The Wolf & The Witch

If the wolf and the witch wanted to get to the capitol city undetected, then they had to ride in the false bottom of a cinnamon cart, cramped together, sweating, surrounded by the smell of cedar and pine and sharp cinnamon. They were in a wooden box under a trap door in the cart that was two feet tall, three feet wide, and just long enough for Lestat to lay flat. It was stuffy, and hot, and they had just enough room to slide a sweaty leg aside, or lean their face into a different wooden plank. Road dust from the horses and the wheels sifted through the wooden slats and slowly coated their necks and arms and faces.

They rode in the cinnamon coffin during the day, and slept in the grass at night, and did not speak above a whisper. They did not speak at all while in the bottom of the cinnamon cart. The roads were patrolled by soldiers from the city of Favoris- both wolves and men. If the wolf and the witch were found, and it was reported, the other couple Deth and Bethany could simply walk across the bridge and be done. But, if they could arrive at the city in secret, perhaps they could kill Deth, and the Alpha Edward. Perhaps.

Three days of road dust, and sweat. Three days of the pungent smell of cinnamon, and wood. Then they followed a side road to a small village in the woods- Talus. James, and his wives, and his men, all needed a break.

The wolf and the witch needed a break. They had a date planned. Romance. It was mid-morning, and the leaves were falling gold and yellow and red, and sounded like the rustling of clean sheets under thin blankets. Lestat slipped his shirt off and draped it over the cuff, and they walked slowly to the inn and got a room. Claire could walk, but only slowly. He helped her up the steps carrying buckets of water, and rags, and towels. They sat back-to-back, naked, and cleaned themselves. They dried, dressed, and went back for more buckets.

Claire had him carry her back a third time- the stairs were difficult, and painful. Two buckets of water, three- it didn’t matter if they went back for ten. There was no way possible to clean all the grit and grime off with buckets of water. Fuck.

Lestat was stiff, and sore, and stretched his back this way and that, but couldn’t get comfortable. He bumped Claire on accident.

She growled on accident.

They left the inn, slowly, holding hands, and looked out at the small village: one cobblestone street branched off to the left, with signs for shops selling dresses and books, and to the right, a street with signs for shops selling swords and herbs. Claire went left, and Lestat went right, and they bumped into each other, and Claire lost her balance on her leg and nearly fell. He caught her, and steadied her. She growled again. On accident.

They stared at each other, then Claire went right, and Lestat left, and she nearly fell again when their arms pulled back at the cuff.

“Ok. What the fuck are we doing?” Claire asked.

“I think we’re trying to go on a romantic date. You wanted left first- let’s go left.”

“No. You wanted right, let’s go right.”

“No. We’re going left.”

Claire didn’t growl, she didn’t glare, she didn’t cuss. But it was coming. She felt it. Claire knew she was grumpy and mad, and she knew it wasn’t his fault. It was riding in a goddamn cinnamon cart all goddamn day. Not his fault. Yet. But it was starting to become his fault.

They went left, down a cobblestone street, past benches, and people on benches, to the clothing store, and Lestat held the door for her and they entered. All clothes for women, and most of them were practical, but part of the store had pretty sundresses leftover from summer, and another part of the store had pretty underwear.

Lestat followed slowly. He was surprised that Claire’s first thought on a romantic date was to look at dresses, but then he wondered what the average young woman considered romantic? Going to dinner? Food? Well, she would certainly like that. What else did she like? Being scratched to sleep? Cussing? Maybe he would save those for the end of the date. But he was surprised she liked shopping for dresses. He followed her from rack, to rack, as she looked. She held up a white sundress, and he nodded- she would look pretty in that, but he didn’t say anything. She held up a red one, and he nodded.

Two women looked up from a table of folded dresses, saw Lestat- shirtless, and leaned into each other, whispering.

Claire folded the dress she was holding, and sat it on a table, and looked up at the two hags. “Do you two old hussies have something to say?” Claire stepped closer.

“Hussies?”

“Old? Why you hateful bitch,” one woman answered.

“You know, sweetie,” the other woman said, and walked around the table, up to Lestat. “I would not be hateful with you. I would do whatever you wanted, and-“

Claire reached over and shoved the woman hard. She went backwards into the table, then over it, taking dresses with her. She thunked off the floor, and groaned, and her friend rushed to help, and the store owner ran over, and forced the wolf and the witch to leave, and slammed the door behind them.

