13
EVEN RED-BLOODED PATRIOTS
The Ekaterina was the first of five heavily-weighted cargo ships steel that would be used to make T-34 tanks and munitions down the just-thawed Volga in Stalingrad. There were tank and weapons factories in Stalingrad, but they were working double-time. The Allies had shipped in everything from C-rations to Colt sidearms. But it wasn’t enough. By the time this war was over, Nikita didn’t think it would ever be enough.
He tried not to think such hopeless thoughts as he stood at the rail, breathing in the cold-dank-fish smell of river water, letting the sting of the March wind against his bare face ease some of the sickness that was balled in his gut like a living thing. They were making good time, and he had to have faith that Monsieur Philippe’s magic was of some value. At this point, the idea of revenge was the only thing getting him up in the mornings.
That, and the deep guilt and love he felt for his boys.
The quiet scrape of a shoe signaled Kolya’s arrival a moment before he leaned his folded arms over the rail beside Nikita. “Sasha wanted me to ask if you’ve eaten,” he said in that dry tone that meant he was smiling on the inside.
Nikita felt his own smile threaten, warmth blooming in his chest. “You’ve all been a terrible influence on him.”
Kolya nudged him with an elbow. “He’s picking up the slack.”
“Yeah. I know.”
And he was. Not in a conscious way, but in an unobtrusive, kindhearted way that was all his own. Dima had left a gap behind, one that could be filled by neither grief nor memory. A human-shaped hole in their band of brothers that hovered always on the edges of Nikita’s awareness, heavy and dense, drawing their energy, and laughter, and happiness. For Nikita, it was a welcome gap; he craved that reminder of his failure as a leader, as a friend. Had anyone tried to fill that space, he would have gladly murdered him.
But Sasha wasn’t trying to do anything but survive. Maybe find a way to feel some sense of peace in this strange new life he’d been dragged into. And in the process, he was starting to care about them, Nikita could tell. And they in turn were beginning to care about him. He was bright, and curious, and sweet, and always glad to lend a hand. And sometimes, when the light hit his face just right, there was something of Dmitri in the curve of his smile, the straight line of his nose.
For his own sake, Nikita didn’t want to like the boy, but he couldn’t help it. He really, really did. And he was ashamed to admit that sometimes, when he was thinking about that, holding back a smile, he didn’t miss his dead best friend so acutely.
“I ate,” he said. “An American chocolate bar and one of those awful C-ration cans of meat and beans.”
“Mm. God bless America.”
One of the crewmen shouted something from above and a moment later a thick chunk of ice came lapping back along the ship. It was mostly submerged and slicked over with water, a dangerous hunk of pewter in the black chop.
More ice lurked closer toward the bank, a hammered-steel sheet of it that ran aground amid the rocks. The landscape was a sloppy gray, gripped by a spring melt that would turn the soil to boot-sucking mud. The Germans were regrouping, somewhere way, way past the tree line, radioing back home, licking their wounds, formulating a strategy. They would wait for the steppe to dry out before they mobilized, Nikita knew. When the ground was packed hard and the panzers would kick up great clouds of pale dust. When they could get a running start, and when the Red Army was without the home advantage of snow and ice. The Germans had the equipment advantage – but the Russians had winter on their side, and after Moscow, the Nazis weren’t soon to forget it.
Kolya took a breath, and said, “You know I’m fond of Sasha.”
Oh no. Here it came.
“…And I think you are, too.”
“But?”
“I’m skeptical.”
“Of?”
Kolya sighed. “Come on.” His voice lowered. “Magic? If magic was the answer, why hasn’t anyone used it before now?”
Nikita sighed and let his head hang forward, stretching the sudden tension in the back of his neck. This was the thing that kept him awake at night: the magic, and Philippe’s closely-guarded plans that involved Sasha. “What do you want me to say? That I’m confident? I have no idea what we’re doing – but it’s the only thing we can do right now?”
