White Wolf

by Lauren Gilley

  “I’m alright.” But he wasn’t, because in the dancing shadows, Pyotr’s silvered face looked so much like his brother’s that Nikita was hit all over again with the guilt of getting his best friend killed. And possibly worse – keeping Dima’s little brother, so in need of guidance and a brotherly shoulder to lean on for reassurance – at arm’s length to spare himself the heartache.

  He thought he might be sick.

  “Oh. Hey, whoa.” Pyotr was at his side, suddenly, his grip surprisingly strong on Nikita’s arm. “Let’s sit down.”

  Nikita was aware that they walked, but couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet, head reeling. They ended up side-by-side on a rickety wooden bench outside the cottage, the wood groaning when it took their combined weight.

  “Here.” Pyotr put a canteen in his hands. “Have some water.”

  He did, and it was cool and good against his tongue; once he started drinking he realized he was parched, the inside of his mouth desert-dry, and he gulped it all down in a rush, spilling it on his shirt, clumsily wiping his chin with his sleeve. Another wave of sickness rose, but he belched and it subsided.

  “Shit,” he said, panting from the effort of drinking so much so fast.

  Pyotr chuckled. “I’ve never seen you drunk before.”

  “Don’t get used to it. I imagine it’s not a good look.”

  Pyotr braced his shoulder against Nikita’s like he knew that was just what he needed to stay upright. “You’re upset about what Monsieur Philippe said.”

  “I’m upset about everything that man says.”

  “But now. Tonight,” he pressed. “You’re worried about Sasha.” Notes of regret and unhappiness in his voice. Jealousy – but not really, a sweet facsimile of that sentiment.

  Nikita sighed. Exhaustion was creeping up on him, slow and sure. In another few minutes he’d need to lie down. He felt raw and exposed now, afraid he’d say the wrong thing…but afraid not to say it, always so buttoned up and guarded when he was sober. “I’m worried about all of you,” he said. “All the time. Every second of every day.” The vodka made him brave in a way he knew he’d regret later, but he turned to Pyotr, faced him the best he could in the dark. “The cause was easy to chase when I was a boy, before anything bad had happened. Before your brother–” His voice cracked and Pyotr’s eyes widened, a sudden bolt of grief blanking his face.

  “We can’t win,” he said, and knew for the first time it was true. Really, painfully true. “Right now, with the war on…” He shook his head. “If I was brave, I’d tell all of you to desert and run off to Siberia somewhere.” He felt his lips pretend to smile. “But I’m a coward.”

  Pyotr looked scandalized. “You’re not.”

  “I am. That’s the reason I can’t be the brother that you need right now. It hurts too much.”

  Pyotr looked away from him, jaw clenched so the tendons in his throat threw shadows down into his shirt collar. “That’s not fair,” he said, quiet but firm. “You didn’t force us to be here. If any of us gets killed, that’s our own fault. It’s the Soviets’ fault. Stalin’s. The war’s.” He gained fervor as the list grew, staring angrily ahead at the dark trees. “I don’t–” He sighed. “Dima was your best friend. I know that. I think he was closer to you than he ever was to me. But he was my brother, and I miss him too. I…” He choked a little, swallowed it down. Pressed his hands to his knees and blinked down at them. “I don’t need you to be my brother, Nikitos. I wanted us to be friends, but…”

  Nikita put one clumsy hand on his shoulder. “Pyotr–”

  “But if that’s too hard, then please, just…lead us. That’s all we really need. That’s enough.”

  He stood up and Nikita’s hand fell away, too slow to keep up.

  “I’m worried about Sasha too,” Pyotr said. “He’s too trusting.” And he walked away.

  Nikita groaned and dropped his face into his hands. It occurred to him then that he’d forgotten his gloves in his pocket and his hands were freezing. He made no move to fix that, though, staring through the gaps in his fingers down at the mud under his boots. The icicles on the edge of the cottage roof had dripped for weeks, until they were gone, keeping the thatch of pine needles wet; their boots had churned up the damp earth beneath, turning it to a sticky muck that was as unpleasant and hard-to-get-out-of as their present situation.

