Page 82 of White Wolf

But it was only Pyotr, pale-faced in the moonlight.

He sagged and let the tree hold his weight.

In a careful voice, Pyotr said, “I was worried you might…fall down.” Because he wasthatdrunk. So drunk that the youngest and smallest of them had worried enough to come searching for him in the dark.

“I’m alright.” But he wasn’t, because in the dancing shadows, Pyotr’s silvered face looked so much like his brother’s that Nikita was hit all over again with the guilt of getting his best friend killed. And possibly worse – keeping Dima’s little brother, so in need of guidance and a brotherly shoulder to lean on for reassurance – at arm’s length to spare himself the heartache.

He thought he might be sick.

“Oh. Hey, whoa.” Pyotr was at his side, suddenly, his grip surprisingly strong on Nikita’s arm. “Let’s sit down.”

Nikita was aware that they walked, but couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet, head reeling. They ended up side-by-side on a rickety wooden bench outside the cottage, the wood groaning when it took their combined weight.

“Here.” Pyotr put a canteen in his hands. “Have some water.”

He did, and it was cool and good against his tongue; once he started drinking he realized he was parched, the inside of his mouth desert-dry, and he gulped it all down in a rush, spilling it on his shirt, clumsily wiping his chin with his sleeve. Another wave of sickness rose, but he belched and it subsided.

“Shit,” he said, panting from the effort of drinking so much so fast.

Pyotr chuckled. “I’ve never seen you drunk before.”

“Don’t get used to it. I imagine it’s not a good look.”

Pyotr braced his shoulder against Nikita’s like he knew that was just what he needed to stay upright. “You’re upset about what Monsieur Philippe said.”

“I’m upset abouteverythingthat man says.”

“But now. Tonight,” he pressed. “You’re worried about Sasha.” Notes of regret and unhappiness in his voice. Jealousy – but not really, a sweet facsimile of that sentiment.

Nikita sighed. Exhaustion was creeping up on him, slow and sure. In another few minutes he’d need to lie down. He felt raw and exposed now, afraid he’d say the wrong thing…but afraid not to say it, always so buttoned up and guarded when he was sober. “I’m worried about all of you,” he said. “All the time. Every second of every day.” The vodka made him brave in a way he knew he’d regret later, but he turned to Pyotr, faced him the best he could in the dark. “The cause was easy to chase when I was a boy, before anything bad had happened. Before your brother–” His voice cracked and Pyotr’s eyes widened, a sudden bolt of grief blanking his face.

“We can’t win,” he said, and knew for the first time it was true. Really, painfully true. “Right now, with the war on…” He shook his head. “If I was brave, I’d tell all of you to desert and run off to Siberia somewhere.” He felt his lips pretend to smile. “But I’m a coward.”

Pyotr looked scandalized. “You’re not.”

“I am. That’s the reason I can’t be the brother that you need right now. It hurts too much.”

Pyotr looked away from him, jaw clenched so the tendons in his throat threw shadows down into his shirt collar. “That’s not fair,” he said, quiet but firm. “You didn’t force us to be here. If any of us gets killed, that’s our own fault. It’s the Soviets’ fault.Stalin’s. The war’s.” He gained fervor as the list grew, staring angrily ahead at the dark trees. “I don’t–” He sighed. “Dima was your best friend. I know that. I think he was closer to you than he ever was to me. But he was my brother, and I miss him too. I…” He choked a little, swallowed it down. Pressed his hands to his knees and blinked down at them. “I don’t need you to be my brother, Nikitos. I wanted us to be friends, but…”

Nikita put one clumsy hand on his shoulder. “Pyotr–”

“But if that’s too hard, then please, just…lead us. That’s all we really need. That’s enough.”

He stood up and Nikita’s hand fell away, too slow to keep up.

“I’m worried about Sasha too,” Pyotr said. “He’s too trusting.” And he walked away.

Nikita groaned and dropped his face into his hands. It occurred to him then that he’d forgotten his gloves in his pocket and his hands were freezing. He made no move to fix that, though, staring through the gaps in his fingers down at the mud under his boots. The icicles on the edge of the cottage roof had dripped for weeks, until they were gone, keeping the thatch of pine needles wet; their boots had churned up the damp earth beneath, turning it to a sticky muck that was as unpleasant and hard-to-get-out-of as their present situation.

Someone huffed a breath right in his ear and he jerked upright, a shocked sound caught in his throat.

It was the alpha female wolf, studying him with her head cocked, yellow eyes seeming almost sympathetic – if it was possible for a wolf to look like that.

Sasha stood a little ways behind her, his hood pushed back for once. His hair was getting longer, down to his shoulders now, ragged at the ends and silver under the moonlight. He wore the kind of thoughtful expression Nikita hadn’t thought him capable of before, pre-wolf.

“Is that what you really think?” he asked. “That we can’t win?”

All he wanted to do was lie down and shut his eyes. He slumped back against the wall of the cottage and rubbed at the headache that was brewing in his temples. “We can’t.”

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