The Wolf of Dorian Gray - A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man

by Brian S. Ference

  That was where a kindly old Frenchman named Pascal found her. He had seen the slaughtered horse and burned Vardo along the road at the edge of the forest. He took in the scene and felt a deep pity for the girl, for he was alone in this world as well. He cut down the bodies of Sage’s parents and gave them a proper burial in the forest. The girl stood by silently and watched. He covered the filthy and malnourished girl with a blanket and lifted her to the seat of his cart. He took her back to his small home several kilometers away. For days the devastated girl refused to speak. She would eat crusty bread when offered and put on the clothes that Pascal brought her, but her eyes were dull and clouded.

  It was only when Sage discovered that Pascal was a painter, that she resumed living. The paint and brushes brought back the spark to her eyes and provided a much-needed distraction. Pascal had no wife or children and was delighted when the girl awakened from her stupor. He cared for the girl as his own and taught her the many painting techniques of the French masters. The two were happy together, or at least found a certain peace amongst their shared passion for artistry. She grew into an accomplished artist and her work and fame soon brought her to the streets of London.

  “And that is where I met you, sweet Dorian.” Sage sighed, her tale spun. But there was still more that she needed to say.

  “From the first moment, you have had the most extraordinary influence on my work. My life has been dominated by you ever since. It was as if you were the realized ideal of every artist’s dream. I worshiped you and was immediately jealous of everyone else to whom you spoke. I wanted you all for myself and was only happy when I was with you. Even when you were away from me, you were still with me—in my art. I was too ashamed ever to let you know anything of this. You would not have understood it. I barely understand it myself. I only know that I have seen perfection before my very eyes.”

  Her eyes wandered around Dorian’s face slowly. They paused only as they reached his lips. She continued on tentatively. “Weeks went by and I became more and more obsessed with you. I have drawn you in armor, and as Adonis with spear and cloak. I have painted you on the prow of Adrian’s barge as you cross the green Nile and again in some Greek woodland over a still, pool of silver. But that was as art should be—ideal and remote. Do you remember those wonderful summer days we spent together with the wolf cub? How splendid and eternal those afternoons were to me. But then, I decided to paint a portrait of you—as you actually are and in the reality of your own time.”

  Now that Sage was talking about painting, her voice grew louder and more excited. She gestured with her hands as she continued. “I needed the realism to be exact, so I labored for days to get the perfect skin tones. I agonized over achieving the perfect brush strokes. I called upon all of the skill taught to me by Pascal. I used all of the knowledge passed down to me by my Romani heritage. They were used in gathering and mixing the perfect combination of herbs. This was needed to make my work as lifelike as possible. I may have gone too far when I mixed in some blood from both you and the wolf pup. The mixing of names was another invocation my mother had warned so strongly against. I put too much of myself into the painting. Too much of my idolatry and desire to immortalize you forever—both on the canvas and in my heart.”

  Sage paused, risking a tentative glance at Dorian to gauge his reaction. He merely sat quietly and stared at her, so she continued speaking. “Later, I felt so foolish and decided that I had imagined everything. I have used similar mixtures and chanted the silly spells of making in my head before. They have never resulted in more than a brighter living-color or a more daring sheen. I was so glad to gift the finished work to you and hardly thought of it again until the offer from Paris came. I see now that you were right Dorian. The picture simply cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me for what I have told you. You are made to be worshipped.”

  Dorian drew a long breath and a smile came to his lips. The peril was over for now and he was safe again. He felt relief and pity for the girl with her strange confession. Would anyone ever inspire in himself the strange feelings of idolatry that Sage felt?

  “Dorian, it is extraordinary that you were able to observe this in the portrait. Perhaps, if not now, maybe someday you would let me stand again in front of the picture.”

  “Never.”

  “Well, perhaps that is best and you are right. I owe you so much. Ah! You said you had some secret to tell as well?”

  Dorian scoffed. “My dear Sage, what you have told me can hardly be called a secret. You simply admire me too much. That is not even a compliment. It was a very disappointing confession.”

  “What did you expect? Was there something else about the picture? There is nothing else to see is there?”

  “No, nothing else to see. Now, we will no longer speak of it. For we are friends and we must always remain so. You should go and tomorrow I will come to your studio and have tea with you and all will be pleasant again.”

  Sage gave him a look of relief that the matter was settled. She hated conflict. She slowly rose and moved towards the door. “Very well. Good-bye Dorian. I will see you tomorrow.”

  After Sage had left, Dorian smirked and chided himself. Poor Sage! She had never even known his true reason for covering the portrait. Instead of revealing his own secret, he had uncovered a very strange secret from his friend. What a bizarre and absurd confession. He sighed and touched the servant’s bell that sat on the desk. The portrait would be hidden away at all costs. He could not afford the risk of discovery. He should never have allowed anyone access to the room that it inhabited in the first place.

  As he covered the portrait with a heavy coverlet his valet entered. The man stood impassively as he received his orders to frame up the portrait—careful to keep the screen intact, of course.

