Page 54 of White Wolf
“Before you use me as a weapon,” Sasha said.
Before he could overthink the wisdom of it, Nikita put a hand on the side of his throat, cupping his palm around the smooth, strong line of it. “Don’t think of it like that.”
Sasha made a sad sound and backed away from him, eyes on the gritty ship deck beneath their feet.
“I’m sorry.”
“You say that a lot.” Sasha put his back to him and walked to the rail, draped his long arms over it and stared down into the water. The wind threatened to take his hat, and Nikita’s fingers twitched to go to him and tug it straight, snug it down firmly on his head.
Kolya materialized beside him, soundless as ever. “If we hadn’t gone to get him, he would have been drafted. The war was only a matter of time for boys like him.”
“Yeah,” Nikita said. He knew it was true, but, as always, the truth was of little comfort.
14
THE INGRAHAM INSTITUTE
Stalingrad rose from the banks of the Volga as a sequence of stacked, boxy white buildings that belched smoke into the sunset. It possessed none of Moscow’s stately, historic charm, was instead all modern clean lines, a palette of grays and creams befitting the steppe country.
They disembarked from the ship with their rucksacks, bellies rumbling, and found a troop transport truck waiting to take them to “the facility.” Dreams of hot dinner and a bath were dashed as they loaded into the canvas-covered back and settled in for a ride. Through the open back of the truck, Sasha watched the white buildings grow smaller and smaller. Another truck followed them; he’d glimpsed Katya’s flapping braids as she climbed into the back, and he couldn’t decide if he was pleased that she was going the same place they were or not; he didn’t want to have any more arguments with Nikita.
“I thought we were going to Stalingrad,” Sasha said to Philippe, and felt Pyotr nodding beside him. The faces around him were tight with anger, even Ivan’s, but none of them had voiced the question so far. Sometimes, being the newcomer had the perk of allowing you to look like an idiot.
“The place we’re going doesn’t technically exist,” Philippe said, jostling back and forth between Ivan and Feliks, clutching at his hat. “It’s a facility best suited for our procedure.”
It was private, he meant. After nearly a half hour of bouncing around in the back of the truck, they’d only glimpsed flat plain patchy with melting snow, and the stocky trees of scrub forest. It wasn’t the taiga of home, but a regular wood filled with pine, and birch, the first green buds visible if you squinted.
He glanced over a few times toward Nikita, seeking out his leader’s take on all of this, but the captain had his head tipped back against the canvas, eyes shut. Seemingly asleep.
Finally, the truck lurched over a deep rut – everyone made a sound of protest – and then the landscape through the open back changed: trucks parked along the side of the road; driveways branching off the main route to the left and right, deep muddy tracks filled with melted snow. Over the rumbling diesel engine, Sasha thought he heard shouts. And then the truck stopped. The driver said something muffled. Then came the unmistakable rattle of a gate sliding back.
“We’ve arrived, then,” Philippe said happily.
~*~
Oddly enough, it was the lack of industrial smoke that set the fine hairs on the back of Nikita’s neck dancing. He’d grown so used to the scents of ash, and unwashed bodies, and rotting garbage that the clean notes of fresh spring air and wet mud unsettled him. If he’d learned anything in his twenty-seven years, it was that life stank. Literally. He didn’t trust the lack of shit and piss and misery here.
The building was gray-white concrete, three stories and flat-roofed. Nondescript save the faded red stars painted on the doors. Barracks had been hastily erected behind it, long low wooden buildings with corrugated metal roofs that looked stolen from elsewhere and patched together. A guard station stood at the gates, and two tall surveillance towers at the north and south ends of the compound. The yard was nothing but mud and slop; it sucked at his boots with every step.
“I don’t like this place,” he muttered to Kolya beside him.
Kolya snorted, but said, “It doesn’t smell right.”
“Exactly.”
Passengers were unloading from the second truck: a handful of fresh-faced Red Army soldiers from Stalingrad coming to join the others here…and the dark-haired girl from the ship. Katya, Sasha had said her name was.
Nikita was bothered that he remembered that detail.
As if she sensed his gaze, her head lifted and her gaze locked with his. Brown eyes, wide and deep. Measuring, and unflinching.
He felt a sudden, spasmodic tightening in his gut and looked away, scowling. He hadn’t troubled himself withthatsensation in a long time. The last thing he needed was to get bogged down by it here.
“What?” Kolya asked.
“Nothing.”
A wavering stalk of a boy in uniform led them to the double, red-starred doors, and another just inside opened the portal for them. The ground floor appeared, upon first sight, to be a combination mess hall and rec center for the troops; high, factory ceilings soared overhead, catching voices and echoing them back at obscene volumes. The far wall didn’t reach the ceiling, and several doors led to what must be offices.
