Diary of a Wolf: A Gay Shifter Romance Read online

  Diary of a Wolf

  A Gay Shifter Romance

  Troy Hunter

  Noah Harris

  Contents

  1. A Bitter Divorce

  2. The Will

  3. The Endless Wood

  4. A Gathering of Two Wolves

  5. A Horrific Fate

  6. A Budding Friendship

  7. A Missing Wolf’s Woes

  8. A Wolf Called Lupus

  9. To Know the Beast

  10. The Adelbrecht Curse

  11. Back to Present

  12. A Gathering of Two Men

  13. The Belly of the Beast

  14. Beware the Grave

  15. A Love Men Know

  16. To Kill a Beast

  17. A New Beginning

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Published by Books Unite People LLC, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 by Troy Hunter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Editing by: Eliza Hunter & Sandra Stires

  Proofreading by: Jo Bird

  Beta Reading by: Melissa Ratcliff

  1

  A Bitter Divorce

  Eustace Bertram

  August 12, 1823

  The summer rain has never been a friend of mine. Its warm presence during the day’s early hours is nothing more than a cruel deception, quickly unveiled once the moon’s chilling spotlight shines over the polluted clouds. It is then that a menacing shadow towers over what was once a whimsical, carefree day. That shadow has never failed to reveal itself before me, baring its monstrous fangs in a malevolent grin.

  When I was four years of age, I came down with a terrible case of pneumonia after bathing in the moonlight’s cold shower for a minute too long. When I was but a decade old, the bones in my right leg cracked after I slipped whilst attempting to climb a muddy hill. Just as the rain despised me, God himself cared little enough about me to curse me with a clubfoot. How many people do you know with a clubfoot? If I’m not the only one, please enlighten me so I can perhaps find something to cherish about myself.

  But alas, my friends, as awful as the rain has been to me since my youth, nothing could compare to the wrong it committed on this particular Wednesday evening. The atrocities committed against me have left dry rot in my heart and contusions in my soul. I hate nothing more than the obligation to exchange my masculinity for an emotional meltdown, but it appears I’ve no other choice.

  Indeed, I write to you nonexistent lot so I can come to accept my ill-received fate. That fate being a missing person. A forgotten soul long thought to have died by the hands of marauders or the jaws of angry wild animals. I suppose the means in which I finally meet my demise matters not, so long as it comes to my rescue soon. After all, the pain I feel may never cease so long as my mind centers around that wretched ogre of a man, Ambrose Pemberton.

  O, rain kissed parchment.

  Bleeding turpentine.

  I beg of you, please.

  Here my woes—my cries.

  * * *

  Before I confess to the sins that have led me to this moment of despair, I suppose I should begin by reciting the tale of one Eustace Bertram. Born twenty-five years ago in a barn outside of Sheffield, he was given the grueling task of caring for five sisters and two brothers when his mother died of tuberculosis. His father, Nigel Bertram, was a farmer who prided himself on how delectable his cabbages and potatoes were. Indeed, the man spoke no tall tales when it came to his vegetables. However, the neighbors praised him more for the exquisite quality of the milk from his favorite cow, Gertrude. Nigel loved Gertrude like she was his child, stating that he’d rather chop his fingers off than send her away to be slaughtered if his family ever fell on hard times.

  If there was one thing Eustace had in common with his father, it was his humanity.

  Unfortunately, it appeared humanity was the only trait the two males shared.

  While a rural upbringing should’ve made Eustace a fantastic farmer himself, his talents instead led to something very foreign to his farming family: the violin. The boy had picked the instrument up after watching street performers in the city. Something about the rhythm calmed him, made him feel like his spirit was finally letting go of its breath after holding it for thirty minutes. Once Eustace got his little pale hands on one of those magical instruments, he played until his fingers bled. In as little as a year, he was playing melodies that would’ve made Heinrich Biber smile in approval. Of that much, the boy was certain.

  Nigel often chastised his eldest son. “Eustace, you’re going to be a man one day. Put that toy down and help me on the farm.” The farmer never had a way with words, but he was on to something. He knew the world wasn’t going to sing the praises of yet another Biber imitator; they wanted someone who could craft. Someone who could build. Someone who could sell products for the hands and not for the ears.

  But Eustace Bertram was a stupid, ungrateful child. The brunet defiantly shook his head and told his father he’d be one of the best violinists the world had ever seen. “I’ll make maidens weep with just one draw of my bow!” he frequently announced.

  Bloody tosser he was.

  Bloody tosser he still is!

  But I must confess, my newfound friends, I am indeed that bloody tosser.

  * * *

  After years of talking to a wall, my father finally gave up trying to steer me in the right direction. Instead, he reluctantly gifted me with a little over one hundred pounds from his private savings. “Go to the city and make a name for yourself,” he told me. “But I expect you to pay me back every pound, if and when you fail to meet your goals.”

