17
THE THINGS YOUR COUNTRY DEMANDS OF YOU
Katya passed the oily rag down the barrel of her Mosin-Nagant in long, even strokes, back and forth, back and forth, losing herself in the soothing mindlessness of the task. Keeping her weapons clean was the most important thing she could do. Now. In this life she lived during the war.
She thought about it as Then and Now. Then was when she shared a bedroom with her sister, their bed tucked up beneath an eave of their little wooden house, the ceiling sloping above their heads. They would lie on their backs and pretend they were in a reindeer-hide tent, herders trekking across Siberia, guarding their herd from wolves, and bears, and badgers, bathing with handfuls of snow, eating dried reindeer meat and howling at the moon like animals. Then was when her mother cooked the most amazing stew with root vegetables hidden away carefully in the back of the cellar, behind a removable panel that her father had ingeniously designed. Then was keeping their heads down on the walk to school, trying not to ever draw the attention of the local Cheka who went from house to house like the plague, taking grain…and mothers and fathers. Then had been a fearful and hungry time, interspersed here and there with moments of quiet family joy, all the sweeter for their rarity.
Now was a gun. A knife. A uniform. Now was drills, and more drills, and drills again. She ate, she slept, she followed orders. There was no fear, no hunger, and no joy. Now was existence. One of the other girls had told her she was crazy; Katya thought she was effective, and effective was all that mattered in war.
Her roommate, another girl from Madame Vishnyak’s school with dark, serious eyes and an unsmiling mouth, Sveta, had gone in search of food, her stomach growling so loudly it had become annoying. Alone for the moment, Katya let her thoughts drift – as far as they seemed capable these days. She listened to the tangle of voices out on the lawn, a cheerful noise that had become regular in the past few weeks. She knew that if she went to the window, lifted the curtain, and looked down, she’d see the five Chekists she’d seen on the ship, along with Sasha – he was the one always running, and leaping, and laughing – and the old man with the long fur coat.
She didn’t want anything to do with them. That’s what she told herself.
Under her layers of denial, she burned with curiosity. Back Then, she would have been whispering with her roommate, speculating, standing at the window and watching the goings-on. But Now, she told herself, firmly, that she didn’t care what any of them did.
A lie she almost managed to believe.
Something thumped against her window, rattling the glass, and she had the stock of the rifle pressed flush against her shoulder before she could reason that it was probably only a bird. It wasn’t, though; through the gap in the curtains she saw a face, narrow and pale, vivid blue eyes. Sasha. He waved at her, murmured a muffled “sorry” through the window, and dropped down out of sight.
She stared at the place where he’d been, blinking. “Huh.”
The sound of footfalls in the corridor snapped her back to the task at hand; with a last swipe, she set the rag aside and stood to lay the rifle across the cot. She longed for a glossy leather scabbard, something like the cowboys used in the pictures she’d seen. Or a case with brass latches. She had only the shoulder strap she used to carry it, and so she polished the blue every day, fending off the rust that dampness, and dirt, and human fingerprints could leave behind.
She straightened when the footfalls reached her door, and then relaxed when she saw that it was only the major general’s secretary.
In the scant way that she could experience such emotion now, Katya liked her. A young woman with pinned-up dark hair and cat’s eyes, who chose to wear field boots and gaiters instead of pumps. “The major general would like a word,” she said, matter-of-fact, and stepped out in the hall to wait for Katya to follow.
When Madame Vishnyak first pulled Katya aside and told her that she’d been chosen for a special assignment in Stalingrad, Katya had felt something almost like excitement. Russia’s most acclaimed sniper was there, currently, training new recruits and preparing them for a German assault. It would be a privilege to serve under him, to learn from his expertise and use her skills in battle. She was panting for the chance to be in active combat.
But then she’d been sent up here to this compound, blank place on the map that it was, and she was in a holding pattern. Polishing her rifle, sitting, stewing, learning nothing. She wasn’t sure if the prospect of meeting with the major general was a relief, or yet another roadblock.
The secretary led her down to the main floor, to the big office in the corner with the walls that only went halfway up to the soaring, factory floor ceiling. If she was about to get a dressing down, all of the soldiers sitting in clusters at the cafeteria table would hear it.
She gulped a little and held her head high as the secretary opened the office door and waved her through.
The major general sat staring down at his paper-strewn desk, phone held to his ear, leaning heavily on one elbow. A bottle of vodka and a glass rested within easy reach. He lifted a hand and motioned for her to wait.
The door closed softly behind her.
“Uh-huh,” the major general said into the phone, voice low, rough from drinking. “Yes, sir. Yes. I will. Uh-huh.” He hung up the handset and rubbed his hand across his eyes, his movements sluggish with fatigue – and no doubt vodka. He pressed the heels of both hands to his forehead and stayed that way, breathing heavily.
