Page 101 of White Wolf

But she felt hollow with disappointment.

And she hated herself a little for the reason why.

It was full-dark now, the fire roaring, merry and hot. Its light bathed Ivan and Feliks’s faces as they played cards. Ivan’s smile twitched every so often, and he reached for his canteen. It had to be almost empty by now – she knew he’d brought three, and that this was the third. His gunshot wound needed looking at by a doctor – another reason to be glad they were going back.

Nikita sat away from the fire, on his spread-out bedroll, leaning back against a tree trunk. He stared down at his cupped palms, and she had a feeling it was the bell he’d shown her earlier.

She spared a glance for the others, but Sasha was curled up asleep with his wolves and Monsieur Philippe was telling Pyotr some story that had turned the boy’s eyes round and wide. Kolya was sharpening his knives – it was a loving compulsion, she’d come to realize.

Everyone was preoccupied, and no one would pay them any attention. She crossed the distance and sank down beside Nikita. There was just enough tree trunk left to rest the flat of her right shoulder blade against it.

Itwasthe bell he held, and he made no move to close his hand around it, acknowledging her presence with a low hum that struck her as both welcoming and affectionate.

“Still stuck on that ugly old thing?” she asked.

He nudged it around in his palm with his thumb. There was just enough firelight to see the shape of it, a darker shadow against the dim backdrop of his hand. “My mother gave it to me,” he said, softly, and she was coming to learn that his mother was the only person he’d had before his few friends had come into his life.

“Oh. It’s special, then.” She laid her hand on his knee and he shifted, just a little, moving into the touch.

His voice dropped another notch. “It wasn’t hers, originally. It belonged to the tsarina. It was a gift from Monsieur Philippe.”

“Damn,” she said, shocked. “Really?” Her eyes darted across the camp toward the old Frenchman. He punctuated his story with a dramatic hand gesture, red-orange sparks flying from the ends of his fingers. If he could hear their conversation – and damn the old mystic, he probably could – he gave no indication.

“Yes,” he said. “It…the thing about the dark forces. That was what Philippe told Alexandra, when he gave it to her.” He shrugged. “I never thought it was real. Not after…”

The downfall, the assassination. Everything.

“But it rang today,” she reasoned, wracking her brain for a potential cause. Once upon a time she would have laughed at the idea of the supernatural. But now. Well.

“I’d blame it on the old man, but it hasn’t stirred so far,” Nikita said.

“And not Sasha, either.”

“No.”

“Dark forces? What does that even mean?”

He shrugged and lifted his head, expression tense with thought. “Something darker than a mage or werewolf, I guess.”

“Hmm.”

With a sigh and one last speculative look at the thing, Nikita slipped it back in his pocket. “I guess you’ll be glad to go back to base.” He gave her another glance, this one more guarded, careful.

He’d seemed so cold when she met him, and now that seemed like an impossible impression. Even when he schooled his features, there were little tells: the notch between his brows, the way the lines deepened alongside his mouth, the quirk of an eyebrow. Things you had to look for, and most people, she figured, would be so put off by his flat stare that they wouldn’t take the time to search.

She saw them now, though, even in the near-dark. Felt a surge of fondness for him. “Being clean sounds heavenly.”

He released a little breath and nodded, his face relaxing. “God, yes. We all stink.”

She chuckled. “Yes.”

He glanced toward the fire, and the rest of his men. “We’re not really made for the wilderness. But.”

She waited a beat, to see if he would elaborate. She thought she understood, so when he didn’t, she said, “But it’s sort of peaceful out here.”

He nodded. “Except for the occasional Nazi.”

“Except for that.”

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