  This should’ve been the moment where I looked into my father’s eyes and apologized. I should’ve rejected his money and told him I wanted to follow in his footsteps. But once again, I was an imbecile and used the money to move to London.

  Being the naive fool that I was, I sought to prove my father wrong. I enrolled at the Royal Academy of Music and began my studies in Music Theory. I thought perhaps a thriving career as a professor would be the perfect back-up plan in the case my lifelong dream of being a world-class musician fell on deaf ears. Of course, the very thought of such an unlikely turn of events brought me to tears through my blissful ignorance. I said to myself, “Me? Proving to be an amateur at what I do best? Ha! I laugh at thee.”

  But what I found in London was no eager crowd awaiting the heartfelt tunes I had to offer. No taverns were looking for humbling entertainment on a fruitful Friday eve and no Biber enthusiasts loitered outside my door to drink my expensive spirits, imported from France. We could’ve toasted to good music. We could’ve drunk until we were soiling our trousers over the silliest absurdities. We could’ve danced—oh, how we could’ve danced!

  But we never did any of that, for there was never a “we”. There were no sold-out concerts, nor were there any adoring music lovers on the edge of their seats. All that graced my hopeful eyes were empty street corners and frigid evenings. The faces I saw daily were not those of aspiring artists or starry-eyed dreamers waiting to invite me into their fleeting fantasies. Instead, they were those of agitated elders, upset that I interrupted their heated game of chess with my unwanted white noise. No women wept at my song, only children with hypersensitive hearing.

  The hands that ble
d for my soul’s anthem only served to muddy up London’s unforgiving streets. My skill, which I once thought surpassed even the most experienced violinists, saw only underappreciation. My talent drowned in the sea of stilted societal progression. Nigel Bertram was right, this I could no longer deny. He tried to show me the way, but his eldest son tuned his sage advice out and likened it to old gypsy tales of aligning stars and storybook romances.

  Shed no tears for me, for I deserve them about as much as I deserved my father’s hard-earned money.

  Waking up in the morning began to feel more and more like a chore to me. Every day was a constant reminder of the dreams that crumbled right before my very eyes. I had no money to my name, no food for my stomach, and no fame to forge a legacy. The words of my father echoed in my head like a desperate scream in an endless hallway. “Eustace, you’re going to be a man one day. Put that toy down and help me on the farm!” I laughed at him. I told him he was out of touch. I was a child, a stupid, stupid child.

  On the fourth month of my new life in London, I realized I could no longer look at my prized violin without weeping. “You tore my family apart,” I found myself swearing during miserable nights where drink boiled my throat and neighbors threatened to call the guard to my feeble shack in the city. “This is all your fault, you demonic instrument. Tempest of hell, I cast you away.” For the sake of my mental stability, I made the decision to throw that wretched weapon of self-destruction into the Serpentine in Hyde Park.

  * * *

  From that point forward, my main motivation shifted from expressing my artistic talents to paying my father back the money he’d loaned me. I’d abandoned him and my siblings back in Sheffield, so the only acceptable approach I could’ve possibly taken for an apology was to first fulfill the one request he asked of me. Seeing as how I had no true musical talent, I had no other choice but to continue my education and earn high enough marks for employers to give my resume a thorough once over. The first semester was fairly standard; a review of mathematics, sciences, and literature to ensure the board I wasn’t some Neanderthal who’d accidentally wandered in.

  The first day of the following semester served also as the first day of the end of my life. I’d begun the day as any other student would. I woke up, dressed, ate a satisfying breakfast, and headed off to class. No sign of impending doom occurred as I strolled through the campus grounds. Even as I entered the classroom, I was met only with smiles and friendly “How do you do’s.” Everything seemed to be just fine, but that soon changed the moment our professor entered the room.

  “Top of the morning, students. I am Professor Pemberton. A pleasure to teach you lot this semester.”

  I’d never seen a man so beautiful in my entire life. He’d entered the room wearing a dark green overcoat with beige slacks. His reddish-brown curls hung just above his shoulders, perfectly framing his chiseled face. His aquamarine eyes sparkled whenever he spoke of topics that caught his fancy. For instance, the man was passionate about horses; had been since his youth on his grandfather’s farm. He told the class about his years breeding prized stallions for the royal guard. Eventually, he told us a rather humorous story about having to procure a rare breed of horse for King George IV.

  “His Royal Majesty requested that my boys provide him with a pure-bred Eriskay pony that he could show off during his weekly ballroom parties. He thought it was all easy-peasy, right? A simple job for mere stud farmers? Well, the ol’ toff clearly wasn’t informed of just how rare Eriskays are in these parts. You can find them, sure. But if you think you’re gonna purchase one for a satisfactory price, then you’ve lost the plot entirely. And it just so happened we didn’t have an Eriskay pony on us. Imagine that! So what were we to do, class? One simply doesn’t deny the king a request, you know. After all, this sort of thing is what gets people knighted.”

