The Wolf & The Witch
Cold Comfort

Claire was so cold her nakedness no longer bothered her. Wherever they were, however they got here, was starting to not matter, because minute by minute, they were getting closer and closer to dying. She curled up against him in the cold red clay and shivered, and froze, and her teeth chattered, and her breath huddled for warmth in the back of her throat.

His feet were on fire, and his hands were on fire, and his body was starting to burn. Wet. Cold. Black mountains white in the distance, and a gray city behind a gray wall. No birds. No trees tall enough to climb. Maybe caves along the conchoidal fractures that branched out across the land. Lestat partially shifted- hair down his arms and chest and back and legs. He put both arms around her, which forced her left hand behind her back. She fought for just a second, then scooted into him.

Goddamn wolves. Goddamn witches.

He could only transform for so long. Strength was not infinite. Neither was magic. He hated witches, and he hated the one in his arms, against him. There was no other explanation for how they got here except a witch. He had no idea about the cuff- it wasn’t wolf or witch, but to send them to a jail cell in a dead city, naked, cuffed, cold- someone could only be trying to kill them, elaborately, for some damn stupid reason. He had to wonder how he was even poisoned. He ate nothing, drank noth- then he remembered: drinks were served- beers to wolves, wine to the witches. He had refused. Then water was set out, and he had some, then felt sick, and left. “-d-d-did you drink any-anything? At-at the meeting?” She was warm, and beautiful, and her hair was long and brown, and her skin pale white with blue veins running beneath the surface. All that and she was still a filthy witch- maybe the one who brought them here.

He was warm and she hated him for it. She had to wonder if this was some damned elaborate plot: drug her, kidnap her, save her a few times from situations he created in the hopes she would fawn over him. Not happening. At least not till he actually saved her from something. That didn’t seem likely, though, because she was reminded, with every shiver, they were both dying. She wrapped herself up tight, and held her feet in her right hand. She could feel him trembling as he held her. She shut her eyes and remembered what she saw of this world as she fell- mountains, snow, and a barren, desolate landscape- rocks, and bushes, and dust. Cold, red, gray dust. “Y-y-yes. Wa-water.”

“Me-me, too.”

He didn’t drink beer? Like the other idiot wolves? Odd. But then again she had already established he wasn’t normal. Actually, and all the more likely, he drank both beer and water, all just to season the forest with his piss. Just to mark his territory. But she knew where he was going with that question- how they were drugged. “But y-y-you’re wrong. They cou-couldn’t have drug-drugged the… the water.”

“W-why not?”

“Be-because I saw three-three other witches drink-drinking it.”

Lestat released his fur- more hair than fur, and he felt the change in temperature, and knew she did, too- he felt her jolt from the cold. “We… we have to replace shel-shelter.”

Claire had always assumed death was black. Black or gray. But now she was positive: death was the color of static. It’s the color of flame right off the wood, before it turns yellow, and orange- that pale translucent wavering. Her skin was burning and she felt death run across her body the color of old bones and carious teeth, and he pulled her forward, walking, then jogging.

“Run, witch,” he commanded.

“I… can’t… fucking… run.”

“Run.”

He tugged her on, naked, across a grout and mortar land, sticks and stones jabbing their feet, towards the towering wall of the city. They needed to run, to stay warm, to pump blood. He pulled her to the feldspar wall, and then to the right- they would run till they died, or found an entrance, and it was sheer luck that about three steps before death took them, he came to an opening in the wall.

Claire heaved and choked and shivered. She wasn’t dead, but close.

Lestat kicked the wooden door and his foot went through it. Dust. The wood caved in on itself as if termites, mildew, ants and a thousand years of sand had etched stave cuts into its heart. He pulled her in, through another door, and another, then he felt his way around a cold, dark room with his left hand- she was shivering behind him. “Light?”

Claire held her right hand out, palm up, and surged magic into her palm, and sparks jumped to life with nothing to burn and she felt weakened from the effort and slumped against him. He caught her, caught a glimpse of a door, and pulled her along. She was lighter than she looked, which surprised him. He kicked another door and this one held- almost. His foot knocked a board loose. They needed fire, and for that they needed fuel- he kicked the door apart, gathered as much as he could while cuffed to the damned witch, and started up a narrow, cobblestone street.

“Down,” Claire said, her voice fell out of her mouth as a white cloud and ran with frost along the stones.

Lestat stopped his step. He had no good reason for going up the deserted street, and down sounded better, for some reason. But if she had the strength to bark orders then she had the strength to walk. He let her go and she stumbled to her knees and pulled him down with her. So once again he lifted her up and pulled her along.

“Here,” Claire said, her voice lower, as they passed a crumbling stone house.

Lestat turned, and pulled them in, and shut the door- it held. Open, empty rooms, a large wooden table, tapestries on the walls- lots to burn. He tried to break the table but it was solid, so he pulled a tapestry off the wall and piled it on the table, and wood on top of that, and led her over. “Witch, time to work.”

Claire was barely conscious. The cold had eaten the life out of her and hollowed her out the way fire hollows out a damp log- tunnels and holes through the center, and black, smoldering carbon along the peeling bark. Her vision was white at the edges, but she saw rugs, and wood- something burnable, and she stumbled forward, pulling him along, and buried her hand in the heap and released magic along her arm, her hand, her hand, and she used her life to make flames- flames erupted from the pile and the fire caught. Claire slumped forward, passed out and dead to the world.

Lestat caught her from falling into the fire and pulled her back. Then he picked her up and sat her on the table, then climbed up with her, and moved her feet towards the fire, and his, and then her right hand, and leaned her forward, as he leaned himself forward. Her head hung at an awkward angle- her neck would hurt. But at least now she was of some value- she could start fires, which seemed to have the added effect of knocking her out- two birds with one stone that way.

He kept them on the table until the table started burning, then moved them to the ground nearby, and scooted them back towards the fire. He added wood, and more wood, throughout the night. And he eventually got tired of dragging her and tossed her over his shoulder- passed out, naked, and still a witch. He kept the fire going through the night, and only fell asleep in the very late morning, their feet facing a fire, naked, laying on a stone floor made warm by fire.

And the last thought in Lestat’s head before sleep took him- she had said three other witches drank water, which somehow meant to her the water could not have been drugged. Except Lestat saw three other wolves drinking water, also. So four witches drank water, and four wolves drank water, and two of them wound up cuffed, naked, and dying. And the other six? Were they somewhere in this city? Cuffed together? Were they somewhere else, somewhere warmer, somewhere safer? Were the other three wolves cuffed to nice, useful, appreciative women, or hateful bitches?

He listened to the witch breathing as he fell asleep- in and out. Slowly, in and out. Her breathing, and his, and the fire were the only three sounds this dying world had to offer.