Page 96 of White Wolf

He showed up red-faced, a little unsteady, and smelling of wine.

And the moment he walked in the door, Philippe knew he was a vampire.

He pulsed with energy, and he was drunk not just on wine, but probably blood, too, his eyes dilated, his smile lazy with pleasure.

He’d looked up, locked gazes with Philippe, and his large, unearthly gray eyes had held a moment’s lucid understanding. Two powerful beings acknowledging one another across a crowded room.

Thestaretshad horrific table manners: shoveling food into his mouth with his hands, smearing grease on his clothes and the table linens, talking with his mouth full and spitting crumbs. And yet he charmed everyone at the table, everyone leaning toward him, listening to his bad poetry. Even the writers who would later claim to have been uncomfortable during the dinner had stars in their eyes; Philippe envied his ability to enchant them so effortlessly – and so many at once!

When they were taking port in the drawing room after dinner, Philippe sidled up to the man – the vampire – and asked, “Do the royal couple know what you are?”

“Of course.” His voice was resonant; he spoke like someone who knew exactly what sort of power he held over others.

“Have you enchanted them?”

Rasputin looked offended. “Why should I? They listen to me. Theyvalueme, and what I can offer.” He turned to face Philippe, expression sympathetic. “They were very sorry to lose you, my friend. May I tell them you’re well? I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

“You may tell them, yes, but I can’t risk seeing them. For their own sakes.”

Rasputin sighed and nodded. “You’re a mage. What have you forseen?”

This was the part that pained him. The thing that had brought him back to Russia. “Death stalks the Romanov family. Before tonight, I feared that was you.”

Rasputin smiled, and the chandelier glinted off his yellow fangs. “So long as I’m alive, the royal family have nothing to fear.”

~*~

“You see,” Philippe said sadly. “Rasputin was the only thing standing between the royal family and their demise. If Yusupov hadn’t tried to kill him, he could have prevented the massacre.”

~*~

The day was wasting, the sun climbing higher, starting to feel warm, finally, like true spring.

Nikita had no idea what to say, nor even what to think. He scuffed the toe of his boot through the dirt and tried not to think about his empty, clenching stomach. In all the talking, he’d forgotten to eat breakfast – as usual.

Birds called; somewhere water rushed, a light, musical sound that was a creek or stream.

Finally, Sasha got to his feet with the easy, disquieting grace of a thing born in the forest. “We’re going to go and dig up Rasputin, aren’t we? Wake him up. Lead him back to Stalingrad. Win the battle…and then Russia. This is your plan?”

Philippe smiled, pleased. “Why yes, it is. But first I would like for us to conduct a training exercise. To prepare.”

Nikita sighed and heard his brothers do the same.

Katya fingered her rifle absently, compulsively, expression carefully blank, but face white as clean linen.

“Alright,” Sasha said. “Let’s do it.”

22

FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

The forest was quiet around him, early enough in the season that the mosquitos were still mostly dormant, the calling birds and the swish of new, budded leaves in the wind the only sounds.

The only sounds obvious to human ears.

For an immortalbodark, there was lots to hear.

Sasha shut his eyes, and listened.

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