by JL Merrow
“Look, I just wanted to, well, reassure you, really. About the other night.” Nick stopped. God, this was difficult. “I mean, I’m sorry I, er, interrupted you—and I’ve no intention of, well, saying anything to anyone.”
Julian stared at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. He ran a hand through his hair. Despite his best intentions, Nick envied that hand.
“I know what you are,” Julian said finally, and it was so far from what Nick had expected that he couldn’t process it at first.
“What?” His heartbeat skittered. Julian couldn’t possibly know he was a monster—could he?
No. He was paranoid. Julian simply meant he knew Nick was gay, which was hardly any great deduction after the way he’d behaved.
“I know what you are,” Julian repeated. “You’re—like me.” He slumped onto his bed.
“Yes,” Nick said cautiously.
Somehow Julian managed to make even dejection look alluring. “What do you want?”
Nick stared. “What?” he said again, stupidly. He could think of any number of things he wanted right then, starting with him on that bed with Julian with a damn sight fewer clothes, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of a single reason why Julian should be offering him anything.
Julian’s hair was messier than he’d ever seen it, and Nick’s fingers itched to smooth it back to silken perfection once more—or, even better, to muss it up completely. He was suddenly acutely aware that they were alone together. Damn it, what was happening to him? It was past the full moon; surely these aberrant impulses should be waning like the moon that controlled them?
“I’m not after anything,” he said into the silence.
Julian gave a crooked, bitter smile. “Then why are you here? I’m not stupid. After all, you’re hardly the first—”
Nick was appalled. Just what the hell was Julian implying? “I don’t want anything from you,” he lied angrily. “And if someone has been… taking advantage of you, you need to tell me now.” He almost growled the last and struggled to get himself under control.
Julian was staring at him. Slowly, he rose from the bed and stepped closer. “You’ll look after me?” he asked in quite a different tone.
“Yes,” Nick said, barely aware that he was speaking. Julian was only inches from him. Nick could feel the heat from his body, and the rising scent of him spoke to Nick in a way he didn’t quite understand. Unbidden, his hands rose to Julian’s waist. Julian didn’t back away. On the contrary, he moved in until their bodies were touching lightly.
Nick could hardly breathe. Deliberately, without any rush, that beautiful face came toward him and tilted, until hot breath ghosted over Nick’s throat. Was he dreaming? Julian nuzzled into his neck—God, started to kiss him gently. Nick was rock-hard in an instant, pressing Julian’s body into his own. So beautiful. His scent was intoxicating. Nick had never known anything like this—and then Julian dropped gracefully to his knees, and Nick was wrenched back into the alley behind the pub.
“What the hell are you doing?” Nick backed away, appalled at himself.
Julian flinched as though Nick had slapped him. “What do you want?” he asked angrily, scrambling to his feet, not quite meeting Nick’s eyes. “You said you’d look after me, and now—”
Nick was feeling increasingly out of his depth. “That doesn’t mean you have to… offer yourself to me. I don’t know—look, something like that would be entirely improper.” He winced at his language. God, he sounded like a Victorian maiden aunt, driven to vapors to discover that sex even existed.
Julian’s eyes flickered. Nick was certain his arousal was all too visible and tried to calm his thoughts. Nadia, naked, he thought a little hysterically. Nadia, naked with the Master. Dr. Earle, Master of the College, was seventy-two, bald and stooped, with a rather annoying manner of speaking that never failed to set Nick’s nerves on edge. As his erection subsided somewhat, Nick reflected he’d never thought he’d be so grateful to the man.
“Why are you here, then?” Julian asked.
Nick wished Julian would look at him. The downcast eyes were having a very confusing effect on his instincts. “As I said, to reassure you that I have no intention of revealing anything you may wish to keep secret,” Nick said firmly.
Julian did look up then. “And I suppose you want me to promise the same?” he asked, this time with a hint of challenge that was even more confusing.
