The Wolves of Paris

Daciana was waiting for him. She did not say hello. There was no need. She did not ask him what had happened, since she knew he would share anything important in good time. Instead she watched him go to the hiding place and retrieve the bag with the blessed silver bullets. There were only two left. They would be difficult to replace when they were all gone, but he would worry about that when the day came. "So you were right?" Daciana said. She sat on the worn straw mattress. She'd been sitting in the same spot when he left, and he would not have been surprised to find that she'd been there all day. "Fabre is one of them."

"Yes," said Chastel.

"So you must hunt," she said.

"Yes."

"And you may die."

"Yes."

"Ah," was all she said.

She helped him undress and then shed her own clothes, silent all the while. There was, after all, nothing more to say. Her skin was very white, except for a place on her shoulder where the angry scar made by a bullet stood out. She winced a bit when she moved that arm. "Does it hurt?" said Chastel.

"It always hurts," she said, dispassionate.

"I'm sorry."

"You've been sorry since you did it," she said. "It's annoying."

She stroked the side of his face, from temple to chin, and ran a finger over his jaw line. She kissed him hard. There was never any variation with her, it was always the hardest kiss she could give, never anything less. She clamored up onto his lap, wrapping her legs around him and locking her ankles, then burying her fingers in his back. This was also something she did always. It did not occur to her to behave differently tonight, in light of the possibility of his pending death. This was Paris, the City of Terror, and either of them may die at any time, for any reason. There was nothing special about one death over another. They were alive right now. To Daciana, the present was the only reliable thing.

Her hands ran over his wiry muscles and the furrows and pits of his war wounds. She put her arms around his neck and leaned away, as if trying to pull him down, but he didn't fall. He never reacted to what she did, neither to encourage nor discourage her or give any indication of his satisfaction or dissatisfaction. He was impassive. That he was there at all indicated that he consented to what she was doing. If he did not, he would have left. This was the only degree of communication necessary. When she sank her teeth into his shoulder, just above his collar bone, and then brushed her soft lips down his hard, tanned skin and across his naked chest, his only reaction was to emit a soft, "Ah," something between an exclamation and a sigh.

Her pale white skin stood out against his. He imagined they must look very beautiful together. He let her have as much agency as she wished, hanging off of him and having free range of his body, grinding herself against him and rubbing back and forth and growling deep in her throat as her lips explored his flesh and then, when it reached that ineffable point where it was enough he scooped her up, spun her around, threw her down on the bed and pushed her underneath him. Her entire body tensed up and for a moment it seemed like she may attack him in reprisal, but then she relaxed and accepted him, letting their bodies mold against one another. She laid her head back, closed her eyes, and began to count to the rhythm of his movements.

Chastel slid inside of her, stopping to measure the speed of her pulse and her breathing, the flush across her cheeks, neck, and breasts, and the heat of her skin, all of the myriad indicators that would tell him how and what she was feeling. He had never understood why so many people felt it was necessary to talk through such things. He guessed that those people must have no experience observing. Once satisfied, he pushed further in, grunting under his breath, feeling her yield to him just this once. He grabbed the rickety headboard of the cheap bed for leverage rocked back and forth, the bed frame creaking underneath them. He expected it would fall apart soon. She was hot to touch, hot on the inside, her breath washing hot on his skin. He watched her eyes for the far away look he knew so well by now, the one that meant it would soon be time.

Chastel was tired all of a sudden. Exhausted, even. He never slept much at all, and less so lately. He knew his limits and his breaking point, but he could not stop this now, not even knowing that he would have to hunt later. In a way, it was like the example of his grandfather: When he had time to pray, he prayed. Chastel was no less devout in this pursuit, though he was not sure his grandfather would appreciate the nature of his observances. Still, he thought, as he rocked the headboard back and forth against the wall again, faith is a very personal thing...

Daciana was livid with pent-up energy. She inhaled in hisses and exhaled in moans. She felt something roll up inside of her, starting at the base of her tailbone and rising through her stomach and into the center of her chest, holding there while her heart hammered and her lungs filled so much they might burst. Her skin was burning and her muscles ached and spots flashed in front of her eyes and she held him as tight as she could, not letting go or slowing down, breath caught in her throat as a long silent gasp turned into a ragged moan and then a scream and finally she pulled his face down to hers for a long, slow, cathartic kiss as it all flowed out of her, the pressure rising and then vanishing and leaving her in a state of quiet, disaffected contentment.