He turned his head so he could see Kolya’s face, the notch of concern between his brows, the way the wind tugged his hair back so he couldn’t hide his worried frown. “I just…”
“What?”
“If something happens to Sasha, I don’t want you to take it personally. That’s all.”
He didn’t want Nikita to feel even more guilt, he meant, until he eventually drowned in it and never came back.
He felt his mouth settle into a grim line. “Nothing’s going to happen to Sasha. I won’t let it.”
~*~
During his second week in Moscow, Ivan took Sasha to the apartment of a woman who answered the door in an elaborate, beaded red wrapper…and nothing else. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her painted mouth, and she stood with one hand braced high on the doorframe, the lamplight behind her showcasing her bare silhouette through the wrapper, the curve of waist, and hip, and thigh. Her nipples stood out against the fabric, stiff little buttons. She shook back her mane of dark hair and gave Sasha an up-and-down look that made him blush and want to curl up into a little ball around his sudden, painful erection. He was thrilled, and nauseas, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to shield himself from the woman, or start shucking his clothes right there in the threshold. He’d never felt that way in his life, and he hated it.
“What did you bring me today, Ivan?” she’d asked, eyes heavy-lidded, tone disinterested.
He’d kissed a girl once, back home. Just a dry press of lips, and she’d blushed and turned away from him. But this was no girl leaning in the doorway, and nothing about her made him feel dry.
Ivan’s big hand had gripped him by the back of the neck. “I brought you a country puppy to play with, Natalia,” he’d said, and laughed.
Natalia’s chuckle had been throaty, her fingers surprisingly strong when she gripped his jacket and tugged him inside. Sasha had filled head to toe with a craving that made his face unbearably hot; his stomach cramped and his cock drooled in his pants, and he thought he might pass out. He wanted her, and he was terrified, and when she reached for his hand, he pulled away.
He wound up sitting on her pink velvet sofa that looked like something stolen from the Kremlin while she entertained Ivan in the bedroom. The walls were thin, and he heard everything. His pants were tacky when they walked home later.
So Sasha didn’t have the best track record when it came to the fairer sex. Which was why he hung back, not wanting to be seen, when he spotted a pretty girl with twin dark braids standing at the rail of the ship, leaning into the wind, holding onto her Army-issue hat with one hand.
Her profile gleamed white and fragile as porcelain against the gunmetal sky. She held herself perfectly still; if she hadn’t blinked, and her cheeks hadn’t been pink from the cold, Sasha might have thought her a lovely statue. The wind toyed with her braids, ruffled the bits of white ribbon that tied them off at the ends. Her jacket billowed around her knees. But her flesh and bones could have been marble. The utter stillness of her was more arresting than any provocative movement could have been.
Predator, Sasha thought, and he wasn’t so afraid of her. No wolf could ever be as intimidating as the people he’d met in Moscow.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, she turned then, braids slapping against her back, and fixed him with a flat, unreadable look.
He sent her a little wave. “Hi.”
The barest hint of a smile touched her lips. She reminded him of Nikita in that moment, that same reluctant amusement. “Hello.”
“You’re in the army?” he asked, stupidly, because her uniform greens and boots clearly marked her as enlisted. He’d never been any good with small talk.
Behind him, Pyotr hissed, “What are you doing?”
A shadow crossed the woman’s face, a brief flicker. Her smile turned hard, not really a smile at all. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“She’s a sniper,” Pyotr whispered behind him. And added, “Stupid,” for good measure. Sasha could imagine his face was flushed with secondhand embarrassment.
“Oh, well, I…” he stammered, a blush warming his cheeks. “I’m sorry. Yes. I just…don’t like to assume. I…I’m sorry.”
Her gaze softened a fraction. “I don’t think you are, though. In the army that is.”
“No. Um.” He was too far away to make conversation easy, so he took a few careful steps closer. Pyotr asked what he was doing, another low hiss, but the woman didn’t seem alarmed or put-off, so Sasha went a little closer, and then a little more. Close enough to see that her eyes were a warm brown, and her gaze direct. “I’m not.”
