The Wolf & The Witch

Lestat grimaced- he had always hated wine. It tasted like pickling vinegar. “Here.” He held the skin out to her. “Knock it back.” It was early morning, nine or so. His stomach really didn’t feel up for wine, but he was positive their pursuers would be here tonight. Their traps were set. Heavy log, chain, standing water, narrow cave, enough fire all day for a few very hot stones and hot embers. It was all they could do: either fight them here, with hope, or out in the open, with none. And drinking wine solved two problems- it educated this dumb witch in how to pretend to be drunk, and it would help them sleep through the day so they were rested for tonight.

“No, I’m not drinking that.” Her right arm was folded across her breasts in defiance- not to cover them. No, the flannel did that. Defiance.

“Witch, if you want to escape that white-haired alpha and his son then we need horses. If you want to get home, we need horses. Drink. You’ll be fine.”

A fire burned strong beside them- branches, twigs, bark, dead grass. She looked down, and away, and sighed. There were quite a few reasons she didn’t want to get drunk, and she didn’t want to tell him all of them, so she went with the easiest- the one that required the least amount of lying: “I’m… afraid of you, so I don’t want to drink it.”

“In what way?”

“I’m… worried you’ll take advantage of me.” That was a lie, and she was positive he knew it. What she was really worried about was saying something to him, or doing something to him, that she would regret. And she was certain wine would make her sick- just the smell made her sick.

“You have my word- I won’t. If this has any hope of working, we have to smell drunk, and pretend to be drunk, so they lower their guard.”

“I know, it’s just…”

Lestat sat the wine skin down on the stones and shook their cuffed wrists. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice thick smoke and gray gravel. She brought her eyes up to his. “I have no interests in witches, and no interest in you. I don’t love you, or like you. I don’t want to sleep with you, or beside you. I don’t want to hug you, or kiss you, and as soon as this cuff is off, I’m going my way, and you’re going yours.”

Wow. That was as cold as any night full of ice and frost. She knew they weren’t close, but that was still pretty cold. Why did he feel that way? But if that was true… “Then… why do you keep me warm at night? Why carry me across the fields? Why shield me in front of the soldiers, and take punches? Why not just... let me freeze?”

Lestat grimaced but didn’t look away. “Sorry. I... shouldn’t have said that.” He knew she was beautiful, and he liked her spirit, and fire, but she was a witch. And witches lie, and they cannot be trusted, and that was one of the truest lessons life had ever taught him. But he still didn’t need to be so mean. “I’m trying to treat you the way a man should treat a woman. I know I’m cold, but I don’t mean to be cruel. You’ve made it clear no wolf is worthy of your attention or affection, and I understand, because no witch is worthy of mine.”

She had made that clear. Crystal clear. A few times over. Was he saying all this to jab back at her, because it felt like it. His words stung, and then she worried- why should she care what he thinks or how he feels? But there it was again- another apology. Claire wasn’t sure what to do- drink or not, be hurt by him or not, be angry at him or not, be nice to him or not- she was trying to shield her heart the same way she tried to shield her breasts. And she knew which of the two was the more difficult to shield. “Cussing is not the way a man should treat a woman.”

“And it’s not the way a woman should treat a man. You cussed me first.”

Was that true? She searched her memory and realized it was. She looked down at the ground. His words stung, but at the same time, she agreed. She did not want to marry a wolf- any wolf. She did not want to be abused, and mistreated, or treated like some damn object. She wanted a man who respected her intelligence, who could make her laugh, who could keep her warm at night, and who would be a good father to her children. Someone dependable. Someone she felt safe with, and at ease with. Someone to talk to. Someone who liked her. For who she was. And saw her, for who she was. She took a long, slow, deep breath, and reminded herself: the worst chimney sweep or shit-shoveler is better than the best wolf. She lifted the wine skin and took a sip.

“More,” he ordered.

She drank more.

