Page 21 of White Wolf

He started forward.

“Sasha, wait–” Andrei said, hurrying toward him.

But Sasha’s legs were longer. He left the sled behind and mounted the front steps in a few strides, let himself soundlessly into the front door.

The inside of their house was homely and cozy, two-story, the walls and floors and ceilings all made of wide wooden planks stained from time and wear, deep brown, and their surfaces almost soft to the touch, polished smooth by the brush of boots, and hands, and his mother’s broom. They rarely used the front door, always entering through the kitchen, so the front room was empty and silent save the faint crackle of the logs in the grate. His father kept fires burning in all the rooms this time of year. Sasha looked beyond their simple, comfortable furnishings to the doorway that led into the kitchen, just beyond the staircase. He could hear the low din of multiple voices, the scuff of too-many feet.

His pulse pounded in his ears, throbbed strongly in his throat so that it was hard to swallow.

His mother would tan him for tracking snow across her clean floors.

But his mother was in the kitchen with thesecret policeright now, so he thought she’d forgive him this time.

He crossed the room up on his toes, silent, and pressed himself flat to the door casing when he reached it. Straining, listening.

He was met with silence. His own heartbeat. Quick, nervous breaths that could have been his own, or could have been his mother’s.

A stranger’s voice said, “Your son’s here, I think.”

A big hand darted around the casement and grabbed a fistful of his jacket.

“Hey!”

The hand dragged him like he weighed nothing into the room, and when he got a look at the man it belonged to, he felt the blood drain out of his face. He was huge. Tall and broad and bull-like. Dressed in a long black leather coat and a black fur hat embroidered with the hammer and sickle. He grinned, flashing a gap between his two front teeth.

He was amonster. All thoughts of throwing a punch at him flew straight out of Sasha’s head. He dangled like a doll, gaping.

“Ooh, look at him,” the man said with a laugh. “Skinny and pretty as a girl.”

“Ivan,” one of the others scolded. “Don’t break him.”

Sasha glanced wildly across the room – there were his parents, huddled together at the table, pale-faced but unharmed – toward the speaker. He was dressed the same, though more normally proportioned. A few years older than Sasha, dark-haired, snowflakes melting on his jacket, his eyes hard and blue-gray. His face was handsome, but cruel. Shut up like a summer dacha, revealing nothing.

“No, please, not that,” someone else said.

This voice belonged to a squat older man with a salt-and-pepper beard and oddly kind, sparkling eyes. He nudged between two of the black-coated men and walked toward Sasha –smiling.

His coat was a patchwork of pelts, his hat gray wolf fur. His clothes were not the all-black of a Chekist, but formal and stiff, the dated clothes of a gentleman from the days of the empire.

The big man – Ivan – set Sasha back on his feet, but didn’t let go of his jacket. Sasha caught a glimpse of his mother’s face, her damp eyes and trembling lower lip, and thought better of snatching out of the man’s grip.

“You must be Sasha,” the smiling man said, drawing up in front of him. He captured one of Sasha’s hands between both of his; his palms were smooth, soft, warm. It was unsettling to Sasha, in his world of cracked dry skin and hard-work calluses. “My name is Philippe. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Uh…” Sasha said.

Philippetsked and glanced around the room. “Captain, your men are intimidating the poor boy. Give him some space.”

The man with the cold gray eyes stared at Philippe, expressionless, muscle in his cheek twitching. Then he nodded to his men and they all stepped back toward the wall.

A bit of the tension in Sasha’s belly released. For the moment.

“Now,” Philippe said, turning back to him, beaming. “I think you’re probably wondering what we’re all doing in your home, yes? And you have many questions, I assume. Don’t worry.” He patted the back of Sasha’s hand. “I’ll explain everything.”

~*~

Mama had made stew: rabbit with thick-sliced turnips and potatoes, flavored with a little wine. Under the weighty gazes of the men, she served up bowls of it with slices of buttered bread, more generous with the portions than she normally would have been, not wanting to displease them.

Sasha’s heart felt like it might burst out of his chest, its rhythm frantic with anxiety.

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