Her body language remained open, one gloved hand on the rail, the other in her jacket pocket. She didn’t pull back and shrink from him; she wasn’t afraid. “What is a man who’s not in the army doing on a ship full of army cargo?”
Sasha winced. “I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you.”
Her small smile returned. “Ah. Very secret and special, then.”
Sasha shrugged, embarrassed again. He wished suddenly that he’d been brave enough to at least speak to Natalia the prostitute, so that he might be less nervous now. What an uncultured idiot he was.
She was very pretty, and he wanted to offer her something. “I’m Sasha,” he said, because his name was all he truly owned at the moment.
“Nice to meet you, Sasha. I’m Katya.” She pulled her hand out of her pocket and held it out for him to shake, like a man would.
It was just a meeting of two cool leather gloves, but the gesture made him smile, disarmed him. It was okay, maybe, that he wasn’t quite his own man yet, because she didn’t seem to be behaving much like a woman who expected that of him.
“Are you a sniper?” he asked, and Pyotr made a disparaging sound somewhere behind him.
Her smile widened, amusement clear in her eyes. “I am. And are you a…” Her gaze swept down to his boots and back up. “A trapper, I’m guessing?”
“I was.” Pain flared to life in his chest, like it always did when he thought of home, and his family, and the life he would probably never see again. But it was a dull ache now rather than a sharp stab. He’d reconciled himself to the fact that he saw Nikita and the others as friends now, and not captors. He was still terrified – it still woke him up in the middle of the night – but he was trying to be hopeful.
“Why are you going to Stalingrad, Sasha the Former Trapper?”
“I–”
“Sasha,” Nikita said, just behind him, and he’d walked up out of nowhere, materializing at his side.
Katya did shrink back this time, and Sasha didn’t guess he could blame her.
~*~
Katya considered herself a patriot. Without allowing herself a proper mourning period, she’d gathered her things, marched through the snow, and joined the Red Army – and then Madame Vishnyak’s school – without a backward glance. She’d been training for months now, with the rifle, and with her knife and sidearm too, preparing for the awful possibility of being discovered in her perch and having to defend herself hand-to-hand. She’d seen the gutted bodies of Russian schoolteachers and housewives once the Nazis were done with them; she knew that she could die – quite easily – in this war, and she’d made her peace with that. There wasn’t much left to live for, so she might as well die for her country.
But even red-bloodied patriots quailed at sight of the Cheka, and on the deck of a cargo ship bound for Stalingrad, she learned that she was no exception.
The Cheka didn’t care what was in your heart – only what they could find by prying up your floorboards. A bit of raw alcohol, some grain, God forbid an unfortunate pamphlet. Death or a one-way trip to Siberia were guaranteed to follow. But that was after the Cheka officers had their fun with you.
She’d let her guard slip, disarmed by Sasha’s charming awkwardness, and now suddenly there were two black-clad Chekists crowding in behind him. Their badges gleamed in the silvery light, almost as bright as the taller one’s eyes. Jesus, his eyes were volatile, pale and sparking, a cold contrast to Sasha’s washed-out blue.
Her heart jumped up her throat and she turned her face away, looking out across the water. Like maybe that would prevent something terrible from happening.
“Oh hi,” Sasha said, sweet, but not surprised. Just as guileless as before. “Nikita, this is Katya. She’s an army sniper.”
Katya bit down on a gasp. Now they knew her name! It was her first name only, but still. If they inquired about her with the ship’s captain, then he would tell them whatever they wanted to know about her. Surely the Cheka wouldn’t arrest a sniper on her way to her post. Surely…
“What did I tell you about going off by yourself?” the man with the eyes – Nikita, she guessed – said, ignoring Sasha’s comment. Ignoring her, too, she realized, when she cut a sideways glance toward the men.
