“Don’t say that. I am quite changed.”
“No, you are the same. Oh, how I wish I could change places with you. Everyone always has and always will worship you. Your life is your art. You have set yourself and your very being to music and every day is a new sonnet in your world of poetry.”
Dorian stood up and went to the window. He looked out on the full moon hanging in the sky. “There is much you don’t know about me as well.”
“Why have you stopped playing? The music was so beautiful tonight—better than you have ever played. If you are tired then I will bid you good night. Tomorrow—we will go tomorrow night to the club.”
“Very well. Good night then.”
Lady Helena rose and paused in the doorway, as if to say something more. Then she merely sighed and walked out.
Chapter 22.
The Picture
As Dorian sat at his walnut Carlton House writing desk, he pondered the many twists and turns of his life. He gazed at the polished ivory knobs and reminisced on how things used to be. How he wished he could go back to how he was in the past. He knew he had corrupted himself with perverse desires and vile fancies. He had done so much evil and been such a terrible influence on others around him. And the awful joy that he took in doing so! He was so ashamed now. Was there no hope for him?
He considered the reflection starring back at him from the golden, carved mirror on the desk. He picked up the hand mirror. It was an antique, inlaid with expensive diamonds and garnets. He studied the face reflected on the polished surface. The bright eyes grew tearful and dimmed despite their beauty. How he loathed his beautiful face. He flung the mirror to the floor and it shattered, with silver splinters flying everywhere. Would that he had been born ugly. Then his life might have been spared the mockery it had become. Youth had spoiled him.
Nothing could change the past. That much was true. It was better not to think of it. He was perfectly safe. No one knew his secret and yet lived. The death of Sage was a perpetual burden that weighed constantly on his mind. More than that though, was his worry over the peril of his soul. Was it trapped in that vile beast that wandered the dark places of the city, senselessly killing animal and human alike? How many times had his childish rivalries, petty revenges, or selfish emotions resulted in the death of an innocent? How many times had someone’s death been caused by some unspoken commend of his, to be carried out by that vicious monster? He was responsible for all of it.
Yet, it had been Sage who had painted the portrait and not he. He could never forgive her for that. Everything else had been forced upon him or caused by some temporary madness. All those suicides were their own acts, not forced by his hand. It was nothing to him.
He would start again fresh! He had already begun. Never again would he be tempted to his evil ways. He would be good and kind. If his life became pure, maybe the portrait would change back. Maybe the beast would return to a simple wolf and the killings would stop. Perhaps the portrait had already changed. He would go and look.
Dorian ran and took the winding stairs two-at-a-time. He quickly unlocked the door and went inside. He approached the tattered screen concealing the portrait with trepidation. Would it have changed already? He stared down at his hands and exhaled slowly. Cautiously, he lifted his hand towards the screen. As he revealed the image behind it, he screamed in outrage. There was no change to the image at all. If anything, it was more loathsome than before. The beast’s claws and teeth were covered in a brighter, fresh-looking red blood. The eyes were as malignant as before, but they now seemed to be sadistically mocking him.
He turned away. Should he confess and turn himself in? He laughed at the thought. That was a loathsome idea. Who would even believe his story? There wasn’t a single piece of evidence against him to be found. No, he could never confess the truth. There were only two things that could incriminate Dorian Gray—the picture itself and the monster. Why had he allowed either to remain for so long? Perhaps it had been a bizarre curiosity to see how the picture would change and what the wolf would do next. Now the very idea of the creature roaming the streets of London caused him to wake in the middle of the night with chills running down his spine and sweat staining his silk clothes. The painting and the beast were a constant reminder of his guilt. They had served as his conscience. Now they must be destroyed.
Dorian went to the window and opened the large glass pane that overlooked the garden. He flung wide the silk curtains and looked out into the night. With all his mind and concentration he willed the beast to come to his Master—like the pack leader summoning his followers. He spoke one word aloud. “Come.”
Turning back to the portrait on the wall, he removed the canvas and set it down on the table. Looking around, he saw a silver Garland knife with an engraved handle that he sometimes used for opening letters. That would have to do. He would slice this work of art that had caused him so much suffering into a hundred pieces. The artist had already been destroyed, so surely destroying the picture would end his torment. Once these reminders of his past were eradicated, then—he would be at peace.
Before he could act, a heavy thud sounded behind him. Dorian turned to once again see the terrifying monster in his room. The giant thing had leapt in through the window and was now in a low crouch. Its terrible muscles rippled with power, ready to be called upon if the need arose. The hands flexed, rising from their lowered position to reveal several inches of razor-sharp claws. They had left deep gouges in the wood of the floor when the creature had landed.
The abomination slowly stood to its full height of nearly three meters. The powerful hindquarters were wolf-like but also like those of a man—but as large as the extremities of an enormous grizzly bear. The pelt of the creature had turned mostly black with tinges of grey along the edges. The jaws and teeth had grown fiercer-looking and more deadly than ever. The snout had reduced in length somewhat, giving a decidedly more human appearance. The large eyes were now a deep blood-red, but were even more intelligent and savage than the last time Dorian had been caught in their gaze.
