by Patti Larsen
My turn to be surprised. “Anything I can use?”
He shrugs, thick-fingered hands patting the table cloth. “They are based out of Los Angeles,” he says. “First contact with the family came from that city.” And now I have a specific location. Excellent. This visit to Iosif has already been worth it with that one tidbit. The light shines on his ring as he points at me. “Know this, princess of the werenation. Even those above,” he now jabs over his head, though I know he means his bosses, “are wary of hiring them, despite their desire to possess such assets again.”
“They’ve been approached?” How long have Caine and his pack been here in Europe? Far longer than a few days in Yutsk, obviously.
“Briefly,” Iosif says with a sigh. “But their leader…there is something wrong with him, my dear.”
I nod. “Now you know why.”
Iosif doesn’t say anything. For a long time we sit there, him smoking his cigar, watching me. I hold still, waiting. He’s heard everything, knows what I’m after. He will either help or he won’t.
“You say you seek a cure.” A wreath of smoke masks his features as he speaks, voice soft and flat. “What if there is no such thing?”
“There is,” I say, without doubt.
Iosif sighs out a large puff, the scent carrying its cloying breath to me. “The Black Souls created a terrible legacy,” he says. I’m actually startled he knows about them. I assumed he thought the Dumonts were our masters. I should know better than to underestimate Iosif. “You wish to make him human again?”
I nod, though I will take anything. “That is the hope.”
Iosif sets aside his cigar. “And if the alternative is to somehow make him a werewolf, like you?”
It’s not possible. Even if Sage were to make it through the revenant process, to become like Caine and his pack, he will never be a trueborn werewolf. Never. But will it be enough for me, if Sage makes it that far, if he maintains his sanity? Can I live with that?
The alternative is his death. And once the werenation finds him, only death will be his fate. It is law.
“Do you know more you’re not telling me?” I keep my tone mild, though I want to leap over the table at Iosif and strangle it out of him.
“Perhaps.” He pushes aside his bowl, no longer steaming. The crimson fluid sloshes, like thinned blood on the white porcelain. “Might I offer this single shred of hope.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Werewolves weren’t born. They were first created. Ask yourself what makes you so different from the boy you protect, in the end.”
A flare of unbidden pride hits me. I was born a werewolf, I’m no revenant. And yet, Iosif is correct. We, all of the werenation, are descended from revenants. An interesting thought, that.
“I will supply what you need,” Iosif says abruptly, leaning forward again to take one of my hands in his. The gold band holding his diamond feels hot, his thick fingers, too. “But there are things you must know, my dear.”
I can’t help but tilt my head to the side, a wolfish thing to do. “Tell me.”
“There is a price on your head.” He flashes another crooked-toothed smile. “Quite a sizeable one. And the boy you’re traveling with. If I wasn’t rich, I’d be tempted.”
I simply nod. “You knew what I told you already.”
“Some of it.” He snaps his fingers. The kitchen door opens and his two bodyguards enter. They have Sage between them. I don’t react. I can’t show Iosif weakness, but if they have harmed him, I will kill them all.
Iosif pats my hand. “Fear not,” he says. “You were honest with me, Charlotte.” I note he’s returned to my more common name, the one the Dumonts used for me, and feel myself relax because of it. “And I respect that. I’ve always respected you.” He shrugs. “The folly of an old man, perhaps, to trust a were. But I do.” He laughs, a coughing sound filled with years of cigar smoke. “Imagine that, a mafiya man like me, trusting a pretty young beast like you.” He pats his round belly, watching me with those narrow, dark eyes. “Perhaps I’m too trusting. But after all you’ve done for me in the past, you deserve a chance to see this through.”
How kind of him. And yet, his trust isn’t returned, not completely. “What’s your price?” There is always a price.
Iosif laughs while Sage comes to my side. His hand is shaking as he sets it on my shoulder, but he feels relatively calm, so I keep focused on the man in the suit next to me. “Always about business with you, princess.” He points at my soup. “Eat some borshch while my people put your papers together.”
