turns up to LGBT meetings in disguise.”
“Doch.”
“What?”
Julian ran a hand through his hair. “English. It doesn’t have a word for it.” He sounded like he was talking to himself. “He is in disguise. He is always in disguise. I too.”
Tiff got up from her chair. “You’re being really weird.” She stopped halfway to the bed, wanting to sit and give him a bloody good cuddle, but getting the crazy impression that if she got any closer, he’d bolt. “Is there something wrong?”
He didn’t answer—and she couldn’t have said what it was, but just something about the way he was all huddled in on himself sent a splinter of ice into her heart. “He’s not hurting you, is he?”
Her breathing eased as Julian looked up with a ghost of a smile on his lips. “No,” he said, sounding almost surprised. His eyes were wide and didn’t look away from her. “Would you turn the light out?”
“Er, why?”
“I want to show you something. But I don’t want—” He broke off. “Please?”
“Well, all right. But this had better not be some stupid joke.” Tiff went to the door and flicked the switch. For a moment the room seemed absolutely black, but gradually her eyes adjusted and shapes became more visible in the faint light that came in through the thin cotton curtains.
The Julian-shape moved. “You see me?”
“Yes. Sort of. Jools, what is all this?”
“I want to show you something,” he said again. “My disguise.”
Tiff watched in shock as he began to take off his clothes. “Couldn’t you just tell me? Jools, if you’re trans, I don’t need to—”
“For this, telling is not enough.” His pale skin showed up faintly in the dim illumination, like some fuzzy black-and-white film. He was down to his pants now. Tiffany braced herself as he slipped his thumbs into the elastic and pushed them down.
Well, if he was post-op, they’d done a good job. She certainly couldn’t tell the difference in this light. Tiff didn’t have a bloody clue what the done thing was in such situations—were you supposed to offer compliments? Her face burning, she opened her mouth to say something, anything to break the silence—and then her breath caught in her throat. Julian was changing.
It was horrible. It was a bit like that scene in a film she’d once seen where a bloke got irradiated and turned to jelly and then liquefied. Julian seemed to flow from one shape into another, his limbs shortening, his back contorting—and God, his face…. His face seemed to stretch, as if something was trying to force its way out from inside his skin. Tiff’s elbow crashed into something with a shock of pain and she realized she’d backed into the door.
Door. Light switch. Tiff fumbled for it frantically, her gaze riveted to what, five minutes ago, had been Julian. The light came on, blindingly bright, making her eyes water.
There was a wolf sitting by her bed.
“J-J-J….” Tiff swallowed and tried again. “Julian?”
The wolf got up off its haunches and approached her slowly. It wasn’t until its nose was six inches from her jeans that Tiff remembered the door opened inward and she was trapped.
Not that she’d be able to move if she tried.
The wolf sniffed at her, then butted its massive head against her leg. Its tail was wagging. That was good, right?
Or was it just happy now that dinner was served? A whimper escaped her.
The wolf backed off a bit and sat back down on its haunches. Its head was about level with her chest. Were wolves always this bloody big? Was it a… a dire wolf? It jerked its head toward the door.
“Oh, no. No bloody way am I taking you walkies!” Tiff found she was giggling, and she couldn’t seem to stop. The wolf tilted its head. It was quite beautiful for something that was probably about to eat her, its fur a gray so pale it was almost white, with delicate markings around large amber eyes. Almost against her will, her hand crept out to
touch the creature’s fur. It was softer than she would have imagined and warm against her fingers. She was suddenly very aware of the flesh-and-blood animal beneath the thick coat—and she jumped as the wolf moved, leaning into her touch.
As her hand fell back to her side, the wolf jerked its muzzle again, toward the door—no, the light switch. “Bugger that,” Tiff told it. “That light’s staying on this time.”
The eyes narrowed, and Tiff tensed, but the wolf simply turned and padded to the other side of the room—and did the whole stomach-churning transformation thing again.
God. It really was Julian.
