Diary of a Wolf: A Gay Shifter Romance Read online

  * * *

  If I were to write a song about my affair with Ambrose Pemberton, it would either be the longest composition I’ve ever written, due to the emotional hurricane it threw me into, or it would be the shortest, considering how long the relationship—if you even want to call it that—lasted. The meeting we shared in the men’s lavatory was one I couldn’t forget even if I tried. Believe me when I say I’ve tried, but all I can see is his naked body presented to me like a painting. When I try to verbally discredit the meeting as a thing of the past, all that comes out instead are silent pleas for him to touch me again. Even now as I confess to this sleazy tale of illegal debauchery, I shamefully cannot deny the exhilarating sensations returning to my body as if it only happened yesterday.

  In actuality, it was only a week before Ambrose revealed his true colors.

  With this perspective, I’m sure you can see now why my heart is in such tatters.

  This now must beg the question, “What happened, Eustace? Where did things go wrong for you two?” Truthfully, things began to fall apart as soon as our romantic escapade in the lavatories was finished. Once Ambrose had buttoned his trousers backup, he commanded me to not tell a soul about what’d happened between us. He warned me that the royal guard would have both our heads if word of our affair ever got out. “It would be one thing for me to lose my position at the academy, boy. But another thing entirely to be publicly executed. I have too much to live for and I have no desire to lose it all to a first-year student of mine. Am I making myself clear?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Ambrose, off course.” I attempted to grab the older gentlemen’s hand, but he snatched it away from me.

  “Good. I’ll see you in class.”

  For the next week, Ambrose kept our relationship strictly professional. He no longer addressed me by my first name, only allowing himself to call me “Bertram” or “Mister Bertram”. In turn, I was only allowed to refer to him as “Professor Pemberton”. Any time I tried to speak in class or ask questions, he’d sneer at me like I’d flicked him in the back of the ear. The hostility was becoming too much for me to bear. Yes, I understood having to keep up a facade for society, but did he have to treat me like such an enemy?

  Looking back now on his behavior, I suppose I shouldn’t have got my hopes up when he finally approached me in private and invited me to his estate. “I’m having a party tomorrow evening and I’d like for you to come.” The core difference between this meeting and the last was the lack of warm affection on his part. There was no laughter, no smiles. All that remained was the cold, emotionless face of a man I once had the honor of holding. I couldn’t even give him an answer before he walked away from me.

  With no words expressed, I waited until the twelfth of August.

  Tonight.

  I’d spent the entire day trying to compose the perfect proclamation of endearment I could present to Ambrose. Would flowers be appreciated? Perhaps a bold attempt to get him away from the lively party crowd? Stargazing was an option too. A part of me even contemplated purchasing another violin and serenading him. Of course, I immediately cast that idea out; music had ruined enough of my life as it stood. In the end, I settled on simply dressing nicely and kissing him when the coast was clear.

  As clouds began to fill the sky, I took a deep breath. It was going to rain tonight. Lord knew my aversion to storms and yet he still insisted I trek forth. Perhaps it was simply a sign, a way to prove my love for Ambrose Pemberton?

  I collected my bearings and began my walk.

  * * *

  As I had suspected, the weather initiated its sinful dance not ten minutes into my journey. It began as a light trickle, just barely grazing my chestnut brown coat. I’d hoped the rain would wait for me to get indoors before it thundered down. This wish of mine didn’t come true, as it picked up shortly after I set out. By the time I was halfway to Ambrose Pemberton’s home, a heavy shower was soaking my entire body.

  Things weren’t looking too promising so far, but I was willing to keep fighting.

  Upon my arrival, I immediately found myself feeling conflicted. I was floored by how massive Ambrose’s estate truly was. He’d revealed to our class through his vivid storytelling that he refused to live in the city, as there wasn’t any room to install a barn for his horses. And as soon as I received his address, which led me to the countryside ten miles away, I knew the area he lived in was going to be one reminiscent of my childhood home, only much lovelier. I pictured his home as a humble cottage, considering his salary.

