Page 59 of White Wolf
Nikita pried his fingers loose of Sasha’s shoulder and stepped back, breathing like a winded horse.
Philippe nodded. “Very good.”
Before the madness started, before everything changed forever, Nikita caught one last glance of Sasha’s falsely brave smile and thoughtthis is why men cave to tyrants. To make brave smiles worthwhile.
~*~
Sasha stared at the droning tube lights overhead and tried to focus on the physical sensations of the moment. The cold steel table under his back, the light brush of the cotton gown against his skin. The lingering twinges of soreness in his muscles from play-fighting and exercising. His heart beat too quickly, and he tried to will it to slow, taking deep, albeit shaky breaths.
He tried not to think about the wolf beside him on the table. The alpha. Never take the alpha, Papa had said. But that was hunting, and this was war, and Monsieur Philippe had promised to imbue him with the strength, and speed, and instincts of the creature he’d always respected so much.
He shut his eyes and waited, opened himself, tried to peel back the veil of consciousness and become receptive to the flood of Philippe’s magic.
He startled when he felt a warm hand at the side of his throat; opened his eyes to find the old man smiling down at him. “It’s time to begin. Are you ready?”
Sasha nodded.
Philippe smiled at him. “Good.” His fingers plucked at the shoulder tie of his gown and peeled it down to his waist, leaving his chest bare.
He shivered, goosebumps chasing across his skin.
“You’ll be warmer soon. Stay just like that,” Philippe said, and stepped away.
A low voice began to chant – Philippe’s, he realized – in a language he didn’t recognize. It was smoother and more melodious than Russian. Less guttural, more musical.
The wolf whimpered, its nails clawing at the table with a high screeching sound.
Sasha tried to stay receptive, tried to keep his mind blank. But like always, he got caught in a loop ofhow is this real, how, how, how. It didn’t seem possible. He was here, and there was a wolf, and–
A loud, high squeal shattered any pretend peace he’d cultivated. His eyes popped open. “What–”
Monsieur Philippe stood above him, a six-inch bloody knife in one hand. “Hold very still, Sasha.” He brought the knife down in a rapid flash, right at Sasha’s heart.
~*~
Over the shoulders of the soldiers holding him back, Nikita saw the bright crimson glint of blood on the knife before the old man drove it into Sasha’s heart. He lunged against the arms and rifles pressing him to the wall, the fingers digging cruelly into his arms and shoulders and hips. The soldiers, silent sentries up to this point, had swarmed them when Philippe started chanting. Watching the man stab the wolf through the heart had been unpleasant, yes. But watching him move toward Sasha…unthinkable.
He heard the soft meatythunkof the knife going in – a sound he knew well. Heard Sasha’s startled yell. His scream. His gasp. His wet, dying wheeze.
He’d promised to keep that boy safe, even though he knew he couldn’t, and now Philippe hadkilledhim.
“Let go of me, fuckers!” Ivan roared. He batted at the soldiers like they were flies, sending them stumbling, scrambling. They wouldn’t be able to hold him back for long.
A grunt that sounded like Kolya signaled another fight.
“Hey!” Feliks shouted.
Nikita struggled too, but he was beyond speech. Shock had turned to fury, had turned to grief, had hardened into one single purpose: kill the old man. He couldn’t waste any energy on screaming; every cell in his body was dedicated to getting loose and getting to Philippe.
He drove his elbow into a soldier’s face. Caught another in the chin with the heel of his hand. When one tried to grab his wrist, he kicked him in the balls. Quarters were too close for any finesse, so he shoved and pawed and gouged at eyes, ducking away from hands, dodging the butt of a rifle aimed at his head.
He chopped a solider that was just a boy in the windpipe with the side of his hand, and spun around him. Then he was free. He didn’t waste a moment marveling that he’d actually slipped loose of them, just charged.
Philippe still held the hilt of the knife, it’s length buried in Sasha’s chest, blood dripping down Philippe’s sleeve onto the floor, the red of it obscenely bright. He turned slowly, not at all alarmed that Nikita was about to tackle him. He lifted his free hand. Nikita had a moment to notice the smear of blood on the old man’s palm–
Before a hot ball of fire roared to life between them.
He couldn’t elbow and punch his way through fire, it turned out.
