Camwolf Read online

  Dedication

  To Penni and Anna, for keeping me going—and more importantly, for keeping me (moderately) sane while doing so.

  Prologue

  His dark coat swallowed by the shadows, the wolf waited. This was the place. So many people—but he would know that scent among ten thousand. It called to him softly but insistently, whispering of sweet submission and bloodied flesh. It wafted to him now upon the light breeze that stirred the trees and bushes dotted sparsely around the vast iron gates. It mingled with the stench of alcohol that clung to the laughing groups as they jostled one another along the lamp-lit street, and was almost overpowered by the traffic fumes and the reek of a thousand sweating cyclists.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Soon he would reclaim his Own. His blood quickened with the thought.

  Yes.

  His Own.

  To be marked as his for all to see.

  Forgetting himself for a moment, carried away by the anticipation of their reunion, the wolf howled.

  Chapter One

  He was a pretty boy, all translucent skin and silken hair falling oh-so-casually over the collar of his expensive leather jacket. A student, of course, which added a nice touch of seediness to Nick’s hopeless, pathetic crush. At least he wasn’t one of Nick’s own students—Nick could feel a cold sweat breaking out at the very thought. Julian was reading English, not History. God, if he’d had to supervise the boy…it was bad enough as it was, seeing him practically every day, striding through Main Court on his way to Hall or loitering in the Porter’s Lodge with his friends as they checked for post and talked about whatever students talked about these days.

  Nick gave a wry smile. It was barely a decade since he’d been an undergraduate, but already they seemed a different species to him. This new generation had a sophistication his had aped in vain, and an ease with matters sexual he’d have given his right arm for at a similar age. And they were all so damned good-looking.

  Not that it had been a problem for him before. Not until Julian Lauder had sauntered into college with his blond hair and his cashmere sweaters and his cut-glass accent. All Saints was a small college, not one favoured by the major public schools, and Julian’s way of speaking stood out here, where at John’s, or Magdalene, it might have been lost in a sea of similar accents. Although actually, Nick mused, that wasn’t quite true. Julian’s voice might be confident, even arrogant, but it had none of the braying quality that was all too evident in the average Old Etonian. Julian’s voice was clear, musical, and…and God, Nick sounded like a love-sick schoolgirl. A man his age, making himself ridiculous over a boy who, despite showing an interest in certain of the male undergraduates, wouldn’t look twice at a dusty old fellow.

  It was all hopeless, in any case. There was a reason Nick hadn’t had a relationship in three years, and that reason wasn’t going to go away. Ever.

  He sighed and tried to tune back into the conversation. They were sitting round one of the large wooden tables in the comfortingly dingy atmosphere of The Ship in Silver Street, they being the University German Society, which met here every Wednesday at eight o’clock simply to chat in German. Nick had been a member in his undergraduate days and had popped his head in once or twice since becoming a fellow. Not so much, of late. He was quite aware that his presence here tonight was entirely due to having heard a third-year calling to Julian “See you at the Stammtisch—mach’s gut!” as he walked into college this afternoon.

  There were about a dozen die-hard members who came here every week come hell or high water, and a shifting population of usually five or six more, depending on how close they were getting to exams. Tonight was rather crowded, it being only a few weeks into Michaelmas term. There was a variety of accents, ranging from flawless Hochdeutsch to broad Schwitzerdütsch. And, of course, faltering attempts at joining in with a hideous English inflection from a few whom Nick knew from experience wouldn’t outlast the first evening.

  Julian, of course, was very much at the Hochdeutsch end of the scale, and seemed to be completely fluent. Not so very surprising, with a surname like Lauder, Nick supposed. He thought he could detect just a trace of a Southern softening of the final consonants. Nick rather liked South German accents. He had one himself, he was reliably informed. At the moment, Julian had his end of the table in fits over his cruelly accurate impersonation of one of the English lecturers—Nick marvelling at how the boy managed to capture the old man’s dithering speech patterns so precisely whilst speaking an entirely different language. He looked the very picture of arrogant youth, but Nick was convinced there was more to him than that. Perhaps Nick was deluding himself, but he’d been watching the boy. In an entirely non-stalkerish way, of course. When Julian was alone—which was rather more often than one might have expected of one so outwardly attractive and entertaining—his face took on a much more open, vulnerable expression.

