by JL Merrow
“Does Angus know Julian’s mother, then?” Nick was rather curious as to what sort of woman she might be.
“Only from what old Markham used to tell him about the girl. Lauder was her maiden name, by the way; she’s only half-English, although she was brought up in Kent, which is where Markham knew her. Used to carry her books back from school, or something equally old-fashioned. Apparently the way young Hugh used to go on about her, she was Venus incarnate. Still, I suppose our Dorian had to get his girlish looks from somewhere.”
Nick frowned, a little put out. “He’s not at all girlish, actually.”
She grinned. “No, dearie. Of course he isn’t,” she reassured him with the utmost insincerity, patting his cheek with slightly crumby fingers.
“AH! DR. Sewell. I wonder, might I have a brief word?”
Walking back across Main Court, Nick gave a guilty start as he was accosted by Angus Lemon. Surely Nadia hadn’t told him who’d wanted to know about Julian? “Oh! Yes, of course, Dr. Lemon. Shall we go to my rooms?”
“No, no, mine are closer.” They were also rather more spacious and comfortable, Nick was reminded as he walked through the low door. Still, the old man needed the space for interviewing students, of course. “Glass of sherry?” Lemon offered.
“No, thank you. I don’t drink a great deal,” Nick explained.
Lemon sniffed his disapproval. “No? Well, I’m sure you shan’t mind if I have one.” Pouring a generous glass of Sainsbury’s own brand with one hand, Lemon waved Nick into a high-backed armchair with the other. “Now, young man, I’m afraid this is a somewhat delicate matter. I fear I have been neglecting my responsibilities, in short. Very remiss of me. But when there are so many calls on one’s time… I’m sure you understand, Sewell?”
Clearly this was why he had been appointed Admissions Tutor. No need for any fancy psychometric testing; simply admit those prospective students who were able to cope with a conversation with old Lemon without having a nervous breakdown.
“Er, perhaps if you told me what this was all about…?”
Lemon frowned. “Yes, of course,” he said with an annoyed tone, seating himself in the other armchair and placing the sherry on a little table by his elbow that seemed to have no other purpose. “It’s about young Lauder.”
Bugger. Nick was fervently regretting having asked Lemon to get to the point. “Ah, and in particular…?”
“Well, you must know that the boy’s a flaming—that he shares your, ah, particular predilections. Meaning that not in any pejorative sense, of course.”
Of course, Nick thought dryly.
“Which is where you come in.” Lemon leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and looking at Nick expectantly.
Nick wished he’d accepted that sherry. “Er, come in how, precisely?” he ventured, trying to ignore all the images his mind was supplying of just how the words come in could be applied to him and Julian.
“Pastoral support. Providing a role model.” Lemon frowned as though beginning to entertain serious doubts about Nick’s suitability for the role. “Fact is, Sewell, the boy’s stepfather asked me to keep a close eye on him. Incidents at his boarding school of a somewhat delicate nature—I trust I don’t have to spell it out?”
“Perhaps, for the avoidance of all possible doubt….” Nick hoped the man couldn’t see just how fixed the smile on his face was.
Lemon huffed impatiently. “The boy showed a certain lack of discrimination, let us say.”
“Found himself a bit of rough, did he?” Nick suggested in the hope that a touch of coarseness might jolt Lemon into actually telling him something.
Lemon gave a short bark that Nick realized belatedly must be laughter.
“If it had happened just the once, I daresay Markham wouldn’t have been so concerned. A little free with his favors, that young man. Caused quite a stink at the school, I don’t mind telling you. Not the sort of thing that encourages prospective parents at all. Now, we’re all aware of the kind of shenanigans that go on at boarding school—it’s just part of growing up, after all. Boys will be boys and it doesn’t mean a damn thing, as I’m sure you—ah, yes. Well, Markham gave the boy a good talking to, of course, but he was still worried young Lauder might fall back into bad habits up here. I’ve been intending all term to ask you to keep a fatherly eye on the boy—having, as you do, a certain insight into his, ah, problems—but I’m afraid it just slipped my mind. Work, you know. So many calls on one’s time. Wasn’t until a colleague brought up the subject that it occurred to me, must see to it. So I trust we are in agreement?”
“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 & 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 around 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 bar 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 around tables, somehow making her feel even more like a sore thumb. The rugby club were in their usual corner, being surprisingly unrowdy. Maybe they were still hungover from yesterday. And at a table in the center, 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 color coordinate.
Tiff blushed as she realized Crack had noticed her smiling at him, and looked away hurriedly—right into Jools’s 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 smiled sweetly and hoped 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 barstool. “You don’t want people thinking we’ve broken up.”
Julian stared at her, a surprised look on his face. “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 raced even before he called out, “Come in.” Somehow he wasn’t surprised when Julian walked into his room. Had he sensed him without even being awar
e 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 Julian to speak to since he’d brought Nick the books. They’d been an eclectic bunch: a translation of Oscar Wilde, which would no doubt make Nadia expire from laughing if he told her, and 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 humor. 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 favorite books; an old-fashioned story of two men from vastly different backgrounds who become unlikely friends while 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 smiled as he pictured it. 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 favorite 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. Raw meat? Live animals? 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 in 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 snorted 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—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 temper 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’d met Carl while 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 straightaway, 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 was a light shining from the living room window. Nick had planned to simply knock on the door—of course he had—but couldn’t resist taking a look through the window, just to reassure himself.
As he made his way around the house, something leaped at him. A massive weight slammed into his chest, knocking him flat on his back. Winded, Nick stared into the bloodthirsty eyes of the creature pinning him down. Hot, reeking breath flooded his nose, making him gag. Fear paralyzed him.
The creature snarled, its daggerlike teeth only inches from his face. And it bit him. Hard, on the shoulder, tearing his flesh into a mess of fiery agony. There was so much blood. Nick had never known pain like it. He screamed, but there was no one there to hear. And then the creature howled, and he passed out.
He woke up on Carl’s sofa, his shoulder feeling so awful he actually checked to see if his arm was still there. Carl hovered around in agitation.
Nick gasped. “Carl? What the hell happened?”
Carl exploded into anger. “You just had to sneak around, didn’t you? I told you I didn’t want to see you last night. Why the hell couldn’t you bloody listen?”
He had the gall to blame Nick for what had happened?
Half off his head with pain, Nick lay there stunned as Carl ranted about instincts and claiming and other things that Nick didn’t understand at all.
These days, of course, he understood it all rather too well.
And then had come the worst part—Carl telling him he’d been the beast that had attacked Nick. That Carl was a werewolf—had been bitten by one during his year studying in Heidelberg and turned i
nto 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… there had been the angry wait for the moon to rise—after all, might as well humor 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 staring at him. As Nick registered this, Julian’s gaze dropped once more. Nick took a deep breath, trying to control himself. Thinking about Carl when he was with Julian was a very bad idea. Although the instinct involved was rather different.
Had Julian’s father taught him this? All this submissive behavior? Nick felt a surge of anger. “No,” he repeated. “He didn’t teach me anything. And we realized 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, covered in flesh wounds and 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.”
