Page 141 of White Wolf
Sasha nodded.
“But I think if he’d ever met any of them, he would have been disappointed to find out they were just people, like him, who made bad decisions, and doubted themselves. Who killed, and fucked, and laughed at bad jokes.” He quirked a small, melancholy smile. “He probably would have hated Tsar Nicholas, if he’d known him. The kindest autocrat in the world is still an autocrat. Do you understand?”
“I think so. Yeah.” And he felt a little better.
30
LITTLE LADIES
Stalingrad was a city untouched by the Germans, so far. It sat, proud and whole, on the banks of the Volga, its white buildings reflecting the summer sun across the water, turning its surface to diamonds. The tractor factory worked round the clock, its stacks belching smoke into cloudless, hazy blue steppe sky, and its workers came and went in shifts, faces lined with exhaustion. But it was a city with tidy, bustling houses, where the trees stood intact, where there was still car and truck and foot traffic on the roadways. The promise of war simmered just below the surface, in every nervous dart of a mother’s eyes, in every muffled clang from the factory. But after Leningrad and Moscow, it seemed an exotic land of plenty.
Nikita spotted the anti-tank trenches already being dug on their way in, the barriers that would be dragged across the road. The fresh-faced uniformed soldiers who looked like babies as they unloaded crates of landmines.
War was coming, and the Red Army was trying to pull off another miracle.
The truck from the Institute let them out in the business district, and Nikita hated watching it rumble off and disappear into traffic. Now they were stuck here for the time being. With Rasputin.
They’d dressed him in army greens like Katya’s, short boots and gaiters, and crammed a hat down on his head. A poor disguise, but less conspicuous than what he’d wanted to wear. He’d asked for glossy boots and a Russian shirt like he’d worn in his time, and had grown emotional when they’d told him no. Whether for joy or despair, the man was always near tears.
“Oh,” he said now, turning in a circle, gaze sweeping their surroundings. “I’ve never seen this place. It looks so different.”
“A modern city, to be sure,” Philippe said, and laid what looked like a casual hand on his arm; Nikita saw the mage pinch his shirtsleeve between thumb and forefinger, a guiding touch like a mother would use with a child who might run off into the street. “Should we find some place to eat?”
Pyotr scouted ahead and found them a quiet corner of a café. Well away from the windows, under a dim lightbulb that needed changing. That put Rasputin in the corner, and the tired-looking waitress didn’t look at him twice when she came to take their order of coffee and whatever sort of spread the kitchen could pull together for such a large group.
“Let’s get some wine,” Rasputin said when she was gone, voice eager. “I haven’t had any since I woke.”
Nikita frowned. “No.”
“But I want some.”
Philippe smiled and patted the back of his hand. “You’re still building your strength back up, Grisha. You probably shouldn’t drink.”
In another situation, Nikita would have found Rasputin’s dramatic frown comical. “Wine can’t hurt me. I’m–”
“Yes, yes, you are,” Philippe said in a rush to keep him from finishing his sentence. His smile was strained. “But still. I’m not sure it would be wise just now.”
Rasputin shook Philippe’s hand off his own like it was a fly, and slapped his palm down hard on the table.
Katya jumped.
“You think you’re wiser than me?” Rasputin asked Philippe, angry now, eyes flashing. “Is that it? Do you, who’ve met me only once before, think you know what I should and shouldn’t have?”
There was a more sinister undertone there, too. Rasputin was the vampire. The master. Shouldn’t he be in charge?
Nikita darted a sideways glance to Sasha, who sat white-faced and staring down at his hands, fingers twitching.
“Of course not,” Philippe said, smooth and soothing. “We’ll ask the waitress.”
Rasputin heaved a deep sigh and looked contrite. “I’m sorry, my dear Philippe. I’m still weak, and it makes me grumpy and foolish.”
“That’s quite alright. Miss?” The waitress had returned with cups half-full of coffee. He smiled at her with a play at genuine warmth. “Might we get a bottle of wine?”
She looked surprised – but only a moment. Then a blank sort of calmness came over her. Rasputin stared at her, and Nikita’s skin crawled; which one of them, he wondered, was compelling her at the moment?
“I’ll see if we have any,” she said, and rushed off.
“They won’t have wine,” Feliks said with a snort. “Nobody but Stalin’s got wine these days. It’s just rotgut and vodka.”
