Page 124 of White Wolf

This wasn’t helping with Sasha’s mounting worry. “Well that’s…not comforting.”

Val smiled again, wicked and charming all at once. “Yes, well, as I understand it, those who didn’t find him quite comforting found him terrifying.”

“Because he was a vampire?”

“Because he’s damn unsettling. Just look at his face.”

“I haven’t.” But his heart lurched thinking about it. That strange urge again: he had to lay eyes on the man. Vampire. Whatever he was.

“Ah, but you want to.” Val paced around him slowly, moonlight working to his advantage, revealing more and more of his smiling face. Sasha had the vague thought that he was showy, self-aware in a way that no one he’d ever encountered had been. “Understandable. The man’s become a part of Russian folklore. Is he the holy man? The political advisor? The depraved sex demon? The seducer of the tsarina? Maybe he’s all of those, and maybe he’s none.” He chuckled. “Who could resist a peek?”

“I hate him,” Sasha said, surprising himself.

Val nodded. “Sometimes it’s like that. Just because a mother wolf suckled Romulus and Remus willingly, out of love, doesn’t mean all wolves feel that way about all vampires. Though I’m sure our good Philippe has told you as much.”

“I…” Sasha bit his tongue. He shouldn’t be having this conversation; it was disloyal to the others, and he had no proof that anything Val said was worth listening to. But he was just so…frank about it all. So much more appealing in his explanations than Philippe’sthere there, you’re just a boyapproach.

Val smoothed his long, pale hair with a long, pale hand and settled on the ground beside Sasha. For a moment Sasha worried for his fine clothes, but then remembered that he wasn’t actually here in corporeal form.

“He doesn’t want you to look, does he?” he guessed. “Afraid you’ll accidently wake the bastard up?”

“Yes.”

“You understand that’s not something you can accidentlydo, right?”

“I…it’s not?”

Val sighed. “You have to cut yourself and offer some of your blood. There’s a whole invocation in Latin, very tedious. And even if you did wake him up, he’ll be weak as a kitten and not able to harm anyone. He’ll have to be spoon fed for weeks.”

“Really?” Sasha felt his brows leap. He’d feared, from the moment Philippe had started talking of waking, that Rasputin would leap up off the table and grab someone by the throat. But what Val said made sense. Someone sickly and healing would doubtless need bed rest, and food, plenty of time to gather his strength.

Val smiled at him, up close, gleaming white fangs. “Shall we have a look?”

Sasha got to his feet.

~*~

Nikita knew, long before he lay down in his bedroll, that sleep wasn’t going to come tonight. Not quickly, at least. He’d managed to choke down a little dinner, fighting nausea every bite, and it eased the strain in his belly, but couldn’t dispel the nervous tension thrumming beneath his skin. As the others settled around him, and Ivan began to snore, he kept hearing Philippe’s furious, terrified shouts; heard Sasha’s awful snarling; heard Katya’s shocked gasp as a cannibal tackled her; and above all, he remembered the wail of the air raid siren. His ears still needed to pop.

Beside him, he could see Katya’s huddled shape outlined by the dying fire. He could tell she wasn’t anywhere close to being asleep because she kept twitching, and suddenly, he needed to make sure she was unharmed. Not just with a question, like he’d asked earlier, but with his own eyes and hands. Had she been bitten, scratched? Bruised? He felt vulnerable and needy, desperate to know.

She flinched when he first touched her, but then relaxed, remembering it was him.

He leaned in close, so he could whisper in her ear, her hair tickling his face. “Come take a walk with me.”

She nodded, and wordlessly slid from her bedroll. When they were both standing, he took her hand and led her off a ways through the trees. He glanced back, once, and saw Sasha sitting vigil behind the truck. The boy smiled at him.

Katya surprised him. The second they were out of view of the others, she slumped against his side, grabbing at his shirt.

“Oh. Hey.” He turned so he could pull her flush against him, wrap both arms around her. She pressed her face into his chest with a small, pained sound. “It’s alright.” He smoothed a hand down her disheveled braids and felt helpless; he couldn’t offer her anything besides a little body heat and some empty reassurances.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. His heart throbbed. He wanted to bundle her up like a child and carry her somewhere safe. “Katya. Sweetheart.”

She trembled a long moment, hands knotted in the back of his shirt, his chest growing warm and damp where she hid her tears. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, sniffling, pulling back a fraction. “I’m alright.”

Her hands loosened, and he knew she meant to wipe her tears, so he did it for her, smoothing his thumb carefully across the soft skin beneath her eyes.

Her gaze lifted, wide and watery, a little embarrassed, and full of an emotion he didn’t dare try to name. Vulnerable as spring flowers in the moonlight.

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