Mikhail tried to turn and run, but Renati said, “No!” and held him tighter. He couldn’t bear to watch any more of this; he felt as if his brain were about to burst open in his head, and what would ooze out would be black as swamp slime. He lifted his hand, put his fingers over his eyes-but he left himself a narrow crack, and through it he watched Wiktor’s shadow contort on the wall in the leaping firelight.
The shadow was still that of a man, but it was rapidly becoming both more and less. Mikhail couldn’t shut his ears; the cracking of bones and squealing of sinews were about to drive him mad, and the smoky air smelled of rank wildness, like the inside of a beast’s cage. He saw the contorted shadow lift its arms, as if in supplication.
There was a fast, shallow breathing. Mikhail closed the gap between his fingers. The breathing began to slow and deepen, becoming a husky rasp. Then, finally, a smooth bellows rumble.
“Look at him,” Renati said.
Tears of terror streaked from his eyes. He whispered, “No… please… don’t make me!”
“I won’t make you.” Renati released his arm. “Look if you choose. If not… then not.”
Mikhail kept his hand over his eyes. The bellows breath neared him. Heat brushed his fingers. Then the noise of breathing faded as the thing backed away. Mikhail shuddered, choking down a sob. Truth is like fire, he thought. Already he felt like a pile of ashes, burned beyond all recognition of what had been before.
“I told you he was too small.” Belyi sneered from across the chamber.
The sound of that mocking voice caused a flame to spark at the center of ashes. There was still something left, after all, to burn. Mikhail drew a deep breath and held it, his body trembling. Then he released it, and dropped his hand from his face.
Not ten feet away, the amber-eyed wolf with sleek gray fur sat on its haunches, watching him with intense attention.
“Oh,” Mikhail whispered, and his knees buckled. He fell to the floor, his head spinning. Renati started to help him up, but the wolf made a low grunt deep in its throat and she retreated.
Mikhail was left to stand on his own. The wolf watched, head cocked slightly to one side, as Mikhail struggled up to his knees, and that was as far as he could get for now. His shoulder was a mass of pain, and his mind spun like a kite seeking a balancing tether.
“Look at him!” Belyi said. “He doesn’t know whether to scream or shit.”
The wolf spun toward Belyi and snapped its jaws shut about two inches in front of the young man’s nose. Belyi’s sardonic grin fractured.
Mikhail stood up.
Wiktor turned back to him and advanced. Mikhail took a single step in retreat, then halted. If he was going to die, he would join his parents and sister in heaven, a long way from here. He waited for what was to be.
Wiktor came on toward him, stopped-and sniffed Mikhail’s hand. Mikhail dared not move. Then, satisfied with what he smelled, the wolf lifted his hind leg and sprayed a stream of urine onto Mikhail’s left boot. The warm, acidic-odored liquid got on Mikhail’s trousers and soaked through to his skin.
The wolf finished its task and stepped back. He opened his mouth wide, fangs gleaming, and lifted his head toward the ceiling.
Mikhail, fighting on the edge of another faint, felt Renati’s strong hand grip his arm. “Come on,” she urged. “He wants you to eat something. We’ll try the berries first.”
Mikhail allowed her to guide him out of the chamber, his legs wooden. “It’s going to be fine now,” she said, sounding relieved. “He’s marked you. That means you’re under his protection.”
Before they got very far beyond the archway, Mikhail looked back. On the wall he saw a fire-scrawled shadow, lurching to its feet.
Renati took his hand, and they ascended the stone stairs.
THREE – Grand Entrance
1
Stone stairs, Michael thought. Just the thing to break an ankle on. He blinked, and returned from his inner journey.
Darkness all around. Above his head an open white parachute, hissing as the wind strummed the taut lines. He looked down and to all sides; there was no sign of the green blinker.
A broken ankle wouldn’t be pleasant, and certainly not the way to begin his mission. What was he descending onto? A marshy field? A forest? Hard, tilled earth that would twist his knees like bits of taffy? He had the sensation of the ground coming up fast now, and he grasped the chute’s lines and angled his body slightly, bending his knees for the impact.
Now, he thought, and braced himself.
His boots smashed into a surface that gave way under his weight like mildewed cardboard. And then he slammed down against a harder surface that shook and creaked but held him from falling any farther. The harness tightened under his arms, the chute snagged on something above. He looked up and could see a jagged-edged hole in which stars sparkled.
A roof, he realized. He was sitting on his knees under a roof of rotten wood. Somewhere out in the night, two dogs barked. Working quickly, Michael unsnapped the harness straps and shrugged out of the parachute. He narrowed his eyes, could make out heaps of material around him; he grasped a handful. Hay. He had crashed down into a barn hayloft.
He stood up, began to get the chute unsnagged, and drew it in through the hole. Faster! he told himself. He was in Nazi-occupied France now, sixty miles northwest of Paris. The German sentries on their motorcycles and in their armored cars would be all over the place, and the radio messages might be crackling: Attention! Parachute spotted near Bazancourt! Patrol all nearby farmland and villages! Things might get hot very soon.
He got the chute into the loft, then began to bury the silk and pack in a large pile of hay.
Four seconds later he heard the scrape of a latch drawing back. He tensed, becoming motionless. There came the soft squeaking of hinges below. A reddish glow invaded the barn. Michael slowly, silently slid his knife from its sheath, and saw by the lantern light that he was balanced near the loft’s edge. A few more inches and he would’ve gone over.
The lantern probed around, spreading light. Then: “Monsieur? Où êtes-vous?”
It was a woman’s smoky voice, asking where he was. Michael didn’t move, nor did he lay aside the knife.
“Pourquoi est-ce que vous ne me parlez pas?” she went on, demanding that he speak to her. She lifted the lantern high, and said, again in the crisp country lilt of Normandy French, “I was told to expect you, but I didn’t know you’d drop on my head.”
Michael gave it a few seconds more before he leaned his face over the loft’s edge. She was dark-haired, wearing a gray woolen sweater and black slacks. “I’m here,” he said quietly, and she jumped back and probed the light up at him. “Not in my eyes,” he warned. She dropped the lantern a few inches. He glimpsed her face: a square jaw, deep-cut cheekbones, unplucked dark brows over eyes the color of sapphires. She had a wiry body and looked as if she could move fast when the situation demanded it. “How far are we from Bazancourt?” he asked.
She’d seen the hole in the roof about three feet over the man’s head. “Take a look for yourself.”
Michael did, pulling his head up through the hole.
Less than a hundred yards away a few lamps burned in the windows of thatch-roofed houses, clustered together around what appeared to be a large plot of rolling farmland. Michael thought he’d have to congratulate the C-47’s pilot for his good aim when he got out of this.
“Come on!” the girl urged tersely. “We have to get you to a safe place!”
Michael was about to ease down to the loft again when he heard the rough muttering of engines, coming from the southwest. His heart seized up. Three sets of headlights were quickly approaching, tires boiling up dust from the country road. Scout cars, he reasoned. Probably loaded with soldiers. And there was a fourth vehicle bringing up the rear, moving slower and carrying much more weight. He heard the clank of treads and realized with a cold twist of his insides that the Nazis were taking no chances; they’d brought along a light panzerkampfwagen: a tank.