Page 46 of White Wolf

Nikita said, “The mother protested, at first. Her other children had died of typhus, she said, and the girl was all she had left in the world. Her husband was killed outside of Moscow, fighting in the Red Army. ‘My husband died a patriot,’ she said. She was stupid enough tosay that. To say anything at all. Commander Beria hit her with a closed fist.” His own tightened, knuckles cracking.

Sasha could hear his own rough breathing, the way it sawed in and out of his mouth, heard the thump of his pulse deep inside his head, but the others were all quiet. Listening.

“She fell and she didn’t get back up. Commander Beria had his men bring the girl to the apartment he keeps here in the city. They carried her into the bedroom and left her there with him, waited outside in the hall for several hours until he was done.”

His face was blank as he spoke, his voice emotionless. “Maybe she screamed,” he said, “maybe she cried. Maybe she begged. Maybe she called for her mother. Who knows. I wasn’t there.

“Commander Beria likes to play rough,” he said, cold,cold. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to snap the girl’s neck, but in the throes of passion, accidents do happen.”

Sasha flushed hot all over. His breakfast curdled in his stomach. He was angry, he realized. Furious.

“She was seven years-old,” Nikita said. “He stole her, forced himself on her, and snapped her neck.”

He threw a fast jab toward Sasha’s face.

Sasha blocked it. And hit backhard.

“Good,” Nikita said as he parried him. “Again, good.”

Sasha faltered.

“I take orders from a man who rapes children. What do you think of that?” Nikita asked.

And then they slid into the dance.

Jab, block, jab, block,punch. Pain blossomed in his ribs, his arm, his shoulder, and blasted white-hot across his face. But he kept going, digging in closer, faster, angrier, tasting blood from his split lip. He felt his lungs working, his muscles bunching, felt the flex of each tendon in his arms and hands. Nikita was older and stronger, but Sasha was faster, and he pressed that advantage, ducking away from blows and striking back lightning-fast with his own. Nikita stopped telling him that he was “good,” the fight devolving into grunts and quick hisses when something hurt. And it was afight. Sasha’s anger was for Commander Beria, yes, but also for his family, for himself, for having been snatched away from home and brought here to be used as a weapon. Beria was the match to the fuse, but the fury had already been there, brewing steadily since the night Andrei warned him that out of town Chekists had invaded his home.

He dodged a blow that sent Nikita leaning too close, and popped the man right in the mouth with a hard right hook.

Nikita made a surprised sound and staggered sideways, off-balance and struggling not to fall.

A big hand closed on the nape of Sasha’s neck and squeezed, and just like that all fight bled out of him. Rushing out like wine from an uncorked barrel.

“Easy there,” Ivan said, chuckling, giving him a little shake.

Kolya had stepped forward to lend an arm to Nikita. The captain waved him away, but accepted the bit of towel Kolya offered for his bloodied lip. He pressed it to the split and took a visibly shaky breath, other hand pressed to the side of his head.

He hadn’t had breakfast with the rest of them, Sasha remembered, and was flooded with guilt. He hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone, least of all Nikita, who’d promised he wouldn’t be a soldier, who was just as worried and confused by Monsieur Philippe’s plans as Sasha. The secret White working to bring down the Soviets from the inside.

“Oh no,” Sasha murmured.

Ivan chuckled. “He’s alright. Didn’t know your own strength, did you?”

No, he hadn’t, not in relation to inflicting harm on other men. He knew he was capable with a rifle, and a knife, and that he was a nearly unparalleled tracker, that he could set up camp with deft, practiced movements, and that he could pitch a reindeer skin tent that would never leak.

But he hadn’t known that he could hit someone that hard with his fist. The bright crimson flash of blood on Nikita’s mouth as he pulled the towel back was a bucket of icy water down Sasha’s back.

“Oh no,” he repeated.

Nikita heard him this time, gaze flicking over. One corner of his bloodied mouth lifted in a smile. “That was good, Sasha. Well done.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for? You learned something today. You learned that you fight better when you’re angry.”

Sasha reached to push his sweaty hair off his forehead, and saw blood on his wrapped knuckles. He shivered, cold despite the sweat pooling at the small of his back. “Is it true what you said about the commander?”

Nikita’s expression turned grim and he nodded. “Yes.”

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