  Someone huffed a breath right in his ear and he jerked upright, a shocked sound caught in his throat.

  It was the alpha female wolf, studying him with her head cocked, yellow eyes seeming almost sympathetic – if it was possible for a wolf to look like that.

  Sasha stood a little ways behind her, his hood pushed back for once. His hair was getting longer, down to his shoulders now, ragged at the ends and silver under the moonlight. He wore the kind of thoughtful expression Nikita hadn’t thought him capable of before, pre-wolf.

  “Is that what you really think?” he asked. “That we can’t win?”

  All he wanted to do was lie down and shut his eyes. He slumped back against the wall of the cottage and rubbed at the headache that was brewing in his temples. “We can’t.”

  Sasha sighed and came to sit beside him, in the place Pyotr had vacated. The wolf sat down at his feet, her head resting on his thigh. He reached to stroke her ears as he spoke, and his voice came out surer, and more adult than Nikita had ever heard it.

  “Be honest with me,” he said. “Why did you go to Siberia to get me?”

  Nikita blinked at him a moment, gathering his sloppy thoughts. “I was ordered to.”

  Sasha nodded. “Yes. And why did you follow orders?”

  This line of questioning seemed stupid and juvenile. “Because I would have been killed or sent to the gulag if I didn’t.”

  “And why don’t you want that to happen?”

  Nikita frowned. Because dying or being imprisoned in a silver mine, worked to death in freezing temperatures, sounded like horrible fates.

  But that wasn’t the reason Sasha was looking for, was it?

  He took a deep breath. “Because the only way to topple the state is from within.”

  “Do you still believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it worth it?”

  “Yes. Damn it, Sasha–”

  “I was really scared,” he said, quietly, and Nikita shut up. “The whole time, all the way here. But then I realized that you were scared, too, and I felt a little better. At first, I thought I was scared because everything was new, and I didn’t want to die, and didn’t want to get hurt. And now I think maybe I’m scared for the same reasons you are – because it’s important. Saving Russia is important.”

  Nikita felt himself smile, but knew there was no humor in the expression, only sadness and fondness. “Maybe we want to save Russia because we can’t save ourselves.” Or the people we love, he added, thinking of his mother, of Dima, of these brothers around him who he’d surely lose.

  “Maybe. But Nikita.” Sasha shifted closer, eyes too-bright, vivid blue. “We’re going to win.”

  “Yeah? Why do you think that?”

  “Monsieur Philippe’s been telling me all about wolves, and vampires, and mages.”

  “Has he?”

  “It’s a triangle.” He sketched one in the air with his fingertip. “Mage,” on the bottom left, “wolf,” on the bottom right, “and vampire,” at the top. “The wolf is the right hand, the mage the left. Only a mage can make a wolf, and only a wolf can raise a vampire. It’s a perfect circle.”

  “I thought it was a triangle.”

  Sasha made a face at him. “They’re all very powerful in different ways. They keep each other in check, yes, but when they work together, they are more powerful than anyone can imagine.”

  “So the mage does the fire-starting and the magic tricks. And the wolf is the attack dog. What does the vampire do?”

  Sasha shrugged. “He is the strongest of all.”

  A disturbing thought occurred. “Sasha, what if a
ll Philippe wanted you for was to wake up this vampire – if he even exists?”

  Sasha looked wounded by the idea. “He exists.”

  “Does he?”

  “I exist.” He gave a low growl that wasn’t threatening. Gestured to his own chest. “Why wouldn’t vampires?”

  “You make a good point.”

  “I know he exists,” Sasha said, shaking his head, expression thoughtful. “I just…I met someone, when I was little. Spoke to a fancy man in the woods. I was only little, and I don’t know how, but I could tell he wasn’t ordinary. I’d convinced myself I dreamed it, but then, during the procedure.”