Katya wondered if he’d forgotten about her. She shifted a little, boots scuffing against the floor.
His head lifted with a start, eyes filmy and strained as they raked across her. “Oh. There you are.” He cleared his throat and sat up, scraped the papers into order on his desk. “It’s Katya, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
He pulled a paper from the stack and scanned it, frowning, eyes then flicking up to meet hers. For all that they were bloodshot and tired, they were sharp, too. A man who was still wily despite his vices. “It says you were the top of your class.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve always thought women were better shots, when they practiced. Less reckless.”
She could only nod.
“I suppose you wonder why the girl at the top of her class would get sent out to the middle of nowhere,” he continued, setting her paperwork aside and folding his hands on top of the desk, looking up at her from beneath white, wooly brows. “When by all rights you should be in Stalingrad with the other snipers.”
She didn’t know if this was a trap, so she merely dipped her head once in acknowledgement that she’d heard.
“I’ve wondered, too,” he continued. “And I think it means that the project we have here is very important. Don’t you agree?”
She had no idea what project he meant, but she nodded. There had been murmurings amongst the men, snatched bits of conversation they hadn’t offered to share with her: something about the “boy” and “the old man.” She’d heard the howling of a wolf at night. Once, it had even sounded like it was coming from inside the building somewhere, though that was impossible.
“You’ve seen the officers?” the major general asked, and she knew who he meant, stomach doing an unhappy flip.
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re here on special order from the Vozhd himself, by command of my comrade Major General Rokossovsky in Moscow. They’re undertaking a mission beyond the compound tomorrow. Highly, highly classified.” He paused, brows lifted for emphasis.
“Yes, sir.”
“The major general has asked that a sniper be among their company. You’ve been chosen.”
“But, sir–” she burst out, overcome with sudden emotion, and then snapped her mouth shut. Shit. She couldn’t afford to do that sort of thing.
He stared at her, like he was waiting to see if she’d continue.
She didn’t, but it took some restraint.
“You’re a patriot, yes?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I trust you’re ready and able to do the things your country demands of you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is your assignment.” But the corners of his mouth ticked up in what she thought was sympathy. “Typically,” he added in an undertone, “these sorts of assignments lead to more important ones in the future. If you catch my meaning.”
That was almost a relief. Almost. “Yes, sir. I do.”
“Good. Report to the back gate at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning. They’ll be waiting.”
~*~
Sasha was happy. It was the strangest thing: he wouldn’t have ventured to say he was happy since the day Nikita and the others had appeared in his mother’s kitchen, but now, as unlikely as it seemed, he was filled to bursting with a heretofore unknown happiness.
He spent most of every day out in the yard of the compound, becoming better-acquainted with his new strength and speed. He’d outrun Pyotr on a morning jog – and then lapped him, not even out of breath, laughing with delight. He could leap up and grab hold of the second-story window ledges. Could do a backflip from a standstill. Could put Ivan and Feliks on the ground in sparring matches – alone or together.
He still caught their disbelieving and worried looks – when they thought he wasn’t paying attention – but bless them, they didn’t treat him like he was dangerous.
He didn’t feel dangerous. He felt hungry, and full of energy, and playful, and curious. He felt better than he ever had before.
He couldn’t say the same for his comrades this morning, though. They all looked half-asleep in the pale wash of daybreak, sipping tea from tin mugs and holding lit cigarettes between their fingers. They looked worried, and tired, dark circles smudged beneath their eyes.
Pyotr looked actively frightened. “I don’t like the woods,” he confessed to Sasha. “You can’t see what’s coming.”
Sasha chuckled. “That?” He pointed to the tree line beyond the gates where they stood. “That’s not woods. Not like I’m used to. That’s just a handful of trees. Nothing to be scared of. And there’s not even any tigers.”
“Oh Jesus,” Pyotr said, gulping and going a shade paler.
“He said there’s not tigers,” Feliks said, cuffing Pyotr gently upside the head. “And even if there were, so what? We’ve got a bodark on our side.”
Old Sasha might have paled like Pyotr did, but New Sasha laughed outright, delighted by the prospect. He felt like he really could take on a tiger.
Apparently, being a wolf made him a reckless idiot. Who knew.
The soft sucking sound of footsteps reached his ears and he whipped his head around. Through the veil of fog, he glimpsed a figure walking toward them, a rifle slung over its shoulder. He took a deep breath and caught her scent – knew that it was a her, and that she was damp beneath her arms with nervous perspiration. The scent sharpened, until it was full-fledged fear by the time she stepped through the last swirl of mist and joined them.
