Page 72 of White Wolf

He managed to do up his pants one-handed, stepped into his boots and, leaving them unlaced, left his tent and made his way across camp toward the stream that lay through a screen of bushes and down a hill from their tents. His damp shirt clung to his skin, and leaving his jacket behind would prove only the second-worst mistake of the morning.

At another time he would have been careful, but still groggy in the aftermath, he did only a cursory scan of the streambank, looking for wolves, or bears, or whatever the fuck might be out here, before he knelt and plunged his hands into the icy-cold water, washing them clean.

The water was so cold that it burned, and he hissed in discomfort as he worked his fingers together under the surface.

A voice said, “Oh,” and he came fully awake in an instant, surging to his feet, reaching with one numb, wet hand for a gun that wasn’t there. He didn’t have his hat or coat, but his clothes were black; anyone coming upon him would know what he was, and any number of villagers would take the chance to kill a lone, unarmed Chekist in the forest.

But it was only Katya, the dark, wet length of her hair caught in one hand, a bar of soap held in the other. The cold had brought out the color in her cheeks. And her hair, he reflected dimly, was unbound, just as he’d fantasized. He’d caught her in the middle of washing, he guessed, water droplets dripping between her fingers and landing on the leaves below with quiet patters. Water dotted the shoulders of the shirt she wore. Her eyes, surprised and wary, looked amber in the early light.

He had a sudden, intense worry that she knew what he’d just been doing, and that he’d been thinking of her. He thought those eyes of hers could look straight through his skull and see every awful, dirty thing he’d dreamed about.

But that was dumb. He was being dumb.

“Hello,” he said.

She looked at him a long moment, wringing out her hair. “Hello.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, because he was an idiot.

She pulled a small piece of burlap from her trouser pocket and wrapped the soap in it before tucking it away again. She started to finger-comb the tangles from her hair, the mass of it heavy across one shoulder, long enough to hang past her breasts. “What does it look like I’m doing?” From someone else, it might have sounded flirtatious, but Katya’s voice was cold, just shy of hostile.

He wanted that to make it easier – there could be no mistaking her hostility for any kind of invitation – but instead, he found himself approving of her coldness. She was here for the war, to do a job, and she had no interest in any of the men around her. He approved of that wholeheartedly – and that approval made him like her.

He nodded, acknowledging the stupidity of his question. “Water’s awful cold, is all.”

She shrugged and her fingers kept combing. A challenge infused her gaze, daring him to make a reference to the water matching her temperament.

He wanted to put his whole face in the stream, suddenly, so he did the next best thing: crouched at the bank, cupped water in his hands and rubbed it vigorously across his cheeks and chin. It worked. The last haze of sleep cleared, and all thoughts of sex promptly shriveled up along with his cock as a shiver overtook him.

He stayed like that a moment, hands and face dripping, the gurgle of the water and the singing of the birds the only sounds.

“I don’t disapprove of you, you know,” he said, surprising himself. If the small sound she made behind him was anything to go by, he’d surprised her too. “I have no problem with women, or snipers. I just don’t want to be responsible for anyone else.” It was ninety-percent of the truth. He also didn’t want Soviet loyalists finding out what they were really up to.

Katya released a deep breath. “Well,” she said, less certain, less cold. “I can look out for myself.”

“I’m sure you can.”

He heard her footfalls rustling through the leaf litter, and expected she had walked off. So when he stood and turned, drying his hands on his pants legs, he was surprised to see that she’d sat down on an old tree stump and was separating her hair into bunches so she could braid it. Her face was still cautious, but less aggressive.

“Can I ask something?”

He put his hands in his pockets to keep them from freezing. He longed for his coat, but wasn’t about to walk away from her, God help him. “Yes.”

Her gaze flicked down to her boots, fingers quick as they began to plait. “I’ve seen men like you. In black. They were in my town.”

“They’re in every town.”

She nodded. “I watched what they did. What they did in my home.” She shivered a little, and he wondered what she was remembering, how awful it was. “So I can’t figure out what you lot are doing out here in the woods.” Her gaze lifted, touching his boldly. “With an old man, and a bunch of wolves, and a man who thinks he’s one of them.”

“We do what we’re told to do.”

“So do I. But it usually makes sense.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “What is Sasha?”

Notwho, butwhat. Smart girl.

“That depends. Do you believe in folk stories?”

“I used to.”

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