White Wolf

by Lauren Gilley

“We must hurry!” Philippe said, emotion cracking through his façade, finally. Cannibals hadn’t fazed him, but the delay did.

  Nikita ignored him. “Sasha, does he smell dead?” Because like hell was he putting a rotted, putrid corpse in a footlocker and toting it through the bombed out streets.

  Sasha leaned down into the hole and inhaled deeply. He sneezed and made a face. “No. But he smells wrong.”

  “We don’t have time for this!” Philippe burst out. “Open the coffin! Hurry!”

  Ivan gave him an unimpressed look, and turned to Nikita. “Boss?”

  Sasha was looking at him too, almost pleading. Rotten. Wrong. What the hell did that mean? He didn’t know, and his belly squirmed with nerves, but they didn’t have time for a debate now.

  He nodded. “Open it up. We need to move.”

  Sasha gave a snort of obvious distaste and stepped back.

  Ivan and Feliks scraped off the last of the dirt, uncovering the edges of the coffin. Swept the loose bits of soil from the lid.

  “It’s locked,” Feliks said, fingering a padlock crusted with dirt, rusted at the edges.

  Sasha leaned down, took the lock in one hand, and ripped it off, bringing a chunk of rotting coffin lid with it.

  “Okay then,” Feliks said.

  Ivan used the blade of his shovel as a pry bar, put all his bulk and strength behind it. The lid stuck a moment, then gave with a splintering sound, flipping back.

  Nikita braced himself for the stink of decomp, but it didn’t come. He didn’t smell anything, not even when he leaned over the grave and breathed deep. A little dust, a little musty wood. But no stink of death.

  A human-shaped bundle swaddled in moth-eaten linen lay in the coffin, and somehow that was better than having to see the man’s face.

  Sasha let out a rolling, barking snarl that startled Pyotr so bad he fell backward and landed hard in the dirt.

  “Aleksander, that’s enough!” Philippe roared.

  Silence.

  Philippe lifted his head, expression superior. “We don’t have time. We have to leave, and leave now.”

  Sasha stared at him a moment, not blinking, then stepped back from the grave, turning his back to them.

  Nikita was very tempted to throw the old fucker down into the coffin.

  Instead, he said, “Pyotr, help me get the footlocker.”

  Feliks yelped, and Nikita swung his gun toward the shape in the coffin.

  “What?”

  Feliks’s face had gone from white to gray. He looked sick. His hand hovered over the body’s wrapped shoulder. “It…it’s warm.”

  “He is,” Philippe corrected. “And yes, he is, because he’s alive.”

  “God,” Ivan said, as he bent to take the figure’s bound feet in his hands. “Holy fucking shit.”

  Not holy, Nikita thought. Not in the least.

  ~*~

  It was dark out when they reached the dock, the barge’s lanterns burning through the fog, a welcome sign of escape.

  The captain stared at them, goggle-eyed, when they set the footlocker down on the dock.

  “Three hours,” Nikita said, grimly triumphant. “As promised. Now get us the fuck out of here.”

  The captain looked at the locker. “What’s in there?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  The man sighed. “Fair enough. Vanya! Turn us loose, we’re leaving.”

  ~*~

  The fire looked warm and inviting, but Sasha wouldn’t go to it. He felt, with a determination that he knew wasn’t human, that his place was between his pack and the canvas-topped troop transport truck they’d procured, the one in which the footlocker containing Rasputin’s sleeping body rested. He sat on the ground behind the truck, watching his pack as they passed around tins of salted fish, and SPAM, and dried meat, hunks of hard cheese and stale bread. Content, for the moment, to serve as protector and pack alpha.

  They hadn’t dared try to find an inn, or even a generous family willing to take them in. Not given how valuable their cargo was. No one could know what they carried, not until they were back in Stalingrad, safe and sound at the Institute, and Rasputin was awake again.

  Sasha dreaded that moment with every fiber of his being.

