The Wolf & The Witch

The forest roared as it burned, and howled, as if it were a living animal in the throes of death. Storms rattled the valleys and the moss-filled hollows, and the wolf and the witch rode in silence towards the coven, along a hard-packed dirt road. They had only one option for surviving this: arguing. Arguments. They had to get the packs and coven to fight. But even if they achieved that feat, they would still perish, they would still die, if they could not recover from their own argument.

They abandoned their horses a mile from the coven- the animals would go no closer to the fire- the sky was bright orange, and the air so hot that it wavered as if it were made of standing water; ashes and embers flew past and stung their cheeks. Smoke billowed in white plumes, and the road vibrated like the warped wooden floors of old homes under heavy feet.

The Moss Coven Village, or, to the witches, the Village of Eastenet, was a large circular village of over three-hundred houses, fifty shops, and a large, open park in the center, and comprised one-third of Itthon. Trees had been cleared away from the village to keep the fire away. Ditches had been dug and filled with water to keep the fire away.

Claire had walked this road many times over the years. Always alone. Always with the realization that she had no friends in the coven, always with the feeling in her heart that existed in reality: she was on the outside, walking in. She looked down- they were holding hands, and with each step they took, she felt worse and worse. She knew, in her heart, that she was allowed to be embarrassed about things; she knew that it was ok to have some personal space, and some privacy. And she truly did not feel bad about wanting some things to stay private until she was ready to share them- there was nothing wrong with that. But feeling entitled to privacy, wanting to hide some pathetic part of herself from him, had ended up hurting him, which was not her intention. And however right she felt, however true to herself she thought she was being, her heart hurt knowing she had hurt him. They shared friendship, and trust, and promises, and love, and the sum of those meant they also shared pain. And, perhaps, the sum of those also meant they shared flaws, and doubts, and fears, and Claire was afraid of sharing her flaws with him, and her fears- what if he stopped loving her?

She stopped, and he stopped, and the wolf and the witch looked at each other as ashes and embers rushed around them. Their hair, and shirts, whipped in the wind. She reached into her pack and pulled the strip of cotton out, and looked up.

He looked at her, and the cloth in her hand, but didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said, and meant it, and lowered her eyes. She took his right hand, and locked their fingers together, and worked at tying their wrists together with the strip of cotton. “I… was embarrassed by my house, and…” She lost her words, and swallowed, and looked back up, certain she would see anger in his eyes, but there was no anger. “I was afraid of-“

Lestat’s sense of hearing was deadened by the roar of the fire, and his sense of smell overwhelmed by the smoke, so he almost missed the thud of feet. Almost. He grabbed Claire in his arms and leapt back just as a werewolf came out of the smoke and smacked the ground with a heavy paw. The air was white and thick, and his vision limited to twenty feet, and his ears and nose were useless. He held Claire close, her left arm pinned behind her back. One wolf came out of the smoke, charging, and Claire ran fire across his eyes. Lestat ducked a heavy swipe, and sliced up, taking the wolf’s arm at the elbow. He jumped back and was just in time to see a shadow- another wolf in the air, coming at them; he rolled away and split the werewolf open from one rib to another. And he had just finished that motion when a wall of ice hit him in the back and sent them hurtling into the trees. Glowing embers ran along the forest floor like bright, shimmering beetles, and the leaves smoked, and peeled back from the heat in white layers. Lestat stood in the flames, and saw a heavy paw coming, and could’ve attacked- he could’ve cut the werewolf apart, but he could tell- they weren't trying to kill, but capture. He took the hit, and rolled across the ground. Claire’s ear was at his lips, and he whispered- “Pretend to be knocked out.”

Claire went limp in his arm, and Lestat climbed to his feet, took another wall of ice to his left shoulder, smacked a tree, and passed out.

The wolves and the witches grabbed the couple by their ankles and dragged their limp bodies down the dirt road, into the coven, to the center of the coven.

“That’s the two that set the fire,” Eliz said. Eliz was the stand-in for the priestess. “And they are not with us.” Their priestess, Rin, had been gone for the last three months, and though all the coven knew that Beverly, the wife of James, standing to the side, was the true priestess, the wolves did not. They did not know she could change her appearance, and they did not recognize her smell- she'd been gone too long. But they were curious who she was and why she was here.

A wolf with bandages on his arms- where his hands used to be, walked up and looked. “That’s them.”

Lestat listened closely, and smelled closely, and even with his senses diminished he could tell there were at least a hundred wolves, and at least a hundred witches- the witches in front, and the wolves behind, and he could smell James- so he was also here, with his five wives and elite guard.

All eyes were on them, and all eyes were murderous.

Beverly looked down at the two, and shook her head. Three months ago she had sent them to the wasteland: naked, cuffed together, no note, no food, no shelter, and the furthest from the border of any couple. They should’ve been the first to die. How did they even make it out of the cell alive? The weakest witch in her coven, and the most problematic wolf of the forest. But they didn’t die. Border after border other couples died as they crossed, and by the time it was down to them, and Deth and Bethany, there were no options left: she could not allow Deth to stroll back into these woods on a made-up competition. She had no option but to help Lestat and Claire, and they still failed even with her help. Worthless. Beverly raised her hand and fired off a gust of wind and hit them as they lay lifeless on the ground and they went rolling across the dirt, through the ashes, tangled together.

Andras, and Elba, were brothers. They were alphas of their respective packs, and Andras watched as his wolf- the one missing hands, walked over with another wolf, and drew the sword off Lestat’s side. One wolf stepped on his hand, and the other his arm, and the blade was laid on his skin.

“Let’s see how you like losing hands,” the wolf said, and started cutting.

