By the time she located the hunter, he no longer posed a threat. His corpse had grown cold, the blood from the grievous wound on his throat congealed, filling her nostrils with pungent iron scent. Leading away from the body were the paw prints of a wolf, larger than any she had ever seen before, and judging by the trail of blood and uneven gait, apparently injured, possibly fatally. Drawing her scarlet cloak closer about her shoulders, Elizaveta turned from the hunter's corpse and headed deeper into the silent woodland to track down the beast.
Her knowledge of woodcraft served her well, and noiselessly, she drew close to where the wolf lay dying. It was massive, nearly as long as a man was tall, its fur an unusual shade of golden bronze. The hunter's silver bullets, three of them, had pierced its heart and lungs, and bloody foam dripped from its slavering jaws. She watched from under the shadow of a birch tree as the wolf whimpered once, its labored breathing growing shallower until finally ceasing. Cautiously, Elizaveta drifted forward, but immediately froze when she felt a familiar shimmer in the air. Before her astonished eyes, the silhouette of the wolf blurred and distorted, then settled into the shape of a human man.
"A werewolf…" Such a creature had not been seen in these mountains for as long as she had ruled, though her subjects had told of a wild and bloodthirsty clan passing through the forests every now and then, feasting on sheep and disobedient children. This one seemed a foreigner, not of any clan of her knowledge, and a dead one at that. A pity, Elizaveta thought, for he was fair and well-built, and she had been craving the sort of company that her children, her wolves and bats and rats, could not provide.
Kneeling by the werewolf's side, she brushed a tangled lock of blond hair out of his face, gazing down at him thoughtfully. She had not fed for nearly a week, so it would not hurt to have a little taste, and after all, she might not ever have a werewolf in her grasp again. Just a tiny sip, she told herself, as she delicately sank her fangs into his throat, intending only to graze the thin skin. But the rush of blood that greeted her lips tasted of nectar, rich and sweet and deliciously thick, the rare blue blood of a true aristocrat. Elizaveta could not help but swallow the entire mouthful, and the next, and the next, her entire body thrumming, her nerves singing with ecstasy as she drank and drank. The corpse seized in her arms, and still she drank until she drained the very last drops of blood from its veins.
Working quickly, she slashed at her chest with a sharp finger nail, then brought the werewolf's mouth up to her bosom, letting the garnet drops of blood stain pale lips. That seemed to jolt the body into unnatural action, and the werewolf latched onto her breast, biting down and drinking the blood flowing through her heart, the dregs of life she had stolen and would return to him.
Elizaveta sighed contentedly, watching the werewolf suckle at her breast, for this sensation, while not as intense and passionate as feeding on a living victim, would last far longer. By the time he finished feeding, the flush had returned to his skin, and she felt light-headed, giddy, almost drunk from pleasure. The werewolf in her arms then coughed and began writhing in agony, the earthly form resisting being brought back to life in such an unholy manner. She held on to him with implacable strength, making soft hushing noises before he finally succumbed to the venom and took his first breath as her creature.
Blue eyes suddenly opened, staring up at her inscrutably. Elizaveta met his gaze, directing the force of her will upon him, imprinting her identity straight into his mind, but finding herself unable to penetrate his own mental defenses.
Then the werewolf smiled, the sly and charming grin of an experienced predator.
"So Little Red Hood has saved the wolf…" he murmured in passable Hungarian, voice rough and distorted from his transformation, sounding even more so when he then switched to accented German. "Are you sure you will not regret it? I am a very bad wolf, and an even worse man."
"Thank me later for rescuing you, wolf," she answered, the words easily taking shape despite her not having spoken German in decades. "Come now, dawn draws near, and we must rest." As the werewolf was still weak and wounded and unused to his newly revitalized body, she gathered him into her arms, lifting him as if he weighed nothing. "Hold on," Elizaveta warned, then leapt into the night sky, hovering for one brief moment in the light of the moon before flying to her sanctuary.
The werewolf woke as soon as she entered, even though she did not open the door, and he stared at her from where he lay on the master bed, the thin silver chain clasped around his throat keeping him in a weakened state. Elizaveta drifted to his side, pleased to see that the bullet wounds had closed through the morning hours, a result of the vampiric blood he had imbibed, and he was hale and whole once more. Very much so, she noted, and she briefly weighed the trouble of procuring him clothes against leaving him naked.
