The Wolf & The Witch

Claire woke in his arms. She looked out at the morning- bright, and white, and red, with just the slightest chill in the air, and she snuggled closer. She looked up at him, sleeping peacefully; she ran her fingers up and down his bare chest, across bruises, up and over and along his muscles. The kisses from last night were still on her lips, and she still tasted him- slightly like leather, and cedar, and something sweet- acorns, or jasmine. What do I taste like, she wondered? She ran her fingers through the hair on his stomach, soft, dark, up an oblique, down an oblique, and sighed. She had tried hard her entire life to save her kisses- her mouth, and tongue, her virginity- her body, for the man she would eventually marry. She knew it was old-fashioned, she knew it went against the rules of the coven, she knew it made her weak- witches can’t form pacts with familiar spirits as virgins. But it was important to her. She didn’t want to settle, and she wanted to give herself as a gift to a man who was worthy of such a gift. Did she truly want to marry this wolf? No. Absolutely not. Maybe. It depends. On a lot. She sighed again. She shouldn’t be kissing him if she didn’t know. Actually, she shouldn’t be kissing him unless he gave some indication that he might propose. They needed to stop kissing.

“What are you thinking?”

She jumped, and blushed; she had been stroking his chest, running her fingers through his chest hair, up and over his hard muscles. “Good...good morning.”

“Good morning. Ready to run through a forest?”

She sat up, and he sat up beside her. They stood, and folded their blanket, and packed up. Then they walked to the edge of the forest, holding hands.

“Can you talk to ghosts?” Lestat asked, looking into the red trees.

Claire smiled; her nose crinkled. “Of course. So can you. The problem is they don’t listen.” She was in his shadow- the morning sun was to their left, to the east. She didn’t look up; she didn’t stop smiling.

Lestat looked down at her and laughed, just a tiny bit, up in the top of his nose, up underneath his eyes. “What a cute little smartass you’re being this morning.”

Her smile broadened and she looked up at him. “You know what they say- ask a dumb question get a- Stop!”

He poked her in the side and she jumped two feet.

“Don’t do that,” she threatened; she lowered her eyes at him. “Stop.”

“You’re very ticklish, aren’t you.”

“No, I’m not.” He brought his hand up and she smacked it down with a satisfying whack.

He smiled at her, then looked at the forest. “Well- I have no idea about ghosts. You’re a witch- this is up your alley. I’ll follow your lead.”

“You’re out your damn mind. As if I know how to deal with ghosts.”

They looked at each other. At least it was daylight. Lestat leaned in and kissed her forehead, then took her hand.

“Hold the fuck up- what was that?”

“A good morning, hope-we-don’t-die, kiss.”

She furrowed her brows. “You need to do a lot better than that.”

Better? A lot better? Alright, then. Lestat moved her left hand behind her back, held her in his arm, and pulled her close. He brought his left hand up and rested it on her cheek, and pulled her mouth to his. He was not forceful, but he wanted her tongue. He forced her morning mouth open with his, and took her tongue, and then leaned into her, locking their mouths together, and gently chased her, and caught her- not inhaling, not breathing, one second, two, three...

It took Claire a second to realize her right hand was free- she reached up and squeezed his forearm, his bicep- she put her hand against his chest and pushed just slightly- just enough to feel his strength.

He wasn’t forcing her to kiss, but he wasn’t stopping, either. Ten seconds, and he left her tongue for her lips, and kissed her upper lip, then her cheek, then her lower lip, and took it gently in his teeth, as morning light is gentle. He pulled back. Beads of saliva ran between their lips. “Better?”

Her lips were numb, and she felt balance leaving her knees; she cleared her throat and looked up at him. “B...better. Every... every morning- that’s how you kiss me,” she ordered, and then blushed, and looked down. Oh what the fuck was wrong with her? Goddamnit all. Claire growled at herself. Damnit. That was their last kiss. Ever. She looked up at him, to cuss him, and wanted another kiss. Goddamn him all to hell. Then she wondered- he was awfully good at kissing- how many women had he kissed?

“Let’s go,” Lestat said, and took her hand in his, adjusted the straps of the pack on his back, and they walked into the forest.

The trees were skinny, and tall, and black and leaned into the center of the forest. The leaves were dead and dying and blocked the sun like red stained glass, and red moss draped their trunks, and branches, hanging down like the remains of things. The air was noticeably colder, and not even ten steps in Claire shivered. Lestat stopped, undid a strap, unrolled his cloak- their one shared cloak, and handed it to her. Then he noticed she wasn’t carrying all that much- she had plenty of room to carry her own cloak.

A ghost waited in front of the wolf; gaunt, a blind white cataract- milky translucence. The ghost did not look up, but reached out and held onto Lestat as he passed.

Claire took the cloak, and wrapped it around her shoulders. The sleeves were too long, and hung down past her hands- annoying, though at least it kept her warm. He was at least useful for something.

This swath of forest was roughly five miles wide, if the map they stole was accurate. They walked five miles, in silence, and did not exit the forest.