She held his face in her hands and wondered, not for the first time, if she should run away, or perhaps just kill him now, when she was reasonably certain he would not expect it. Daciana was not afraid of very many things, but she was afraid of Chastel. She suspected he was afraid of her, too. He was if he was smart, anyway. But she did love him. It was a difficult thing. Sooner or later they would not be able to manage it anymore, and when that happened...well, again, the thought of escape or the quick kill came to mind again.

But the moment passed and she kissed him instead, and then she slipped out from underneath him and turned her back to him, going up on her knees to take hold of the headboard and inviting him to enter her again, from behind. His body fitted against hers, his arms lacing along her own, fingers folding over hers, his face nestled against her neck, kissing the sensitive skin there, his breath blowing a few stray strands of her hair over her throat. He pushed his way inside. She jumped.

It always felt particularly gratifying this way. It was the natural way, after all, with the backs of her calves pushed into the front of his, the hard angle of his hipbones bouncing off of her curved, rounded cheeks, the bowed line of her back flexing up and down against him. It appealed to the animal instinct, although Chastel liked to think he had no such thing about him. Daciana knew better. Even now, as he pulled harder and harder on the headboard, the bed frame creaking, the angles and joints of his lean, hard body working back and forth, she heard the ragged catch in his voice that told her that his all-important self control was, briefly, slipping. He was not aware that this was happening or that it was a thing that could, or did happen to him, but she knew. She said nothing. It was better to protect him from himself.

When he finally released, sending a hot, hard, throbbing pressure into her, accompanied by a feeling of wet release, she merely threw her head back, thrashing, calling out alongside him, and then when he rolled off of her and she caught him, stroking his cheek again, telling him to rest. Telling him that he would need it.

Chastel slept for three hours, then dressed and armed himself. It was dark out now, and most of the people of Paris were huddled by their hearths, glad to have survived another day. Somewhere out there was the man who Chastel was honor-bound to kill. He looked at Daciana. "Will you come?"

"You know I will," she said. She was not dressed. Chastel nodded and stepped outside. He always preferred not to watch this part, out of respect, so he guarded the door. There was some commotion inside, an awful straining and tearing sound and a vocalization unlike anything a human being might make. After a few seconds the noise stopped, and when he opened the door a sleek, beautiful gray wolf joined him on the street.

"Are you ready?" said Chastel. Daciana thumped her tail on the paving stones, once. "Then we go," said Chastel.

Paris was a great and baffling hunting ground, its winding, unpaved streets and looming, terraced rowhouses confounding his senses. But there was no need to search the entire city. He already knew, or had a pretty good idea, where Fabre and his accomplices were hiding. Chastel doubted the fugitives would have stopped to beg at the bakers if they had a long way to run, so doubtless their hideout was not far from that bakery. And he knew which houses they were not hiding in because he knew at which homes his subordinates in last night's search inquired. Chastel also knew from the fugitives' late-night begging that they lacked money or means (the Baron de Batz would never demean his aristocratic bearing by eating begged-for food unless the alternative was starvation), which meant they almost certainly had not the resources for an immediate escape.

And since de Batz had gone to the Luxembourg himself in spite of the risk of being recognized, that meant they had no more accomplices than the three of them. Perhaps if a woman were in their party they would have left her behind...but no, a woman would have made the ruse of Fabre's "wife" more convincing. It was just the three of them, then, hiding out somewhere in the neighborhood.

Paris was quiet of nights. To be out at night was to invite trouble from the sans-culottes on guard duty, who looked for any excuse to detain strays as suspected "brigands." One or two of the vigilant patriots looked sideways at Chastel, but whether it was because they recognized him or because of they were wary of his aloof demeanor (and his most unusual hunting dog), they did not disturb him. The streets were tiny and mostly unpaved, and though the revolution worked to scour the legacy of the church from the country, those streets that were named most often still bore the titles of the religious orders who once called them home: The Street of the Unshod Carmelites, or the Street of the Girls of St. Thomas. The houses were very tall, and the upper windows were always lit, full as they were with entire families crowded into one small flat on top of another.

