Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
NATALIE
We flew away from the airfield in silence, no one, not even Alexey daring to say a word.
That was most surprising of all. Nik did little else than stare at his fingernails, each cuticle coated with the same brownish red.
Viktor’s blood. He didn’t wipe it away, only looked at each finger in silent contemplation.
And me, well, I stayed where I was the entire flight, nuzzled against his bare shoulder with a heat strong enough to melt iron burning through us both.
Nik beat him. He won a fight against the self-proclaimed alpha of the Vostik pack, yet the hard ridges of his face suggest something closer to a loss.
Even after all of the horrible things his brother did, he didn’t want this.
No, what happened today was history repeating itself.
Siblings once again pitted against each other because of the real monster pulling strings.
Vlad Vostik. His reputation didn’t disappoint.
In Nik’s eyes, all I’ve ever seen is a hunger to help.
In Viktor’s, an insatiable thirst for power.
When I met their father at the den … all I saw was death.
We land outside a small town I can’t pronounce if I tried and are thrust back in the air within minutes, this time on a cargo plane complete with pallets in the hull and an overwhelming stench of metal.
Military plane, judging by the markings on the side and soft gray exterior.
The takeoff was rough, and I’m half-expecting the landing, wherever we’re going, will be worse.
Alexey assured us his friend knew what he was doing, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sit a bit straighter in the small jump seat any time the plane tilted to one side.
I’m not alone. Dimitri’s face is on the verge of green, each sudden knock to the airframe adding a new concerning color to his cheeks.
“Relax, big man,” Alexey says and pats his thigh. “Just a little turbulence.”
I bite back a smile as Dimitri slaps away Alexey’s hand and strangles the armrests into submission. He might just break them off if he squeezes any harder.
“We’ll be there soon,” Nik says, earning a nod from the both of them in return.
There. As in the den of some pack that wants him dead?
From what he told me back at the hotel in Samara, getting help was the only way to stop his father, but now, I’m even questioning if this plan will work or get us killed before the blood moon.
He never said what happened with this pack, only that they have some bone to pick with his family because of him.
I stare at Nikolai, hoping he can sense my unease.
For some reason, it feels like any time we have a conversation, I’m digging up some new, undiscovered fossil.
Why do they want him dead? And more importantly, why does he seem so hesitant to give me an explanation?
It can’t be worse than him taking people from LA can it?
“I only brought enough for three silver mags, the other rounds will slow them down but won’t stop them if things go sour,” Alexey says, inspecting each magazine and tucking them away in his cargo pockets.
Nik shakes his head, long hair swaying. “No weapons.”
Dimitri and Alexey exchange glances. Finally, Alexey scoffs and slams the last magazine down on the empty seat next to him. “Are you crazy? You want us to waltz into den of wolves unarmed? Yebat’, Nikolai.”
Fuck is the same thing I’m thinking. I guess I have Alexey to thank for learning a new word in Russian, especially when he says it frequently.
“Clément Duval isn’t known for his patience. If we go in armed, we will be killed on the spot. My presence alone will be considered a threat to his pack. No weapons.”
Dimitri leans back and rubs a hand down the length of his face. “Nikolai. I don’t like this. We can’t take Ms. Nat into an ambush—”
Nik waves his palm and silences him. “You’re going to have to trust me.”
We land and deplane at some private airfield without issue, well, besides Alexey begging Nik to bring his silver-tipped knife set with him and cursing obscenities under his breath when Nik refuses.
This airport, closely resembling the one the Vostik pack uses, makes me wonder how many of these places exist to serve another pack hiding in plain sight.
Most concerning of all is who or what these packs might be transporting.
Is Nik’s family just one of many that found air travel is the best way to ship their food supply?
Some kind of werewolf meal delivery service the humans of the world aren’t privy to?
I’m not sure, but I do know the second we step outside, an eerie silence lingers in the air like mist. It’s quiet despite the cargo engines whirling to a standstill, and as the last bit of sun descends behind the forests in the distance, the runway lights are the only thing keeping this property illuminated.
The quiet doesn’t last long. Two white sedans race to take position at the front of the cargo plane while two more screech to a stop at the rear, blocking us in at all angles.
Nik and Dimitri both make it a point to keep me hidden behind them, walking down the galley to the pavement.
Alexey holds an even pace with me as we trail them, peering around Dimitri’s large back the entire way.
This must be our welcome party.
And welcome might be a stretch.
Armed soldiers swarm the tarmac and ready their weapons. Lines of red cut through the night, adding small precise dots to Nik and Dimitri’s bodies. I don’t have to look down to know I have more than a few trained on me as well.
“Haut les mains?” one barks, his accent thick and difficult to place.
Nikolai raises his arms in surrender first, and the rest of us follow suit.
I lose count of the rifles aimed at us after ten, but judging the sound of footsteps closing in on all sides, there will be more within seconds.
Maybe Dimitri was right. We walked right into an ambush, and the longer we stand here, the more I wonder how in the hell Nik is going to get us out of this.
Nik takes a slow step forward and speaks to the soldier in charge, his voice unusually calm. That’s not what has the air ripping out of my lungs, though. He isn’t speaking in English or Russian. It’s a language I’ve never heard before. And there’s only one word I recognize. Vostik.
The soldier’s eyes widen and he studies Nik for a moment.
He doesn’t lower the weapon. No, the small man scans from Nik’s feet to his face, finally landing on the tattoo at his wrist. “Vostik,” he snarls, and signals the other soldiers to box us in.
They move forward cautiously, one eye glued to the rear sight of their rifles.
Nik drops to his knees slowly, keeping his arms raised above his head. When the rest of us do the same, he glances over his shoulder and smirks. “Welcome to France, little wolf.”