“I don’t think you know what the fuck you’re doing,” Claire said.

Lestat growled. What a stupid-ass witch. The sun rises in the east, and sets in the west, and it was morning. Which meant, to walk south, the sun was on their left shoulder. The shadows through the trees were long and black and slanted. Then Lestat realized that was an even more ignorant question than he first thought. Even if they weren’t walking south, they sure as hell weren’t walking into the sun, or away, which meant they would leave this forest on one side or another. He looked down. Why the hell was he holding this dumbass witch’s hand? He flung her hand away as if a spider crawled up his arm.

The witch ducked a low branch, then stopped, and reached down to adjust her boot.

“We don’t have time for breaks, princess,” the wolf said.

“You can go fuck yourself, asshole,” Claire sneered. She badly wanted to take her boot off and hit him with it. Goddamn stupid wolf. Her fingers paused- the boot was half off her foot. She glared at him, and pulled her boot back on, and jerked him forward.

Then he jerked her forward.

“What the fuck is your problem?!”

“What the fuck is yours, you stupid fucking witch?”

“You son of a bitch, motherfucker. You speak like that to me again I swear to god I’ll slap the shit out of you, then I’ll castrate your dumb ass.”

“Do it, witch. I will knock your ass into the fucking ground.” His voice was smoke and gravel and he was throwing handfuls. The wolf pulled his left hand back. His words hung in the cold air.

Claire lowered her eyes, and pulled her right hand back, and loaded her arm with fury, and swung. She forgot her promise, she forgot their kiss, she forgot everything she knew, except, simply, that she despised him with her whole heart. Her slap rang out loud around the red forest, and she stumbled. She slapped him so hard she lost her footing and stumbled over a tree root.

A trickle of blood ran from Lestat’s nose- he had his hand ready, and paused: better to let the dumb bitch regain her balance so he could hit her straight on. And then, as he paused, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he felt a hand on his wrist, and his open palm was flung at the witch. The wolf didn’t mind slapping her, but he didn’t like anyone touching him. He stopped his hand and spun around- no one. Nothing.

“Big words,” the witch said, waiting for his manly slap.

Lestat looked back at her and paused again. Why were they in these woods? Why hadn’t they walked out the other side? Why was he so mad at this witch? Lestat felt another hand on his shoulder- he spun: two men, standing right behind him. One was missing his lower jaw and his tongue hung freely off the underside of his three-quarter face, and the other had a noose around his neck, biting into the skin, and both men had their pants down.

One of the men patted Lestat’s shoulder, and leaned in, “That is a fine looking woman you have. I bet she’s tight. She looks like one of those tight, stuck-up bitches.”

The other took his other shoulder, and tried to speak- his tongue made the motions, but without a jaw, it was simply the sound of his breathing combined with the dull whap of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, but Lestat knew what he was trying to say.

The wolf turned back to the witch. He agreed with these nice men- all women were fucking whores, especially witches. “Let’s go, fucking nasty whore,” he sneered. He needed to find a way to get this goddamn cuff off.

“Nasty fucking whore,” the witch repeated, and looked at him like he was fresh smeared dog shit on a warm sidewalk. “From the lips of a filthy fucking rapist. Go to hell, and get there fast.” She did not follow.

“Now, witch.” The wolf jerked her forward, hurting her left wrist, and pulled her through the trees by the end of the cuff.

The witch kicked him in the back of the knee, causing him to stumble forward. “Stop it! I’m not going anywhere with your dumb ass!”

He didn’t stop- he tugged her behind by their cuffed wrist.

The witch slipped her hand through the slit in her leather skirt for her dagger, but it wasn’t strapped to her leg. Then she looked at the swords on his hips.

If the wolf and the witch were paying slightly more attention, they would’ve noticed that the sun they were using as a guide was not the sun. It did not cast light on their left shoulders; it did not warm them; it did not rise in the sky; it was not the sun. They might’ve noticed they had walked over ten miles, and were not out the other side. They might’ve noticed the temperature falling. Perhaps they would’ve noticed the large number of ghosts draped on them, bringing the temperature down with them...

The witch shot her hand out and pulled his sword from his hip and drove it straight at him- goddamn fucking filthy abusive wolf. The sword pierced his shoulder and the tip hit bone and the wolf stumbled back.

He stumbled back for only a second. He brought his foot up and kicked the sword from her hand, knocking the blade out of his shoulder, and grabbed her by the throat; he took her four steps forward and slammed her into a tree. The wolf lifted the witch off the ground, by the throat, and pinned her.

Red was the light and black were the shadows.

“Get...off…of... me...”

The wolf leaned in and growled. Blood ran from his shoulder down his chest, blooming black down his shirt, and the ghosts clung to him- his arms, his legs, his back: the dead, and the emotions they died with, hung off him the way moss hangs from narrow trees- like the remains of things, blocking out the light.

“Oh, you stupid, fucking witch. Goodbye.”