  Nick remembered clearly the first time he’d seen that look on Julian’s face. It had been a bright, warm morning in the first week of term, while he was still trying to get his head round the names and faces of the latest influx of students. He’d seen Julian before then—he was hard to miss—but he hadn’t really noticed him. Nick had gone to the Porter’s Lodge to check his pigeonhole and found the place almost deserted. For some reason, the hairs on the back of his neck had prickled, and he’d looked around to try to work out what on earth was causing him to feel so uneasy. His eyes had fallen, naturally enough, on the only other occupant of the little room where the pigeonholes were housed.

  Julian had been holding a letter. From whom, Nick had no idea, of course. But clearly, someone Julian cared about very much. There had been an expression of such softness on his face as he looked at the envelope before impatiently ripping it open and reading the letter there and then, oblivious to the sudden rush of students pushing past him to get at their own post. Nick had been unable to tear his gaze away from the half-smile on the boy’s face that somehow seemed so sad. He’d watched helplessly until, with a toss of his head, Julian broke the spell, carefully refolding the letter and putting it in his pocket.

  When his eyes had met Nick’s as they passed, the amused, supercilious mask had been firmly back in place.

  Nick had spent more than a few restless moments since then wondering who Julian’s correspondent might have been and engaging in the odd guilty fantasy of his or her untimely, not to mention imaginatively painful, death.

  “Wo hast du dein Deutsch gelernt?” Nick was wrenched back to the Stammtisch in the Ship as an owlish-looking first-year asked him clumsily where he’d learned German, having obviously given up trying to follow the general conversation in fast-flowing dialect.

  “In Stuttgart,” Nick explained. “Ich war Au-Pair Mädchen,” he added mischievously. “Vor einigen Jahren, natürlich.”

  He obviously shouldn’t have bothered adding the bit about how many years it’d been since he was an au pair, as the first-year simply stared at him blankly.

  Apparently Julian had overheard, as Nick found a sly smile directed his way. “Mädchen?” the boy queried, raising a pale, elegant eyebrow as he leant across the table. “It looks like you’ve changed a bit since then,” he added in his impeccable German.

  Nick was rather grateful he no longer blushed as easily as he had in his adolescence. At least, he hoped he didn’t. “Ah, I may have been teasing about the girl part. But I was actually an au pair. During my year off, before I came up to Cambridge as an undergraduate.”

  Julian looked at him with an expression Nick couldn’t quite interpret. “Stuttgart is a lovely city,” he said flatly, instead of the surprised or mocking comment about male au pairs Nick had been rather expecting. And then those bewitching eyes turned away as Julian resumed his conversation with his neighbour, l
eaving Nick strongly suspecting he’d just made an arse of himself, but at a complete loss to explain how.

  Cutting through Garden Court next day on his way back to his rooms, Nick couldn’t have said precisely what caught his eye about the figures in the doorway to one of the staircases. Except that one of them was Julian, and Nick seemed to have a sixth sense for noticing the object of his hopeless affections even when said object was crowded into a dimly-lit doorway and shielded by a much bulkier young man.

  They seemed to be arguing, Nick was guiltily pleased to see. Another of Julian’s boyfriends on his way out, he supposed with rather more satisfaction than was proper. God knew the boy had had enough of them in the short time he’d been up at Cambridge. At least, Nick had regularly seen him with young men from out of college, half of whom he recognised from the Student Union lesbian and gay society. None of them seemed to hang around for more than a day or two.