  He was still trying to classify what he’d felt when they’d opened the coffin. A surge of revulsion and fear so strong it had turned to anger. He’d wanted to lash out, to feel flesh tear under his fingers, to taste blood in his mouth. Violent impulses that shocked him. And, even worse, an overwhelming urge to duck his head and submit, grovel on his belly, one that felt unnatural and oppressive and just…just…

  He felt too hot under his skin even now. Restless and furious and frightened and so, so confused. Which wasn’t any way for an alpha to feel.

  His initial horror had dulled to something more manageable and blunt, but it wouldn’t go away. As he sat cross-legged in the dirt, he wanted both to take off running through the trees, and to open the footlocker, peel back the linen, and see Rasputin’s face.

  The beast, some detached voice whispered in the back of his mind. Rasputin smelled like dust, and earth, and blood. Maybe all vampires smelled a little of blood the way mages smelled of ash and smoke. But this one smelled…evil. That was the only way he could describe the acrid tang of wrong and rotten and get away that made the hairs stand up on Sasha’s arms.

  He was so consumed by his thoughts that he didn’t notice Pyotr approaching until he was almost on top of him.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” he said, dropping down to sit beside Sasha. He offered over a hunk of bread that had been slit open, toasted over the fire, and stuffed with salty tinned sardines.

  “Thank you.” His stomach was still cramping with nerves, but he made himself eat, choking it down one bite after the next.

  He expected Pyotr to leave, but he stayed, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “What did you smell?”

  Sasha, mouth full, sent him a questioning eyebrow lift.

  “That got you upset. What was it?”

  The memory of Monsieur Philippe’s shout – Aleksander, that’s enough! – sat jagged and painful in the center of his mind, and he flinched away from it, not wanting to answer Pyotr. It hadn’t just been impatience, or fear of bombs or more cannibals; Philippe had known what Sasha smelled, that it wasn’t right or natural. He’d turned Sasha so that he could be this vampire’s right hand – his servant, more or less – and Sasha had hated the smell of him. That sort of infighting would jeopardize the plan, and no one wanted that.

  Sasha huffed a sigh and licked the grease off his fingers. “Nothing.”

  “Sasha.” Pyotr wriggled closer across the pine needles of the forest floor, gaze intense, a little spooked, the fire a twisting curl of brightness in his eyes. “You can sense things we can’t. What did you smell?” It was a frightened plea, and Sasha wasn’t proof against it.

  “I don’t really know,” he admitted, frustration bleeding into his voice. It was a relief to be able to tell someone. “When we got down to the coffin, I could smell that he was a vampire – that he wasn’t human, or wolf, or mage. I could tell – and I don’t even know how – that he drinks blood. But that…I don’t think that’s why it was so awful. There’s something else. Something that makes me feel…violent.”

  Pyotr breathed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, we noticed.”

  “I don’t know if all wolves feel that way about all vampires. I’ve never met one before.” He shrugged.

  “Or maybe,” Pyotr said, hesitant. “Maybe it’s like when a dog decides he doesn’t like someone, but no one knows why. Maybe it’s that.”

  “Maybe. What then?”

  Pyotr shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  But Sasha knew. He would have to swallow any violent impulses for the good of the cause. Of the country. Try to get past it.

  It was an unpleasant train of thought, one that kept him twisting inside long after the others laid out their bedrolls and settled in to
try and catch some sleep. It was a warm night, muggy, air thick with mosquitoes. Sasha offered to keep first watch and sat at the back of the truck, his wolves ranged around him, some sleeping, some keeping watch with him.

  He smiled to himself when Nikita and Katya slipped off into the trees, probably thinking they were being stealthy. They didn’t go far, so he didn’t worry too much.

  It was quiet, eerily so, no sounds save the buzzing of insects, so he thought later, in hindsight, that he should have expected some sort of disturbance. He just didn’t think it would be of the astral projection variety.

  His alpha female growled once, and then Val stood before him, fair hair glowing faintly in the moonlight, catching on the sharp points of his teeth when he smiled. As usual, there was no scent whatsoever.

  “Hello, Sasha.”

  Sasha was proud of the fact that he didn’t startle. Outwardly. “Hello, Val.”

  “Dug the old creep up, I see.”

