The Wolf & The Witch
First The Fire

The moss was alive at night- it congregated; it met under the clouds. It inhaled, and it exhaled, and it sparkled green in the dark as it followed the water, looking for dead things. The moss undulated like shimmering green panes in the crevices of rocks, bright green as it dripped off ledges into pools, following the contours of creeks and streams. Stomata eyes and funaria feet ran over the water and through the forest searching for death, and when the moss found death, it ate it with dull, crooked teeth. Dead animals. Dead people. Dead, and dying.

But the wolf and the witch were neither dead nor dying, and so they slept peacefully in each other’s arms as the moss crept soundless and green over the hut, down the water pipe, across the basin, and along the hollows following water. They didn’t notice, or care: their bodies were locked together on the small bed- legs entwined, arms wrapped tight, mouths nearly touching, their hearts synced together into a singular circadian rhythm.

They woke, and kissed, and snuggled. It took them an hour to climb out of bed, and they both paused on their first step- perhaps making love six times was one too many- especially that last one. They stood slowly, and dressed slowly, and walked slowly, as if nursing injuries.

The witch looked at the wolf- this changed their plans. Not only that, but his back was still indented, and his shoulder still hurt. Claire had kissed his body from top to bottom in the muted light of a missing kiln brick and she found his injuries, new and old, with her lips. She knew they could not just run straight into the packs headfirst, or the covens, or he would walk away with even more injuries, and she didn’t want to see him get hurt again. But if they were going to do this and not get hurt, then what they needed were poisons. Toxins and bacterial waste and dangerous things. Flammable things. And she had a house full. Goddamnit all.

The wolf looked at the witch- killing packs and wolves and men, killing priestesses and covens, women and witches, burning the forest- those were all good, sound goals to wake up with. Those were solid stepping stones on their path forward. However, as he sat beside Claire, and as he thought about their past fights, he knew they had to do things differently this time. They had to replace a home, because theirs would be burned to ash sooner than later. And winter was coming. And traveling through dangerous lands is made all the more dangerous with injuries added to the trip. And he did not want her to get hurt again. How to do this?

They looked at each other.

“Know what I’m thinking?” Lestat asked.

Claire smiled, though she sighed inwardly. Of course she did. She could’ve guessed what he was thinking before they made love six times. Now she could read his every thought in his eyebrows, and his mouth, and his shoulders. “Poison them?”

He nodded. “We need to do this so that the packs and the coven fight each other. But if that doesn’t work, we need to poison them. We need to sit on a log, smoke a joint, and shoot arrows while the poison, and the fire, and the wolves and witches kill each other.”

Claire grinned. “Rabbit hunting?” Fine, goddamnit. Fine. She would just have to blindfold him. He would fuss, but she knew he would let her. But that wasn’t enough. She needed to tie him up. What would he say to that? It was a pretty rare wolf that let any woman tie him up, but he did put that damn slave collar around her neck- he owed her. “I’ve got some nasty stuff at my house, but you can’t look.”

Lestat paused. “That’s an odd way of-”

“Stop.”

“Did-”

“No.”

Lestat grinned. What was his little witch hiding?

*

The wolf loaded only one extra pack onto the second horse: the only things he chose to bring with them: his razor, his whet stones and strop, his favorite pair of pajama pants, and his favorite flannel shirt, which Claire was now happily wearing- dark blue and dark gray stripes, and the sleeves rolled up and unbuttoned past her cleavage. He brought his one fork, and one spoon, various knives, matches, and two handfuls of joints. He also brought his favorite boots, a couple books, and he shut the front door of his hut, and didn’t look back.

The village of Ugeve, near Claire’s house, near the coven, was nearly eighty miles west. One of the packs had a village between here and there, but the other was to the south. The wind was at their backs as they sat on the horse, looking towards Ugeve. The wind was perfect. The storm clouds- perhaps not so perfect. Lestat clicked his tongue, and urged the horses forward.

They galloped into the breeze, and the wind, and fat brown oak leaves rattled towards them over the forest floor.

Claire had her bow at her side, and fifty arrows on her thigh, and her knife strapped to her boot, and she was grinning ear to ear. She really liked wearing his shirt- it was soft, and smelled like him, and it was big on her, and it hung low on her breasts, and she loved it. He had his right arm around her, above her breasts, holding her, then he pulled on the reins, and slowed the horse.

Lestat smelled wolves, and stopped the horses, and hopped down, and helped Claire.

“What is it?”