  His eyes came back, intense enough to make Nikita want to shrink down into his coat collar. “When the knife was inside me, when – when the wolf came in – something happened. I could sense…others.”

  “Other wolves?”

  “Some. And maybe something else. Something stronger. It was like I was just me, and then suddenly I was a part of something bigger. Like I got…stitched into a quilt.” He sighed. “I’m not saying it right.”

  “No, you’re saying it fine. I think I know what you mean.”

  “You believe me, then?” He sounded hopeful.

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. “Do you believe me when I say we’re going to win the war?”

  How different he was from the shaking boy who’d boarded the train in Tomsk. How confident. It was contagious. “I want to.”

  “Good. You should.”

  ~*~

  Sleep, Monsieur Philippe had suggested. While they had a roof over their heads, and some residual warmth from the fire, and wolves to keep watch.

  Wolves.

  Werewolves.

  Vampires.

  She couldn’t have slept if she’d wanted to. Even if she tipped back all of Ivan’s vodka.

  She couldn’t process it all. She’d known something about Sasha wasn’t…normal…but to hear it spoken about so plainly. The impossible. As if it were as normal as tea and dirty laundry, and the mud beneath their feet. It astounded her.

  The men snored around her in their bedrolls, dog-tired and dead to the world. In the dim light of the dying fire, she could make out their distinct shapes, all of them a safe distance. One of the wolves slept up near her head, half-curled around her without touching. She could smell its musky, woodsy scent every time she inhaled.

  At another time, it would have terrified her, a hulking wild animal blowing gently against her face as it snored. But now, amid all the other crazy, she found it comforting.

  After a long quiet stretch, in which her mind refused to relax and accept the things she’d learned, she heard the cottage door creak open and then close again. Careful footsteps across the boards. Knew it was Nikita by the sound of his breathing as he lay down behind her, just far enough not to touch, but close because the narrow walls demanded it.

  She listened to the sound of his clothes rustling, little pops and groans as the floor settled. Finally, he let out a deep breath and was still.

  The wolf at her head stood up, circled a few times, and flopped back down with a sigh that gusted warm carrion breath against her face.

  Ivan snored. A log crumbled to ashes on the grate with a quiet little gust.

  She startled hard when Nikita spoke.

  “It gets easier to believe the longer you think about it.”

  When her heartbeat had settled enough not to give her away, she rolled over to face him, wearing what she hoped was an indifferent expression. Moonlight fell in through the window above him, just enough to see the gleam of his eyes, and the shape of his mouth.

  He smiled and she guessed she was more transparent than she thought. “Are you frightened?” he asked.

  “Well.” Her mouth felt dry, cottony. She tried to wet her lips but it didn’t do much good. “It wasn’t a vampire or a werewolf that gutted my father. Raped my sister. Burned down my house.” Raped me, she didn’t say.

  Anger darkened his face. “No. I guess they didn’t.”

  Something about being close to him, about seeing the way his jaw tensed, made her feel less frightened. Less alone. A dangerous sensation, one she doubtless couldn’t trust.

  “I think it’s hard to believe,” she whispered, “because it seems too easy. After everything.”

  “Fairy tale monsters coming in to kill all the Nazis and rescue the Motherland?”

  Yes. Exactly. She shrugged. “Are you so sure they’re monsters at all?”

  He sighed. “I know they’re real. I’ll have to think about the monster part.”

  A yawn snuck up on her; she tried to smother it into her bed roll, but no such luck.

  “Go to sleep,” Nikita said. “The wolves will keep watch.”

  “Not sleepy,” she protested, but her eyes were already closing.

  She dreamed of wolves, and men with fangs…and the Chekist lying beside her.

  20

  DANCING

  Sasha swung wide around the stream, keeping to the trees, the wind in his face concealing his own scent, while bringing to him that of a young stag drinking at the streambed.

  He’d hunted before – and he’d been successful – though now he wasn’t sure how. Now he could hear the squelch of mud beneath hooves; could smell the mustiness of dander as the deer shed his winter coat and the new spring hair pushed through. He swore he could hear the animal’s thoughts, as he crouched in the underbrush with his pack.

