Page 98 of White Wolf
She glanced wildly through the trees around them, toward the clearing that lay just beyond. Was this part of the exercise? Was Monsieur Philippe ringing it?
But, grimly, Nikita said, “It’s mine.”
When she glanced back down, he had a hand over the utility pouch on his pants leg.
“What?”
“The bell. It’s mine.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Jesus.”
~*~
Sasha jumped over a narrow ditch, trotted up a hill, spun around the trunk of a large pine…and there he was.
The man stood with his hands folded neatly together, pale hair hanging straight down both shoulders, fine and shiny as spun gold. He had the face of an angel, and the rich dark-red velvet coat of a prince in a painting.
“Are you a prince?”Sasha had asked, when he was just a boy, and the knowledge slammed into him suddenly, solid as a fist, bringing him to a halt. This was the same man he’d seen years before, down to the gold buttons on his coat and the half-amused curl of his lips.
“Hello,” the prince said, once again in his perfect, but strangely-accented Russian. “It’s Sasha, isn’t it?”
Sasha opened his mouth and breathed in deeply, searching for scent, a taste, something. But all he smelled was the forest. The prince had no scent whatsoever.
He smirked. “Ah. You can’t smell me, can you?”
“How–” Sasha started.
“I’m not really here, you see.” He extended one pale, long-fingered hand, palm-up, in invitation.
Sasha studied it a long moment, wary. If he’d had a scruff like his wolves, it would have been standing on end. Thinking of his wolf pack, he wished now that he hadn’t sent them off in another direction.
The prince sighed. “Come on. I can’t hurt you.”
Slowly, Sasha reached forward and laid his palm in the prince’s. Tried to, at least. His hand passed right through the other’s, the seemingly-solid image of it giving way to vapor.
Sasha gasped.
“Not really here, I told you,” the prince said, pulling his solid-again hand back and refolding it with the other.
“What are you…what?”
The prince sighed. “Tell me you at least remember me.”
Sasha nodded. It would be hard to forget someone like this, clean and gleaming, dressed in rich finery the likes of which hadn’t been seen around here in Sasha’s lifetime. “You’re a prince, you said.”
“Very good.” His smile seemed mocking. “And you, it would appear, went and got yourself turned into a wolf.”
“I’m a wolf,” Sasha confirmed, feeling guarded.
The prince rolled his eyes. “Fine. Act secretive if you want to. It’s not as if this is the only means by which to entertain myself.” He glanced off to the left and said something sharp in another language. Sasha thought it might be English. But there was no one else there.
“Who are you talking to?”
“One of mydelightfullystupid jailers. Neanderthals, the lot of them. You’d think,” he grumbled, “if you were going to lock a man up for centuries, you might at least offer him a little reading material.” He turned and shouted something into the empty forest, face harsh with anger.
“Um…your majesty? Are you–”
“I’m not insane, no. It’s a projection – no time to explain.” He waved at Sasha, a fastleave offmotion. “Here. Sit down. I have something to tell you.”
Curious, wary, confused, Sasha eased down to the ground, sitting cross-legged, watching the way the – projection? – prince followed suit across from him, elegant even while seated on pine needles.
