Wolf and Sheep

The death mask was exquisite.

Although there was nothing about it, from the cut to the style to the adornments upon it, to mark it as a death mask as such. To the unknowing eye, it had all the hallmarks of a traditional yet beautifully hand crafted Carnival mask, made to look like the face of an innocent lamb and be worn by a woman. His wife, in fact. But Spierre knew, as he returned it to the expensive wooden box it had arrived in this afternoon, that a death mask it was.

The clock on the wall chimed. He looked down into the box, knowing its twin would have arrived at its appointed destination by now. Only six more hours to go.

The marriage had not been an unhappy one, at least to his mind. Married young. He, the heir to a prominent name and very little else. Her, the child of a successful merchant, her dowry overflowing with coins and estates and vessels.

And he had not done wrong by her, either. Had not gambled or frittered away her father’s hard earnings, like some might have done. Prudent investments and wise appointments of financiers had more than tripled their family’s worth in the intervening two decades.

And to her credit, in those two decades, remarkably his wife had lost none of her beauty, or wit, or lust for life, travel and carnal exploits.

No, in many and almost all respects, this was a marriage to be envied.

That was until Spierre had discovered that his wife had recently taken a lover, deciding that this was not something he could live with.

Now, Spierre himself had taken on several, in fact, over the years. But that was a husband’s prerogative, he knew. The benefit and allowance afforded to a man of means who ran his affairs well. And there had been no shame in it for her, his wife. Its knowledge amongst their peers made him all the more desirable and therefore raised her status. After all, she was the one he kept. The one who headed his table, who carried his name.

But for him? If it were to get out that he had been cuckolded? The snickers, the jeers, the behind the back jibes. This would be evidence that he did not in fact have his affairs in order. His reputation would suffer, as could his business. Their children’s fortunes and futures.

All because she could not understand her place. But that would change tonight, during the Carnival.

Spierre knew he would not die a cuckold and a fool. He would kill her first.

“So you have made your decision?” the woman asked.

“I have.”

Spierre stood before a floor length mirror and dressed himself for the festivities. His mistress, a nubile young thing named Emma, stretched lazily on the ruined bed behind him and smiled.

“And will you remarry?” The question was impertinent, but that was Emma’s way. He endured it because in its proper context, that impertinence had yielded great rewards.

“In time, perhaps,” he said, not taking his eyes from his own reflection as he worked.

“Tell me again how you will do it,” she said.

“Enough.”

“That is my problem,” she leered at him through her reflection. “I can never get enough.”

He did his best to repress a shiver of desire, and managed to speak while maintaining a balance in his voice.

“We will arrive at Monbattalion’s house at nine. We will do so in my carriage, in view of all, so that all may see us disembark in our special costumes.”

The girl purred.

“At ten, when the parade commences, we shall join the revellers. At 10:28, we shall pass The Road of Rot, leading down into the catacombs. My dear wife is under the impression that there we shall trade costumes with another couple in my employ, who will stand in for us in the parade, while she and I dash down to Cheapside for a less respectable type of fun. Course frivolity and the like.”

“But what will she actually find there?”

“That another couple awaits us, indeed. But not a pair of hooligans to trade with. Another couple dressed in the exact same clothes as the pair of us. They will assume our places post haste, while I convince her that another party awaits us, deep in the catacombs. A Black Rite, hosted by Monbatallion himself. She has a taste for such things, my wife, and will willingly come. Then, I shall lure her deeper and deeper into the catacombs until we arrive at a place I have prepared for her. I will tell her I know of her indiscretions and how little I think of her. And then I shall do the deed, sealing her body away in one of the crypts afterwards before returning to the surface world.”

“And what of your dopplegangers?”

“They will have returned to the Monbattalions, and subsequently to our home. As far as the world will be concerned, we will both have arrived home in one piece.”

“But you haven't told me how you plan to account for her eventual demise.” Emma said. “You do of course intend for her loss to be reported, yes? Or will you continue this farce for years to come? Pay servant wenches to dress in her clothes and walk past the window twice a day?”

Spierre turned away from the mirror, now fully dressed, save for his own ornate mask, which sat on the dresser.

“It has been prepared for,” he said. “A certain doctor, whose gambling debts I have discreetly agreed to pay off, will be called to the house the next morning…”

“Ah, perhaps for a chill acquired during the nightly festivities?” Emma suggested, cat eyed and supine on the bed. “Or a bad piece of fish, ingested. And then, of course, a turn for the worse.”

“Indeed,” Spierre said, as he opened the expensive wooden box containing his own mask. One which he felt expressed how he felt in this moment.

A wolf.

He put it on, and turned on his heel to give her the full effect of his dramatic transformation.

“The wolf and the lamb,” Emma said. “Quite the pair you will make.”

Spierre’s plan unfolded perfectly, as he knew it would.

He and his wife had greeted each other at the foot of their separate staircases, each one leading up to their own wing of the mansion. They kissed hello, and he presented her with their masks, the theme of which she had found delightful.

“Do you intend to ravish me this evening?” she had asked seductively.

“That would be telling,” he’d smiled.

From there, it was into the carriage and off to the Party. Their arrival had caused much joy and noise as their friends recognized them and commented on their attire, and they had responded in kind.

After an hour or so, a gong was struck and the parade began. Wealthy men and women, dressed for decadence and debauchery, spilled out of Montbattalion’s house and into the street. A cavalcade of joyous merrymakers whooped and hollered and made a great show of it all.

After a time, and at the appointed place, Spierre’s wife’s hand found his own and drew him in close.

“Shall we move on?” she suggested.

“By all means.”