  Nick had often wondered about that. The only person who seemed to be a constant in Julian’s life was a first-year historian, Tiffany Meadows, but he was fairly sure they were nothing more than friends. She was a state school girl, a bit quiet, and nothing much to look at. But a nice girl, he thought. She certainly deserved better than being saddled with that godawful name.

  The dark-haired stranger was gesticulating dramatically, whereas Julian had his hands in his pockets, avoiding the other boy’s gaze. It seemed odd somehow, although Nick couldn’t have said why. Abruptly the darker boy seemed to tire of his hand waving and grabbed Julian by the shoulder. Julian’s eyes snapped up to meet his companion’s, and the boy dropped his arm as if he’d been burned and, shaking his head slightly, walked away.

  It didn’t seem to be the reaction Julian had been hoping for. His jaw clenched visibly, making Nick ache to comfort him, and he stared after the boy for a long moment.

  And then Julian turned and looked directly at Nick. Their eyes met for a painfully long moment—until the sound of students approaching jolted Nick back to reality, and he looked away hurriedly and continued back to his rooms, feeling not only as if he’d once again behaved like a fool, but also somehow worried about Julian’s state of mind.

  Later that night, Nick was restless. It was hardly surprising, the date being what it was. He itched for a drink, but he knew from experience that alcohol would only make things worse. He tried to read, but his brain refused to focus on the words on the page and his eyes turned instead to the moon, only three days from full, shining brightly through the window of his rooms on Main Court. Throwing his book aside in disgust, Nick decided to go for a run to try to burn off some nervous energy.

  The light of the moon was not so obvious on the streets, overpowered as it was by the streetlamps that lent everything an unreal, too-warm colour. Nick could feel himself starting to relax. Physical exertion always calmed him when he was like this. It also had the not unwelcome effect of toning his body, ridding him of the stereotypical softness of the academic. His sandy hair might be showing the first signs of grey at the temples, but his abdomen was lean and flat, and he’d be willing to bet he was fitter than half the teenagers who filled the college. Well, the NatScis and CompScis at any rate, he thought with a grin. Although with their workload, the Natural Scientists (the University remained remarkably resistant to using such trendy modern terms as “chemists”, “physicists” and “biologists”) at least had an excuse for not taking a lot of exercise.

  Every year it was the same: first-year NatScis finding out to their absolute horror that Cambridge’s shorter-than-average terms meant they were expected to attend nine o’clock lectures six days a week. Of course, if they were rowers they’d have been up for hours by then in any case. Being rather more of a night owl than a lark, Nick had never understood the appeal of crawling out of bed at six a.m. for a long bike ride down to the boathouse, then a miserable hour of physical exercise on a bloody cold river. Still, the college eights filled up every year, so clearly not everyone agreed with him.

  Julian hadn’t succumbed to the mystifying siren call of the boat club either, it occurred to Nick idly. Of course, he was probably too slender for a decent rower, and too tall for a cox, only a couple of inches shorter than Nick was. Although of course, not all college rowers were as muscle-bound as the Blues squad seemed to be these days. Those long, elegant limbs might be just the thing for propelling the streamlined shapes of the boats through the clear waters of the Cam.

  Nick stopped that line of thought hurriedly, before he got into rather murkier waters that were entirely unsuitable for anyone wearing jogging bottoms in public. At least, anyone who didn’t fancy making a spectacle of himself.

  Suddenly the rhythm of his stride faltered. There was something…interesting ahead. Not for the first time, Nick cursed his senses for providing the alert yet failing to interpret it. He quickened his pace, following his nose round a corner into the dark, rubbish-strewn alleyway behind The Rat & Ferret on Green Street. Two figures were there, one standing, one kneeling before him.

  Nick’s pulse throbbed in his ears. Julian. The kneeling figure was Julian.

  No.

  No.

  Nick shook with the effort of not charging in, grabbing Julian—his Julian—and hauling him away from this scum who dared to take—

  No. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t expose himself that way. He’d be a laughing stock. Julian was nothing to him. They’d barely even spoken, for Christ’s sake.

