Page 57 of White Wolf

In the lab, Dr. Ingraham and a host of lab coat-wearing assistants bustled around the large room, wheeling carts that Nikita guessed held medical equipment: IV drips on poles, stacks of gauze, rolls of bandages. He saw the gleam of a hypodermic needle and then sought out Monsieur Philippe.

The man was without his fur coat at the moment, and looked smaller and frailer than normal – which was considerable already. He had narrow, stooped shoulders, thin arms and legs, and a little pot belly. In trousers and shirt-sleeves, he looked like someone’s grandfather, and nothing like a powerful sorcerer.

He looked up as Nikita approached. “Good morning, Captain. Sleep well?”

“What’s going on?”

Unperturbed, Philippe said, “We’re readying the lab. In a moment, I’ll dismiss Dr. Ingraham and all his silly medical supplies and we’ll begin.”

Nikita felt a cold smile touch his mouth. “You wanted his lab. You got it, and now you’re going to enchant him away.”

Philippe shrugged and folded back his sleeves. “I needed a secure location off the beaten path. Enchanting a few Americans into cooperation is the least of our problems today.”

“So all of this…” He gestured to the bevy of scientific equipment being set up behind them.

“Entirely unnecessary.” Philippe made a face. “Well. I won’t discount the value of science – as it pertains to convincing certain government officials I’m actually creating a weapon. Stalin doesn’t understandmagic, you know.”

“Are you going to enchant me out of the room, too?”

“No, Captain.” Philippe gave him a serious look, for once unsmiling. “Sasha is quite fond of you and your men, and I suspect you’ll be helpful. And also.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t ever like to use my magic on you, Nikita.” It was the first time the man had said his name, and it sent ripples of gooseflesh down Nikita’s arms. “I want you to trust me. We are allies in this cause. I want to think of us as friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yes, of course.” He touched Nikita’s arm, briefly, before he walked away. His hand was cold.

~*~

Watching Dr. Ingraham and his associates go blank-faced and leave the room was disturbing. Almost as disturbing as watching a group of soldiers come in and line the front wall.

“What’s this about?” Kolya asked.

“Just a precaution,” Philippe said.

Another soldier led Sasha into the room. A heartbreaking sight.

He was barefoot, clothed in a stiff white hospital gown, young and gangly, and unsure. He’d bathed; he smelled, even from a distance, of harsh soap. His hair was damp and slicked back off his forehead, so there was nothing to shield the tight, terrified set of his face.

He was shaking so hard that he fumbled the process of getting up on the table, and Nikita couldn’t help it – he went to him.

He looked so small in his hospital gown. So pale and washed out, blue highways of veins visible through the thin white skin of his wrists, inner elbows, throat, and eyelids. He swallowed, or tried to, Adam’s apple sticking in his throat. His pupils were terrified pinpricks as he looked up at Nikita.

“What–” he started, and had to wet his lips. “What…”

Nikita laid his hand on his shoulder, the bones sharp against his palm, stark through the thin gown, the thin layer of boyish muscle. “It’s okay,” he said, his own voice tight. But it wasn’t okay at all. “I’ll be right here the whole time.”

Sasha reached for his hand, his grip tight, desperate, fingers clammy. “Please,” he said, and then shut his eyes tight, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath.

Nikita gripped him back in turn, hard enough to hurt. “Right here,” he repeated.

Movement on the other side of the table drew his eyes: Philippe coming to stand at Sasha’s other shoulder, still wearing that infuriating little smile. In one hand he held the tattered old book Kolya had found in his satchel, unlocked now, open to a point in the middle. A golden key on a chain rested around his neck – the key that unlocked the book, no doubt. “Are you ready, Sasha?”

Sasha kept his eyes shut, but nodded. “I’m ready.”

“Good, good.” Philippe patted his arm and then turned away.

When his back was to them, Sasha cracked his eyes and looked up at Nikita, lips pressed into a thin white line. Asking for more reassurance.

Even if he hadn’t already been on the fast track to hell, Nikita knew that murmuring “it’ll be fine” would send him there with a bullet, all on its own. But that’s what he did, because Sasha needed it.

---