"I admit, I have not had the honor of such a reversal of positions, that a lady should look at me like so much meat," the werewolf commented, his tone light and teasing.
"Do you not like it?"
"I will not say either way yet. You are a vampire, after all." He watched intently as Elizaveta knelt on the bed, regarding him from head to toe, devouring him with her eyes.
She placed a hand on his chest and smiled when he did not flinch from her icy caress. "Your body is so warm, even now. Interesting." Tilting her head, letting her long brown hair fall over her shoulder prettily, Elizaveta asked, "So what am I to call you, my pet?"
His eyes flashed haughtily, but he could not remain silent, not when she was compelling him to answer. "My name is Francis, of the house Bonnefoy."
"That is a French surname, is it not? You are very far from home, Francis Bonnefoy."
"What is your name?" he asked abruptly, his voi.
"My subjects know me as Lady Erzsébet, or Elizaveta, the rightful ruler of this estate." Of course she would not give him her full name, and the power it might still wield over her.
"And am I to be your subject as well, my lady Elizaveta?"
"I have created you to become my companion. This castle will be your new home, and I your mistress."
He seemed to think this over and then shrugged. "I suppose I am not in a position to refuse such a gracious offer from such a… beautiful savior."
"I am glad we understand each other," she replied, tracing a line down the center of his chest, her knuckles brushing over the silky curls of his blond hair.
Following her movements with his eyes, Francis added casually, "As much as I admire this trinket you have gifted me, I think I would serve you better without it."
"I will take it back when you have earned the freedom."
"How may I earn it?"
Still smiling, Elizaveta leaned forward and said, "First, you will need to take a bath."
As expected, he pouted and whined and refused to move from the bed, hands feebly clutching at the embroidered coverlet in an attempt to avoid taking a dreaded bath. She ended up dragging him to the sunken bath in the adjoining room and dumping him into the bathwater, which had been heated by pipes leading up from hot underground springs.
Francis hissed and whined as if the water was vilest poison, curling into a ball to avoid as much exposure as possible, and Elizaveta had to wonder if he were part cat as well. She herself could think of nothing better than drawing a nice hot bath to soak away one's aches and refresh one's spirits at the end of the day. Well, if he were to become her companion, he better get used to bathing at least once a week.
"Stop whining, you baby, it is not a river or blessed water, you will not drown." Her nightdress was already partially dampened from when she wrestled him into the bath, and so she stripped and got into the water with him, holding a bar of soap and a washrag. Fortunately, Francis could not fight her off with the silver chain limiting his strength, and she managed to get him lathered and scrubbed without him thrashing about too much. Not that Elizaveta would have minded the challenge a strong werewolf could give her, but that must wait until after she had tamed him and washed the wild and the wolf away.
After she had rinsed off her sulking captive with cupfuls of hot water, she reached for a bottle of sweet-scented oil, pouring a thin stream into his now clean golden hair. Gently, Elizaveta rubbed it through the long wet locks, massaging at the nape of his neck with her fingertips while taking care to avoid contact with the silver. Francis closed his eyes automatically, making a little noise of contentment, and she tentatively scratched behind his ears as she would with a hound, causing him to purr, relaxing even further.
"Not so dangerous after all," she thought amusedly. When she stopped scratching, he opened his eyes, and she could see now that they were a deep azure color, oddly flecked with lupine gold. Their gazes locked as she allowed him to pull her closer, closer, until she was straddling his lap, and the hunger in his eyes shone brightly in the hazy air. His hands slid up over her ribcage, then hovered over her full breasts before cupping them in his palms.
"Your body… it is so soft, even now." Francis smirked as he squeezed lightly, his voice laden with insolence. "Interesting," he repeated mockingly.
Elizaveta opened her mouth to admonish him, but she could form no words as he continued playing with her. He rolled one wet nipple between his thumb and forefinger, fondling her breasts until she let out a shuddering moan that sounded desperate and wanton even to her own ears. Too late did she realize how much she craved this contact, but before the werewolf could try anything else, she pulled back with a hiss.
"You must not! The silver..." It was anathema to them both, but would hurt her more.
"Then take off my chain, sweet mistress," he whispered, "and I will be free to serve you as you desire."
