Page 18 of White Wolf

His dark eyes lifted a moment, expressionless, touching Nikita as he approached and then falling back to the knife. They missed nothing, those eyes.

“You should eat something,” he said as Nikita sat down across from him. “You don’t want to pass out in front of the old man.”

Nikita frowned. “That hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“It happened a month ago. And if Dima hadn’t caught you, you would have bashed your head on the cobblestones.” He made a face when Nikita recoiled at mention of Dmitri. “I’m sorry,” he said, quieter. “I don’t mean to keep bringing him up.”

“No one does.” Nikita looked toward the window, swallowing with difficulty. He was starting to really hate Siberia; every time he tried to search out something beyond the train to occupy his thoughts, he was met by nothing but white. A blank canvas on which to project his hurt and doubt.

“You should eat, though,” Kolya pressed. Implacable as a mother. Dima had always been the one to press a heel of bread into his palm, look at him sternly and demand that he eat. It made sense that one of the others would assume the role in Dmitri’s absence, and it made more sense that that person would be Kolya. “I hid some of the pirozhki from Ivan.” He flipped open his satchel and revealed a few pastries wrapped in greasy newspaper. “A little stale, but good still.”

When Nikita reached to take one, dizziness pulled him sideways. Yes, he needed to eat, even though he wasn’t hungry.

The pirozhkiwasstale, the pastry crumbling on his tongue, the meat cold and congealed in the center. He almost gagged on the first swallow.

Smooth as the glide of his blades, Kolya moved in, distracting him from the chore. “What does he really want? The old man?” His eyes lifted, brows raised, hand still making passes with the whetstone.

Nikita swallowed, and said, “To help himself. I have no idea what sort of story he spun to Stalin, but I’m sure he was convincing. He’s theatrical,” he said with a grimace. “You should have seen him in the major general’s office.” He tried to mimic the man’s expansive hand gestures, slinging crumbs.

“Eat,” Kolya said. Then: “He doesn’t fool you, though.”

Nikita snorted around a mouthful. “Nor you. But flattery always works on despots.”

He murmured an agreeing sound and tucked the stone away, held his knife up to the window and peered down the length of the blade with one eye closed. Sunlight winked across the steel. “Your mother used to tell stories,” he said, tone deceptively casual.

“Lots of stories.”

“There aren’t too many Philippes left in Russia, my friend.”

“No,” Nikita agreed. “I don’t guess there are.”

~*~

It was hardest being around Pyotr, and Nikita felt guilty about that. Dmitri would have wanted his oldest friend to look after his little brother in his absence, but Nikita looked at the boy – and hewasjust a boy, too young for this, still wide-eyed and tender-hearted – and he saw Dima’s face, and kind words turned sour on his tongue, left his mouth as orders and dismissals. It should have been Dima here now, and not Pyotr. Dima who would have looked at Philippe andknown, who would have stayed up late, bitching and drinking and plotting and reminding Nikita to eat something.

It was full dark now, the lamps guttering and insufficient, Pyotr’s face a shiny-eyed echo of his dead brother’s in the shadows. He leaned in close, shoulder pressing into Nikita’s as he craned his neck for a glimpse of the sleeping Philippe two seats ahead. “What do you think?” he whispered, breath warm and sour against Nikita’s cheek. “Is he who he says he is?”

Young, yes, but not an idiot. That was good.

“An old man who’s swayed Stalin? Yes, I think he is that,” Nikita whispered back. “Beyond that, I don’t know.” He suspected, but he wasn’t going to burden Pyotr with his fanciful suspicions.

“But,” Pyotr said, frustrated. “Whatkindof weapon? And why does he need amanto make it?”

Nikita shrugged. “Men make all weapons. Maybe,” he said, feeling a grin tug unbidden at his lips, “it’s a great bear trap made only in Siberia, huh? One big enough to snap shut on a German panzer.”

In the dim light, Pyotr wrinkled his nose.

Nikita chuckled. “It isn’t for us to question,bratishka. We go where we’re told, do what we’re told. Yeah?”

Pyotr flopped back in his seat with a sigh. “Yeah.”

Inwardly, the boy’s disquiet delighted Nikita. Whatever Philippe was up to, it wasn’tgood. Nikita like knowing the boy had his older brother’s instincts.

The train lurched, suddenly. Tossed them forward. There was a terrible squeal, a clacking, clanging, a thump as someone fell out of his seat.

“Fucking hell!” Feliks shouted, finally awake.

Ivan and Kolya made startled sounds as the train came to a screeching, teeth-rattling halt, that slow-grinding deceleration that was as fast as an engineer could lock down a rig this long.

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