Camwolf Page 8

  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?” If he turned out to be transgender and handed her some bloody prosthetic cock, she didn’t think she’d be able to stop herself screaming.

  “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 bloody good job. It certainly passed muster in this light. Tiff didn’t have a bloody clue what the done thing was in such situations—were you supposed to offer compliments? She was about to say something, though God knew what—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. Tiffany felt her elbow crash into something and realised 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? Tiff heard a whimper escape 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? It jerked its head towards 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, Tiff thought, its fur a grey 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, towards 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 the junction of neck and shoulder…

  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 your 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 sit on the floor.

  Julian gave a shaky sort of 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 realised. “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 she could feel the warmth spread inside her.

  She watched Julian. He seemed to be getting the same comfort from the drink that she was. “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 of college. It was high time, although admittedly it felt a little odd, contemplating leaving the womb-like 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 rumour mill.

  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 neighbours, the better, perhaps.

  Warm
th spread through him. Finally, he had a chance at having a life.

  Seen in the bright October sunshine, his worries about Julian seemed absurd. Ridiculous, to think the boy—the young man, he corrected himself—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 grey 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, he reflected, was quite possibly 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 in the boy’s voice 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 towards 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.

  “So, what do you think of England?” Nick asked as they sat in an alcove in the corner, diagonally across from where a couple of the locals were making inexpert use of the dartboard.

  Julian shrugged elegantly. More formal attire really did suit him extraordinarily well. Even if he did look a little overdressed here. “It’s…cosy? Gemütlich.” He gave a lopsided smile. “I miss the mountains.”

  Nick grinned. “Did you see the hills we were driving towards? In East Anglian terms, the Gog Magogs are mountains! They’re over two hundred-thirty feet tall at the highest point, you know.”

  Julian laughed. “Not quite the Alps, is it? Strange name, though. They were giants, weren’t they? Gog and Magog?”

  “I’d be more impressed with that bit of knowledge if I hadn’t seen you looking at the pub sign as we came in,” Nick said. The sign depicted a rather ugly, one-eyed giant wielding a large club, with tiny villagers fleeing in crudely drawn panic before it. “But yes, in legend, they were giants—or possibly a giant, from a place called Magog, depending which source you read. Apparently he, or they, lie sleeping, buried beneath these hills, although what they’re waiting for legend neglects to mention.”

  “You don’t believe the legends,” Julian said and took a sip of his drink.

  About to laugh, Nick reconsidered. “Well, as a historian I know there’s often a grain of truth in myths and legends. And as a—well, you know what—I’ve become aware that there is, as they say, more in heaven and earth. Perhaps there were some unusually tall men cutting a swathe through the fen countryside many centuries ago—but for my money, dead is dead.” He did laugh then. “Unless, of course, you know different.”

  “I could tell you anything, couldn’t I?” Julian mused, his eyes glittering. “And you’d have to believe it. Witches in the Black Forest, mountain trolls, vampires…”

  “I may be uneducated in matters supernatural, but I’m not that gullible. Besides which, I’ve been to the Black Forest. The only witches I saw there were dolls for the tourists.”

  Julian’s smile grew wicked. “Maybe they come alive at night?” he suggested.

  “I hope not. My mother still has one hanging in her kitchen!” Nick took a swallow of his lemonade and soda, as usual missing the bitter smoothness of whisky, before changing the subject. “Have you travelled much in this country? Ever been north of Watford Gap?”

  For once, Julian’s mocking smile seemed to be directed towards himself. “Well, I thought I had, until Tiffany pointed out that Watford Gap is actually nowhere near Watford. At least, not the Watford I know.”

  Nick tried to quash the momentary irritation he felt at hearing the girl’s name. It obviously didn’t work, as Julian’s face fell. “You know there was never really anything between Tiffany and me, don’t you, Nick? We’ve never been more than friends.”

  Nick was quite aware his smile was forced, but since amateur dramatics had never been his forte, there was damn all he could do about it. “It’s the sea I miss,” he pressed on hastily. “Grew up in Cornwall, not far from Land’s End.”

  Julian raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I admit I’m far from an expert on English accents, but—”

  “I know, I know. Product of the public school system, I’m afraid. You know, one of my contemporaries was from Edinburgh. Turned up at school speaking broad Lowland Scots and was told he had two weeks to learn how to speak ‘properly’. To hear him now, you’d think he’d never been outside the Home Counties.” Nick grinned ruefully. “Of course, I don’t suppose that’d happen nowadays. God, I sou
nd old, don’t I?”

  “You’re not old.” Julian smiled. “And anyway, I’ve tried to have relationships with people of my age and it’s never worked.” He sipped his wine spritzer. Nick wondered if he knew the drink was considered a bit girly over here, not to mention old-fashioned.

  “They always want too much, or too little,” Julian continued. “If you know what I mean.”

  “I think I do,” Nick told him softly. It was just as well, he reflected, that he’d foregone the whisky, as they were on dangerous ground here. He could feel his hackles rising already at the thought of what Julian had suffered, what had set him apart from his contemporaries. He took a deep breath. “This…man, Julian. Your father’s beta—”

  “Schräger,” Julian put in. “Boris Schräger.” His accent was harsh.

  “How long were you with him? If that’s the right way to describe it.”

  “It—yes.” Julian’s gaze was fixed firmly on his glass. “I was his, Nick. For almost two years.”

  Nick slid his hand unobtrusively over Julian’s. Inside, his blood boiled. Two years? That meant since he was fourteen. How could any father do that to his child? “How did you get away?”

  “My mother.” Julian looked up fiercely. “You must understand that it was not her fault. My father is a forceful man.”

  Nick barked out a bitter laugh. “I can think of a few ways I’d prefer to describe him.” He forced himself to calm down a bit. “So how did you both escape?”

  “She came for me while I was at school one day. She told me my father had said we were to take a trip. We came to England with nothing but what we were wearing and what money and jewellery my mother could carry.”

  Maybe he was reading too much into this, but Nick couldn’t stop the chill that ran through him at the way Julian described their flight. “She didn’t tell you where you were going and why? Was she afraid you wouldn’t go with her if you knew? Christ, Julian, were you in love with that bastard Schräger?”