Nick flushed. “Well, it’s no secret that I’m gay, but I must admit I’d rather the student body as a whole wasn’t regaled with stories of me spying on students—or anyone else, for that matter. Honestly, it was entirely a coincidence that I happened to be there. And it was inexcusable for me to have lingered once I saw that you were, ah, engaged in a private activity. I can’t apologize enough for that.”
Julian flashed him an odd look and then gave a sort of lopsided shrug. “He wasn’t anyone. No one I knew, I mean. I doubt I’ll ever see him again.”
Now why the bloody hell did he see fit to volunteer that kind of information? “Don’t you think it’s a little dangerous to be engaging in sexual activities with strangers?”
Julian looked directly at him. “He wasn’t dangerous. I know danger when I see it.”
Nick had the strangest feeling this was directed at him. But Julian couldn’t know. Could he? No, he’d simply been affected by Nick’s mood that night. After all, the man Julian had been with had clearly been afraid of Nick at the time.
Nick swallowed. Half of him was appalled that he’d terrorized the pair. The other half wanted to seize Julian by the shoulders and give him a damn good shake for—for what? He breathed out slowly, trying to calm his suddenly racing heartbeat. He should not be reacting like this. Not at this time of the month.
“Right. Well, I’d, ah, better be going.”
“Goodbye, Dr. Sewell,” Julian said, and there was a mocking tone in his voice that Nick didn’t like one bit.
Chapter Four
OVER THE course of the next few days, Nick saw Julian, for the most part only from afar. It was just as well; the image of him on his knees before Nick, and the memory of their bodies pressed together, refused to leave him. During the day he could, to some extent, thrust them from his mind, with the aid of lectures and supervisions and interminable faculty meetings that never seemed to accomplish a damned thing.
But at night his subconscious seemed to delight in showing him images of things that would never, could never be.
He avoided the German Society meeting, and only once did he find himself alone with Julian. They happened to be heading toward Garden Court at the same time and were forced to wait together while a herd of foreign tourists filed through the gateway from Main Court with an irritating lack of consideration for anyone who actually had work to do in college. It took so long that Nick felt it incumbent on him to make some attempt at conversation, but at that moment Tiffany Meadows arrived on their side of the obstruction, clutching a packet of biscuits.
“Jools! Are you still here? I thought you’d have the kettle on by now.”
Nick bristled at her tone of easy familiarity—then flushed as Julian fixed him with a look that was both amused and disconcertingly shrewd. “We’ve got plenty of time,” Julian murmured, but his eyes were still on Nick as he spoke.
“Oh—hello, Dr. Sewell,” Tiffany said hurriedly, as if she could possibly have missed him standing there before. And did she have to make a point of emphasizing the gulf between him and them?
“Dr. Sewell,” Julian began, and Nick was in no doubt that the formality was deliberate. “Will you be at the Stammtisch next week?”
“I’m busy,” Nick said tightly and pushed through the last of the crowd to get back to his rooms. Honestly, had the University of Cambridge been entirely relegated to a tourist attraction?
AND THEN something else happened that put his romantic woes rather firmly in perspective.
“Ar-oooooo!”
As Nick walked through the Porter’s Lodge, an
eerily accurate impersonation of a wolf’s howl echoed from the creamy stone walls. Nick’s blood ran cold. What the hell? Surely no one could know…? Pulse racing, he forced himself to look around. Three second-years were huddled round a copy of the Cambridge News.
Noticing his interest, one of them looked up. Peter Faulkner, Nick’s mind supplied mechanically. He’d supervised him in his first year. Decent on interpretation, but too much imagination for his own good, Nick recalled.
“Seen this, Dr. Sewell?” Peter grinned. “Better not go down to Coe Fen after dark!”
“Not unless you fancy a bite!” one of his companions supplied, apparently overcome with mirth over his feeble joke. Tristan Something-double-barreled, that was his name, poor lad.
“Hey, do you think it’s an actual wolf, escaped from a zoo or something?” Peter went on.
“Because there are so many zoos in Cambridge.” Tristan’s scorn was withering. “More likely it’s a NatSci gone feral from all those chemical fumes.”
