Page 34 of White Wolf
So was Sasha.
Feliks was telling a story about a woman named Natalia – “when you put your head between them, you could rest them on your shoulders, I swear” – that made Sasha’s face feel hot (Pyotr stared down at his half-empty plate, cheeks flaming), when Nikita interrupted.
“That’s enough,” he said, and Feliks’s voice cut off abruptly. “Our guests don’t want to hear about your exploits.”
Sasha hiked his shoulders up around his ears. He wasn’t about to admit to being a virgin.
“It doesn’t bother me,” Philippe assured. “We’re all men here. I’m no stranger to these kinds of stories.”
But the air had shifted in the room, grown heavy and fraught. Tension skated up Sasha’s arms, went rippling down his back, winding his spine up tighter and tighter as each silent second ticked by.
Nikita pushed his plate away and the scrape of it across the table was too loud. He turned his head slowly, gaze going to Monsieur Philippe, the slate gray of storm clouds. “I bet you know lots of stories, don’t you?”
Philippe lowered his cup slowly, expression calm. But careful. “I do know a good many stories, yes.”
“Some ghost stories, I think,” Nikita said.
“Yes.”
The entire apartment seemed to be holding its breath. There were no sounds save the soft scrape of metal against leather as a knife was drawn: Kolya.
“Monsieur Dyomin,” Philippe said, “I hardly think that’s necessary.”
“Why don’t you tell us a ghost story?” Nikita said. A muscle in his jaw twitched, the only outward display of agitation. “Maybe your own.”
A beat passed in which no one moved or breathed. And then Philippe smiled. “Is that what’s been bothering you, Captain? You’re afraid I’m a ghost?”
“I know you are.”
“Ah. Well. I’d be careful, if I were you, Captain Baskin. What’s a good and patriotic officer like yourself doing telling stories of the empire?”
“They aren’t stories!” Nikita sprang to his feet, his chair skidding backward across the floor. It happened so fast it took a moment for Sasha to realize he’d pulled a gun – and was aiming it at Philippe.
“You’re very upset,” Philippe observed mildly, unperturbed. His level gaze was somehow more frightening than the gun, the way he didn’t seem to care that he was about to be shot.
Nikita took a deep breath through his nostrils. Sweat had beaded at his temples, and a lock of hair, now-damp, fell across his forehead. His eyes were electric. But his hand didn’t move, the gun unwavering. “Convince me you aren’t the Monsieur Philippe the Black Crows brought to Nicky and Alix.”
Kolya groaned quietly. “Nik…”
Ivan stood up, his towering height bringing his head almost to the ceiling, and moved toward the old man as if he meant to hold him down and force answers from him if he wouldn’t explain himself.
But he did explain. Philippe sighed and said, “I’d hoped not to have this conversation so soon.”
“Too bad,” Nikita said.
“These confessions are dangerous.”
“So am I.”
“I have no doubt,” Philippe said with another sigh, this one weary. He studied his hands a moment, and when he lifted his head, Sasha felt a sensation like a finger running down the knobs of his spine, a physical touch of excitement and dread.
What’s happening?he thought. He glanced at Pyotr and got a skittish shrug in return.
“Yes, I amthatMonsieur Philippe,” he began. “But I’m not a ghost – I’m very much alive. My death was a rumor that dear Militsa helped me spread because it was better if I disappeared for a while.”
Still holding the gun, Nikita said, “Keep talking.”
And Philippe did.