  Briefly, Dorian shuddered and regretted that he had not told Sage the truth about the picture. Since she had created it, perhaps she could have done something to save him. But it was too late now. The future was inevitable. He knew his passions would once more demand to find their terrible outlet. He found solace, knowing that only the painting itself could lay bare the shadow of that evil.

  Chapter 14.

  A Winter Tryst

  When the air began to cool and the days became dreary, Dorian would retreat to his house at Algiers. The journey by boat always cleared his head and the salty sea air did wonders for his constitution. He chartered passage on a three-mast wooden clipper ship called the Falcon. The ship had previously been used for the tea trade and was a sleek and speedy vessel. The voyage passed quickly with most of his time spent on deck watching for whales and dolphins. Dorian marveled as the dolphins spun and leapt from the water and the great whales slapped their mighty fins and spouted their defiance high into the air.

  The time passed too quickly and soon the ship was docking in the port of Algiers. The French colony offered warm weather and many exotic tastes. His house sat along the beach and offered a stunning view of the bay. He would often be joined by Lady Helena when her husband was called away on business. The two would lay on the warm sand beach and listen as the waves crashed endlessly. They drank marvelous Turkish coffee and sipped sweet mint tea brought by the Arab servants. They spent their days talking about the many wonders of life and made plans to travel the world together.

  In the evenings, they would retire with a large bottle of Medea wine and push the limits of physical pleasure. Lady Helena introduced all sorts of riding crops and restraints to the bedroom. She taught him how to intermingle pain with pleasure to achieve a more complicated gratification. They experimented with the hidden arts of the “Kama Sutra”, role-played different fantasies, and burned each other with dripped candle wax.

  One evening, Lady Helena brought a shy young whore to their bedroom and introduced her as a Tunisian Princess. Her skin was a dark cream color and her brown date-tinted eyes sparkled like the sun reflecting off the water. The thin girl was draped in pink transparent veils that hinted at the curves hidden be
neath. She soon put those to use at Lady Helena’s command. She began by seductively dancing and gyrating her hips as she clapped together small finger-cymbals. She spun and kicked her long legs while her tight stomach contracted and moved in a way that completely mesmerized Dorian. One by one, the veils were provocatively shed until her small dark nipples were exposed.

  Lady Helena observed Dorian’s reactions to every movement with great attentiveness. She smiled as the girl placed a thin veil behind his head and pulled him in close to kiss her perky breasts.

  Unable to restrain himself further, Dorian grabbed the girl and roughly threw her onto the bed. Lady Helena held her down as Dorian mounted her and began rutting with little regard for the girl’s unintelligible cries of pain. She spoke only Arabic and Dorian merely laughed at the nearly indecipherable babble.

  Lady Helena tied the girl’s arms firmly to the bedpost with cords of silk and kissed Dorian passionately as he continued to thrust into the helpless girl. As his ardor rose, he placed both hands around the girl’s neck and began squeezing. The girl struggled desperately against the restraints in an attempt to draw breath as Dorian continued choking her.

  “Call me your Prince Charming,” Dorian demanded. The girl did not understand and looked with red-faced fear at her two captors. She could only beg in her native language as Dorian continued. “I said call me Prince Charming!”

  He tightened his grip further in anger and ecstasy as he reached climax. With a final shudder, he released his hold and slid off the girl. “What a savage, she couldn’t even speak.”

  Lady Helena’s smile faded as she took her eyes off of Dorian for the first time and looked down to the bed. The frail form of the Tunisian Princess was still and motionless. Her eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. Lady Helena held her hand to the girl’s mouth to check for breath. She looked up slowly at Dorian and spoke in a shocked tone. “You killed her.”

  “What? That is impossible. I only choked her a little as you and I have done dozens of times.”

  “You were never so rough before. She is so thin you must have accidentally crushed her. Yes, an accident.”

  Dorian’s face grew panicked. “I couldn’t have. Perhaps she was ill. I didn’t mean it. You must believe me it was unintentional.”

  “Something will have to be done about the body. Most of the servants have left for the evening. Go to the garden and find a shovel.”

  Dorian stared in disbelief at Lady Helena. His gaze slid to the inert form on the bed. Her neck was bruised with purple finger marks. He looked down at his hands in horror. After a moment, Dorian slowly dressed and then went to the garden to find a shovel.

  In the pale moonlight, the two began digging a deep hole behind the bushes of the garden. They wrapped the body in expensive bed sheets and unceremoniously dumped it inside. Dorian’s taut muscles were straining by the time he had fully covered the hole. Lady Helena calmly transplanted several small saplings in the soil over where the body was buried.

  In a cold voice, she whispered, “Let us never speak of this again.”

  Dorian nodded his assent and the two walked back wordlessly to the main house. The next day he awoke in the same bed where the girl had died. The bright sun illuminated the room and he looked about for Lady Helena. She was already gone. The servants informed him that she had left to return to London without so much as a farewell note.

  Chapter 15.

  Human Prey

  The wolf had begun hunting human prey. They were plentiful in the dark city streets and provided enough good meat to satiate his gnawing hunger. He was still very careful not to let any who saw him live. To do otherwise would displease the Master. He would only stalk those people that were foolish enough to walk alone in the night.