“Oi, my girlfriend’s a NatSci. And it was full moon a few nights ago. I’m not saying werewolves are real, obviously, but the full moon can do stuff to people.”
“What, like your girlfriend? Does she get all hairy and snarly?”
Nick’s heartbeat slowed to a possibly non-stroke-inducing rate. Coe Fen was a rough area of partially drained marshland just across the Cam from Sheep’s Green. Cattle were sometimes grazed there. Just another of the numerous pieces of land owned by the colleges, and thus preserved from building development to remain a green, almost wild space in the heart of Cambridge. Nick hadn’t been within five miles of the place in wolf form.
“Mind if I take a look?” He forced himself not to snatch at the newspaper the lad handed him and scanned the article feverishly. Under the headline, Creature of Coe Fen, there was a fuzzy picture of something that could have been either a dog or a discarded bin bag, and one had to commend the writer for his tongue-in-cheek prose that managed to suggest lurid supernatural fantasy without once using the word werewolf. There was very little in the way of cold facts. If this were another werewolf—who might it be?
Carl? But Carl knew damn well where Nick lived, and Nick couldn’t imagine him coming within twenty miles of the place, and certainly not on full-moon night. Someone else? Logically speaking, there had to be other werewolves. But Carl had become infected on the continent and had never mentioned others of their kind in Britain.
Nick stared at the blurry photograph, obviously captured on someone’s mobile phone. He tried desperately to discern any signs that it might indeed be a fellow wolf—and then noticed that the students were looking at him oddly, and handed back the paper with a wrench and a false laugh.
“Somebody’s obviously let a large dog roam free, that’s all.”
Nadia’s strident bellow hailed him from the college side of the Porter’s Lodge, to Nick’s hearty relief, the more so because with absolutely bloody impeccable timing, Julian and Tiffany had just walked in from the street.
“There you are, Nick. I trust you haven’t forgotten our date for this evening?”
Nick turned to greet her with a smile, trying to ignore the strange prickling sensation along his spine. He was undoubtedly only imagining Julian’s gaze boring into him from behind.
“Don’t worry, Nadia. I value my life far too much to risk standing you and Marjorie up.”
“Glad to hear it.” For a moment Nadia’s eyes darted behind Nick to where Julian presumably must still be.
Nick resisted the temptation to look over his shoulder. “Should I bring red wine or white?” he asked hurriedly.
“Oh, red, definitely. You know Marjorie’s cooking. All red meat and strong spices.” She gave Nick a roguish grin. “Particularly when you’re coming round. She thinks you need feeding up, you know.” For a moment her smile wavered. Was she looking at Julian again? Nick wondered with a sinking feeling whether he should prepare himself for a lecture tonight. “Anyway, must dash—promised Marje I’d pick up some cardamom pods before the shops shut.”
“I’ll see you tonight, then.” Without turning around, Nick walked briskly back to his rooms, unable to shake the feeling of Julian’s gaze upon him all the way.
NICK LEFT his Mini Cooper to languish in the car park while he took his bike round to Nadia’s that evening. He firmly intended to have a drink or several, now that it was no longer his time of the month, and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be arrested for being drunk in charge of a bicycle. If the police started that, half the colleges would be empty by the weekend.
Nadia shared a narrow terraced house in Pennington Way with her long-term partner Marjorie, Marjorie’s cats, and Marjorie’s knitting. Like many similar houses in town, it was deceptively large inside, having a habitable basement as well as two floors above ground. The front door opened directly onto the street, so Nick propped his bike up against the front wall and chained it up. At his knock, Nadia opened the door. Her eyes widened in exaggerated fashion at the flowers Nick had removed from his rucksack, only slightly the worse for wear.
“Those had better not be for me, dearie, or I’ll be finding somewhere to put them you might find a bit inconvenient when sitting down to dinner.”
Nick grinned. “Of course not. They’re for your better half.” He dumped his rucksack just inside the door, next to a collection of battered umbrellas and an antique lacrosse stick, and pulled out the bottle of wine he’d brought.