It didn’t take long, or much- not on an empty stomach on a cold August morning. Claire wobbled, and her cheeks got warm, so warm, and she needed help balancing so she grabbed onto Lestat. She felt like she might tumble into the fire if she wasn’t holding on to him; she clutched onto his arm, and wobbled back and forth, fearful and afraid. He was so strong. And she so needed his support, and protection, or she was going to slosh into the fire. “Le…Lestut, you har suuch a good frien,” she said, and then thought about the one or two ways he was such a good friend. He at least prevented slushing. Then she laid her head on his shoulder and cried for thirty minutes- snot, and tears, a shaking chest and choked words, for thirty minutes.

Lestat sighed. “Hey, let’s get some rest and-“

He touched her shoulder and Claire bolted up and waved her hand in his face- how dare he touch her! “There is a proper order to this kind of stuff!”

“This?”

“Yes, this- us, idiot- there’s an orders to how this works.”

Lestat was tired- he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. Too tired for her idiocy. Maybe the wine was a bad idea. “I’m pretty sure there is no “us”.

“Yes there is! I can prove its!”

Claire wobbled at the end of the cuff, and her eyes shifted in the firelight. She brought her right hand slowly up as she held his eyes, and she sat her fingers down on the third button from bottom- the flannel shirt was already showing her cleavage and the inside quarter of her round breasts. She lowered her hand and popped the button free.

“Witch- stop.”

Her hand moved down to the second from last button. She tugged her left arm to her chest, pulling his right hand along behind, bumping into her breasts.

“Claire. Stop.”

Her eyes were the hazel of whiskey and honey stirred together at sunset. Her arms squeezed her breasts together, then she popped the last button, wiggled out of her shirt, and flung it into the fire.

Lestat’s eyes went wide and he reached behind her into the fire and grabbed her shirt and knocked the flames off the fabric. He turned to-

Claire spun her head, following the burning shirt four seconds too slow and smashed her forehead into his nose, busting it. She felt none of the impact and grabbed the shirt and raised up on her knees, knocking the smoke off the flannel; her breasts hung right in front of his bleeding and bloody face and his right hand was pulled up over his head. She knocked all the smoke off, then thought his dark hair was getting long and looked cold. She took the shirt and wrapped it like a large bandana around the top of his head. It wasn’t easy to do- the damn-bana wouldn’t stay put. Twice, three times, four… And the entire time she struggled with this ridiculous task of keeping his hair warm she was both bouncing her breasts around in his face and tugging his face into them by his right arm.

Lestat growled- this goddamn witch. Fine, witch- two can play your game. He opened his mouth, pulled his lips back off his teeth with a slight sneer, and leaned a half inch forward and bit the soft underside of her breast.

She shot back, tripping, falling into the fire and the cuff saved her- he pulled her back. “That hert! You promsissed you’d never hert me! You promsissed you-you-” she wobbled, “Wouldn’t let me get hert!” Her eyes were bloodshot fury and she balanced like crooked doors in their frames.

He glared at her. “Claire, it’s bedtime. Come here.” It was ten or so, and the sun dappled through the dying stumps of the dead forest and hung long and black into the ravine. The chain hung beside them, running up and out, attached to a large log.

Bedtime? From anger to happiness in a second. “Yooouuu aaarrrreeee such a nice, kind, shits shoveler. Come heres.” Claire hopped up on his lap and pushed her breasts against him. She took his right arm and pinned it behind him with the cuff. His nose was bleeding- blood ran over his lip and down his chin. “How did you hert yourselves?” She wiped blood away with her right hand, which simply smeared his face with blood, then she nodded- he was all better now, and now- “I have a give for yous.”

“I don’t want it.” Lestat turned his head and spit blood.

“I bed you do-oooo.” She puckered her lips and shut her eyes and moved her mouth closer to his, closer, closer, then her stomach growled, and a burp the dark color of fermented grapes stored in the dried stomach of a dead horse wafted up and out and over his face.

“I swear to god, witch-“

She moved through the purple fumes and kissed him- she touched her lips to his, then her eyes went wide and she smiled from ear to ear. That was her first kiss. She leaned into him, curled up against his chest, snuggled up close, burped once more, then threw up all over him.