Page 35 of White Wolf
~*~
It was half-fable, half-anti-Bolshevik dream. And apparently it was true. It went like this:
Philippe Nazier-Vachot was introduced to the last tsar and tsarina of Russia by the royal couple’s close friends, the Montenegrin sisters Militsa and Stana: the Black Crows.
“What beautiful, good-hearted young people they were,” he said, smile turning faraway and dreamy. He didn’t look at the gun as he spoke, instead passed his gaze around the group, meeting each man’s eyes, a storyteller with a talent for drawing in his audience. The radiator hummed and Sasha imagined its heat was that of a bonfire, that they were victorious hunters settled in for the night, on seats of felled logs, their dogs sleeping and licking at reindeer bones at their feet. “Brave, ambitious Nicholas. And dear sweet Alix, so fragile, but so gracious. I could never repay the sisters for introducing me to them. It was a gift to know them.”
Nikita snorted.
For the first time, Philippe’s voice took on an edge of anger. “Didyouever meet them? Or were you a child who heard stories of them at your mother’s teat?”
“Keep going.”
“Fine. I loved the Romanovs. That was never a secret. I thought of them as my own family. I wanted to help them in any way I could.” He drained the last of his tea and leaned down to set the cup on the floor. “Let me explain.
“The problem with leadership is that not all men wear it the same way. On some it’s too tight, on others too loose. Nicky wore it cautiously. He was young, and not ready to lose his father. Because he was nervous he tried harder than most – but there was always doubt in the back of his mind. He always questioned himself. Not openly; a tsar can’t beseendoubting.
“He needed an heir, and he needed a trusted advisor who could help him with matters of state. Militsa knew of my experience, and introduced us.”
“Experience?” Kolya asked, skeptically.
“With psychic fluids and astral forces. Communicating with the dead through séance and meditation. Predictions, foresight – that sort of thing.”
Ivan coughed a single, hard laugh.
“Do you doubt me?” Philippe asked. “I can also do this.” He lifted a hand, palm held out flat – and a flame leapt to life from its center.
“Holy Jesus,” Ivan breathed.
Feliks fell off the sofa.
Pyotr crossed himself, murmuring prayers under his breath.
Nikita said, “How are you doing that?”
The flame was discreet, a twisting tongue of orange-and-yellow that danced in the air above Philippe’s hand. Sasha couldn’t look away – and he couldn’t see any oil, or a spark, a match, a flint. Nothing. Just skin…and fire.
He tapped at his temple, his grin sly. “I wanted the fire to exist, and I made it so.”
“Ivan,” Nikita said.
The big man closed the distance to the couch and swiped at the flame with one of his giant paw hands. “Shit!” he hissed, and snatched back. “It’s real!”
“Of course it’s real,” Philippe said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell your captain.”
Nikita said, “Your magic is what got the tsar killed.”
“No. The Bolsheviks killed him. The same Bolsheviks you pretend to serve until your moment for revenge comes.” He tipped his head to the side, imploring. “We want the same things, Captain Baskin. I promise you that. It’s time for the Whites to take their country back.”
“In the middle of the war?”
“While the iron is hot.” He closed his hand, and the flame disappeared with a quietpop.
Slowly, with obvious reluctance, Nikita holstered his gun.
~*~
He rinsed out the teacups and filled them to the brim with vodka. Stuck three cigarettes in his mouth and lit them all at once. Sat down at the table beneath the glare of its overhead bare bulb and passed the drinks and smokes to Kolya and Monsieur Philippe, taking a hard drag and a sip of his own to bolster his nerves.
