Page 3 of Wild Wolf

“All right,” I agreed. “I’ll meet you there.”

With a nod, and his usual scowl fixed in place, Stanislav turned and marched away, disappearing into the woods following the packed dirt road. The engine of a big truck roared to life, and only when I heard it fade did I go to mine, a far inferior vehicle. I would squeeze every last kilometer out of it I could before resurrecting it with parts salvaged from some junkyard and beginning the process all over again.

It kept me busy.

Over an hour later, I parked in the employee lot to discover an alarming number of government vehicles and military present, and they swarmed me the instant I killed the engine. My employee badge would help somewhat; it marked me as a residential transient of Russian heritage, explaining why I had only part of a Russian name.

I regretted having not understood the importance of patronymics when creating my identity, although I held some hope the frequent dance about it helped give credence to my charade.

The questioning started with the basics, but my answers didn’t satisfy the uchastkovyi, someone of importance within the politsiya, although the specifics baffled me. As far as I could tell, he didn’t count as a police chief, but he wasn’t a standard officer, either.

One day, my ignorance would get me killed.

“What do you do here?” The uchastkovyi asked in Russian, holding up my employee badge.

Finally, a question I could answer without stressing over how the man would perceive me. Leaning against my truck, I pointed at the log loader responsible for starting the milling process. While my Russian made people grimace, I did the best I could, and the uchastkovyi neither corrected me nor seemed to care I struggled with his language. “I help load that machine.”

“Are you an operator, then?”

I shook my head. “I’m labor. I help line the logs, load them, and remove the securing lines so they can be fed into the machine. The operators handle the heavy machinery. I work the ground and do as the operators tell me to do.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“I have worked here for four months. I work the morning shift. I am still learning Russian, so I study in the afternoon or work on my home. I built it myself.” I allowed a hint of pride to reflect in my voice and remembered not to smile. “I have land rights about an hour from here.”

“Is this your first winter here?”

“Yes.” I spoke the truth, too. It had taken me and Bodwin’s wolf over a year to reach Blagoveshchensk, surviving through the bitter winter somewhere a hefty distance west of the city. “My overseer, Stanislav Dmitrijevich Morozov, suggested I come today to look at some scrap he thinks may be useful for my home, for the trim, which needs work. I’ve much to do to prepare it for the winter.”

“Yes, those new here underestimate our winters, and ours are mild compared to others.” The uchastkovyi returned my badge. “How well do you know Andrey Alekseevich Fedorov?”

“I do not know him well. He works inside. I have spoken to him a few times, but only enough to know who he is. He works hard, on extended hours, learning to become an operator. Did something happen?”

The uchastkovyi scowled, and I’d grown so accustomed to surly Russians I waited with the passive patience expected of me. In some ways, I liked the people of Blagoveshchensk. They came across as hearty, stubborn people who thrived in adverse conditions.

“Andrey Fedorov is dead, killed during the night by a sumasshedshiy volk, who broke free of his ved’ma and turned on his family. Andrey Fedorov was kin, a cousin.”

When I had first learned of the local werewolves and their brands, I’d also been taught the local way of warding away evil, an old gesture used as a respectful gesture of respectful worship in other parts of the world. With it had come a warning: should an official speak of wolves, the wise protected themselves.

It sickened me to use it, but my discomfort, which I couldn’t hide as well as I wanted, bore unexpected fruit. The uchastkovyi’s expression softened. “You are unaware Andrey Fedorov called a sumasshedshiy volk kin?”

“I didn’t know.”

“It is whispered he meant to become a bodark to show his loyalty, and his own flesh and blood turned on him in a fit of jealousy, first murdering the ved’ma meant to save his soul before killing his family and dragging their bodies here. We can only assume the cursed beast, twisted as he is, believes this is now his territory.”

The uchastkovyi’s words reminded me of Desmond and his son-in-law, Richard. Both had worried about my control over my wolf.

I feared I now understood the reason why.

Chapter Two

An hour after he started grilling me, the uchastkovyi introduced himself as Timofey Matveevich Vasiljev, and he was in charge of all incidents involving werewolves within the mill quarter of Blagoveshchensk. No one had seen Pyotr Alekseevich Fedorov following the rise of the full moon and the murders of his family and ved’ma. The politsiya believed the wolf hadn’t finished killing yet.

Worse, all employees of the mill were considered to be possible targets. I heard ‘conspirator’ instead, which I blamed on my long history within the United States military. My boss arrived not long after I’d been warned for the sixth time to be careful and contact the authorities if I saw anything suspicious.

“I apologize for being late. I was delayed on my way here,” the mill’s overseer said, jumping out of his truck and slamming the door.

I could smell his lie, and thanks to the Russian way of remaining impassive and expressionless, I hid my reaction. “Of course, Stanislav Dmitrijevich Morozov. It’s no problem.”