I shake my head, pushing the plate away, ready to walk. “The price, Iosif.”
He sighs, seems to deflate. “Perhaps I just want to help you,” he says. And then winks with a glitter in his eyes. “For old time’s sake. Or perhaps I will enjoy knowing the princess of the werewolves owes me a favor.”
And he’ll collect one day, I have no doubt. I offer my hand without hesitation, regardless. I don’t have a choice otherwise. “Deal.”
We shake as Sage takes a seat next to me, frowning. “Sage America,” I say, “this is Iosif Greshnev.”
Sage looks back and forth between us. “Nice to meet you.”
Iosif laughs again, robust and loud. “You say that now,” he says. “Oh, my dear,” he turns to me. “I’ve always admired you and your family. Your darling mother. Your impetuous brother. But only you, Sharlotta, would put your life and everything you have in danger for a normal.” He winks again. “And that, dear girl, is the real reason I’m helping you.”
***
Chapter Three
I sit in the back of a non-descript van, unheated and bare to the steel floor. The windows have been painted over, the only light coming through the front windshield. Sage huddles next to me, shivering, favoring his shoulder. The two guards from the restaurant watch over us, one with a machine gun in his lap, the other cradling a handgun.
Sage turns his head, lips next to my ear. “Who are these people?”
I don’t answer. He already knows, doesn’t he?
“Am I the only one who thinks this is a bad idea?” He doesn’t sound petulant, or complaining. Just solidly anxious, though his old strength runs through him, keeping his voice steady, his whole being poised for action.
“No,” I say. “But we are fugitives and they are the only resource I have to win our freedom.”
“We could go back.” Sage’s hand reaches for mine, squeezes my cold fingers as the lights of the city flash past the windshield, the cold dark and quiet of the countryside ahead. “You have a bigger destiny, Charlie. And I’m getting in the way.”
“So you want to die.” I’m feeling blunt, to the point. Unwilling to pull punches. He needs to understand this sacrifice isn’t just about him.
“No,” he says. “But if I’m going to turn into some kind of monster and start making others like me, I guess the answer would be yes.”
“There’s no guarantee of that,” I say, hoping I’m right. His scent remains pure of the revenant taint, even a full day after being bitten, so my hope is stronger than maybe it should be. “For all we know, you won’t devolve. And until you prove to me you will, I’m going to work on the assumption there is a way to help you, if you don’t mind.”
Sage’s teeth flash in the single streetlight as he smiles at me. “Whatever you say, princess.”
I would hit him, but I’m too amused. A strange place and time to find humor, but I’m not one to discard the chance to lighten the mood if it makes him feel better.
Sage dozes on my shoulder as the hours pass. Iosif promised his men would take us to the border of Slovakia, bribe our way across. It was the best he could do, but it will mean we are out of Ukraine and, with the new papers in our possession, it’s enough.
I refuse to worry what I now owe the Mafia leader. He’s no Ukrainian, Russian by birth, from what I understand. But unlike other Russian leaders, he has adapted to our country, made himself comfortable, adopted us as his own. The cold and terrible emptiness i
n the hearts of other Mafia leaders I’ve met is absent in Iosif. He is either an excellent actor—able to fool even a werewolf—or he genuinely cares for the people. An odd combination for a man steeped in organized crime. His own code of ethics could get him in trouble one day.
I will be there on that day to make sure he is the victorious one for what he’s done for Sage and me.
A pothole jars the van, lifting me from the floor slightly, slamming me back down again. Sage surges awake, a growl on his lips. He turns to face me as the two guards cock their weapons, looking suddenly fearful. As they should. Sage’s eyes have gone wolf.
I turn toward him, reaching for him with my magic, fear surging in my heart. Is this the time, when the revenant begins to show? Were we in the palace, he would be dragged from his cell and to the throne room, to be beheaded and then cast upon a pyre to burn to dust. But he’s here, with me, and if I’ve chosen wrong, it’s possible the two guards will die for my foolishness.
