Lestat, in the mean time, was roughly an hour from Black
Cat’s castle. It had started to rain as before, only this time not quite
so violently. Lestat though was miserable. He was tired of questing for
his father. He was annoyed with the entire situation, to be honest. In
fact, wouldn’t it be nice to see Black Cat once more. It would be heavenly
to hear that silkily masculine voice purring on and on about literature
and poetry and the history of the world, to watch those emerald eyes at
they seemed to bore straight into Lestat’s very soul. Lestat smiled at his
own strange thoughts. “God in heaven, if only he were a man! I wonder what
sort of things I would be able to do with him.” Lestat smiled wickedly,
“Or to him.”
He was wrenched from his thoughts, however, by the
piercing sound of wolves. The pitch of the howls and the sense of
superiority in the keening wails announced that something somewhere was
about to be attacked. What worried Lestat was the close proximity of the
howls for the wolves couldn't be more than thirty yards away. The dappled
mare was becoming skittish, moving toward Black Cat castle at a more
urgent pace. Lestat directed the horse as best he could, keeping one hand
on the hilt of his sword in case the wolves somehow overtook them. But
that was impossible, really. The castle wasn't very far away and they
could make it in a matter of moments.
Or so he thought.
The first wolf appeared suddenly, as though birthed from
the earth itself. It was running before Lestat could quite register the
creature. Its powerful legs launched the furry body into the air, its jaws
yawning wide for a swift kill. Fortunately Lestat was accustomed to being
ambushed by beasts of the forest, since he had been hunting for his family
for years to provide them with meat. Once he realized what he was dealing
with, Lestat could normally out-maneuver his foe.
This day, he was not so lucky. Though he reacted well by
steering his horse to the side, the wolf somehow collided with the
hindquarters of the mare. As the horse panicked, Lestat swung his sword
and decapitated the bloodthirsty creature before leaping from his
mount.
The horse was wounded, blood slick and streaming down its
rear right leg. Lestat, however, was unharmed. He was proud of himself for
handling the situation in such a manner, though his horse was paying for
the wiliness of the dead wolf. But something hadn't been right about the
wolf as though there was something unnatural afoot. Lestat knelt to study
the beast only to find that its body was literally melting, collapsing in
on itself like rotted fruit as the rain pelted the remains.
It was then, as the realization that something
supernatural was hunting him began to take shape, that the howls of more
wolves could be heard from behind, to the left, the right, and even
straight ahead. Lestat stood, pulling his pistol from his waistcoat with a
flourish. There was no point in making a mad dash toward the castle,
though the drawbridge was within no more than five steps. They would be on
him and feasting before his first step made contact with the grass.
Realizing that their prey was not about to blindly charge
toward false safety, the remaining wolves emerged from their hiding places
among the foliage. They formed a complete circle around Lestat, not
snarling but waiting as though the death of this particular young man was
inevitable. Lestat held his sword in his right hand and the pistol in his
left. On his back was a holster containing a loaded shotgun. In his right
boot was a jeweled dagger, a gift from Black Cat only days ago. He could
tell quite plainly that these were no ordinary wolves. Besides the
stinking puddle that was once their compatriot, they made no move toward
the bleeding and wounded mare that hobbled toward the moat in obvious
pain. They merely regarded Lestat coolly, as though their objective did
not involve a horse, but a man. A very particular man.
"Witchcraft," Lestat muttered, and as if on cue the wolves
began to close in.
The first wolf to attack came from behind. Lestat almost
didn't hear it until it was too late. He swung blindly, missed, and felt
razor teeth sink deeply into the muscle of his thigh. He screamed, and
thrust forward with the sword, hilting it in the beast. It collapsed upon
the ground and began to melt, hissing and screaming the entire time.
Lestat dropped the sword in disgust as whatever the wolf was made of began
to corrode the metal.
The next two wolves came as Lestat was drawing his pistol.
They charged at the same time forcing Lestat to shoot quickly in two
opposite directions. The one on his left went down hard in the grass, but
the one to his right snapped its jaws on Lestat's booted foot. Desperate,
Lestat reached into the boot and pulled out the dagger, determined to
drive it into the eye of the beast. But at the sight of the dagger
something strange happened. The wolf, only moments ago ready to rend
Lestat's foot and calf to shreds, whimpered and backed away as though
spooked by something unknown.
When Lestat looked at the other wolves, they too were
backing away as though in fear. It was a reluctant retreat, but a retreat
nonetheless. Within moments, the wolves were gone as though they had never
existed leaving three bubbling pools of brownish slime, a wounded mare,
and a very shocked young man. Lestat raised the dagger curiously to
inspect it just as a bolt of lightening lit up the sky. It was indeed the
same one Black Cat had given him some weeks before his departure.
Wearily, Lestat struggled to his feet. He was limping
badly from the wound to his thigh and his foot, but entering the castle
was a top priority for the moment. When he passed beneath the drawbridge,
the rain had stopped and the hands were all around him. He felt strange,
sick with the blood loss and the shock of it all.
He was asleep before the invisible servants put him to bed
in his old chambre.