They stood on a narrow sidewalk. Gray clouds were building on the horizon, and the breeze had picked up.

“Fucking hussies!” Claire yelled, and kicked the door, and huffed, and growled. She looked up at Lestat, and growled. I would do whatever you want- fuck that bitch. What a slut. And why the fuck wasn’t Lestat insulting her?

She felt like burning the store down, but he took her hand in his and led her to the bookstore. The store was small, and quiet, and smelled like coffee and paper and dead bugs that had dried on windowsills for many years.

“A book store?” Claire asked. At least the sluts in here would be too nerdy and cracker-thin to be all chatty with Lestat.

Lanterns covered the tops of shelves, and shone in the corners, casting flickering orange light. “Romance,” Lestat answered, and looked around, and grabbed a book of poetry off a shelf at random, and led her around to a small table in the back of the shop, and sat her down, and sat down beside her. “I thought reading you poetry would be romantic.”

Claire had never given any indication she liked poetry, but the notion was indeed romantic. Certainly no suitor had ever wanted to read her poetry. She was still pissed at the two women, and bothered that he didn’t say a single word about the dresses she held up, but squeezed his hand. This was certain to turn their moods around, and improve this date. What a sweet gesture.

Lestat cleared his throat, and opened the book to a random page, looked her in the eyes, and read: “Three times I had the lust to kill, to clutch a throat so young and… fair.” Lestat paused. He flipped to the next page, scanned that poem, and it was worse, so he flipped back.

“Go on,” Claire said, curious where this pinnacle of romantic poetry was going.

“…And squeeze with all my might, until no breath of being lingered there…”

Claire looked at him. Ah- a man strangling a young maiden to death. Romance at its best. It smelled a little odd in this book store.

He flipped a few pages, and shrugged. Not every poem can be about love. Surely the next one would be better. He cleared his throat again, and looked her in the eyes, and started a new one: “It wasn’t Sunday, but there was still a service. You entered the church, my body, with… purpose.” He stopped again. What was this poem about? Romance was doubtful.

Claire took the book, found the line, and continued. “Against my will you brought your sins, and came inside- uh, no. I’m pretty sure this poem is about being raped.”

“What the fuck. Why would someone write poems about rape and killing young women? Aren’t all poems supposed to be love poems?”

Claire tossed the book over her shoulder, shut her eyes, and looked down. She really, really wanted this date to be romantic. What would it say about them if they couldn’t manage a single romantic date? Not much. There was a proper order to relationships: like, talk, date, date, date, and, after enough successful dates, kiss. They had skipped a lot, and Claire felt it necessary to have good, romantic dates. As they left, the store owner called out to them, found the book against the wall, and demanded they buy it. They flung it aside again, and told him to buy the damn stupid book, and he threatened to call for the village guard. So they bought a book of poetry on rape and murder and incest, and when they exited Claire saw the two women from before, walking away. “Hey, hussie!” Claire shouted. The woman turned, and Claire lobbed the book at her. It hit her in the head and she fell down and a guard noticed. He checked on the woman, then looked up at Claire, and started walking over.

Lestat scooped Claire up and ran the opposite direction, back past the inn, turned a corner and ducked into the first building he saw- the weapon store.

Claire wondered as he ran- did men consider anything romantic? What was romance to a man? Kissing? Sex? Breasts in their face? That would certainly be what all her previous suitors considered romantic. Buy what about Lestat? She was surprised he thought reading poetry was romantic; she had never thought about it, but that was a very romantic gesture. Although the poems needed work. What could she do that would be considered a romantic gesture?

Three men looked up as he entered, and two wolves looked up, and the store owner. They looked from him, shirtless, with dark, shaggy hair, to her, in his arms, her shirt unlaced enough to see the soft white curve of her breasts, and her skirt had a slit going high enough up her thigh to see the soft white curve of her thigh.

Lestat turned to leave before he killed these bastards.

“Wait, wait,” she said. “You wanted to look at swords. Show me one you like.”

Lestat’s hand was on the door, but he sat her down out of his right arm, and adjusted the shirt around the cuff. He turned back- the men were still staring at her. He knew Claire liked to keep her shirt unbuttoned, and unlaced; he knew she liked to feel cool air on her chest, and neck, and arms, but that didn’t mean she liked to be ogled. He moved in front of her. “If you fuckers keep looking at my woman, I will kill every goddamn one of you.”