They broke off from the crowd and darted down a dark alley. They were not immediately alone, as they passed a younger couple exploring one another on the fringe of the street light and all smiled.

“Ah, to be young again,” his wife said.

Spierre thought for a moment on those words. On the life he would have once this was all over. Starting over. Yes, he would indeed be young again.

They arrived at the entrance to the catacombs, both breathless from the run.

“Where are our compatriots?” she asked.

“I believe this is them, now.”

A small light emerged in the darkness and grew in size as it approached, and the others became clear.

“Hold a moment,” his wife said. “Why are they dressed like us already? Where are the rags we were meant to wear to Cheapside?”

“I have a surprise for you, my love,” Spierre said to her as he took the heavy lamp from his doppelganger. “Come, and I shall explain on the way.”

They headed down into the abyss. Spierre took one last look over his shoulder, to find the other couple curiously still standing at the entrance, wordlessly watching them go.

“I must admit my pulse quickens at the idea,” Spierre’s wife said.

They had gone a ways deeper in the catacombs, their path illuminated by the lamp he carried. He had told her of the faux dark ceremony awaiting them and their friends below. A foul thing, involving goat’s blood and black candles and the whole of that like.

He knew her tastes, and that she could never resist anything involving the promise of the dark arts.

“Just you wait, my dear. It is sure to be an experience you won’t soon forget.”

Just then, a noise. Like boot scraping against bone.

“What was that?” he asked, twisting his body to throw a little light in the direction of the sound.

Nothing.

“Ha, is this part of the show?” she whispered in his ear.

“No,” he answered truthfully, and tried to suppress the pounding in his heart. “Let’s carry on. Quickly”.

They continued on a spell, their joyous demeanor somewhat lessened.

“There it is again,” he jumped. “Who goes there?”

A shrill voice answered from beyond the lamplight.

“What have we here? A lost little lamb? And a sheep in wolf’s clothing?”

A delirious laugh erupted, seeming to fill the hall.

Spierre ran, his wife followed.

Down and down they went, the lamp light bouncing here and there, casting fresh and violent shadows, while the horrible laughter continued behind them, driving them farther on.

“I can’t… keep up..” his wife wheezed behind him, trying to grasp his arm. “Please…”

“Stop! Get off of me!” he screamed back at her before losing his footing and sprawling forward, the lamp flying from his hand.

The sound of the glass shattering seemed to echo for a lifetime, as Spierre groped for the wall beside him. His mask had come off too. But after a moment of searching he found it again and, still trying to protect his identity, put it back on.

He called for his wife, but with no answer.

Had they taken her? The voices in the dark? Who were they? Criminals, to be sure. Looking for weak and easy prey.

Spierre leaned his damp back against the cool stone wall and listened in silence.

Nothing.

He thought for a moment and tried to take in all that had happened. His plot, the chase, the current silence. Had his wife been taken? Or had she run on? And what of their pursuers?

After a spell, his breath returned to him.

Softly, he began to put one foot in front of the other and, using the wall as a crutch, made his way away from this cursed spot.

But where to go? He had no way of knowing where he was or how to escape. But it mattered little. Anywhere was better than here.

He thought of his children, and of his parents, who were long dead. Buried down here, in these catacombs in fact.

All his family had been, since the founding of the city. Was this his fate too? To join them here and now?

Before him then, he saw something. A faint hint of light. The surface? Or another gang of thieves and cutthroats, making these halls their camp?

He gingerly approached, maintaining silence in both step and breath as he peered around the corner.

The sight that met him was like something out of a nightmare.

A small chamber, the walls of which were lined with candles. A dead animal, possibly a goat, crucified upside down on a wooden cross. Its throat slit and blood drained into a bucket.

Why did this seem so familiar, Spierre thought…

A noise behind him made him jump and he fell into the chamber. As he panicked and crawled on his back towards the center, a pair of hooded figures entered after him.

“W-what devilry is this!?” he managed to speak, his once commanding voice now a hoarse cry.

The figures lifted their hands to their heads and drew back their hoods, revealing the face of a wolf on each.

No, not a wolf. A wolf mask. His mask, in fact.

He tore the mask from his face and looked down at it in his bloody and dirt encrusted hands.

The mask of the lamb?

When had he-? And then he remembered the fall earlier. Finding this mask in the dark. It must have been his wife’s. But then how?

He looked up at the pair, as one took off the wolf mask.

He was looking up now at his wife.

“Impossible…” he said.

“Not so, little lamb,” the other one said, in that horrible voice that had screeched at them earlier. She removed her mask then, too, and cleared her throat. “Well…?”

“Emma…?”

“You knew i had taken a lover,” his wife said, placing her hand inside Emma’s. “Who knew we had such similar taste?”

“Y-you…” Spierre pointed at the younger woman. “You told her everything…”

“Yes she did. And I am truly sorry, husband. Sorry you could not find it within yourself to afford me the same courtesy i have you, these many years. And now you shall die, here. A cuckold and a fool.”

Anger and bile began to rise up in his throat now. He made his way to his feet, and balled up his fists in a rage.

“You presume to… to do this to me? You two weak creatures? What farce is this? You cannot overpower me!”

“No, but he can,” his wife said, looking over his shoulder. “Doctor?”

Spierre turned and saw a large man behind him, a scalpel in his hand.

“You are not the only one who can pay off someone’s gambling debts,” she said.

A quick movement from the doctor. Followed by a cool sensation at Spierre’s throat. He lifted his hand to his neck, and it came away red.

The floor found him next. And as his eyesight began to fade, it came to rest on the mask of the lamb, one last time, as his wife picked it up off the ground and placed it gently, almost lovingly, over his face.