  Sasha snorted…and then straightened. “Did you ever meet him?” He had no idea if the vampire prince was friend or foe, but he undoubtedly knew more than Sasha did about the immortal starets.

  “Who, me? No. You forget I’ve been locked up for ages. But I’ve seen and heard some things. None of them pleasant.”

  “You didn’t ever visit him like you do me?”

  Val made a dismissive sound in his throat. “I’m bored out of my mind, but I’m not insane. There’s no such thing as conversation with that one.” He tilted his head toward the truck. “Raving lunatic.”

  This wasn’t helping with Sasha’s mounting worry. “Well that’s…not comforting.”

  Val smiled again, wicked and charming all at once. “Yes, well, as I understand it, those who didn’t find him quite comforting found him terrifying.”

  “Because he was a vampire?”

  “Because he’s damn unsettling. Just look at his face.”

  “I haven’t.” But his heart lurched thinking about it. That strange urge again: he had to lay eyes on the man. Vampire. Whatever he was.

  “Ah, but you want to.” Val paced around him slowly, moonlight working to his advantage, revealing more and more of his smiling face. Sasha had the vague thought that he was showy, self-aware in a way that no one he’d ever encountered had been. “Understandable. The man’s become a part of Russian folklore. Is he the holy man? The political advisor? The depraved sex demon? The seducer of the tsarina? Maybe he’s all of those, and maybe he’s none.” He chuckled. “Who could resist a peek?”

  “I hate him,” Sasha said, surprising himself.

  Val nodded. “Sometimes it’s like that. Just because a mother wolf suckled Romulus and Remus willingly, out of love, doesn’t mean all wolves feel that way about all vampires. Though I’m sure our good Philippe has told you as much.”

  “I…” Sasha bit his tongue. He shouldn’t be having this conversation; it was disloyal to the others, and he had no proof that anything Val said was worth listening to. But he was just so…frank about it all. So much more appealing in his explanations than Philippe’s there there, you’re just a boy approach.

  Val smoothed his long, pale hair with a long, pale hand and settled on the ground beside Sasha. For a moment Sasha worried for his fine clothes, but then remembered that he wasn’t actually here in corporeal form.

  “He doesn’t want you to look, does he?” he guessed. “Afraid you’ll accidently wake the bastard up?”

  “Yes.”

  “You understand that’s not something you can accidently do, right?”

  “I…it’s not?”

  Val sighed. “You have to cut yourself and offer some of your blood. There’s a whole invocation in Latin, very tedious. And even if you did wake him up, he’ll be weak as a kitten and not able to harm anyone. He’ll have to be spoon fed for weeks.”

  “Really?” Sasha felt his brows leap. He’d feared, from the moment Philippe had started talking of waking, that Rasputin would leap up off the table and grab someone by the throat. But what Val said made sense. Someone sickly and healing would doubtless need bed rest, and food, plenty of time to gather his strength.

  Val smiled at him, up close, gleaming white fangs. “Shall we have a look?”

  Sasha got to his feet.

  ~*~

  Nikita knew, long before he lay down in his bedroll, that sleep wasn’t going to come tonight. Not quickly, at least. He’d managed to choke down a little dinner, fighting nausea every bite, and it eased the strain in his belly, but couldn’t dispel the nervous tension thrumming beneath his skin. As the others settled around him, and Ivan began to snore, he kept hearing Philippe’s furious, terrified shouts; heard Sasha’s awful snarling; heard Katya’s shocked gasp as a cannibal tackled her; and above all, he remembered the wail of the air raid siren. His ears still needed to pop.

  Beside him, he could see Katya’s huddled shape outlined by the dying fire. He could tell she wasn’t anywhere close to being asleep because she kept twitching, and suddenly, he needed to make sure she was unharmed. Not just with a question, like he’d asked earlier, but with his own eyes and hands. Had she been bitten, scratched? Bruised? He felt vulnerable and needy, desperate to know.

  She flinched when he first touched her, but then relaxed, remembering it was him.

  He leaned in close, so he could whisper in her ear, her hair tickling his face. “Come take a walk with me.”