But when I fix my gaze and power upon Sage, I realize there is no madness in him. The wolf has risen, barely to the surface, a reaction to being startled. But he is sane and present, the scent of him as fresh as ever, though now filled with the musky depth of a wolf.
His snarl retreats, dark eyes returning to their sea green, my own canine vision crisp even in the low light.
“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “What happened?”
I laugh nervously, just for his ears, before glaring at the two Mafia guards. They are shaking, eyes wide. Iosif must have warned them about Sage. Did he give orders to kill us both if my love began to turn? I wouldn’t be surprised, despite his claims of trust. He has his “concerned parties” to worry about, after all.
“He’s fine,” I say, cold, commanding. “Cowards.”
That raises frowns, anger. The bald one uncocks his handgun, though he remains stiff, while his friend looks forward toward the driver.
“How long?” His Ukrainian is rough, uncultured. Another foreigner in my country. I shake off my irritation and listen for the reply.
“Two more miles.” The driver is a slim man with a ragged scar on his cheek. He chain-smokes filterless cigarettes, his window wide open to the cold. I shiver and pull Sage to me, feeling his wolf retreat until it is gone.
The bald guard nods to me. “The border,” he says in even harsher Ukrainian.
I wave him off, speaking Russian so I don’t have to listen to him butcher my mother tongue with his uncouth mouth. “We’re ready.” My new backpack rests behind me, a softer place to lean on than the cold wall of the van.
They seem more than happy to see us go. And the feeling is completely mutual.
I peer over the driver’s shoulder, nose flaring at the heavy scent of smoke, wolf’s gaze catching the distant glimmer of lights signaling the border crossing.
“Arrangements have been made,” the driver says in a cheerful tone. He, at least, is Ukrainian, judging by his accent. “This will be but a moment.”
I nod, begin to sit back, before freezing in place when I feel them against my shielding.
Enforcers. I jerk back into position, eyes narrowing, searching the sky over the rapidly approaching border. They are nowhere in sight, but I sense the pressure of their power. Femke is looking for us.
For a moment, I consider turning us in. At least Femke will be fair, treat Sage with courtesy and kindness. But she is bound by law, and will have no choice but to return us to my grandfather. So, no. We must avoid her Enforcers at all costs.
“Stop.” The driver is startled, drops his cigarette with a curse, slamming on the brakes at the grating sound of my voice in his ear. “We must get out here.”
The bald guard joins me behind the driver’s seat. “What is it?”
I shake my head, turning to Sage who stares at me with growing anxiety.
“Nothing you can help us with,” I say as I lunge for Sage and our backpacks. “Tell Iosif thank you. Your duty is done.”
The back of the van opens easily under my hands, the well-oiled hinges telling me we’re not the first ones forced to sneak out before the journey is over. The bald guard slips out the back with us, breath rising from his lips in a column of mist as he points off to the right.
“Tsurl,” he says. “Small town, you can hide there.”
I look to the left. “And that way?”
“Train tracks.” He shrugs, washing his hands of us as he leaps into the back of the van and pulls the doors shut.
I pull Sage off the rutted road as the van makes a U-turn, the driver waving a jaunty farewell with his glowing cigarette. Tall grass and brush are an excellent hiding place in the dark, but only for a short time. I glance up the road toward the border, waiting to see if the van’s departure has been noticed.
Nothing, no movement. And the Enforcer presence is steady, as though waiting, not actively searching. So we are in no worse shape now than before.
Sage shoulders his pack, turning right, toward town. But I’m already slinking across the road, heading left. He hurries to catch up with me, hand on my arm. “Where are we going?”
“Enforcers are waiting for us at the border.” Femke has to uphold law, even werelaw. The magical safety of Europe is her responsibility and having Sage running around—a known revenant in her territory—means she’s now forced to pursue us. Sage grimaces, looks back over his shoulder. “We’ll find a way across.” I pull him along by his grip on me, feeling his hand slide down to take mine. “But, for now, I don’t feel like walking, do you?” He shakes his head. “Then let’s go catch a train.”
