Page 134 of White Wolf

The small room was crowded with sleeping Chekists and wolves, warm from the combined body heat, a small shelter in a very large, very frightening storm.

Nikita wanted to stay here with them all, and pretend to sleep, but he knew that he – like always – was the captain. The ultimate root of all their troubles. So it was right that he go and try to make it a little easier for all of them by himself.

Katya didn’t wake, but Sasha did, sitting up suddenly against the wall, bright eyes blinking, little blue moons in his face. He started to rise, but Nikita shook his head and made astaymotion.

Sasha studied him a long moment, then nodded.

The base was quiet, but no military installation ever truly slept. He heard the clomp of boots in another hallway. The sound of a door closing. And down below, in the labs, the lights blazed and white-coated assistants whisked back and forth, running tests and talking in hushed, excited voices.

Nikita spotted Philippe coming out of a room – the one where Rasputin was being kept – and he ducked into a lab to avoid being seen. Several of the assistants gave him strange looks, but didn’t comment. Someone had informed them that he was none of their business.

He gave it to the count of ten, then peeked back out and found the hall empty for the moment. He headed down to Rasputin’s door, and it was the dumbest he’d ever felt, sneaking around like a kid up after bedtime. But it was worth the indignity in order to avoid Philippe.

It had been a long time since Nikita had walked down a hallway without his coat, and his rolling, authoritative gait – the one he’d cultivated throughout his years as a Soviet attack dog. It was jarring to walk softly now, up on the balls of his feet, sneaking. But it got the job done.

The door to Rasputin’s room was ajar, and he whirled inside and eased it back without making a sound. Gave himself a moment to catch his breath, because his heart was pounding, he realized, so hard it was making his head throb.

Two small lamps illuminated the room, a soft glow for an uncomfortable patient. Thestaretslay propped on a mound of white pillows, dressed in a hospital gown, covers drawn up to his chest. His hair and beard seemed pools of shadow in the low light, his face drawn and framed with shadows.

Nikita smelled the meal someone had brought him, broth and bread. And the faint, but distinct copper tang of blood.

As he stood at the door, wondering if he should retreat, Rasputin’s eyes opened. It was just as shocking as the first time, when he’d tasted Sasha’s blood.

Eyes that could look right through your soul, Nikita’s mother had said. Everyone had said something like that. From church officials to princesses, everyone who’d ever met the holy man face-to-face talked of the intensity of his gaze.

Rasputin attempted something like a smile. “You’re the captain, yes?” he asked in his croaking voice. He hadn’t spoken in twenty-four years, Nikita realized.

He drew himself upright, forced his body into his official, captain’s posture. “Yes, I’m the captain.”

“Come closer.” Rasputin beckoned with one bony hand. “Let me look at you.”

His skin crawled, but he complied. He didn’t think the sensation was the result of psychic tampering, though, not like with Sasha. There was no little voice in the back of his head telling him to submit. This was just his usual revulsion when it came to this man.

And Rasputin could sense it. His smile widened as Nikita drew up beside the bed. Someone, Nikita noted, had combed the man’s beard and hair.

“You seem troubled, captain,” thestaretssaid, and offered his hand, limp and repulsive.

Nikita stared at it, but couldn’t bring himself to touch it. “Do I?”

Rasputin sighed and brought his hand back to his lap. “A lot has changed since I went to sleep. Philippe says the opposition rose up and took the government. That they killed my dear Nicky and Alix.” He made a choking sound and shook his head, eyes wet. “It’s not even Russia anymore. There is no belief in God anymore.”

“It’s still Russia,” Nikita said. “We’ve just got to get it back from the Bolsheviks.”

Rasputin sighed again. Beneath his gown, his shoulders were sharp points. “Philippe also says you are ambitious.”

“Philippe says a lot of shit.”

Rasputin jerked upright, eyes even wider, startled.

“For instance, he’s been saying for months that you aren’t just a raving, khlyst lunatic, and that waking you up was our best bet for overthrowing the Communists. That between your power, and his, and Sasha’s, we could win this war and take back Russia.”

Rasputin opened his mouth, and Nikita spoke over him.

“I don’t really believe him, but I have to, or else face the fact that the Communists are here to stay. And that’s not tolerable. People are starving. People are getting sent to the gulags every day. Stalin didn’t even have enough men to fight this war when it started because he’d killed or exiled anyone with any sense in the military.” Anger was bleeding into his voice, all the bright rage that he kept locked up tight. “Praying hasn’t gotten us anywhere, so you can spare me the holy man routine. God’s got nothing to do with what’s happening here – this is the devil’s work. So I’m not here for your prayers. I want your power. If you’ve got any.”

Rasputin studied him for a long, unblinking moment. “Philippe said you would be like this.”

“Yeah?”

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