Page 81 of White Wolf

“Where did you get that book?” Feliks wanted to know. “The one you read from when you…” He gestured toward Sasha, whose resulting grin looked wolfish in a very literal sense.

“The wolf book,” Philippe said, sitting up a little straighter, eyes seeming to brighten. “Nowthat’sa story.” He folded his hands in his lap and told them.

“The book,” he began, “is, as you might have guessed, wrapped with the skin of a wolf. Legend says it’s as old as the first wolves, but I don’t believe that. It would have taken nothing less than magic to preserve the leather, no matter how well-tanned, for this long.” He chuckled at his own joke and continued:

“It is, essentially, a spell book. It’s also a history of the relationship between wolves and their keepers – all of it in Latin, of course, or else I’d let dear Sasha read it.”

“Keepers?” Nikita asked, skin prickling with uneasiness.

“Yes. There are preternatural creatures who are born, but wolves are not among them. All wolves are made – through a process much like what you witnessed, Captain. Throughout history, they’ve always been made with a purpose in mind: to serve and to protect.”

“And let me guess,” Nikita said with a sneer, “you’re Sasha’s keeper.”

“I’m not, no.” If he was lying, he hid it well. “Sasha’s master is my master. He’s very old, and very powerful, and currently sleeping beneath the earth. Recovering.”

The only sound was the crackle of the flames.

In a small voice, Katya said, “Recovering from what?” As she spoke, she shifted closer, so her knee pressed into Nikita’s thigh.

Philippe looked sad. “Grievous wounds. The men who attempted to murder him thought they’d succeeded. He was examined at the morgue, pronounced dead, and interred.

“Thankfully, he had allies who knew of his great gifts of healing. His body – still very much alive, only slumbering – was exhumed in secret, and he was taken to a secure location where he could heal in peace. He still lies there, buried, ready to be reawakened.”

The fire crackled.

“He’s a vampire,” Sasha said, and Nikita actually jumped a little.

“What?” everyone said at once.

“Yes,” Monsieur Philippe said. To the rest of them: “Gentlemen, you’re sitting with a werewolf and his very literal pack. Don’t tell me you draw the line of disbelief atvampires.”

Nikita felt his heart pounding against the walls of his chest in that acute and painful way it did when he was nervous. Hewasnervous, he realized, skin prickling with a sudden cold sweat.

And then Philippe turned and looked directly at him. “Do you doubt me?”

Nikita swallowed, grateful that his voice came out clear and strong. “No. Not aboutthat.”

The old man snorted. “The plan remains the same. And I continue to promise: no harm will come to Sasha.”

“Even though he belongs to avampire?”

“We all have masters,” Philippe said. “We all serve men greater than ourselves.” He lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, and Nikita thought about his mother’s worried face as she tucked him in, thought about her tales of tsars and tsarinas…and he ground his teeth together.

Beside him, he could hear Katya’s breathing, fast and shallow. Yet another unsuspecting victim he’d pulled into his doomed quest to start a revolution.

~*~

He drank too much. He knew that, and knew also that he’d wake shaky, with a bad headache, sluggish and dim-witted. He didn’t care. He thought drinking too much was a natural reaction to finding out that, one: vampires were real, and two: the boy you’d come to think of as a friend, as a little brother, was the property of one.

By the time he went out to piss, he was off-balance. Had to catch himself on the doorjamb and take a moment getting the door shut behind him.

Shit, he’d hadfartoo much.

He was in that underwater stage of drunkenness in which his surroundings seemed achingly clear, but he stumbled through them, clumsy and slow, thoughts getting muddled between his brain and his tongue.

“Fuck,” he murmured to himself, when he finally slumped against a tree and the night spun around him. It took a full minute figuring out the mechanics of his pants. He felt better after, though. Somewhat. The cool air felt good against his face and throat, and the quiet soughing of the wind in the branches sounded almost like a lullaby.

The crunch of footfalls sent him lurching around, clutching at the tree trunk to keep from falling over, wild, drunk panic surging through his veins. He had his revolver on his hip, but not his carbine, and he probably couldn’t shoot straight anyway. Maybe if he shut one eye…

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