After some time they came to a place (not far from the old baker's shop) where Daciana stopped in her tracks and laid her ears back, snarling in the direction of one old rowhouse. One wehr-wolf could never mistake the scent of another. They were territorial creatures at heart. Fabre appraised the house: It was a good choice for a hiding place. A wall butted against it on one side, and the building right next to it had fallen in on itself (as they often did when grasping landlords elected to build new floors of rooms to let on top of structures not able to withstand the addition), ensuring some measure of privacy. It was at a three-way intersection, providing more than one escape route. The wall was even low enough that someone on the roof could jump over it if they had to. It was where he would hide out here, if he were the fugitive rather than the hunter.

Chastel and Daciana concealed themselves in ruins of the collapsed house and watched for an hour. No one came and no one went, but there was the barest flicker of light at the first floor window, as if someone had lit a candle and was just a second too slow in covering it. It was enough. Now the question was how best to get in. Daciana assumed human shape (Chastel had the forethought of bringing clothes for her, a peasant woman's dress, in his pack) and they planned. Then, Chastel had occasion to visit the old baker again, apologizing for waking him and then securing in the name of the Republic two half-stale loaves of bread not yet thrown away, a bottle of wine, and a basket to put it all in. The old man did not complain or ask questions, merely wished Chastel luck as they went. Chastel wanted to go in himself, but Daciana pointed out that de Batz would recognize him immediately.

"Besides," she said, "they will be more open to a woman in the night."

"What will you do?"

"I will kill whoever answers the door."

"What if there's more than one?"

"Then I will kill more than one," she said, making an impatient gesture.

"What if one of them is Fabre? It is too dangerous even for you to try to fight a group when one of them is another wehr-wolf."

She scowled. "Fine," she said. She pointed to a dark second story window at the front of the house. "I will get him alone and I will lead him to that window, and you will get in a position to shoot, and then even if one of us fails the other will surely kill him, whoever it is."

Chastel looked at the window, then at the nearby houses, and he nodded. Daciana smoothed her skirts and tucked her hair under a simple starched cap. She shouldered the basket and went up to the dark house. She had to knock four times before someone answered, and then she was greeted by the barrel of a pistol pushed through a narrow crack in the door. "Who is it?" said a voice.

Daciana smiled. "A friend."

"A friend to whom?"

She smiled again and sang, very lightly:

"Il pleut, il pleut, bergère,
rentre tes blancs moutons."

It was Fabre's famous composition. The pistol retracted and the door opened and there, looking tired and disheveled but somehow still regal, was the Baron de Batz. He looked Daciana up and down. He was plainly suspicious, but his stomach grumbled audibly and that settled the matter. "Don't just stand there where anyone can see you."

The house was cold and dark and obviously meant to be abandoned. There was no sign of Fabre or the third man. The Baron seemed about to demand an explanation but Daciana made a signal that they should go to the next floor. "Too many windows here," she said, and evidently he agreed. Taking the food with them, they went to the upstairs bedroom. The Baron sat on the edge of an old bed and picked through the basket. The room was lit by a single candle covered with a perforated hood that smothered almost all the light, but she could still see that he was a handsome man of forty, and clearly a Gascon. He was, in fact, a descendent of d'Artagnan. Daciana did her best to look demure.

"How did you find us?" he said.

"Your pardon," she said, curtsying like a good royalist. "You were spotted. Someone reported you to the Surveillance Society, and this house was mentioned at the Section meeting tonight. I came to warn you, and to give what help I can."

The Baron rubbed his unshaven jaw. "Are they coming for us?"

"Not yet," she said. "No one believed the spy who reported on you because he himself is under suspicion. But it's only a matter of time."

Daciana put her back to the wall so that her shoulders were square and her breasts pushed forward while at the same time pulling up the hem of the peasant dress just a fraction of an inch, revealing her naked ankles.

"It does me good," said the Baron, "to know that there are still those in Paris loyal to the natural order of things."