  But he couldn’t tear his gaze away, either. Couldn’t stop watching as Julian sucked that bastard’s cock, as that filth stroked his hair, as he looked up—

  Nick realised that while he was busy thinking no, his body had ignored him. Had walked up to the pair. Was standing three feet away.

  “What the fuck do you want?” Belligerence stared him in the eye—and then turned almost comically to fear. Nick realised he was growling—worse, that he couldn’t stop it. “You mental or something?” Nick didn’t need the tremor in the stranger’s voice to know that it was all bluster. “Fuck off!”

  Apparently he’d killed the mood, for the man was pulling away from Julian, was zipping up his trousers. Was backing away. Nick felt a fierce surge of triumph and stepped forward. He was vaguely aware of Julian clambering to his feet, turning to look at him in shock. But for now, all his attention was on the usurper who had dared to lay hands on his property. Not even trying to stop himself this time, he growled once more—a low, threatening sound that warned of blood and pain and vengeance.

  The man stared at him for a moment longer—and then bolted. Nick was alone in the dingy alley with Julian.

  Abruptly Nick became aware of just how inappropriate—how insane, for Christ’s sake—his actions must appear to the boy. He tensed as he met Julian’s eyes, not sure what he expected. Anger? Mockery?

  It was the third option. Fear. The boy had gone a deathly pale that seemed almost inhuman in the weak light of the streetlamps. He looked up at Nick with wide, horrified eyes—and fled.

  Chapter Two

  Waking up the following morning, Nick experienced for a few blissful seconds a strong sense of satisfaction, of having defended his territory—and then the memory of what had actually happened crashed back into his skull with the force of a Varsity scrum half. It was too much to hope that Julian had kept mum about the whole sordid business. God, by now half the college probably saw Nick as some kind of deranged peeping tom.

  And as luck would have it, Nick had a lecture first thing—well, at ten o’clock, which was as near as damn it first thing unless one had the misfortune to be a Natural Scientist. As he reluctantly exited his rooms, Nick glanced at his door. He half expected to find a note, or worse, a humorous drawing of some kind, pinned up to forewarn any visitors they were about to enter a pervert’s lair. It was scant comfort to find the wood bare of adornment—it probably just meant that Julian and his friends were not particularly early risers. Arts students seldom were.

  What on earth had possessed him? He hadn’t lost control
like that since…well, since the last time he’d had a lover. A familiar sense of shame washed over him at the memory. Still, no matter how much he might inappropriately crave the boy, Julian was not his lover and never would be. Particularly not now.

  As he walked into the lecture theatre, Nick braced himself. A couple of girls were whispering in the front row and, as he shuffled his notes, one of them laughed out loud and was frantically shushed by her friend. Schooling her features, she quickly gave a none-too-successful impression of an attentive student.

  It was a damned good thing Nick made such meticulous preparations for his lectures. Some of his more hidebound colleagues prided themselves on making it all up as they went along, scribbling formulae and proofs for the students to copy down if they could. Nick preferred to do it all on Powerpoint and produce comprehensive handouts, so he at least had the comfort of knowing his students wouldn’t go away completely empty-handed after the worst lecture he’d ever given. He constantly lost his place, repeated himself, missed out chunks—all hope that it might have passed unnoticed was dashed when a couple of female students lingered to ask him if he was feeling all right.

  Embarrassing as that was, it ended with a faint glimmer of reassurance. He’d merely mumbled something about having had a bad night, then winced as he realised he was laying himself open for smart remarks. None, however, were forthcoming—so perhaps they didn’t know? Perhaps Julian hadn’t spread the tale? After all, it had been a somewhat sordid affair even before he’d arrived on the scene. Nick winced again as he realised he’d crushed his lecture notes in his hands and smoothed them out again as best he could.

  For the rest of the day, Nick found himself unable to escape the tense feeling that he was about to be unmasked.