Camp H.O.W.L. Page 6

  It was silly, of course. Not everyone formed a bond, and most of the bonds that formed were platonic. That hadn’t stopped a nineteen-year-old Adrian from hoping, fantasizing even, about what it would be like to have a bond. Ironic because now that he had one, he’d give just about anything to get rid of it. Not for himself, but for Tate. Adrian didn’t mind—quite the contrary. It was pleasant and soothing for him. Tate’s presence was like slipping into a warm bath or cozying up to a fire on a cold day. Tate seemed to radiate calmness and Adrian’s own body was powerless to do anything but relax.

  He’d found it hard to believe he’d only slept an hour in the van. Aside from the crick in his neck from his head resting against the window, Adrian woke feeling more rested than he had in weeks. Dr. Roget, who’d insisted Adrian call her Diann, had explained that was because of Tate’s presence.

  He’d ease the Turn too, if they spent it together. It would still be painful, but not to the degree it would be going it alone. Adrian would Turn faster, shift easier, and come back to his senses faster with Tate there than he would on his own. With any luck, he wouldn’t experience bloodlust at all.

  If Tate came back. But it was selfish to hope he would, so Adrian tried hard not to wish for it. Tate had sounded wrecked over the bond, and being responsible for putting that resignation in his voice made Adrian’s stomach sink. If there were a way to release Tate, Adrian would have done it as soon as Tate had voiced his reluctance to Diann.

  But he couldn’t, and fighting the Turn bond wouldn’t do any good. It could quite possibly make the Turn even harder, or so Kenya had told him. It was strange—no one here seemed to rest on formality, which was odd given that werewolf culture was all about hierarchy. But Kenya—Dr. Marcus, according to her badge—had told him to call her by her first name, like Diann had. He wondered if it was his age or if all the campers did. It was so different from the Pack hierarchy at home. His mother would shit a brick if one of her Weres called her by her first name.

  Kenya cleared her throat, and Adrian shifted his gaze from the empty doorway to her face. She had laugh lines and the deepest dimples he’d ever seen. Looking at her made Adrian want to be happy, no matter how impossible that was right now.

  “We have rooms set up downstairs for the campers to Turn in,” she said gently, “but I thought you’d be more comfortable in the isolation room.”

  Adrian cast one last look at the door and closed his eyes. He’d be doing this alone, then.

  “No one is left alone,” Kenya murmured, causing Adrian to wonder if he’d voiced his last thought. She smiled. “It’s a common fear. But don’t worry. The purpose of the special rooms is to make wolflings more comfortable, not because we are going to lock you in and leave you to face the moon by yourself.”

  Adrian followed her downstairs, entering through a hidden pocket door in Diann’s office. “The basement isn’t on any official blueprints,” Kenya explained as they made their way down the well-lit staircase. It was glazed concrete that looked every bit as modern and well cared for as the infirmary itself had been. “That way when human officials come to inspect the camp we don’t have to worry about them stumbling on this.”

  She pushed open a door at the bottom of the stairs, and Adrian gaped at the expansive area revealed. This room alone had to be bigger than the entire footprint of the infirmary above, and there were corridors and doors heading in all directions. The place was huge.

  “It runs under most of the buildings that form the center of the camp,” Kenya explained. “All of those buildings have hidden entrances.”

  At least a dozen wolflings milled around the large room, each looking as antsy as he felt. Adults he assumed were counselors like Tate roamed around too, having quiet words with the campers who looked the most distressed.

  “We don’t have enough counselors for a one-to-one ratio, but you’ll be the exception,” she said, her tone apologetic.

  Adrian didn’t need to ask why. She said the isolation room was to make him more comfortable, but the truth was no one knew how he was going to handle the Turn, given his advanced age and quirky biology. He didn’t blame them for taking measures to keep the other campers safe.

  “The counselors each have a core group of campers they advise and mentor,” Kenya said. “They aren’t usually the counselor assigned to monitor the camper’s bunkhouse, so each camper has at least two counselors they’re comfortable with. We’ll split them off in small groups here in a bit.”