She’d always wondered what he’d look like naked; bit of a pity she wasn’t in any sort of condition to appreciate the show when it was in front of her. But God… were those scars? Where the hell had he got those? And those bruises on his hips, and the marks on his neck that looked like teeth….
Fuck it. He’d just turned into a bloody wolf in front of her. She couldn’t cope with worrying about his obviously kinky sex life as well.
“Julian?”
He paused in the act of putting his trousers back on and looked up at her in that weird way he had sometimes, like he didn’t really want to meet her eyes. “So. You’ve seen all of me now.”
What the fuck was she supposed to say? Julian just sat on her bed doing up shirt buttons and was no bloody help whatsoever. “You nearly made me piss myself, you bastard!” Feeling a bit too wobbly to make it to the chair, she sank heavily down to the floor.
Julian gave a shaky smile and came over to crouch in front of her with only one sock on. “I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Are we still friends?”
“What… I mean, obviously you’re a, a….” Tiff paused and had to force herself to finish. “A werewolf.” It sounded absolutely insane to be discussing this. “I mean… how? Is it catching?”
“Only if I bite you,” he said, his smile looking a little more certain. “I won’t bite you,” he added, obviously catching the drift of Tiff’s thoughts.
“Are there others?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “My father is the leader of a pack. Come on. Up you get. Sit down here and I’ll make you Russian coffee.”
“Don’t bother with the coffee, just give me the Russian,” Tiff told him weakly, but let him help her back to her chair. Stupid legs, going all wobbly on her. He ignored her instructions and put the kettle on, but he did splash a healthy dose of vodka into both their mugs. He’d been taking a big risk this evening, she realized. “Weren’t you worried I’d scream?”
“You’re supposed to be my girlfriend, remember? I’m allowed to make you scream,” he teased.
Tiff snorted. “Don’t want to worry you, but I think most people can tell the difference between orgasm and abject terror.” She took a big gulp of coffee. The vodka had cooled it down nicely, and its warmth spread inside her.
Julian seemed to be getting the same comfort from the drink that she was.
Tiff took another gulp. “Are your family all, um…?”
“Only my father. He does not agree with the turning of women.” There was more to that; she could tell from the way he said it.
“What about your stepdad? I mean, does he know about you?”
“Of course.”
“But he’s not one himself?”
“No.”
“But he’s okay about it?”
“Yes.”
“You know, answers of more than one syllable are generally better at conveying information, Jools.”
He looked up from his mug and smiled at her just like he’d always done. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For not screaming. For accepting me. For still calling me Jools. Even though it sounds awful.” He walked over and gave her a hug. “I’d better go, it’s late. See you at breakfast?”
“Right, yeah. Good night.” Tiff watched the door close behind him, then put down her mug next to his on the desk. It was mostly empty, anyway.
So what if her hands were suddenly shaking too violently to hold it?
Chapter Eleven
NICK WOKE up with an inexplicable feeling of optimism the next morning. He’d slept like the dead after his tryst with Julian, but apparently his subconscious had been working overtime as he found he’d come to a momentous decision.
He was going to move out. Get a house somewhere. It was high time, although admittedly it felt a little odd, contemplating leaving the womblike security of the college. Nick gave a wry smile at himself. He’d often wondered if he’d stay here until he died, a fusty old bachelor fellow in the style of centuries gone by. Up until now, there hadn’t seemed to be any point in making a change and, to tell the truth, the loneliness of the prospect had repelled him—but that didn’t seem such a problem anymore. It’d be good to have a place where he could, well, be himself. And obviously, it’d make his relationship with Julian less of a potential problem. Clearly there was nothing wrong with him having a lover who was also a student, but nevertheless, Nick found he was not exactly eager for it to become public, and thus grist for the college rumor mill.
And despite Julian’s reassurances regarding Tiffany… well, a little distance there couldn’t hurt, either. Nick was all too aware his emotions weren’t always rational.
Of course, midway through Michaelmas term was probably the worst time imaginable for trying to find somewhere to rent in Cambridge—but then, Nick wasn’t looking for student accommodation, was he? And something a little out of town might be a positive advantage, in his case. The fewer neighbors, the better, perhaps.