“We know what happened to Deth,” Claire whispered, as the blade sunk down to the bone.

“Stop!” Andras commanded, and the blade stopped. He stomped over and knelt down and grabbed the witch by her hair. “Say that again.”

Lestat kicked his hand away from Claire, and scrambled back, and Andras caught him, and lifted him off the ground by his throat. Claire dangled by the cotton strip, and Elba came over, and grabbed her throat, and the two alphas held the witch and the wolf off the ground.

Claire knew the wolves had good hearing- including James, so she whispered so low that only the nearest wolves would hear- the nearest being the two werewolves choking them to death: “Beverly and Rin… are the same woman-“ Claire gasped and choked. “She killed… Deth, and she ordered us... to kill you.”

Lestat gasped, and wheezed; he couldn’t breathe.

“The pitiful words of those about to die,” Elba scoffed, and squeezed down.

“I… can prove… it,” Claire choked.

Andras and Elba looked at each other, and loosened their holds. Andras lost a son, and Elba lost a nephew; Elba looked back and motioned for his wolves to step forward, to stand between them and the witches. They did.

“Do not believe a word these two say!” Eliz said, and started to advance, when two wolves approached her, shielding them.

Claire and Lestat thudded to the ground, choking, coughing, and she reached into her pack and pulled out a piece of metal cuff- not the one that had fallen off their wrist, but one wrapped in cotton- the one she had saved from Deth and Bethany’s wrist. She tossed it up to the alphas. “Rin cuffed… your son to Bethany, and sent them, and us, and-“ coughs, and chokes, and wheezes, “…three other couples north. She forced us to… fight in the arena in Favoris. Then she ordered us to kill all the packs.” Claire held her left wrist out, and Lestat held his right wrist out, and she pulled the strip of cotton back, and both alphas, and all the wolves, could see: their wrists were white in the shape of a cuff. Andras lifted the piece of metal and could smell his son- he could smell Deth. He handed it to Elba.

“Rana and Owen were… cuffed together,” Lestat said, loudly, his voice broken like twigs from the choking and the smoke. “Sarah and... some other wolf were cuffed together,” he said, loud enough for the witches to hear. “And they died, all because this bitch wanted her... assistant, Adra, to win some stupid game.”

“Bullshit,” Beverly argued. “How would it benefit me to-“ She stopped.

The alphas turned to face her, and the wolves turned to face her. They had not believed that the woman in front of them was the priestess- she didn’t look like the priestess, and she didn’t smell like her, but that was an awfully suspicious answer coming from the wife of an alpha who did not belong in this land. Andras growled. Had this bitch truly kidnapped and killed his son? This bitch was working with other packs outside the moss? This bitch ordered these two to kill the packs and burn the forest?

Claire looked at Beverly and grinned, then looked up at Elba, and Andras. “She killed your son. She burned your forest. She took your homes. Not us. She used us the same way she used your son. We came here to kill this bitch, not you or your packs. We lost our homes, too.”

Elba knew some things to be true: standing in front of him was a wolf from another land- the alpha of Favoris, of the ravines, in his woods, in a coven village, with wolves and witches of his own. For three months they had searched for his nephew. For three months they had searched for Owen. For three they had searched for the priestess. Both her, and her assistant. It was rumored that the coven lost a few more than just those two, but if they did, they never searched for them. He knew all those things to be true. He knew this piece of metal cuff smelled like his nephew. And he knew, by the sound in Claire's voice- she was telling the truth. “Kill them,” he ordered his wolves, looking at the witches, looking at Beverly.

A wooden house at the edge of the village burst into flames. Fire was in the trees, gnawing them with teeth the color of static, eating them with fangs the color of translucent wavering, chewing them down into sharp black posts. Heat radiated out from the forest, cooking the air and setting more houses ablaze.

Claire grabbed Lestat’s arm and pulled him back, away from Andras, away from the wolves, and witches. Lestat’s eyes were full of tears, and red, and he was coughing- smoke, and a crushed throat, and he wasn’t looking at anyone, though his eyes just happened to be focused on Beverly’s feet, standing on the shimmering ground, thirty feet away. Black boots, glowing orange. Black pants- and then she disappeared, and instantly appeared in front of them. Lestat regained his focus and was just in time to turn and shield Claire. Beverly raised her hand, and lowered a boulder on them. The wolf covered the witch and the two were pounded into the hard dirt: Lestat’s face smashed into the ground, busting his lip, and nose, and the back of Claire’s head bounced, and her brain rattled; her vision blurred, and sounds echoed out in waves- breaking, broken- it felt to Claire as if she was falling again: the ground crumpled and bent like wet sticks, and she was in the air, falling- a heap of broken images, gray and white margins. Black trunks, bright, and orange wolves, and red witches. Killing each other. Then she felt Lestat’s arm go around her, and cradle her neck, and she slowed to a stop. Still under two feet of water, but no longer sinking.

Beverly looked down- goddamn these two. They had just fucked up everything. Although she could only blame them for so much. It was the failure of her son, and her assistant, to cross a border, that was the real problem. Josh and Adra had started with money, clothes, food, supplies, weapons, and right beside the border, and still they could not manage to defeat the other couples. She and James had expected so much more from them. “Rest in peace,” Beverly said, and held her hand out, and Lestat shifted- fur ran down his body, and his muscles hardened; he gained nearly two-hundred extra pounds in hard muscles, and four feet in height, and the rocks came down around them, crushing them into the hard earth, molding and solidifying around his body. Lestat fought- he pushed against the rocks with all his strength, and it did no good.

Layer after layer of stone, not crushing them- no- simply trapping them. They would either suffocate, or cook, and it didn't matter to Beverly which.