  His favorite victims were the bitches who mated with any males willing to give them the hard coins that they so desired. Their scent during the hunt was intoxicating. He relished the way their faces would twist in fear and the high-pitched screams they made when he finally revealed himself. Their blood tasted sweet as he devoured them. Sometimes he would mate ferociously with them before killing them. Sometimes they did not live through the mating.

  The persistent fog of the city hid his movements as he ran between the various parks and green areas. Occasionally as he prowled the night, he would sense a rival of his Master. It was often a rich man that surrounded himself with a large pack and traveled the streets only in the horse carriages. He would spend days following the rival, waiting for a moment when he would finally be alone. This would allow the wolf an opportunity to kill the man who dared to challenge his Master.

  These men were not as easy prey as the females. They were usually armed with small “fire sticks” so he had to be sure his approach went undetected. The slightest sound or change in the wind would cause him to abandon his hunt and move away to safety. The wolf hoped the Master would be pleased that he avoided detection and not too angry that he was unable to kill all of his rivals.

  Dorian was frequently challenged by other men who were intimidated by his success or popularity. His greatest adversary was Sir Robert Medcalf. The two had become enemies over some imagined slight Dorian had supposedly caused to his unwed sister. The girl had been pretty but hardly special in any way. He had only bedded her a few times but her fiancé had caught wind of it and ended the engagement publicly. Now the girl was disgraced and no other suitable matches could be found.

  Sir Robert had become enraged and now made it his mission in life to thwart Dorian in every way possible. He was quite an influential man and unfortunately had the ear of the Duke of Berwick. He used his many connections to try to poison many in society against Dorian by making titles and permits much more difficult to obtain, and the man had even sunk so low as to engage in vexatious litigation in the courts. Dorian was forced to spend a great deal of time and money defending himself against the unfounded allegations. He hated him with a deep passion. Dorian had finally had enough when Sir Robert tried to have him blackballed at yet another club. He vowed to end the man and began formulating a careful plan.

  Dorian began to establish trust with his enemy through a series of cryptic letters sent under an assumed name. According to these letters, Dorian was a likeminded gentleman whose sister had also fallen prey the charismatic Dorian Gray. He claimed to desire an alliance with Sir Robert. He suggested that the two pool their resources against their shared enemy and finally bring about a deciding victory against him. Dorian had even gone so far as to provide financial backing for several of Sir Robert’s latest endeavors against him. That final gesture had finally convinced Sir Robert to agree to a secretive meeting in an abandoned building near the factory district of Birmingham.

  When Sir Robert arrived at the prescribed hour, he found the dilapidated building deserted. There was a letter sitting on a lone barrel of oil in the center of the room. Sir Robert cut open the letter and read it aloud.

  My Dear Sir Robert Medcalf,

  I am afraid that the allegations against Mr. Dorian Gray regarding your sister are quite true.

  Please excuse my inability to meet with you this evening. I am currently occupied in buttering her bun and Mr. Gray and myself are taking turns rogering her at this very moment.

  I assure you that trollop’s cock alley has become quite well worn.

  Your loyal co-conspirator

  Mr. Dorian Gray

  Sir Robert began cursing and ripped the letter to shreds. He looked up sharply as the only door to the room slammed shut. He ran over just in time to hear a heavy beam fall into place, barring the door.

  “Now look here Dorian, this ruse has gone on long enough. I assure you the Duke of Berwick will hear of this outrage. Unbar the door at once!”

  However, the only response was the sound of laughter as Dorian kicked over another barrel of oil and dropped a lit torch to the floor. Sir Robert’s threats quickly turned into screams as the building was consumed by fire.

  Chapter 16.

  The Duel<
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  On one occasion in the early springtime, Dorian was riding through the country near Trouville with his young friend Lord Crawley. Lord Crawley was very tall, with dark features including short black hair and a thin mustache. He was dressed splendidly in a silk hunting shirt and tight, leather riding trousers. He was riding a fierce-looking, white Kochlaini Arabian horse. To Dorian he was a like-minded gentleman, with a large fortune and obscure desires—quickly resulting in the two becoming fast friends.

  Dorian was riding a haughty, charcoal-black Godolphin Barb horse and was dressed in a similar fashion. His look however, was a stark contrast with a clean-shaven face. His longer, unruly black hair moved freely in the wind as the two rode together. They were discussing Lord Crawley’s favorite topic—female conquests and the details surrounding them.

  Lord Crawley expertly raised his leather reins and slightly bent his knees in the stirrups as he prepared for the jump over a large oak tree that had fallen to the ground. “She was insatiable, you see. She couldn’t get enough of me. I was exhausted from taking her to my bed two, three times a day—or would have if not for my daily exercise regime, of course.” He paused as they approached the obstacle.

  The pair increased their mounts’ pace to a canter and leaned forward. They lifted their bodies off the leather of the forward seat saddles. The two thoroughbreds easily cleared the downed tree with leaps that landed cleanly and left plenty of room to spare.

  “Well, it’s not in the quantity but in the quality, my good man.”