It was Katya, face a careful mask, her scent a kaleidoscope of anxiety.
Sasha thought telling her he liked the way she smelled – that she smelled pack compatible – might not be the compliment he intended it to be. So he smiled at her instead.
She nodded in recognition, but didn’t return the expression.
A moment later she stiffened when Nikita said, “What are you doing here?”
Sasha knew a sudden, intense urge to reprimand his friend. His captain! Nikita was in charge.
Wasn’t he?
Without expression, Katya said, “I’m assigned to you by the major general. If you don’t like it, you can take it up with him.”
They stared at one another across the muddy patch of yard. Nikita ground his teeth, muscle in his jaw flexing.
And then Sasha realized what was happening: Nikita liked her. Well, not liked, because he didn’t know her, but he wanted her. The sharp tang of want emanated from him, and Sasha almost smiled.
“We don’t need a sniper,” Nikita said. “We’re not even Army.”
“That’s what everyone says,” Katya shot back, “until they’re dead.”
Philippe made no noise when he walked; if not for the fire-ash-smoke smell of him, Sasha wouldn’t have known he was approaching. As it was, he startled everyone else – Pyotr even jumped – when he materialized out of the mist and said, “Our sniper’s arrived, wonderful. We’re all here then.”
The muscle in Nikita’s jaw leapt again, but he didn’t comment.
Sasha caught a sharp whiff of wolf, and death, and turned to face the sorcerer. He carried something white in his hands.
“Sasha,” he said, smiling, and stepped forward. “This is for you.”
Sasha felt a wave of great sadness crash through him. This was the dead alpha, the white wolf Philippe had killed in order to turn him. He’d been a strong, healthy male in his prime, and he hadn’t deserved to die.
But even so, Sasha felt himself reach for the pelt that lay folded in Philippe’s hands. The alpha was dead, but he was Sasha’s alpha – he was him. A part of his soul longed for the warm white fur, wanting to be reunited with it. A voice that wasn’t a voice at all, but a gentle murmuring like melting snow, told him that this was right and good. He was the alpha now, and he should wear the pelt of the great beast that had become a part of him, whose heart’s blood had pierced his own heart.
With the aid of pale, soft leather and wool, the pelt had been fashioned into a hooded cloak. The hood bore the head and ears and upper jaw of the wolf, his wicked ivory teeth preserved. The body would fit around his shoulders, the tail trailing along the outside of one thigh.
“Try it on,” Philippe urged.
Sasha threw it around his shoulders and it settled with a soft thump, a gust of musky wolf scent as soothing and welcome as his mother’s freshly laundered skirts when he was a shy toddler and wont to press his face into her leg. The clasp was made of bone, and it fastened with a deft flick of his thumb. He pulled the hood up over his head; it was warm and homey inside it, the tips of the teeth just visible if he strained his gaze upward.
“Holy Christ,” Feliks muttered. “He really is a wolf.”
Sasha grinned and felt his lip lift too far, knew his teeth were flashing.
I am the alpha, he thought, and this is my pack.
“Shall we?” Philippe asked, and they set off from the Ingraham Institute and into the forest.
~*~
“It’s nice to see you again,” a voice said right beside her, and Katya nearly leapt out of her skin.
Sasha settled in beside her without a sound save the quiet rustle of his cloak. When she looked at it from the corner of her eye, without turning her head, the sight of a wolf walking upright on its hind legs sent a chill skittering down her back. But then he turned to face her, blue eyes bright, his smile warm and easy, and she the chased the sudden fear away with a forceful mental shove.
“Hello,” she said, glad her voice sounded steady.
His smile widened, and she was struck by the sense that he was different somehow. More relaxed than he’d been on the ship. His eyes seemed bluer than she remembered; and his teeth, when his smile got yet another fraction wider, seemed too-white – the canines were sharper than any she’d ever seen. Not fangs, but close, noticeable points that gleamed in the sunlight.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Fine. How are you?”
“I’m wonderful.” The funny part was he sounded like he believed that.
Without leaning toward him or doing anything to draw attention, she dropped her voice to a whisper and said, “Sasha, what are they dragging you out here in the woods to do?”
“Oh, they’re not dragging me,” he said, too-loud for comfort. She glanced up the line of black-clad backs in front of them, sure someone would turn around and catch them talking. Probably that stone-faced captain. “They’re my pa – they’re my friends,” he said, and she wondered what he’d started to say. “This is a training exercise.”
“Training for what? None of you are in the army.”
“For–” He broke off suddenly, head kicking back. With his hood up, it looked like the wolf he wore was howling at the sky. He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and when he looked at her again, she swore his eyes were glowing. “Wolves,” he said, softly, reverently. “My wolves.”