  Adrian tried for a smile but knew he’d failed miserably when Kenya reached out and patted his shoulder. “Diann will be with you,” she said. “I’ve got a group myself, or I’d volunteer to stay with you as well.”

  Guilt tugged at Adrian’s stomach. He didn’t want to pull resources away from the wolflings. He was a grown man, for God’s sake. He could do this by himself. It would probably be better, even. That way there wouldn’t be anyone there to witness all the indignities of the Turn. No one needed to see him like that.

  He pasted on his best reassuring smile. “I don’t need—”

  “I’ll be with him,” Tate said from behind them, and Adrian’s entire body went on high alert, tingling with awareness. Goose bumps cascaded over his skin, and every nerve sang.

  Tate closed the distance between them and put a warm hand between Adrian’s shoulder blades. Muscles he hadn’t even realized had been knotted with anxiety and fear unclenched, and Adrian would have sworn he grew an inch taller from the weight that fell off his shoulders. He leaned into the touch like a plant growing toward the light, seeking more.

  Tate leaned in closer, his breath ghosting along the shell of Adrian’s ear. “That is, assuming you want me there.”

  Adrian nearly choked in his rush to respond. It was like he’d forgotten how to swallow. Coughing, he ducked his chin in embarrassment. “Yes,” he managed to croak.

  Tate’s low chuckle turned Adrian’s bones to putty. He sagged back against Tate’s body, but Tate seemed to have anticipated Adrian’s weight, because he was already braced for it. His only reaction was a brief huff of air at the sudden impact.

  Adrian looked up when Kenya clucked her tongue. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said, her dark eyes moving from Adrian to Tate. “Moonrise will be here soon, so you’d better get whatever you want out of him before that happens, Tate. He won’t be able to enter into any provisos when he’s taken by the Turn.”

  Adrian’s spirits sank. Of course Tate would be doing this for some ulterior motive. Would he want money? Or maybe the kind of influence Adrian’s Pack could provide? The werewolf world was governed by power plays like this one, but he’d been naive enough to hope Tate had agreed because he too felt the tug of the bond.

  Not every Turn bond was sexual—most were platonic, actually—but Adrian had hoped theirs would be one of the bonds that ended in more. His mother and father had been Turn bondmates, and their chemistry had been so great they’d spun the simple bond into something much deeper. He’d always wanted something like that, and when he hadn’t Turned, Adrian had written it off as a fairy tale. He gave up his fantasies of having a Turn bond, and the tiny part of him that had hoped for something truly rare, a special bond that was more than platonic, died as well. But here he was, falling into that trap again. He should know better. A werewolf of all people should know how badly fairy tales usually ended.

  Kenya gave both of them a stern look before hurrying off to a small group of wolflings who had started fighting at the edge of the room. Adrian looked up, surprised to see it had mostly emptied out. Kenya had been right—moonrise was almost upon them. He could feel it tugging at his bones like the satisfaction of a well-deserved stretch.

  But his stomach was also churning and his skin prickling painfully, and those sensations were so at odds with the pleasurable twinge in his bones that he hardly knew what was what.

  “There are smaller rooms down the corridor,” Tate said. He started moving, and Adrian was surprised to find himsel
f moving too. His body was already finely tuned to Tate’s. All it took was the slightest nudge from the hand that lingered on Adrian’s back and he was moving in the direction Tate had set them.

  Adrian’s body was buzzing now, an itch creeping deep into his flesh that made him want to tear at his skin. Intellectually he knew it would pass, but it was hard to remember that in the moment. This was another reason werewolves didn’t go through the Turn alone—they could tear themselves apart if they had to face the pain and fear by themselves.

  “Here we are,” Tate said, removing his hand from Adrian’s back to open a door at the end of the corridor. He held it open with his hip and reached inside to turn the lights on. Adrian ached at the loss of contact, but it was brief. Tate reached for him and lightly stroked Adrian’s neck with the rough pads of his fingers. Adrian relaxed instantly, leaning into the touch, and Tate let out a quiet sigh and palmed his nape, squeezing it lightly.