He tried, unsuccessfully, to hide the shudder that racked his body. He beckoned to the beast with a trembling hand to come to his side. The animal fell down to four legs and approached cautiously, as he had done when still a normal wolf. Dorian was careful to hide the knife, which he gripped with bone-white knuckles, well behind his back. The demon came to rest at his side and looked down in a show of submission. The massive head tilted towards Dorian’s hand—inviting a scratch behind the ears as if it were some common dog. After a brief pause, he obliged the request and carefully scratched the spot between the ragged, enlarged ears.
The demon closed its malicious eyes to enjoy the pleasure of a scratch from its master. Dorian carefully raised the knife in his other hand, preparing to strike a downward blow. If done just right, he could puncture the eye and drive the blade deep into the demented brain of the wolf, ending the perverse life.
With all his might, Dorian slashed the knife downward towards his target—and missed, planting the knife deep in the large brow instead. Some keen animal instinct must have alerted the creature of the blow and it had moved, ever so slightly, and avoided the killing blow. Still, blood poured out from the wound and the creature reeled back while letting loose an enraged growl.
The animal flung up the massive claws to paw at the object embedded above its eye. For a moment, the enlarged eyes focused on Dorian and showed a deep and shocked hurt. Then the eyes clouded with a dark, red rage and a terrible howl escaped the throat of the beast. The walls shook with the deep rumble that culminated in a high-pitched blast of sound, nearly inaudible to human ears. It was a howl of challenge for leadership of the pack. With a roar, the lycanthrope hurled itself furiously at Dorian. Dorian screamed and tried to flee, but he was immediately brought down beneath the bulk of the animal. He was pinned and could do nothing to protect himself as the massive claws slashed wildly and with terrifying speed.
Dorian knew at once that this was
to be his end. All his life had been an empty pursuit of pleasure. All the beautiful women he had humiliated and destroyed, the decadent displays of wealth, the many lavish parties, the terrible lies and deceit, the accumulation of so many superficial possessions, and reveling in so many atrocious sins—all of it was now completely empty. Now, at the moment of his death, the memories of his wasted life offered no help or comfort whatsoever.
Blood began gushing from his growing number of wounds. The massive jaws descended towards the soft skin of his throat. In his final moments, he was left with only regrets over his destroyed friendships and the waste that had been his life. Poor Sage, his dearest friend, would still be alive if they had never met. She had loved him so passionately and he had scorned that love and their friendship as well. How could he have been so cruel to his first love, Sibyl Vane? He realized now that he loved her still and it was only his vanity that had caused him to cast her aside over such a trivial thing. She must have experienced the same choking fear and unrelenting pain as she met her end at the hands of the very same vicious beast.
The wolf clamped down on Dorian’s throat and with a mighty wrench of his head ended his Master’s life. The beast was suddenly filled with an overwhelming hunger and began devouring the body. The action seemed fitting and cemented his place as the Alpha and pack leader. It was strange, but no other flesh had before tasted as tender and juicy as this. When he had consumed all of the flesh and even the bones, the monster licked the blood clean from the floor. His powerful hunger now sated, he looked out of the great window and saw the full moon in the night sky. With a great howl, he proclaimed his dominance of this territory. Then he surged forward into a run and soared out of the open window, landing once again in the garden below. He sprinted off towards his den in the deep forest. Perhaps he would find some sport to hunt on the way, not for food, but for the thrill of the chase and the pleasure of the kill.
II
Epilogue
Bright light—beams of painful whiteness penetrated the comfortable darkness and forced Dorian to open his eyes. He was in a thickly wooded area, encircled by a dense wall of trees. He was lying on the mossy ground with his arms flung over the carcass of a half-consumed deer. The forest floor was littered with bones and the air was filled with the foul stench of rotting meat. His skin felt raw and tender. It was completely covered by dried blood and gore. He was utterly naked, like some ghoulish infant at the time of its birth. That was impossible. His last memories were of his gruesome wounds inflicted by the wolf, excruciating pain, and the unpleasant feeling of being eaten alive.
Yet here he was, alive—apparently in the creature’s lair. Taking stock of his body, he found he was amazingly uninjured. His hands explored the areas where massive gashes had exposed organs and torn his flesh, but found them all curiously sound and smooth to the touch. Had it all been some terrible dream? Then why was he bloody and in the forest? Whatever had happened, Dorian needed to be away from this place before the lycanthrope returned. Like a newborn fawn on unfamiliar and ungainly legs, he rose and moved falteringly away from the rotting pile of venison. As his legs began to strengthen he stumbled across a small stream and used the water to wash away some of the blood staining his skin. He felt like a common beast as he stooped to slurp up a drink from the muddy water. With his mind somewhat steadied, he focused again on fleeing from the center of the forest in the hope of reaching some safe place.