  He knew his alpha female was going around to the left, one of his strong beta boys to the right. They would close in –

  Now. The stag threw his head into the air, nostrils testing the air. He snorted, once, and then leapt into the water, plunging across…

  Straight into the heart of the pack.

  He carried no gun. There was no keeping still, holding his breath, lining up his careful shot. It was nothing like hunting had always been. His mind shut itself away. And the wolf came out.

  Cold air in his lungs. Scent in his nose. Ground underfoot. Wind in his hair. Jump, leap, grab, grip. Knife in his hand. Heat and press of his pack around him. Blood on his tongue.

  When he came back to himself, he stood over the steaming body, his pack looking up at him with red, smiling jaws.

  “Good,” he crooned to them, bent down and slung the stag across his shoulders. It didn’t seem to weigh a thing.

  ~*~

  It was a cool day, but sweat trickled down her sides beneath her uniform shirt. She’d folded the sleeves back, and she could see the fine hairs on her arms standing on end. Sweat beaded at her temples, burned at the corners of her eyes. Her palm, though, was dry and sure around the handle of her combat knife, her gaze unwavering as she watched Kolya, turning to keep up with him as he circled her.

  Before the war, before all of this started, she would have fainted at the sight of him. Even now, with months of sniper training under her belt, she felt her stomach tremble with nerves.

  Ivan was the biggest, but Kolya was without question the most threatening. His was a quiet, controlled menace. In his black trousers, and shirtsleeves, and boots, a knife in each hand, watching her from dead, dark eyes not unlike those of their wolves…he looked like he planned to kill her.

  She wasn’t sure he wouldn’t.

  “Now,” he said, and twirled the knife in his right hand. Forward grip. Then reverse. Then forward again. “The thing to remember is: don’t watch the knife, watch the man.”

  She nodded and tightened her hand on her own knife.

  “You’re watching the knife.”

  And she was, damn it, because he kept twirling it, letting the sharp edge catch the light. He was trying to distract her, and it was working.

  “Watch me,” he said, and then lunged toward her.

  Katya jerked back, tripped over her own feet, and promptly fell on her backside in the dirt.

  “Oh,” Pyotr said, concerned.

  Ivan snorted.

  A quick glance at Nikita showed his face to be carefully gu
arded.

  Kolya moved his knives into one hand and held the free one down to her. There was nothing kind in his expression, but he said, “Everyone falls a few times. Get back up.”

  Pride wouldn’t allow her to quit, so she took his hand and let him pull her back up.

  He stepped back and let her compose herself, dust off her pants, wipe the handle of her knife on her shirttail.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  He circled again, and this time she watched him, and not the flashing knife. Watched the way he walked on the balls of his feat, poised and ready. Noted the tension in his spine, and the looseness of his arms. He wasn’t just a fighter, she realized, as she saw the way his calves flexed inside his gaiters, the way he carried himself.

  “You were a dancer,” she said, and knew it was true because he staggered to a sudden, clumsy halt.

  “What?” he asked, flatly, but she saw his pulse beating in the big vein in his throat.

  “You were,” she said. “You move like one.”

  “And what were you? A whore? You move like one,” he shot back.

  “Kolya,” Nikita said.

  But Katya didn’t care. She’d struck a nerve, and she intended to keep plucking at it. “Farmer’s daughter, actually,” she said. “And I only spread my legs when you black-coated bastards forced them open. You can’t be a whore if you don’t get paid.”

  “You could be a bad one.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t have bothered.”

  “It wasn’t me,” he said through his teeth.

  “Just your friends, then.”

  He lunged, but this time she’d been watching him, and she was ready.

  She dodged – only to have him come at her from a different angle. She ducked, backpedaled. She kept her feet, but just barely. He was a dancer, she saw now, and a fine one at that. Lightning-quick and light on his feet, it took every ounce of concentration to watch his body and predict its moves. Inevitably, she forgot all about the knife.