  Unlike the corridor and the large room they’d been in, there were no overhead fluorescent lights in the room Tate had brought him to. Sconces on the wall glowed softly, illuminating the room without stinging Adrian’s sensitive eyes. He stepped inside reluctantly. Once the door closed behind them, the Turn would be real. Not that it wasn’t now—his aching joints and tortured skin were plenty real—but officially being in a Turning room made it so much more serious.

  He swallowed hard as the door clicked shut behind Tate, relieved when there was no snick of a lock. He could leave if he wanted to. It would be unwise, and if Tate was a Turn bondmate worth his salt, he would heavily discourage it, but Adrian wasn’t trapped. His pulse slowed a bit at the knowledge that he wasn’t being locked up.

  “Moonrise is in about fifteen minutes,” Tate said, his eyes crinkling in sympathy when Adrian winced. “I’m sorry I didn’t come get you earlier. We should have had you settled into the room a while ago.”

  That would only have prolonged the growing sense of dread forming in Adrian’s stomach, and he said as much.

  “I’m not going to lie—the Turn is painful,” Tate said, a small, sad smile twisting his lips. “And unfortunately there isn’t much I can do to ease that. But this is a safe place for you. You won’t be able to damage anything important here.”

  Adrian looked around the room. He skipped his gaze over the bed in the corner quickly, not wanting to think about that. There were no windows, of course, being in the basement, but there were paintings on the walls and a door slightly ajar at the far end. A bathroom, he presumed, catching a glance of a sink. The floor in the corridor was concrete, but the room had rubbery linoleum-type flooring that felt almost spongy beneath his feet. The center of the room was covered with a large, plush-looking rug, and there was an overstuffed armchair and a bookcase full of reading material next to it.

  “There may be periods between you shifting and being zonked out when you’re lucid and awake,” Tate explained with a shrug. “Plus it gets boring for whoever’s in here with you, believe it or not.”

  Adrian could have used a bookshelf full of novels and magazines when he’d waited all night without Turning.

  “Could you just drug a wolfling so they slept through it?”

  “They’ve tried that. It didn’t work.” Tate offered Adrian his hand. “The only thing that can help prevent a wolfling from falling into bloodlust during the Turn is having a bond. We’re getting close now. Can you feel it?”

  Adrian’s heart thudded at the reminder, despite the fact that his body was essentially a walking countdown to moonrise. He knew they had less than five minutes left. He couldn’t put how he knew into words, but he did. He could literally feel the moon.

  “Before you give in to the pull, I need to talk to you,” Tate said.

  Adrian nodded, wary. Was this where Tate asked for favors? Made demands? Adrian was hardly in a position to turn him down, whatever they were.

  “This is unusual, having a Turn bond between a staff member and a camper. And I’m not going to lie, I’m attracted to you. It’s going to make it difficult not to give in if the bond turns sexual. I promise you I’ll do my best not to take advantage of you, but I need to know if you consent. I need to know what you’re okay with, Adrian.”

  Adrian blinked. That was what Tate wanted? Consent? “Yes,” he mumbled.

  “No.” Tate’s voice was firm. “That’s not enough. I need to know if you accept the Turn bond and the possibility that ours might not be platonic.”

  Laughter bubbled up in Adrian’s chest. He felt giddy and lightheaded. “Yes,” he said, grimacing when his voice cracked. “I consent. To the bond. To everything.”

  Tate studied him solemnly for a moment before nodding. “Good enough. But I was serious about not taking advantage of you. I’ll do my best, Adrian. You have my word.”

  Adrian didn’t want his word on that. He’d rather let the bond go where it wanted—especially if it meant getting to take Tate to bed. But he understood how hard this had to be for someone like Tate who’d spent his career protecting wolflings.

  “’Kay,” he slurred. He sank down onto the bed, looking for any relief for his aching body.

  His head was beginning to feel fuzzy. Tate’s voice sounded faraway, like he was speaking to Adrian through a tunnel. His arm didn’t hurt anymore, but his entire body felt like it was made of stone. His head bobbed forward, too heavy for his neck to hold.