  She nodded, and wordlessly slid from her bedroll. When they were both standing, he took her hand and led her off a ways through the trees. He glanced back, once, and saw Sasha sitting vigil behind the truck. The boy smiled at him.

  Katya surprised him. The second they were out of view of the others, she slumped against his side, grabbing at his shirt.

  “Oh. Hey.” He turned so he could pull her flush against him, wrap both arms around her. She pressed her face into his chest with a small, pained sound. “It’s alright.” He smoothed a hand down her disheveled braids and felt helpless; he couldn’t offer her anything besides a little body heat and some empty reassurances.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked. His heart throbbed. He wanted to bundle her up like a child and carry her somewhere safe. “Katya. Sweetheart.”

  She trembled a long moment, hands knotted in the back of his shirt, his chest growing warm and damp where she hid her tears. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, sniffling, pulling back a fraction. “I’m alright.”

  Her hands loosened, and he knew she meant to wipe her tears, so he did it for her, smoothing his thumb carefully across the soft skin beneath her eyes.

  Her gaze lifted, wide and watery, a little embarrassed, and full of an emotion he didn’t dare try to name. Vulnerable as spring flowers in the moonlight.

  “What are you sorry for?” he asked.

  She offered a thin, sad smile. “I cried all over your shirt.”

  “It wasn’t a clean shirt.”

  Her smile widened and she finally let go of him – a small but painful loss – so she could smooth her hand across the damp fabric over his heart. “Still. Sorry.”

  He cupped her face, while his thumb was still wet with her tears. “Are you really alright, though? Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He smoothed his hands down her arms, chasing the fine tremors that coursed through her, brows lifted in silent question.

  She sighed and leaned in again, temple resting against his shoulder. “I was scared,” she admitted, voice heavy with shame.

  He rubbed her back. “I was too. But you didn’t show it. That was good shooting.”

  “Being scared isn’t an excuse for bad shooting,” she said, scandalized, and he chuckled.

  “No, I guess it’s not.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out in a warm rush against his shirt, the tension finally bleeding out of her. “God,” she murmured, dazed-sounding. “I keep thinking cannibals, and then I think that’s probably not the most awful thing I’m going to see.”

  “I know.” He ha
d a bad feeling the thing they were taking south in the back of the truck was much, much worse than anything in Leningrad.

  In the glow of moonlight, he could just make out her face, pale and fragile-seeming in the dark, her lashes long against her cheeks. And he didn’t want to think of Rasputin or the poor wretches they’d killed that day.

  “Katya.”

  She heard the change in his tone, lifted her face, gaze searching his.

  They met halfway, lips already parted and open, wanting. A kiss to chase the fear away. One that slid quickly into something deeper, hotter, the searching kind of kiss that made his heart race. He wanted to pick her up and lay her down on the forest floor, open her clothes and sink into her, feel the bite of her nails in his skin, lose himself in the quiet sounds she made.

  But he couldn’t, not now.

  She gave a quiet, strained laugh when he pulled back. “I knew you were going to do that.”

  “We can’t.” But he ached, because he wanted to.

  “I know, I know.”

  He rested his forehead against hers and they breathed in the warm air between them, taking small, fleeting comfort in body heat and mutual longing.

  “Do you–” she started.

  The bell in his pocket rang.

  ~*~

  It was cave-dark in the back of the truck, but Sasha could see a little, with his wolf eyes. His four-legged pack stood or sat at attention on the ground below, strained and waiting. Sasha knelt on one side of the footlocker, Val on the other. Even though he wasn’t truly there, Sasha was glad of his company.

  “Good God, is he folded up in there?” Val asked, sounding almost delighted.

  “We, uh, had to bend his legs, a little. But we didn’t break them.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Sasha opened the lock with the key – he’d lifted it neatly from Nikita’s satchel – and then carefully eased the footlocker open. He bit down hard on the urge to snarl as the scent flooded his nostrils: old, blood, wrong, dark.

  “Why does he smell like this?” he asked through his teeth.

  Val shuffled around so he could look inside the box, shoulder-to-shoulder with Sasha. “Like what?”