***
Chapter Four
The train is the perfect choice, at least. And Sage surprises me in how easily and courageously he boards the slow-moving boxcar. We luck out. The section of track near the border is curved and steep, offering an excellent opportunity for us to board safely. When I grin at him from the dark of the boxcar after a daring leap, he grins back.
“Not my first time traveling,” he says.
We settle among piles of boxes on the steel floor, a large sheet of discarded cardboard our only cushion, but enough to keep the chill of the metal from seeping through and into us. I position myself with a clear view of the partially open door, eyes locked on the horizon rolling past. Sage rummages through the bag Iosif gave him, snuffling at the foil-wrapped bundle he pulls free before his eyes light up.
He manages to control his hunger long enough to offer me some of his roast beef sandwich, the bread thick and homemade, fresh cut from the smell, but I wave him off, amused by the relief in his smile as he devours his meal. I’m certain another sandwich hides in my own bag, but I’ll save it for later. I’m far too tense to enjoy food right now and Sage might need it later.
Sage finally slips back, resting his shoulders against a box, pressed against me, sighing softly as he brushes crumbs from his jacket. “Man, I’ve never been so starved.”
I don’t comment, though worry pings. Young werewolves are often voracious eaters. I then have to remind myself he’s not a werewolf at all, but a human turning revenant. That just adds to my anxiety.
I hardly needed the reminder.
Sage’s hand slips around mine, fingers warm through the leather of my glove despite the cool evening. I slip my fingers free so I can touch his skin, heart aching for him as I suddenly realize my family and my problems aren’t the only consideration.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into the dark, the rattling of the train almost swallowing my words. But his ear is very close to my lips and he turns to face me, a little frown on his brow.
“I am, too,” he says. “I’ve ruined your life.”
I squeeze his hand, leaning my head on his shoulder. “Your parents,” I say. “I’ve been so focused on getting us to California, I forgot you have family.”
Sage stiffens, clears his throat. “I don’t know what I’d tell them,” he says, voice thick. “I guess I should try to call them or something.” His thumb traces circles over the back
of my hand. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know what to say.” His free hand runs through his dark hair. “They're used to me rambling around, but this? 'Hi, Mom, Dad, I'm turning into a supernatural creature and could be executed for it?' How do I explain this when I don't truly understand it myself?” Sage’s lips brush my forehead. “At least they will still have Zach and Peach.” Sage’s twin siblings, a boy and girl, half his age. I wish now I’d had a chance to meet his family. He’d offered, several times, but I resisted, knowing we couldn’t be. Would it have made things easier for me, if I’d gotten to know them? Or harder?
It doesn’t matter now, either way. And this conversation isn’t about me, anyway.
“If something happens to me,” Sage says.
“You’re going to be fine.” The words snap out of me, growled in the voice of a wolf.
Sage doesn’t say anything for a moment before his body rises and falls in a sigh. “Just, please, tell them something. Make up a story, an accident, something. Don’t leave them wondering if I’m alive or dead.”
Tears sting my eyes, my mouth tight as I fight off the quiver in my lower lip. “I promise.” I won’t have to fulfill that promise, so it’s easy to make. “Tell me about them?”
He seems surprised. I’ve never asked before, and, in fact, I’ve shut him down in the past when he’s tried to share. Sage doesn’t need further encouragement. I close my eyes and picture his family as he tells me stories about family adventures, like the year they spent in Guatemala volunteering and building schools, his mother’s first skydive, his father’s passion for snowboarding. They are an incredible family, I can tell from every word he speaks, and his love of them washes over me as I absorb Sage’s memories.
“You’ve been away from them for a long time.” I can’t remember the last time he went home to visit, though it’s possible he didn’t tell me because he stopped asking me to join him.
“A year,” he says. “I meant to go home for Christmas. Hoped to talk you into coming this time.” He laughs, without bitterness. “I guess that’s not going to happen, is it?”
