Page 128 of White Wolf

Sasha stared at him. “Philippe says all those things are just stories. Propaganda.”

“Some of it probably is, yeah.” Nikita shrugged. Reached out and clapped Sasha on the shoulder, gave a reassuring squeeze. “We’re all in this up to our necks, Sashka. It’s a little late to cry morality now.”

“Oh.” He sagged a little. “Yeah. It’s just…” He’d given in to his wolf side, let his senses rule his thoughts and actions.

“Whatever he is.” Nikita leaned in close, tone confidential. “He’s not worse than Stalin, right?”

“Right.” Sasha twitched a smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s the old man you upset.”

“Yeah.”

“And who was he talking about? Valerian?”

“The prince I told you about. The one who visits, but isn’t really here.”

“Hmm.” Nikita stepped back, worry warring with disbelief in his eyes. “Well, don’t say anything too revealing to him, alright?”

“Yeah, alright.”

“Good.” He reached up and ruffled Sasha’s hair – and then froze, shocked. “Oh, uh…” Started to pull back.

Sasha grinned at him. “It’s okay. Wolves like to be petted.”

Nikita snorted. “I’ll remember that.”

27

WAKE THE SLEEPER

It was a long, uncomfortable, grueling trip back to the Ingraham Institute just north of Stalingrad. Sasha apologized to Monsieur Philippe, but there was something strained there, a subtle shift in power that Nikita thought irrevocable. Once a dog stopped respecting its master, the balance never shifted back the other way.

But though long, the trip wasn’t horrible. Moments – catching Katya’s eye and smiling, laughing with his brothers over an unpalatable meal – were even wonderful, in the way that small, stolen, precious things are wonderful in the middle of a war.

And on June first, they reached their destination, Grigory Yefimovich’s lifeless form in tow.

Nikita wanted a shower, figured he ought to have a hot meal, and then he wanted a warm bed, and Katya. But first things first.

Dr. Ingraham was about to wet himself with excitement. “Oh,” he kept saying. “Oh. Oh my. Oh…this is wonderful!” He hovered around the metal table where the wrapped body had been laid out, hands leaping like birds, starting toward thestaretsbut not brave enough to actually touch. “How should we proceed, Monsieur Philippe?”

The old man looked truly old, the journey having taken its toll. Lined, gray, and tired. And, Nikita thought, every time the man’s eyes went to Sasha, the smallest bit less confident.

“It will all depend on Sasha,” he said, sounding pained. “He’s been practicing the words.”

He had been, and held the sheet of paper on which Philippe had written out the Latin phonetically now, brow crinkled as he studied the phrases, lips moving silently as he tried to commit them to memory.

Last night, their final night on the road, Nikita had pulled Sasha off to the side. “Okay, be honest with me. If this feels too awful to you, if you don’t want to wake the bastard up, just tell me, and we’ll find another way.”

Sasha had looked shocked, mouth falling open. Then he’d smiled, grimly, and gripped Nikita by both shoulders. “Thank you, my pack brother,” he’d said, quietly, reverently. “That means…thank you. But no. We’ll go ahead with it. I’ll do it.”

Nikita had been filled with a painful sort of relief. He had no idea what their Plan B could be, if Sasha backed out of this crazy scheme. But at the same time…he had little faith in the idea of waking a Rasputin, notoriously opposed to Russia’s war endeavors, who would side with them, and help them win back the empire from the Communists.

Now he felt sick, sweating under his clothes, covered in goosebumps as he contemplated the shrouded figure on the table.

Philippe looked around the room, making eye contact. “If we could have some privacy,” he started.

“No,” Nikita said, right away. “You send out all the lab rats you want, but we’re staying.” He gestured to his boys, ranged alongside him, propping up a blank space of wall.

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