Lestat smiled and shook his head- he needed to gag her. Hadn’t he threatened to do that? If the wolves hadn’t smelled them yet, they certainly heard that. He leaned over to her ear, and whispered as quiet as he could, “Wolves. Leave one alive. Tell them we’re from the coven.”

The witch took his hand tight in hers, and stood by his side, strong, and brave, as he was brave, and faced the forest as three wolves came running through the trees. They slowed as they came, ten feet tall, their pants ripped, long furry bodies rippled with muscles.

“I recognize you,” one of the werewolves said, looking down.

The other two wolves looked at Claire’s chest.

“Funny. I don’t recognize you. What’s your alpha’s name?”

The wolves didn’t answer. They didn’t owe this wolf an answer. “Get out of our territory. Now.”

“We’re going to burn your territory down- see the smoke?” Claire motioned to the south- smoke from fires filled the sky and looked sickly yellow against the gray clouds. The forest was burning, and the wind was blowing. “You stupid fucking wolves- the moss coven is sick of your asses. Burn in hell.” Claire glared at them.

Lestat pulled her close, drew his sword, and jumped. The nearest wolf took a step back and swung his huge paw and Lestat turned in the air, swiped up, cut the wolf’s hand off, and landed feet-first on the wolf’s chest and jumped at the next. Lestat swiped, and the wolf dodged and caught him by the throat, and lifted him into the air, to slam him into the ground, and as he did Claire jabbed her knife into his stomach, and cut him open from his crotch to his sternum. The werewolf looked down, dropped Lestat, and stumbled back, and spilled into the leaves.

The werewolf with the missing hand was on them- his right arm poured blood on the brown leaves, vibrant red in the yellow haze of gray light. He brought his left hand down on the wolf and the witch and Lestat fell to the side and swiped up, taking his other hand. It rolled through the leaves and stopped in a stand of mushrooms- food for the moss tonight.

Lestat had the iron pike strapped to his back, and it might’ve saved his life. The last wolf grabbed a log and threw it like a spear- it hit the pike and they were flung forward into the forest, rolling and bouncing through the leaves. Lestat shielded Claire, and rolled to a stop, and stood, growling. The werewolf was in the air, and Claire pulled them forward and brought a stalagmite up from the ground. It didn’t kill the werewolf, but it broke his jaw, and damn near his neck.

The werewolf stood, angry, and turned, and Lestat opened his throat with a flash of silver and jumped away.

The last werewolf, with no remaining hands, turned and ran, and left a trail of blood through the forest as if two red strings were laid out on the ground, undulating through the trees.

“Are you ok?” Claire asked.

Lestat stretched. “Yeah, but that hurt.”

She frowned. “Why didn’t you shift? Into a werewolf?”

Lestat looked at her. Did she not know? “I don’t like to.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t know. She truly was a sheltered witch. “Turning into a werewolf is what makes wolves aggressive. It will make me more aggressive. I only fully shift if I need to. Aren’t witches the same?”

Interesting. That actually made sense, and Claire wondered why she never thought about that. Then she remembered what the old man, and Suzu, had said: Wearwolves were those who fought the wolves, and wore their hides, and Wiccas were those who healed, and stitched with curved needles, and prevented infection. And if that was true, then right now, in their world, none of the wolves and none of the witches were living up to their original purpose. “You’re right,” Claire agreed. “Witches are the same. That’s why I don’t have a familiar.”

A wolf who didn’t want to be a wolf, and a witch who didn’t want to be a witch. Lestat smiled. “We were the weakest couple, huh?”

Claire smiled. “I guess so.” She wondered what it would be like to go back to that original purpose? She knelt down in the leaves and ran magic down her arm. Flames ran like summer salamanders through the leaves and over the dead forest floor- red lizards gathered at the base of a large oak tree and slipped their shimmering bodies between the cracks in the bark. Boring. That life would be boring, although it was interesting having a child sleeping between them. And the wooden huts, and the iron stoves, and the fur blankets- even the iron pike- all very nice and useful. “Think we should light more than one?” Maybe it wouldn’t be all bad.

“Fuck yes. If we’re doing this, let’s do it right.”

Claire smiled and grinned high up in her nose. They lit multiple fires that caught the wind, and white smoke billowed into the sky like the long white edge of a glacier, or like the dull, blunt edge of indifference, advancing forward. Ashes and embers fanned out in waves, carrying the flames forward.

From where they were it was just over a hundred miles to Claire’s house. They could travel roughly twice the speed of the forest fire on a horse, and if they left now, they would make it with a few hours of daylight left.

Lestat pulled her up gently onto the saddle, and put his arm around her. He urged the horses forward, straight to the village of Ugeve, straight towards Claire’s house.