The beast was almost through the door despite the pain each blow sent
through the grotesque distorted limbs. A drive for revenge and bloodlust
had taken hold, for the wolves too were bound in flesh as Kurnos was bound
in mind. It was the wolves, the daemonic part of the beast which assaulted
the door as though in pursuit of some hapless little rabbit again or had
caught the scent of some important secret to be ferreted out and put on
display. With their attention upon the door and the warm fleshy bodies
just beyond, Kurnos felt himself regain a sort of separate consciousness
and, as a raging murderer suddenly recognizes the gravity of some terrible
deed, so Kurnos began to awaken once more. For the first time, he began to
realize what exactly had become of him. He remembered the words of the
wise and fearsome Lord Santino and the grim warning: “Your body will hold
the essence of them all. Your spine will twist and your hands curl into
claws….”
It was something like a mewl which the beast uttered for an instant,
but the furious snarling and malicious laughter which replaced the tiny
sound appealed to the imagination. Within the wolfish form, however,
Kurnos felt as though he stood outside of himself, watching the entirety
of the scene play out before him. He should have heeded Santino, should
have never agreed to summon his dark teacher from his worldly travels,
most certainly never should have trusted that backstabbing Marquis! The
entire scene was playing itself out with unplanned precision. Could
Santino, knowing how rash and full of hubris his young apprentice could
be, have planned out this entire ordeal?
Kurnos remembered the rumors concerning Lord Santino, the dark master
of the black arts and rumored to be something undying. No one knew from
whence he came or of what family he hailed. He came and went as he
pleased, mysterious and unpredictable as the wind, taking interest in only
the very best and brightest of mages. It occurred to Kurnos that Santino
had paid him a great deal of attention and, even more unusual, had come
when his youthful pupil employed by an aged Marquis had summoned him.
Quite unusual indeed.
And what of the castle in which Kurnos now found himself? It was
obviously of special significance, for why else would the destitute child
of the greedy Marquis return here for help? Such a boy could never have
defeated the daemon wolves without aid, and the aid must have come from
this castle. As the door finally splintered and the beast slouched into
the space so long deprived of him, Kurnos wondered if Lord Santino had
ever been here.
Just on the other side of the door and gazing with eyes like liquid
fire was a cat which was more than he appeared. The magician was briefly
fascinated until he caught sight of Lestat. For the first time in what
felt like ages, Kurnos saw the frightened child of the Lioncourt family,
the one who had hurt him somehow. The thoughts of earlier, human thought,
were banished in the heat of pure rage which sprung with daemonic heat
from the minds of each wolf. He is the enemy, they seemed to say, and we
should feast upon him. Kurnos gleefully agreed, all sense of self
abandoned. The wolves needed him. Though they recoiled at the sight of the
magic weapon in his hands, the human with which the demons had merged was
capable of looking upon the object without fear. So it was that with the
urging of the beasts Kurnos stalked toward his prey.
The monster was through the door just as the man, kneeling on the floor
with the cat in his lap, slit the feline throat. The scent of blood hit
the nostrils of the beast and, maddened, it sprang at the man who had done
them such wrong. As he leapt, Kurnos felt Lestat strike him with something
small and limp, but the demons within him paid little attention. They
lifted their victim, shaking him from side to side in a frenzy before
sinking their fangs into the flesh of his shoulder, breaking the
collarbone with its powerful jaws and laughing as the prey cried out in
pain. The taste of blood then, real human blood, hit its tongue in a hot
splash. The man was fighting, but without much conviction. For Kurnos this
kill would be as easy as slaying the men and women of the Lioncourt
castle.
But something was wrong. The room seemed suddenly too bright. The beast
released Lestat from its jaws, confused by what was happening, but still
not quite ready to let him go. The wolves were hissing, their evil voices
demanding that Kurnos stop what was about to happen. The painting,
they raged. The painting must be destroyed! Kurnos turned around
and around, looking for a painting which could be the cause of this
pending disaster, unsure himself as to what would make the wolves so
afraid. The painting! Destroy it!
But there was no painting to be found. Had there ever been a painting?
Kurnos hadn’t thought to pay attention. The light seemed to come from
everywhere, bathing everything in a brilliant white glow too bright for
the creature’s eyes. The beast that had once been Kurnos drew back,
hissing, startled by the light. The intended prey was moaning somewhere,
the sound of his body hitting stone like a dinner bell to the beast as he
was dropped rudely to the ground. Somehow, though, the time for feeding
had passed. Then, everything seemed to melt into white. Slowly a feeling
of weightlessness came over the thing's muddled mind so that soon it
ceased to remember what it had been chasing in the first place. Kurnos
felt separated somehow, as though he were once again himself, yet not
himself. For the briefest of moments this puzzled him, and he wondered who
he had ever been.
Then he ceased to exist at all.