  My hypothesis appeared to be correct, until the humble cottage bit, anyhow. With the last hill I hobbled over, I took a moment to catch my breath, after which I looked up and saw the gates to a stud farm. Centered in the field was a gigantic mansion. When I say gigantic, I specifically mean it was approximately six stories tall, five at an absolute minimum. In fact, now that I think about it, to say I was floored would be quite the understatement.

  The word I’m looking for is amazed.

  Amazed and absolutely humbled.

  I felt rather intimidated by the size of Ambrose Pemberton’s residence. Many questions circled around my head. How did Ambrose accumulate all this wealth? By breeding horses and teaching? Did King George pay his men handsomely for that faux-Eriskay pony? Or did Ambrose come across the money another way, such as through inheritance? Did he come from a rich family? Despite drowning his class with stories of his youth, Ambrose somehow managed to do so without telling us anything about his current lifestyle.

  The more I thought about the situation, the more my stomach began to turn. After a week of treating me like a stale loaf of bread, the man who owned my heart wanted me to make an appearance at his fancy abode. What was he hoping to accomplish in doing so? Was this his way of apologizing? Did he want me to meet his acquaintances? Were they just as wealthy as he? What if they didn’t welcome mere paupers living off crumbs and prayers at their parties? Would Ambrose defend me and let me stay?

  Would he say “This is my dearest friend, Eustace. I invited him here as my guest.”

  Or would he say “You’re right. He’s the dirt beneath our shoes. Cast him away.”

  I only had my hope to cling on to, my friends.

  And sadly, that hope was about to be crushed into a million pieces.

  As I approached the Pemberton Estate, I heard a noise off in the distance. With it being as far away as it was, it sounded like a high-pitched whistle. Well, it was more of a mixture between that and a hot breath being blown into a flute. Either way, it was nothing I needed to pay any mind to…or so I thought. My first impression of it was an unfortunate one, indeed.

  With each step I took, the sound began to change both in volume and pitch. Soon the faded whistles and blows developed into howls. Not bestial howls mind you, nor were they ghastly wind howls. I likened them more to cries from a young child. Did Ambrose have children living with him? I’d never noticed a wedding band on either of his ring fingers, so I suspected he didn’t have a wife waiting for him at home. Perhaps I was simply a little too hopeful. Nevertheless, my progression through Ambrose’s property altered the sounds once more, this time to something I could trust.

  The distinct sounds of neighs and whinnies.

  Yes, Ambrose adored his horses.

  He was living on a stud farm, after all.

  That’s when I muttered to myself, “Steady your nerves, dear Eustace. Steady them.” Thunder boomed loudly in the distance. My breath wanted to escape but I was so close to the front entrance. The horses’ demeanors quickly turned from mildly playful to moderately startled at me, at my presence. What did I do? My heart beat in my chest like a hammer beating nails. Three white mares hastily approached me at the fence. Their void-like eyes told me to step away. I couldn’t understand what I had done to offend. Did I project a vile air about me? Was the mud starting to soak into my boots?

  I wasn’t going to let a few agitated horses scare me off.

  Not then.

  Not when
I still had something to prove to Ambrose Pemberton, my first and only love.

  Next thing I knew, a gunshot brought me to my knees. I wasn’t shot, but the unholy combination of the blast and the immediate stench of black powder nearly sent me into a hysterical neurosis. Adding to this heightened anxiety was the charred ball from what must’ve been a musket lying just beside my right kneecap. Whoever shot it might not have intended to hurt me, but he certainly wanted my full attention.

  “By the order of the royal guard, I command you to leave the premises immediately!” I swallowed my breath, refusing to turn around and face the gunman, or men, as it was. The royal guard had not only been called to Ambrose’s home, but they also seemed ready and willing to take me using deadly force. Why? I didn’t do anything wrong. Ambrose invited me here.

  “F-Forgive me, sir…but y-you’ve got the wrong chap. I-I was just…”

  A sharp jab to my lower back made me wail loudly in agony. “On your feet, trespasser! Go on.”