  At this point in the story, Professor Pemberton leaned over his desk and gave the class the cockiest wink I’d ever witnessed.

  “So you know what we did? We did our research and discovered that ol’ George didn’t know his onions like everyone suspected he did. So we went back to the stud farm and grabbed one of our Shetland foals, dressed him up, and handed him over to King George with the biggest smiles on our faces. ‘’Ere’s your ’orse, sire! Pleasure serving you. Enjoy the pony!’ The best part of this story, gentlemen, is that the ol’ wanker never suspected a thing!”

  As I sit here and recollect this memory, I notice the tremble in my hands. Such intensity do these shakes come with that the quill nestled in between my fingers clumsily scribbles over the very parchment on which I pen my woes to you curious ghosts. My young laughter that once lifted old fears off my shoulders now dropped them back with the weight of twin anchors. How foolish was I. How hopelessly enamored I found myself of Professor Pemberton.

  I understand that I may seem a queer sort by some, openly admitting my infatuation with another man. But I’ll have you know I possessed no experience when it came to romance. Even as I write this now, I still lack the experience other men my age have. Sure, I fancied a few lasses back in Sheffield during my youth. However, I was never able to muster the courage to approach them and introduce myself.

  With this in mind, one can only imagine the confusion I must’ve felt when the realization dawned on me that I was not only lusting after another individual, but that individual was also a man. Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever predicted that a man—let alone a professor—would replace the naked maidens wandering about inside the darkest, most sinful area of my mind. But there I was, ending the first day of class having learned nothing pertaining to the subject of music theory. Instead of exiting the classroom with a hunger for more knowledge, I left with a desire to learn more about Professor Pemberton beyond the basic details of his life before teaching and what his favorite color was.

  I would discover it was azure, like the ocean.

  * * *

  As the semester ventured forth, my eagerness to ask questions and score high marks on exams quickly earned me my position as Professor Pemberton’s favorite student. I’m still not entirely convinced my actions were unintentional. Romances like the one I envisioned for us were rare in England. In fact, love between two men was such an extreme crime it was punishable by death. Perhaps I had a death wish but said death wish one day earned me a special seat-by-desk conference with the man of my dreams.

  “Bertram, is it? Or would you prefer I call you Eustace?”

  “E-Eustace, sir. There’s no need for formalities when it’s just the two of us.”

  Professor Pemberton chuckled at my response and nodded. “Indeed. In that case, you have my permission to call me Ambrose.” I watched Ambrose for a moment as he casually ripped a piece of parchment off his journal and grabbed his crow feather quill. “You know, Eustace. I’ve been quite impressed with your progress in my class thus far. It’ll be quite the shame when you receive your final passing grade and move on to a more advanced class.”

  Ambrose dipped his quill into his inkwell and began writing on the ripped parchment. I swallowed a breath, attempting to calm my nerves. He was just a man, after all. There was no need to put him on a pedestal. “You have that much faith in me, Prof…Ambrose?”

  “Of course.” He finished writing his message and stuck his quill back into the ink bottle. “You’re among the brightest of students I’ve taught thus far in my career.” Ambrose Pemberton then leaned back in his chair and looked into my eyes, handing me the note he’d just written. “Something about the way you look at me when I begin my lectures…it makes me feel like you’re listening to what I have to teach. You possess a certain…hunger that entices me.”

  Ambrose’s aquamarine eyes shifted back and forth between my own pair of grey ones and the parchment he handed me. Slow to catch on to his body language, I eventually shook myself out of my hazy thoughts and looked at the message. My body froze after reading the parchment. Thinking I might’ve misread it, I read the message again. When it said
the same thing I had previously read, I read it again and again. Did he really write these words for me? Were these truly the words I was reading?

  “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss, Eustace?”

  Blood rushed to my cheeks, my own body heat disorienting me. “N-No, Ambrose.”

  He grinned wickedly and stood from his chair. “Very well, then. Lovely chat, Eustace, lovely chat. Until tomorrow?” I was still trying to process the words I had just read. Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before, least of all a teacher. I didn’t know how to react to this turn of events. Should I have laughed? Should I have cried? Should I have taken charge and done something I may or may not have later regretted? I knew not what I was to do in this situation. So I did the first thing that came to mind. I ran.

  “Y-Yes, Prof…sorry, Ambrose. U-Until tomorrow then.”

  The professor chuckled darkly, his eyes briefly shifting toward my lap. “Of course, my precious student. Please, allow me to get the door for you.”

  I sat still as Ambrose stepped toward the door and opened it. Without hesitation, I leapt out of my chair and hurried outside the classroom. I can’t remember exactly how far I ran. Perhaps to the center of campus? Or was it the middle of the street? The details escape me at the moment. All that truly mattered was the piece of parchment searing into my palm like a branding iron.

  Once I caught my breath, I looked into my hand and read the message once more: “Don’t say anything. Meet me in the lavatories tonight and I’ll give you something your hungry eyes can feast upon.”