Page 61 of White Wolf

The heat left the room with a quiet snuffing sound, and then Philippe drew up on the opposite side of the table, sans fire. He was beaming. “Look. It’s closing perfectly. It won’t be long now. Give him a minute.”

“A minute to what?” Ivan asked.

Philippe didn’t answer.

The wound shrank, and shrank. And then, with a little pop, it wasgone. Just a clean, smooth stretch of skin with a perimeter of drying blood.

Sasha pulled in a deep breath and let it out on a moan. A moan that turned into a growl. A low, deep, inhuman growl that raised every tiny hair on the back of Nikita’s neck.

“You might want to step back,” Philippe said, doing so himself. “This next part can get a little…volatile.”

Sasha’s eyes snapped open. They were still blue, but they were glowing, his pupils tall, narrow slits. He growled again, lips skinning back off his teeth, and the sound echoed through the room, bounced off the walls. He sounded exactly like…like a…like awolf.

Magic, the old man had said.

No shit.

Sasha jackknifed upright, and then leapt into a crouch on top of the table, balanced on the balls of his feet, hands held out before him, fingers curled into claws. His sweat-damp hair fell over his face and he shook it back, scanning the room with his new strange, brighter eyes. His face was the same – except nothing about his expression was human.

If he hadn’t been holding onto the table, Nikita reflected, he might have fallen down.

Sasha breathed in deep through his nose and mouth, and then his head snapped in their direction. His gaze held no recognition, only animal wariness.

Nikita held his breath. The room was silent save the fast rhythm of Sasha’s panted breath.

One of the soldiers said, “Oh my God,” and everything went to shit.

Sasha sprang off the table, right at the cluster of soldiers, all of whom shouted and scattered. He landed on his hands and feet, crouched low, growling in that inhuman, wolfish way again. He lifted his head, following them with his eyes, and lunged again.

The sight of his second attack snapped Nikita out of his daze and into action. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend this, but there would be time for that later. Right now, he had to get control of the situation.

“Secure the door,” he told Ivan as he shook loose of his hold. “I don’t want him getting out.”

Ivan’s jaw worked, wanting to say something. But he nodded and moved to do as ordered.

Kolya still had his hand on his gun. “Should I…?”

“No.”

The soldiers, all green boys, abandoned all decorum and stumbled over one another, pushing and shoving to get away. It wasn’t that Sasha was big – because he wasn’t – or that he cut an imposing figure. But his eyes wereglowing. He wasgrowling. And the way he held himself spooked something primal and protective inside Nikita. The soldiers were feeling it too, obviously, that sense ofwrong, anddanger, andrun. And they were running, several of them shouting indignantly and clawing at Ivan’s great paw hands as he heaved the door shut and flipped the lock.

Sasha wasn’t actually chasing anyone, Nikita realized, watching as the boy snarled and snapped at the legs of one soldier – only to surge past him, diving under a wall-mounted metal shelf, drawing himself up with his knees tucked beneath his chin. Hiding.

He was frightened. Of course.

Nikita looked to Monsieur Philippe, who stood with his hands folded in front of him, watching the chaos with a mild expression. “Care to explain yourself?” Nikita had no idea where he found the energy to be wry; it was just his default setting at this point.

Philippe didn’t answer.

Some of the panicked soldiers started to realize they weren’t being pursued and subsided, hissing questions to each other, picking up toppled hats and rifles.

It was a miracle, Nikita reflected, no one had shot at Sasha in the turmoil.

“Holy shit,” Pyotr whispered.

Nikita said, “Monsieur Philippe,” in a voice that demanded an answer.

“I think,” the Frenchman said, “it would be best if someone with whom he is close approached first.”

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