  I nodded quickly and eased myself back up, hobbling slightly when my bad foot pressed itself a little too hard onto the muddy ground.

  “Eyes on your back, c’mon.”

  I nodded again and turned myself around, eyes forcing themselves shut when the bright lanterns threatened to blind me. If I had the choice, I would’ve kept them closed for the rest of my life. Anything to not have to see the armed militia pointing their weapons at me.

  Suddenly a laugh caught my ear.

  One hearty and full of vigor.

  One that I’d heard before.

  One that was officially deepening the cracks of my already fragile heart, readying its structure for a rocky landing once it fell.

  “Eustace Bertram.” My eyes opened slowly just before popping out of my head at the sight of Ambrose Pemberton standing alongside the royal guard, grinning wide like he just inherited a million pounds. “This is the man I told you about.” He stepped in front of the crowd and pointed his right index finger at me. “This ponce has been stalking me every day for a week now, spreading absolutely ludicrous rumors about me.”

  My jaw dropped to the ground. “Why are you doing this, Ambrose? I never said anything about you.”

  He marched up to me and smacked me hard in the face, sending me back into the mud. I rubbed my cheek tenderly. As painful as the blow was, it came nowhere near the horrific agony my soul was enduring.

  “Don’t speak to me like I’m a fool, boy. You don’t think I’ve noticed your blank stares during my lectures? Or the unsavory way you smile at me when I accidently look your way? You’re a flaming homosexual, you are. The guards ought to gun you down right where you lie,” the guardsmen all gasped at the word homosexual and I knew my life was over. Off to the stakes, I’d go. I’d spend countless hours rotting in a tiny cell, provided with only a place for me to sleep and pretend I was elsewhere. If I cooperated with the guard, perhaps they’d give me a more merciful sentence and hang my body before all the townspeople of London.

  “But…but I thought you…”

  “What?” Ambrose interrupted harshly. “You thought what? That I loved you?” He, along with the guardsmen, all broke out into hideous laughter.

  You know something, my friends? I wasn’t a stranger to bullying. I never had been. All during my youth, my peers picked on me for having a peculiar walk as well as an odd interest in art and music, subjects boys weren’t supposed to be interested in. I normally took all of that in stride, always holding my head high.

  But this time I couldn’t.

  I just couldn’t.

  So forgive me for my break in sanity, but I began to shed tears.

  Tears that arrived in the form of the loudest, ugliest cry I’d ever had.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m betrothed to a duchess. A beautiful duchess, mind you. Besides, even if I did fancy men, I sure as hell wouldn’t fixate on a man with a clubfoot!”

  I continued to sob pitifully on the ground. Ambrose Pemberton won. The lonely society won, sharing the glory with the paranoid professor. The taste of mud was a bitter reminder why I was wrong to ever let my feelings for the loathsome man fester. Most notably, the damned rain claimed yet another casualty in this joke of a life I led.

  Defeated by all sides, I rushed back to my feet and began to flee.

  Away from the giggling demons and away from their sick sideshow of horror.

  * * *

  Rushing through the dark woods, I ran as fast as my feet would allow. A few tangled and downed branches threatened to topple me along the way, but the fury of my broken heart provided me the strength to keep going. I was fairly certain I wasn’t being followed, but I didn’t care. I needed to get away from Ambrose Pemberton before I lost my temper and strangled him right in front of the entire royal guard. The vain fool made his point loud and clear. I didn’t need any more comments to drive home the point that moving to London was the worst mistake of my life.

  My promising dreams of being a world-class musician were in shambles. My hopes of ever being a highly esteemed professor were gone. And what of love? Well, what of it? I was never meant to be with anyone. My feelings were unnatural and wrong. I shouldn’t have been longing for a man’s body, not when I am a man myself! Fool was I to ever think I could have someone as spectacular or as inspirational as Ambrose Pemberton.

  I was through with this society as well as this damned world.