Warmth spread through him. Finally, he had a chance at having a life.
In the bright early November sunshine, his worries about Julian seemed absurd. Ridiculous to think he was sleeping with Nick only out of a sense of self-preservation. He was sure Julian genuinely liked him. And, after all, they had so much in common.
Nick whistled on his way through Main Court, on a whim invoking his fellow’s privilege of taking a shortcut across the grass. His tune faltered just a little as he reached the Porter’s Lodge to find Nadia awaiting him, arms folded and one eyebrow looking as if it were making a single-handed attempt to raise her height to five foot three.
“Well, I don’t suppose I need to ask what sort of a night you had, Nick Sewell!”
Nick grinned. “Probably best if you don’t.”
“Hmm. Coffee?” She barely allowed him to check his pigeonhole before marching him to the SCR. “I suppose it’d be too much to hope that it’s some other young man who’s taken your fancy?”
“As you said before, Nadia, I’m a man of fixed tastes.”
She dumped two sugars into her mug and heaved a sigh. “Oh, Nick, dearie, I hate to be the one to throw cold water as if you’re a couple of alley cats, but are you really sure this is a good idea? He hasn’t shown himself to be a particularly constant sort of sod in the past, and, well, eighteen really is terribly young.”
“He’s nineteen, actually,” Nick said with a touch of petulance he couldn’t quite quell.
“Well, I concede an extra year makes all the difference in the world.”
“Sarcasm, Nadia, is the lowest form of wit. And there’s nothing in the college regulations to prohibit a fellow from having a relationship with a student—I checked.”
“Which all rather goes to prove my point, doesn’t it? Nick, lovey, the Nile may well be, as they say, an awfully pleasant place for a swim, but sooner or later you’re going to get eaten by a crocodile.”
NICK HAD a late third-year supervision, so he’d arranged to meet Julian after Formal Hall that evening. He was pleased to note, as he took his seat at High Table, that Julian had waited to eat late too. Not, of course, that they were in any real sense having dinner together. High Table was literally that, set apart on a dais at one end of the hall. But he was at least able to admire from afar the way Julian looked in his undergraduate gown. Underneath, he had on an exceedingly well-cut gray suit, which he wore
with a turtleneck sweater. Nick’s stomach fluttered pleasantly as he recalled just why Julian might want to wear something with a high neck. He’d have to be more careful around Christmas. He was looking forward to seeing Julian in black tie at some of the numerous formal dinners that would be held then.
Nick barely tasted his food, which was probably a blessing. The kitchen appeared to be having staffing issues again lately. He was careful not to catch Julian’s eye as he made a swift exit at the end of the meal and headed straight for the fellows’ car park.
It was a frustrating ten minutes before Julian slid smoothly into the passenger seat. His breathing was faster than usual, which did strange things to Nick’s libido. “Sorry I took so long. I took my gown back to my room—if you’re seen carrying that in the morning, everyone knows you’ve slept in someone else’s bed.”
Nick was pleased he’d been so sensible. “No problem. Look, I thought we could go out for a drink first, if that’s all right with you?” he suggested, putting the car into gear.
He was too busy reversing round the Master’s BMW to catch Julian’s expression, but he could hear the smile as he replied, “Dr. Sewell, are you asking me on a date?”
Nick grinned as he pulled out of the car park and headed off down Trumpington Street. “Well yes, Mr. Lauder, I rather think I am.”
The pub he had in mind was the Gog Magog, out toward the hills of the same name. It was far enough out of town for there to be little danger of meeting anyone they knew. Cambridge students, not to mention the fellows, were an insular bunch. It was a pleasant little country inn, without any of the rebranding that had blighted half the pubs in the land in recent years. Just a warm fire, hearty if unimaginative food, and a half-decent pint of beer.
They walked in to find the place respectably busy, but thankfully not so full that they had to wait forever at the bar before being served their drinks. Seats, too, were easy to find, many of the patrons preferring to prop up the bar.