  “Here we go,” Tate said, drawing out the first word. “Welcome, moonrise.”

  He grasped Adrian under the arms and hauled him off the bed and onto the rug that had looked so soft earlier. “You don’t want to be up there for this, trust me. You’re going to end up on the floor one way or another, and if you start down here there will be fewer bruises later.”

  Adrian pressed his face into the rug. He was sure he could feel each and every fiber, but he didn’t open his eyes to see if he could count them. He couldn’t have opened his lids if he’d wanted to—they felt like they were welded shut.

  “Let the Turn happen,” Tate crooned in his faraway voice. His hand cupped the back of Adrian’s neck, but instead of being comforting like it had been earlier, it rasped against his skin like sandpaper. Adrian wiggled away. Or tried to, at least. In reality he didn’t make it far. Maybe a few carpet fibers away. They dragged against his cheek, irritating his skin.

  Tate moved his hand from Adrian’s neck to his hair, his fingers stroking softly. It felt good, and Adrian tried to arch a bit into the touch but instead found himself unable to stop. His back bent harshly, raising his stomach and face up off the carpet. He felt like his bones might snap under the pressure.

  Tate’s gentle touch disappeared, and Adrian tried to protest but couldn’t get words out past molasses-thick saliva. His tongue pressed against his teeth with such force they ached.

  “Shhhhh.” Tate’s voice was closer, and Adrian managed to force one eye open, surprised to see that Tate had lain on his side next to Adrian on the carpet, their faces inches apart. “It’s worse if you fight it. Try to relax your muscles so they won’t strain so much.”

  Try to relax? Was Tate kidding? Adrian was sure his bones were shattering. Jagged points pressed against his skin, shredding muscle and sinew in their quest to escape his body.

  With great effort he managed to gain control of his tongue so he could speak. “Fuck. You,” he rasped.

  Anger licked through him, hot and sharp, when Tate laughed. Adrian clenched his hands, shocked to find his fingernails had grown into talon-like daggers that parted the flesh of his palm like butter. The pain barely registered—it was a blip in the sea of agony that washed over him. A welcome relief, almost, to find one area to focus on instead of the haze of pain that had settled over every inch of his body.

  “You’re doing so well,” Tate said, his voice clearer than it had been a minute ago. He hadn’t moved, so it must be Adrian’s hearing coming back. He rubbed his face against the carpet, finding he could no longer differentiate each fiber. His senses were normalizing. Su
rely the pain would settle soon after, wouldn’t it?

  It would have to. Adrian couldn’t imagine keeping up with this kind of white-hot agony for much longer. He tried to focus past the pain and think about something else, but his world had narrowed to the strip of carpet he was currently dying on and Tate’s voice, which had continued to croon encouragement as Adrian slipped in and out of lucidity.

  Another spasm overtook Adrian, fire lancing down his bent back and pooling at the base of his spine. His hips snapped and his knees fused, the blood in his legs replaced with lava as the Turn coursed through him.

  Adrian’s pain had given him a surge of strength, but it ebbed as quickly as it had come. He collapsed onto the rug, his limbs caught underneath him and his nose squashed into the pile. He needed to turn his head to breathe, but at the moment he didn’t have the energy.

  Tate’s hands were blessedly cool against Adrian’s face as he tilted his head to the side. They’d felt like sandpaper before, but now the touch was as refreshing and soothing as silk.

  “Rest up a bit,” Tate said. “Do you want me to help you sit up so you can have a drink of water?”

  Adrian’s eyes flew open in panic. “No,” he moaned. He never wanted to be upright again. He wanted to live out the rest of his life on this floor. It was a nice floor. Flat. Supportive.

  “Okay, okay.”

  Adrian closed his eyes for just a moment, and then opened them in shock when something cold and wet wiped over his forehead. He blinked hard when water ran into his eyes. Tate had a washcloth. When had he gotten a washcloth?

  “You slept for about an hour,” Tate said. “Your muscles started twitching and spasming again a few minutes ago, which is why I woke you. The shift will be coming on soon. Get yourself ready.”