  On this fateful night of August 12, 1823, I cast myself away.

  I took everything that still mattered to me, which were merely the clothes on my back as well as my diary with leather covering, and said goodbye to the world of the living.

  A most ugly, bitter divorce.

  As soon as I felt like I was about to faint from the exertion, I stopped running so I could catch my breath. After a few short gasps, I stepped off the muddy road and found myself a dead birch tree. I unbuttoned my trousers and relieved myself over the decaying bark. I tried my best to ignore the rain, shivers running down my spine as I stood in the middle of the dreadful storm. Instead, I focused on the atmospheric glow of the forest at night. The indigo sky pleasantly complemented the full moon. Its radiant beams shone upon the bathed plant life, reflection summoned into the form of one mixture of sky, rain, and nature.

  Azure, like the ocean.

  Just like Ambrose’s favorite…

  I stopped my thoughts right then and there.

  “Just finish urinating and move on,” I told myself.

  Right as I was doing myself back up, a lightning bolt struck the ground next to me, causing me to fall over and scrape my hand against the tree I’d just defaced. I wasn’t sure if this was nature’s way of scolding me for my perfectly normal needs, or if God himself was trying to kill me. At that point, neither answer would have surprised me. Goddamn the rain. Damn it to the hazy abyss from which it came.

  Understanding well that my life was in danger, I returned to my feet and continued to run through the countryside, albeit for a different reason this time. If you’re wondering if I had a particular destination in mind, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed to know I did not. I had absolutely no idea where I was going and I honestly didn’t care. I couldn’t return to London, that was for damn sure. Really, I couldn’t bring myself to go anywhere near another city, or another settlement in general.

  Ambrose Pemberton single-handedly blacklisted me by openly telling the royal guard about my shame. If I were to return to civilization, I’d soon find myself either jailed or dead. So I maintained that it’d be in everyone’s best interests if I just vanished. I could see the general reaction of the townsfolk vividly in my head.

  “Where’s Eustace Bertram?”

  “Who?”

  “You know, the bloke with the limp?”

  “Ah yes, him. He was dead, last I heard. Killed by wolves out in the forest.”

  “Good riddance, I say. What a freak of nature.”

  Sod every single one of those bloody wankers. Let them enjoy our dying world, for
I won’t be there when it falls apart for them. I will travel far away from this pious wasteland, away from these pious people. The distance between them and I will be so great that even the shortest memories of my existence will be too far from their reach.

  Yes, I quite like the sound of that.

  As soon as I spot a sinkhole underneath a reasonably tall tree, I drop down into it. It’s deep enough for me hide away from the rain, but shallow enough that I can climb out in the morning. It’s not the best shelter, but it’s good enough for now. I’m not exactly in any place to judge.

  Once I’m settled in my temporary haven, I pull my diary and inkwell from out of my filthy coat. With one quick motion, I snatch a tiny piece of branch off the tree above me. I haven’t a quill on me, but this twig seems to do the trick for the most part. My handwriting looks atrocious, though. Like a child could produce something more legible.

  As I finish penning this entry, I have to wonder where I’ll go in the morning. I can’t stay in this sinkhole forever, especially since I’m still a little too close to both London and Ambrose Pemberton. I have to go farther. I won’t be able to fall off the face of the Earth if I don’t.

  Perhaps I should just go home, back to the farm. It’s out in the countryside, well away from the city. Father only makes trips to Sheffield every once in a while, for supplies, so I can stay home and tend to Gertrude while he’s gone. Perhaps I can work off my debt to him by taking on some of the duties he’s too old to do anymore, such as tending to the crops. Unfortunately, I’m currently well over a hundred miles away from home. Can I manage that far a journey? If not, it’s at least a general sense of direction I can follow.

  A sense of direction that hopefully won’t forsake me like everything else in my life has.

  2

  The Will

  Kenneth Adelbrecht

  Present Day London, Winter of 1874

  “Oy, mister! Get off the street until you can see again.”