“What…” She started to ask, but he was already loping ahead of her, effortlessly passing the others to get to the head of their line.
There were confused exclamations ahead, and the company, such that it was, came to a halt.
Katya unslung her rifle from her shoulder, the weight of it a comfort in her hands. In her experience, wolves were never a welcome thing.
Their group stood in a hollow that would become a stream when the snow was fully melted, mud and water slopping over their boots, the budded limbs overhead occasionally dropping wet clumps of snow on their heads. The slight depression lent their voices an echo, so Katya could hear the captain – Nikita – say, “Sasha, you don’t know that they’ll recognize you.”
“I do,” Sasha insisted, calm but firm. It struck her again – staring at him in his white wolf cloak, the way he stood tall and confident – that something significant had happened to Sasha. He’d changed in some fundamental way. “They’re our pack.”
“Our pack,” Nikita muttered, shaking his head. “No, Sasha, there is no pack. This is crazy.”
“So is what happened to me. But it’s real.” Sasha showed the captain his teeth, and then he growled.
Katya spun in a tight circle, rifle aimed, searching for a wolf hidden in the underbrush. But there was nothing behind her. The sound had come, impossibly, from Sasha.
She turned back to them. The sound was a low, rumbling warning sound. She’d heard countless dogs in her life make the same noise, heads lowered and ears back. The growl pulsed into the streambed, echoing just as their voices had.
Unbelievable.
“Sasha,” Nikita said, and the growl cut off.
Sasha blushed. “Sorry. I just–”
A twig snapped to her left.
She swung the rifle around and felt all the blood drain out of her face. A pair of amber eyes stared at her from the top of the bank. The wolf was a mottled gray, statue-still; if not for the brightness of its eyes, it might have indeed been a statue. It stared at her without blinking. Not snarling, not advancing, just watching.
She managed to take a shaky breath and said, “There’s a wolf right here in front of me.”
She was aware of the men turning toward her, but didn’t dare take her gaze from the wolf. She’d made the mistake of looking the thing in the eyes, and now she was afraid it would pounce if she blinked first. She didn’t want to shoot it – she was a sniper groomed to kill men, not a hunter with a stomach for killing animals – but she’d pull the trigger if it gave her a reason to.
“Oh,” Sasha said, that one syllable full of excitement, and he covered the distance between them in five long strides. When he reached her, he pushed the barrel of her rifle gently aside and positioned himself between Katya and the wolf. “There she is. Hello, beautiful,” he crooned, extending his hand toward the wolf.
“She’s going to eat you,” one of the men said.
“No, she’s a good girl.” To Katya’s amazement and horror, Sasha moved even closer, and then sank down on his haunches, back of his hand still held out in offering. “I’m sorry,” he told her, and sounded so. “I’m sorry they took him from you. That’s a good girl, come here.”
Katya held her breath.
“Sasha,” someone said, and then the old man said, “wait.”
Sasha made a soft whining noise that sounded like a request.
The wolf returned it. And then…then…it, she, stretched her neck forward, audibly sniffing the air. A paw slid forward. Then another. And then her wet, black nose touched the back of Sasha’s hand. They stayed that way a moment, wolf and man, and then the wolf’s jaws opened, her tongue rolled out, and, panting happily, she shimmied down the bank and into Sasha’s lap.
“Good girl,” he praised, scratching her behind the ears. “What a good girl you are.”
The brush rustled, and the rest of the pack appeared along the bank: gray, and black, and brown. Seven of them, not counting the female panting up at Sasha like a lap dog.
A hand landed on her arm, and it took every ounce of self-control not to jump.
“Don’t shoot,” Nikita said beside her, though he had his own gun in his hand.
“I wasn’t going to.”
His hand tightened once and then fell away.
When she looked at him, he was already looking away.
~*~
Sasha had never known a sensation like this. It was somewhere between joy, excitement, and perfect contentment. The wolf in him was delighted to be reunited with his wolf pack. And Sasha was delighted right along with him. Having his own human pack and the wolves together flooded him with warmth. They were all here, where he could watch over them, keep them safe.
He raked his fingers through the alpha female’s thick coat and she closed her eyes with happiness. He felt her heartbreak – they’d taken her mate from her – but she was happy to have his scent and presence here with her now.
“Wonderful,” Monsieur Philippe said.
Sasha was already growling when he turned to him, and eight wolves echoed the sound.
Everyone took a startled leap back.
Except Philippe, who, as always, smiled, eyes disappearing in his wrinkled face. “They’ve accepted you, Sasha. Marvelous.”
“They’re my pack,” Sasha said, because it didn’t require an explanation beyond that.
“So they are. That’s why we’re out here in the forest. So you can learn to hunt together. To fight together.”