They both knew she could have pulled free of his grasp at any moment, and yet she remained sitting on his lap while he nuzzled at her bosom, warm tongue flicking over her damp skin with light, taunting strokes. Elizaveta squirmed breathlessly, torn between satisfying her arousal and keeping the werewolf in her power, and at last, she made her decision.
The washrag was barely enough to keep the purified metal from burning her fingers, but the chain snapped apart with one quick jerk. As soon as the silver links separated, Francis lunged for her, lightning-fast, and she fell into the water with a splash.
But his hands never made contact with her throat, hampered by some invisible barrier. He snarled, frustrated, and Elizaveta swiftly got to her feet, looming over him.
"How dare you strike at your mistress?" she sneered, slapping him hard. "You cannot use force against me. Not unless I allow it."
"Oh?" he retorted. "So there would be a time when you would allow it?" Even though the print of her hand bloomed red across his cheek, he was still grinning, defiant. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her against the edge of the bath, flipping her onto her back easily. Elizaveta gasped as the air was knocked out of her lungs, but did not struggle as he pinned her down with his own body. Francis kissed her fiercely until both tasted blood, and still he did not relent. Groaning, she dug her nails deep into the skin of his broad back, hooking her legs around his waist. She could feel him hard and insistent against her thighs, she would gladly let him have his way with her, and they would make love here, on the floor, in the bed, against the wall, kissing and clawing and bucking and screaming, and she would ride him until she could satisfy this aching need in her loins, as long as she could ever want, for he was hers forever.
She did not know exactly why she headbutted him then, but she did, knocking him backwards into the bath, and used the opportunity to scramble away and find a pitcher to smash over his head.
"Bad dog!" Elizaveta said sternly, glaring at Francis as he howled in pain. "Very bad dog! None of that."
But her tone was clear… Not yet.
Many years ago, her father had kept hunting hounds, trained them with equal parts strictness and kindness, and they never once failed him as either friends or trackers. But Elizaveta soon realized that combining the traits of man with those of a wolf did not necessarily result in a dog. Francis continually frustrated her, purposely disobeying her commands just to see how much he could get away with, testing the boundaries of where he was allowed to go, tracking mud from the courtyard across the carpets, leaving the chicken bones of his meals out on the dining table, getting into the forgotten wine in the cellars despite the lower levels of the castle being expressly forbidden to him.
And yet every night, Francis would come to her and embrace and kiss her, the adoration in his blue-gold eyes absolute, unwavering. Helpless to resist his charms in either human and wolf form, Elizaveta forgave him every time, no matter the transgression. She provided him with fine clothes and shoes and whatever items the gypsies passing through her lands would part with, helped him clean out the abandoned kitchen so he could cook his meals in human form, letting him take over the master bedroom until one day she picked off a strand of his hair from the shoulder of her favorite gown and found that her closet had become theirs just briefly before becoming mostly his.
As for herself, Elizaveta spent the daylight hours locked in the family crypt, alone with the dusty, decaying bones of her loved ones. She might have grown fond of her pet these past several days, but that did not mean she trusted him to not try to kill her while she slept.
Because unlike with her more human thralls, Elizaveta could not read his thoughts, and could just barely compel him when looking directly into his beautiful eyes. Her powerful dark glamouries became absolutely useless if he was not within hearing distance, and she could discover nothing about his past that he was not willing to offer, no explanation as to why he was being hunted, or vice versa, so far from his homeland, nothing of his background other than a surname she admittedly had never heard of before. However, she knew by the precious quality of his blood that he truly was a noble, this long after the aristocracy in France had fled or perished or sank into miserable obscurity. In spite of his brutish manners, or perhaps in conjunction with them, Francis moved and spoke with the arrogance and grace of one born into power, like the brave knights that once set her girlish heart racing. He was a beast through and through, and yet there lingered something of an angel in him that was not present in the rough-hewn warriors of her childhood. She sensed it in the lilt of his voice as he sang to himself in his native French, the neat elegance of his movements as he obediently followed her on her nightly rounds through the fortress, his look of avid interest when she sat down with him in the library and began to teach him how to speak her own language properly.
The werewolf was obviously no replacement for her first love, no one could be, but he seemed happy to keep her company, and that was all Elizaveta could want.