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

Chapter 16 - The Duel Part 2

"This is your last chance to withdraw your challenge," whispered Dorian.

"And your last chance to pray to God for forgiveness," Lord Donohoe responded curtly.

Dorian cocked his weapon and heard the sharp click as his opponent did the same. The gun felt strangely heavy in his hand. The grip seemed suddenly slick, as sweat began to form in his palm and along the top of his hand. Now was the moment for steely resolve.

In a scratchy voice he shouted out, "Begin!" and started counting off the ten paces in a measured tone. He was surprised at the trepidation he felt and the thundering of his heart beating in his ears. True, he had never fought in a duel before but surely it was not a difficult thing. He was young and strong and would certainly triumph. It was only a matter of breathing and aiming carefully. There was no chance of this old man besting him.

The wide field where they dueled was really a picturesque sight. It was framed by a small blue stream with two large weeping willows on either bank. They each dropped spiral-green strands into the gently flowing water. Stubborn wildflowers grew everywhere in whites, blues, and oranges. On the other side of a light-colored beech fence a herd of creamy-white cattle grazed, indifferent to the drama unfolding so close by. The sky was clear and filled with the bright-warmth of a bold, yellow sun. It seemed as if you could see for kilometers in every direction. What a beautiful place this would be to meet one's end.

The count reached ten and Dorian began turning. As he spun he started to level his pistol as he raised his arm. He was startled to see that his aged opponent had already completed his turn by pivoting smartly on his heel. He was expeditiously aiming his pistol in Dorian's direction, unmistakably preparing to fire. Dorian struggled to make up the lost time—too late. Lord Donohoe fired his pistol with a crack like thunder, sending up an acrid cloud of black smoke. The 44 caliber lead ball exploded through Dorian's shoulder. The soft lead flattened and expanded as it exited out his back, leaving a wound the size of a pomegranate. The pain was excruciating and Dorian cried out. As his knees buckled, he gritted his teeth and fired blindly into the smoke in front of him before passing out.

Dorian awoke in the plush, canopied bed of his villa. His dreams had been filled with blood and death. He remembered running through a misty field at night, tripping over the dismembered bodies of friends and loved ones. Their faces were pale and bloated. No matter how quickly he ran, the field seemed to never end. Just a dream. Perhaps the duel had been a dream as well. Then his hand found the side of his riding trousers. He looked down in surprise. His clothing was the same that he had been wearing on the field and was now covered in dirt and blood. Exhaustion lay heavy on his body, as if he was drowning at the bottom of the sea in a full suit of armor.

Lord Crawley was suddenly there at his side with a worried look on his face. "Dorian, are you feeling well? You are very fortunate that Lord Donohoe's aim was off. Apparently, he was once renowned for his dueling prowess as a Captain in the Army."

Dorian's confusion reached his voice. "You mean, he missed? I was certain that I was hit. Are you quite sure? What of Lord Donohoe?"

"Well he must have missed for here you are, whole and sound. Your aim however, was true. It was really a fantastic shot. I've never quite seen the like. Your ball took him right between those beady little eyes of his and he was killed instantly. His brother was very distraught and has taken the body away. Dorian, you've won!"

Dorian looked around tentatively at his surroundings. "I've won? But, how did I get here?"

"When I saw you were unconscious I rode back for help. I thought for sure you had been injured. Your valet and I brought a wagon and together we lifted you from the field and transported you here. You were breathing quite rapidly, so we put you straight into bed while the valet went for the doctor. I am sure that won't be needed now, your color seems quite restored."

"Yes, I am fine. Please, there is no need for a doctor."

"Very well, but are you sure you weren't grazed in the arm by the shot? There was quite a lot of blood but we were amiss as to its origin. The whole matter is inextricable."

Dorian was silent and fingered the spot on his chest where the ball had entered his skin. The clothing was ripped and torn, exposing the flesh beneath. There was no wound there, not even a scratch. But his finger could feel dried blood. Had it been his imagination? Then whose blood was it?

Dorian placed his hand on his chin speculatively. "Perhaps Lord Donohoe's aim was so bad, his ball struck a passing bird from the sky. Yes that must be it."

Lord Crawley laughed. "Capital! Quite right. When the doctor arrives, I will let him know his service is no longer needed and see he receives compensation for his trouble. Now, get some rest and when you are recovered we will invite the Eldritch sisters to dine with us."

Lord Crawley excused himself from the room and exited quietly. Dorian wearily rose from his mahogany bed and decided he should change into a fresh shirt and trousers. He moved to the washbasin and stripped off his clothes. After filling it with water, he carefully cleaned away the dried blood on his chest. He turned around slowly in the mirror, only to discover a larger mass of red caked on his back. This too he cleaned, while contemplating what it all might mean. How had he healed so quickly and perfectly from the wound? It was Impossible.

The duel made Dorian even more paranoid that someone might discover his many secrets. He cut short his holiday in the country and returned home. After a time, he could no longer endure to be long away from England. He gave up the villa, as well as the house at Algiers where he and Lady Helena had spent so many pleasant winters together. He couldn't abide to be separated from the picture that was now so much a part of his life. There was always the nagging fear that someone might gain access to the room, despite the elaborate bars that covered the door. Sometimes, while entertaining at his great house in Nottinghamshire, he would inexplicably take leave of his guests to rush back to town. He could not be at peace until he examined the door and made certain the picture was still held safely within. What if it was stolen from him? Then the world would know his secret. Perhaps they already suspected.