Page 44 of White Wolf
He didn’t have to ask for clarification.
Walking toward them, flanked by two of his favorite lackeys, was Commander Beria.
Nikita’s stomach grabbed, and a throbbing headache started up behind his eyes. Hereallyshould have had breakfast.
Beria spotted him with a chilly smile and changed course, coming right toward them.
Nikita angled his shoulder in front of Pyotr, drew up to a halt with his arm cocked in a way that slanted his elbow across the boy’s front, a makeshift shield. Pyotr was eighteen, but he looked younger. He looked –
“Captain,” Beria greeted.
“Commander.”
Pyotr pressed up close behind him, close enough for Nikita to feel his full-body shiver and know it had nothing to do with the cold.
“I saw Dyomin and Bashanov before,” Beria said. “With your new recruit.”
“Oh, you must mean Sasha,” Philippe said, injecting himself into the conversation with a guileless, beaming smile. The moment he started speaking, Nikita felt a sudden flowering of calm inside himself, a soft lavender ointment smoothing across all his tattered nerves. Pyotr stopped shivering, a long, deep sigh leaving his lungs, rushing against the back of Nikita’s neck.It’s okay, he thought.We’re fine. And he had no idea why he would think such things in front of the Commander, around whom nothing waseverfine.
Beria blinked, surprised. “Who are you?”
“Monsieur Philippe. Very pleased to meet you.” He boldly took one of Beria’s hands between both of his, the same way he’d done to Nikita, and his men, and Sasha upon meeting all of them. “And you must be Commander Beria. I’ve heard such wonderful things about you from theVozhd.”
Nikita found his tongue again, the sense of calm pumping through him, flooding his veins. “We’re helping Monsieur Philippe with a new kind of weapon. Top secret. Stalin’s orders.”
Beria looked between him and the magician, gaze troubled. His usual coy, threatening attitude had abandoned him, and he seemed only confused. Worried, even.
“Well,” he said, finally. “Alright.”
“Good afternoon,” Philippe told him, and started off down the sidewalk again.
Nikita nodded to his commander and moved to follow –
But Beria’s hand curled around his elbow, pulled him up short.
He still seemed confused, and frightened now, too, struggling with whatever spell of emotion or doubt had overtaken him. “What are you up to, Nikita?” he hissed. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”
It took every ounce of self-control not to rip his arm out of the man’s baby-raping hold. A fresh wave of confidence filled him, heating him from the inside. “You’ll have to take that up with Stalin,” he said, simply, and this time Beria let him go.
When they were well away, he risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Beria was staring after them, frowning.
Pyotr whimpered, part-distress and part-relief.
“It’s alright,” Nikita told him, gripping him briefly by the back of the neck and squeezing. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
Ahead of them, Philippe walked with cheerful, bouncy strides, fur hat bobbing along.
“Monsieur,” Nikita said. The sense of calm was fading now, replaced by his usual drained, queasy disquiet. The old man had worked some magic on them, then. In this instance, Nikita couldn’t say he minded. “Do you know who that was?”
“Oh, yes. Don’t worry, though. I had a peek at his future, and I can promise you it doesn’t end well for him.”
A cold comfort, given the man’s reputation. “What about our futures?”
“Are you sure you want to know about those?”
He glanced over at Pyotr, walking with his head down, eyes trained on the dirty snow. “No,” he decided. “I guess not.”
~*~