The Chekist managed to look both terribly stern…and terribly helpless. Like a parent reprimanding a child they knew they couldn’t hope to control. And fittingly, in his fur-trimmed coat and hat, Sasha was the overgrown boy who couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong.
“But I–” he started.
The Chekist, Nikita, stepped in close, so they were almost nose-to-nose, jaw clenched tight. (Katya would have laughed under different circumstances.) In a low, furious hiss, he said, “We’ve talked about this. You can’t trust people, Sasha.”
The other Chekist groaned quietly and said, “Nik, don’t lecture him.”
Color her intrigued.
Sasha stammered another moment, and then went still. He drew himself upright, shoulders squared. He was thinner, rangier, like a colt, but he was of a height with the enraged Nikita. His own narrow jaw set, and the almost-feminine prettiness of his face settled into something fiercer, more masculine.
“I’m not a child,” he insisted.
The second man, all too-long hair and dark eyes, bit his lip like he was fighting not to grin.
Nikita pressed his mouth into a thin, white line. “Not here,” he said, and his arm went around Sasha’s shoulders, steered him away from her.
She thought she was home free, but at the last moment Nikita looked back at her, eyes a piercing blue-gray, and her breath caught. Whatever he was looking for in her face, she hoped he didn’t find it.
~*~
By the time Nikita got Sasha a safe distance away from listening ears, he’d realized two things. One: he’d overacted. Two: he couldn’t seem to stop overreacting.
Logically, he knew that the woman at the rail hadn’t posed any threat to the boy. They’d only been talking, and no one, man or woman, from the Red Army was as threatening as he himself was as a Chekist.
Also logically, he knew that his current anger was a cover for a deep, darkly twisted fear. He’d grown up knowing – been groomed by his mother – that one day he would turn his gun back on the men who controlled him and kill as many of them as possible before he was cut down. It had always been a doomed suicide mission in his mind, going out in a big useless blaze of glory. After Dmitri, he started to crave it. He’d never counted on a thought-dead mage waltzing in with power, and ideas, and a plan that, despite its mystery, seemed somehow like something that would work. He resented Philippe for that, shaking up all his plans and ideas. Offering him success was…incomprehensible. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And now he was taking his fear and frustration out on Sasha.
But knowing that didn’t mean he could adjust his behavior.
“What did I tell you?” he repeated when they were alone. Kolya had lingered far back, acting as sentry. Later, Nikita would be glad for the assurance that no one would walk up on them. He had to look like an ass right now. “Don’t go off by yourself! Don’t talk to strangers!”
Sasha’s hat had tipped back on his head, and several fine white-blond locks curled around his ears and across his forehead, lifting in the wind. His fierce scowl was comical in its total lack of intimidation. “I’m not a child!” He was just as furious, Nikita realized, his chest heaving under his coat. “I can look out for myself!”
“In Siberia, maybe,” Nikita snapped. “You can’t even begin to understand how dangerous it is here.”
“On a boat?”
“I told you–”
“You’re not my father,” Sasha hissed, hectic spots of color blooming on his cheeks. “Don’t pretend you’re worried. That you care about me. Even he doesn’t care–” He choked on the last word, voice cracking. He shook his head and dropped his gaze, pressing on. “I’m just your prisoner,” he said, miserable. Voice fading. “I know that. I’m not going to run away, or jump overboard. Or tell anyone what’s happening. I won’t tell anyone what you are. No one would help me, anyway.”
Oh. Oh. Through the angry red haze of his own jumbled emotions, Nikita felt the clutch of guilt. Again. He would always feel guilty about this poor, snatched boy.
All the fight bled out of him with a deep exhale. “Sasha.”
He didn’t respond.
“Sasha, look at me.”
He glanced up through his lashes, not petulant, but defeated.
Nikita bit his lip. He wanted to assure him that he wasn’t a prisoner; wanted to make more promises to him. But he wanted to be honest – he’d promised that, too. “I worry,” he said. “There are a lot of things that could go wrong before–”
“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.