Page 162 of White Wolf
“Sasha,” Nikita said.
The wolves started to whine. The alpha female nosed his hand.
“Something’s not…” he started.
At the head of their procession, now in the middle of the clearing, Rasputin turned to face him, too, as did Philippe at his side. It was in their faces, that wrongness. Rasputin swept his black cloak tighter around his shoulders, and even from a distance, Sasha could feel the relentless heat of his gaze, his gray eyes sparkling like ice.
“…right,” he finished, and the air left his lungs in a puff of vapor.
He could smell it now, that thing he’d been chasing for miles, that thing that wasn’t Germans, or tanks, or gun oil, or corpse flesh.
It was bloodlust. And murder.
“I…”
Pain lanced through his head, a jagged strike that felt like it cleaved his brain in two. His vision went white and he clapped his hands to his head. He heard the animal sound he made as if from a distance, his whole awareness swallowed up by the pain.
Submit, submit, submit.
A vision was given to him, then, one of decadent parlors, palatial estates; of hands stroking his hair and telling him he was a good boy; beautiful women brought to him, the finest foods and wines; a master, a whole order of them, with blood and praise on their lips. A vision of belonging. Of tearing the throats from his friends and being rewarded for it.
The world will be ours, Philippe’s voice said amidst the pain.
And Rasputin:submit, submit, SUBMIT.
Sasha clenched his teeth, and shut his eyes, and fell to his knees, face pressed into the snow.
A vision of fangs in his throat, of vampires growing strong off his blood.
He fought it, and the pain was terrible. Someone screamed his name, but he couldn’t respond, couldn’t move. Saliva filled his mouth, and he thought he’d be sick.
A vision of a shaggy white wolf, larger than all the others, leading his pack against black-clad humans who screamed, and fell, and went to bloody ribbons under his fangs. That was wolf-him, he understood.
Submit. Change. Kill.
No, he thought furiously,no, no, no–
A bell started to ring.
“Oh, dear,” a familiar, cultured voice said above him. “You’re not really going to let them get away with this, are you?”
He bit his own tongue and tasted blood. No. No, he was not.
~*~
The bell came to life in Nikita’s pocket, and Rasputin’s gaze snapped around, searching for it.
Dark forces, indeed.
“Captain,” Philippe said, and Nikita felt the first touch of calmness steal over his edges, enchantment trying to quell his mounting panic.
He shook it off with a firm mental shake and drew his gun.
Katya grabbed at her rifle and Nikita stepped between her and the immortals. “No, run,” he told her.
“But–”
“Run, damn it! Get to the trees. They can’t take all of us at once.”