They looked away. Lestat growled, and led her around to the side, near a window. The breeze was picking up, and it was afternoon, and the light through the window varied light gray, and dark gray, as the clouds rolled over the village. Lestat glanced around a rack of swords, and picked one up- a short sword, with bands of layered metal like bark.

Claire looked at it- the banding of the metal was different than other swords, and the handle was simply black leather. “Is that a good sword?” She looked at him- she wasn’t sure announcing to a room of men that she was his woman was a romantic gesture. Not really. Kind of romantic in the same way candles are: nice from a distance, and painful when they get too close.

Lestat turned it over in his hand. “Yes, but it’s too short to be effective. This might be-“

“Too short, huh?” one of the wolves said. “You can try mine, honey, if his is too short.” Two men laughed, and the wolf turned back to his friends and laughed.

Lestat turned slowly, growling, and Claire felt him tense, and pulled him back. “Come on, let’s go.” She tried to pull him- she grabbed his right arm and held it between her breasts and tugged him towards the door. He was growling deep, and low, in his chest, and she could feel it in her arms.

A wolf came up from behind as Claire pulled Lestat towards the door, and reached out with both hands- one headed for her neck, and one for her wrist.

Lestat spun and pulled Claire into his chest and held her close with his right hand and cleaved the wolf from his groin to his chin, and before the motion finished he spun and hurled the short sword across the store- it took the other wolf’s head and missed the shopkeeper’s throat by the width of a piece of paper. One man scrambled out the back, and the other drew a spear off the wall and leveled it at them. Lestat marched around a table and straight at the man; the man pulled the spear back, and jabbed it forward, and Lestat caught it by the handle. He pulled the man towards him- he stumbled, and caught himself on the table, and turned, and Lestat’s left fist came arcing down and hit the man in the temple, shattering bone.

The man hit his head on the way down with a crack.

Claire sighed. This still wasn’t going well.

Lestat turned, and looked at the shopkeeper.

He was pale, and trembling, and ran out the back shouting for help.

“We should probably go,” Lestat said, his voice low and dark and smoking.

“You think?”

Lestat nudged a dead body out of the way of the door, pulled it open, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Guards were coming, shouting, and he ran the opposite direction. Down one road, and then another, then he ducked behind a building, and leaned against a wall. Wolves would find them sooner than later, but he didn’t smell that many wolves. As far as he could tell the guards here were all men, and he could kill them easily, but shouldn’t. Wind gusted, and the clouds piled up.

Chased by the police. Claire didn’t really care that Lestat killed a few men. They ogled her; he warned them, then responded the way a man should. But calling her his woman was not romantic, and splattering blood all over them was not romantic. He could’ve handled that a little better. She sighed and tugged at the cuff, and squirmed, and he sat her down. Guards ran past, the brass buckles on their belts rattling. She looked at their cuffed hands. What did it mean if they couldn’t manage a single, simple, romantic date?

There was only one thing left to try. They stole food through open kitchen windows, and they stole a blanket from a clothesline, and they left the village.

The road out of the village was dirt, and forests huddled around it on either side. The forest was in the process of dying: red and yellow and dying in the graying day.

Lestat looked back- they were being followed. He picked Claire up, and walked faster, into the trees. Up a hill, away from the road. They spread the blanket out and sat down. They listened to the leaves rattle and scrape, and the wind rustle in the tops of the trees. They opened their basket, and laid out a loaf of bread, the large leg of a roasted chicken, a pot of greenbeans, and a jar of pickles. Not bad for window stealing.

They smiled at each other.

And it started raining.

Two drops, ten, forty- rain poured from the sky. Leaves came with the driving rain, and the wolf and the witch simply sat. They were too far from the village to find shelter. Their food was ruined, except the pickles. And each and every drop was a cold, wet reminder that they were not suited for each other.

Edward and his wives and all the horses and men and carts pulled up at the base of the hill, in the driving rain.

“It is not wise to antagonize guards in any village in this land- not if you intend to survive, and escape. I thought I made that clear- your only hope is to sneak into the city. Then fight. And win. If you’re found all he has to do is take two-thousand steps across the bridge, and you’re dead.”

The wolf and the witch didn’t respond. They made their slow, soggy, dripping way to the cinnamon cart. Lestat helped her up, and followed, and they crawled to the trap door, lifted it, and climbed into their small cinnamon coffin. The door shut. Crates of cinnamon were slid back on top.

The cart lurched forward. So much for that date.