He ran on, naked skin oblivious to the cuts and scrapes on his feet and arms as he traversed the landscape. He tried following small game trails to make his journey easier. It felt like he ran for hours, dodging amongst the trees. Unbidden, his path led directly to the one location he knew to be both close to the forest and currently uninhabited—Sage’s country workshop. With no living relatives, it was unlikely that her recent disappearance would so quickly result in the sale of the property. Dorian approached the estate cautiously. He waited for a time to watch for any signs of life, before dashing to the back door and forcing his way in. The old wooden door seemed to break at the hinges immediately. They must have rotted thin with age.
The hearth was cold and everything remained covered and put away. The house was just as Sage had left it. He began rummaging through the corner closet. It was good fortune that he found a gentleman’s coat that some patron or acquaintance must have forgotten there. Covering his nude and crimson form, he strode into the kitchen and began rummaging through the cabinets. There was an ample selection of cheeses stored in wax, dried fruits, pickled vegetables, salted meat, and even some canned fare. However, none of it appealed. Dorian found that despite his desperate run through the forest, he was still quite full—though from what meal, he had no idea.
He settled on pumping several buckets of water and then scouring his skin clean in Sage’s antique, copper tub. He exited the bath and tried not to look at the red-tinted water. With his skin returned to a healthy pink color, Dorian felt once more like himself. And yet, strangely not himself. He was changed and felt like an entirely new version of Dorian Gray. More complete maybe. His mind was swimming with regret, shame, and fear—but also something else. Maybe, there was an inkling of hope there. He felt now that he had the strength to begin a new life. He would gather some meager resources and leave all the wealth and debauchery of his previous life behind him. Perhaps a grand adventure to places unknown in the world, or an excursion to India or the Americas. Any place that took him far away from that demon. It still haunted his vision every time he closed his eyes.
—Continued NOW in: The Wolf of Dorian Gray: Purgatory of the Werewolf. The next three chapters of Book 2 are on the next page...
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—and now, Book 2...
Chapter 1.
A Fresh Start
Dorian felt uncharacteristically well rested after the night spent in Sage’s musty, yet comfortable mahogany four-poster bed. The rusty springs and well-worn frame sagged in all the right places. The several layers of feather mattresses seemed to envelop his body with an inviting embrace. The goose down pillows may have been old and faded, but the feathers inside were still soft and smooth. In a bed like this, it was easy to pretend that the events of the past week were simply part of some nightmare. He shook his head and cleared the thought from his mind.
He closed his eyes with a sigh of contentment. With a flash, there appeared the snarling face and hideous form of the monster. Its bloodshot eyes knew where he was hiding and the long claws extended towards him, dripping with blood. Dorian’s eyes shot open. He had lingered here for too long. He needed to formulate a plan to escape before the beast found him again. He would wait until nightfall to leave. Then he would gather some funds and leave London immediately.
Dorian spent that afternoon chopping firewood with the old steel maul that he had found sunken into an oak stump. Once he had sharpened the edges, the ash logs split beneath his swing like butter. The repetition was soothing and he continued for several hours. He felt like each block of wood was a terrible deed from his former life. With each downswing, he smashed the memory into a thousand pieces. He cast his shirt aside, his muscles strained with each rhythmic blow until the hot rays of the sun pulled a sheen of sweat from his skin.
After he was done, he brewed a pot of black tea using an antique Hester Bateman teapot. He had discovered it hanging forlornly above the stove. It was tarnished and dented, but it made the finest pot of tea Dorian had ever tasted. If only he could stay in this simple life forever. But he knew it couldn’t last.
Dorian would have to sneak into his own mansion without detection. He remembered his blood staining the hardwood floor. He had been gone long enough that anyone who saw the room would certainly think him dead. He would return to his home and gather any sma
ll valuables that had not already been spirited away by the servants upon hearing of his death. But the most important thing was the painting. That wretched painting that had been the source of all his pain and misery. Yet it still held his secret. To leave it behind and unprotected would be unthinkable. He must retrieve the painting and vanish before anyone discovers he is still alive.
Despite Sage’s attempts to explain it to him, it was still beyond his understanding how that painting had linked his soul to the wolf. She had started the process by dabbling in Romani magic and had mentioned something about The Spell of Making to increase the realism of her painting. She told Dorian that she had foolishly mixed his blood and the wolf’s with her brushes and applied them to the canvas to achieve a deeper color of red. According to Sage, her biggest mistake was combining these two actions with the third Romani art of naming. Sage had named the wolf cub that they had rescued Little Dorian Grey and put all of herself into bringing the canvas to life. She had succeeded in the worst possible way and it had cost Sage her life.
Dorian had not even cared about her death at the time. How could he have committed all those terrible deeds? He had killed innocent men, and even burned a man alive. As Dorian embraced his most base desires and set down his destructive path, the once innocent wolf had slowly begun to change. It became more gruesome and violent as if it were the living embodiment of his many sins. Dorian, however, was completely unchanged. He had gained eternal youth. Dorian was beginning to suspect that he might have developed other strange abilities as well.
The Wolf of Dorian Gray Page 14