"Many of us," she said. She did not dare give a direct look to the window, but she measured the distance in her mind. She would have to bide her time to allow Chastel to get into position, and then she would have to get the Baron in front of it, somehow. She could just kill him now, of course, as he was alone and no particular danger to her, but that was not the plan they'd agreed on.

She sensed his eyes roaming over her body. Good. That would make this much easier. Feigning an outburst of emotion, she ran across the room and fell to her knees, grabbing the Baron's hand and kissing it. "On behalf of all the loyal peoples of Paris, accept my apology for the indignities you suffer." She let a few tears slide, hoping they would show up in the dim light. "We pray every night for the return of the crown. God punish these savages who murdered our king!"

For emphasis, she spit. The Baron looked impressed. She met his eye and then looked away very quickly, making herself blush. She'd allowed her hair to spill out from under the cap, and she leaned away so that her bosom (heaving with the exertion of her exclamation) pressed forward. The Baron touched her cheek. "Well said, my royal darling," he said. "And I have news that will lift your spirits...but that can wait."

He picked her up and sat her next to him. She allowed herself to be moved. The Baron slid his arms around her and she buried her face in his chest. Mentally, she was calculating how long it would take for Chastel to find a decent vantage point. A few minutes more...

"I miss the days when we had such brave men fighting for us," she said. "You are not alone here?"

"Oh no," he said, "but don't worry about the others. They are indisposed for a while. Indeed, we have a scandalous amount of privacy, my sweet little...what did you say your name was?"

She smiled and batted her eyes. "I did not."

"All the better," said the Baron, and drew her in for a kiss. She threw herself on him. His hands were rough as they moved down the back of her dress. Such hard hands for an aristocrat, she thought. Perhaps he spent much time practicing his fencing? Well, let's see what else his hands are good for, she thought, leaning into his embrace.

Chastel, meanwhile, was busy. After rousing the residents of the house across the boulevard, his mention of Committee business was all it took to silence their protests, and some livres convinced them to let him have the run of the place for himself. One by one each floor of apartments emptied, entire families filing into the alley in their nightclothes with children hugging their mother's bare legs. Such was their zeal to seem true patriots in the eyes of the Committee. Chastel found the second floor window nearest the front of the house and gauged the distance between it and the window of the hideout. It was not a particularly long shot, but it was dark out. He trusted that Daciana would have the sense to light the window and provide him a silhouette to aim for.

If he was lucky, she would bring Fabre to the window, and Chastel could finish him right then and there, but chances were better that she would encounter the Baron de Batz instead. Chastel could not waste a precious silver bullet on the Baron, but if he fired his pistol there were small odds of hitting him from here. Besides, Chastel did not want to wake the whole neighborhood if he could avoid it. He looked around the house and found an antique crossbow hung up over the mantle on the first floor, along with two crossed bolts. It was obviously some kind of family heirloom, but the string was still strong and the bolts straight enough to fly. Chastel was not much of an archer, but he trusted his aim at this short range. He got into position and waited.

While Chastel readied his ambush, Daciana was in the midst of her own. The Baron sprawled on the bed under her and she ripped his expensive shirt open, running her hands down his bare chest and making little mewling sounds of pleasure. Her dress was thin and cheap, so when she rubbed against him he was allowed free access to all of her curves. Ah, these aristos, she thought, they make it so easy. A man like the Baron found nothing suspicious about a strange woman showing up in the middle of the night to make love to him. In his mind, it was liable to be a daily occurrence.

She nibbled his earlobe, and when his fencer's hands squeezed her ass she moaned. He pressed his lips to her neck. His stubble tickled. She stripped off her dress and flung it aside, leaving her body gloriously, startlingly naked and white. The Baron appraised her with the usual crass, aristocratic sense of entitlement. All women were whores in the eyes of someone like de Batz; some just drove harder bargains than others. She kept him on him back, feigning playfulness but actually not wanting to give him a chance to restrain her, even briefly. She forced his wrists against the bed and sprawled on top of him, writhing and wiggling her ass around and around to emphasize the movement. Beneath her, de Batz stood firmly at attention. Finally she allowed him a little leeway, scooping his head up in her arms and pushing his face against her naked breasts, sliding her sweaty flesh against his unshaven skin. His mouth found her nipples and began to nibble and suck.