Page 89 of White Wolf

The dark closed in around them, an owl hooting in the distance, but she wasn’t afraid. With the warmth of the fire on her face, and the wolves keeping watch, and the men who…who were becoming herfriends…and Nikita, who was becoming someone who stirred butterflies in her stomach…she was content for the moment. Sleepy. Hungry. None of this seemed strange or horrible or insurmountable.

Monsieur Philippe was telling a story in response to Pyotr’s hesitant question about otherbodarksbeing nearby.

“Not now, I’m afraid,” he said with a regretful sigh. “The social structure broke down. By the turn of the century, there were only a handful of awake, acknowledged vampires left, and most of them had lost their Familiars – that’s what mages and wolves are, you understand. Familiars.”

“Like a witch’s cat?” Pyotr asked.

Philippe smiled. “I daresay it’s a bit more official than that, but yes, if it helps to think of it that way. In any event, the wolves who are left – if there are any – are hiding. The oldest and most famous wolf abandoned his master in rather spectacular fashion in 1867. He’s the one who sold me the wolf book, interestingly enough.”

Sasha, surrounded by his wolves, perked up visibly, eyes brightening. “He’s like me? Where is he?”

Philippe smiled kindly at him. “He’s a wolf like you, yes, Sasha, but he lacks your sweetness of spirit, to be sure. His name is Fulk le Strange. He’s a baron, actually: The Baron Strange of Blackmere. English, originally. He was always thought of as cold and cruel, very buttoned-up. Heartless, they said. I guess all facades have to crack, eventually, and his did. He turned a human woman, took her as his mate, and fled from America after the end of the Civil War.”

“I thought wolves couldn’t–” Sasha started, frowning.

“They can’t, to my knowledge. They aren’t powerful enough. But Baron Strange did.” He shrugged. “He and his baroness have been globe-trotting for decades, now. It was a stroke of pure luck that I was able to run him down, and that he was willing to sell me the book. I suppose he has no more use for it; what would be the point of keeping it?”

Sasha wasn’t listening anymore, his gaze faraway. “Wow,” he breathed. “He has a mate? Who isn’t…” He gestured to the wolves around him. The rangy omega licked at his hand.

Philippe’s face took on a careful sadness.

“Like him? Who he can…” The hope in Sasha’s face sent a stab of sympathy through Katya’s chest, strong and bitter as grief. She hadn’t thought of it like that before – but Sasha clearly had. He was just a boy, and a happy one at that, content with his wolves and his friends who he clearly loved, hisbodark-side as transparent as glass when it came to his affections. But all living things wanted mates, didn’t they? She might not have thought that a few months ago, but right now she was achingly aware of the length of Nikita’s strong thigh pressed against hers as they sat too-close together on the rotted log they used as a bench.

“Even if le Strange hadn’t gone into hiding,” Philippe said with obvious regret, “he would be an outcast. A loose cannon. For wolves – werewolves – it’s unnatural to take a true mate.”

“Please,” Ivan scoffed. “Everybody fucks. That’s the most natural thing in the world.”

Philippe sent him a placating smile. “For mortal humans, yes, of course. But Familiars aren’t entirely human, and the laws of nature don’t apply the same way.

Ivan stared at him, slack-jawed. “You’re telling me superpowered people who live forever don’tfuck? What’s the point of living forever if you can’t get laid? Jesus Christ!” Belatedly, he turned to Katya and said, “Uh, sorry.”

She waved him off.

Philippe’s smile was starting to look strained at the edges. “Of course he can. But we’re talking aboutmates. That’s an entirely different thing than…fucking.” He said the word with obvious distaste. “Wolves like Sasha aren’t designed to be a part of a pair. It’s not who they are.”

It was silent a long beat after that, only the crackle of the flames and the calling of owls.

Sasha looked down at this lap, fiddling with a hangnail.

“Well.” Kolya stood up and reached to pull the meat off the fire. “Who’s hungry?”

~*~

They ate in hungry silence, the grease on their hands shining in the firelight. Katya was even more ravenous than she thought, choking down unladylike mouthfuls and only stopping when she realized that it would take longer for her stomach to catch up with her mouth, and that if she didn’t stop now, she’d be uncomfortably full later. She passed the rest of her meat off to Ivan, who could eat twice what any of them could and still be hungry, and then sucked the grease from beneath her nails, enjoying the warmth of the fire and of Nikita’s body beside hers.

When Kolya stood up and walked away from the fire, she realized it was her chance to make good on her promise to Nikita, and she stood a few moments after, excusing herself, and followed him.

The cold shocked her a little, when she was clear of the fire, insistent as it closed around her, compressed her lungs. Spring, even on the steppe, was winter’s cruel little sister, and she reminded Katya that she’d forgotten her coat.

Oh well. She didn’t think this would take long.

She kept a good ways back, listening to his rustling footfalls, trying not to make any noise of her own – which was hard, because he walked carefully, quietly. A dancer, yes, for sure.

Two dozen feet ahead of her, he came to a halt beside a tree, braced one naked, white hand against the trunk, and then stood there, breath pluming silver in the moonlight. Belatedly, she thought he might have come out here to take care of necessary business. Soldier though she’d become, she’d rather be spared the indignity ofthat.

But he stood. Still as a statue, staring off into the shadowy tree trunks.

The moment stretched; she imagined she could see his thoughts arcing and leaping through the dark, tongues of lightning. He was thinking so hard she swore she could feel it, goosebumps rising on her arms.

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