Marjorie bustled into the hallway and exclaimed when she saw the flowers. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have, dear! Let me put them in some water. Come in, come in, you’re letting in a draft.” She bussed him affectionately on the cheek before heading back to the kitchen.
Nick shut the door behind himself and wrestled one-handed with his jacket, trying not to drop the bottle in his other hand.
Nadia came to his rescue. “I’ll take that, dearie. Hm, merlot again? You’re a man of fixed tastes, Nick Sewell.”
Nick sighed a little ruefully. “Don’t I know it.”
“Hmph. Still pining over your Wildean beauty?” She hesitated, unusual enough in itself to make Nick sit up and take notice. “Look, dearie, I wasn’t sure whether to say anything, but he’s been fraternizing with the enemy, if you get my drift. Seems to have got himself a girlfriend.”
Nick’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Oh?” he managed.
“Tiffany Meadows. One of yours, isn’t she?”
Relief washed over him. “Oh, her. Yes, that’s right. But they’re just friends.”
“Well, it looks like there have been developments on that front, I’m sorry to say.”
“You’re sure?” Nick cleared his throat, embarrassed at how his voice sounded.
Nadia gave him a rough hug. “’Fraid so, dearie. Saw them holding hands in the Plodge while we were talking this afternoon.”
And what the hell sort of a place was the Porter’s Lodge for exhibitionist displays? Nick drew in a deep breath, trying to get himself under control.
“Oh, lovey, you’re not taking this too well, are you? Come on into the front room. I’ll mix you a G and T.”
Nick allowed Nadia to lead him into the tiny living room and ply him with alcohol. “Marje, lovey, can we put off dinner for a tick? Nick needs a couple of drinkies first,” she called down the hall.
“No, no, I’ll be fine,” Nick protested. He sank down on the sofa, next to a bundle of fur. It opened one eye briefly, then pointedly went back to sleep. The cats had long ceased bothering to hiss at his approach and settled for ignoring him, so long as Nick didn’t make the mistake of trying to stroke them. That usually resulted in multiple lacerations. Nick sighed. He’d been rather fond of cats—before.
“Don’t worry, dear. It’s lamb casserole. It’ll keep,” Marjorie assured him, bustling back and perching on the last free patch of sofa. “Let’s get you sorted out first. It’s that pretty young man Nadia told me about, isn’t it?” She gave him a sorrowful look. “That’s the trouble wi
th young men—flibbertigibbets, the lot of them! Change their affections from one day to the next.”
Nick smiled ruefully. “I never had his affections, anyway. All rather one-sided, I’m afraid.”
He flushed a little, remembering the scene in Julian’s room that he still had difficulty believing had ever happened. Nadia’s eyes had narrowed, but mercifully, she said nothing.
He put his glass down firmly and stood. “Anyway, that’s quite enough of my romantic woes casting a dark cloud upon the evening. Why don’t we go through to the kitchen and sample that delicious food of yours before it spoils, Marjorie?”
The food, as always, was indeed delicious, and the conversation did a lot to restore Nick’s mood. Marjorie was a fount of salacious gossip about her knitting circle, apparently a hotbed of passionate intrigue and political infighting that would put many a soap opera to shame—and Nadia’s caustic comments had Nick practically in tears.
All in all, Nick was in a much better frame of mind as he wheeled his bicycle through the Porter’s Lodge late that evening. Not many students were about—the bar had already closed, so any further drinking would be going on in their rooms. No doubt the porter would be breaking up a few illegal parties over the course of the night. There was always a rush of them at the start of term, before the novelty of freedom from parental control wore off and the reality of studying kicked in.
Nick took the long way around to his rooms, walking through Garden Court. There was no light from the window under the eaves—Julian’s window. Nick tried not to think of him with Tiffany. What the hell did he see in her, anyway? Nick caught himself. Not his business.
JULIAN WAS stretched out on Tiff’s bed with his shoes off, looking stunningly gorgeous in a sadly untouchable sort of way.
Tiff sighed soundlessly at the cruelty of fate and handed him a mug of coffee. “If you spill that on my duvet, you’re washing it. So anyway, what was that all about?”
