He heard a distant thunder.
He lifted his paw, touched a rail, and felt the vibration. In a moment the train would burst out of the western tunnel, and it would roar along the ravine and into the eastern tunnel. The red lamp on the last car would swing back and forth, back and forth. Mikhail stared at the place where Nikita had died. There were ghosts in his mind, and he heard them speaking. One of them whispered, Don’t fail me.
It came to him, very suddenly. He might beat the train, this time. If he really wanted to. He might beat the train by beginning the race as a wolf, and ending as a man.
And if he wasn’t fast enough… well, did it matter? This was a forest of ghosts; why not join them, and sing new songs?
The train was coming. Mikhail walked to the entrance of the western tunnel and sat down beside the rails. Fireflies glowed in the warm air, insects chirred, a soft breeze blew, and Mikhail’s muscles moved under his black-haired flesh.
Your life is waiting for you, out there, he thought. Don’t fail me.
He smelled the acrid odor of steam. A light glinted in the tunnel. The thunder grew into the growl of a beast.
And then, in a glare of light and a rain of red cinders, the train exploded from the tunnel and raced toward the east.
Mikhail got up-too slow! too slow! he thought-and ran. Already the engine was outpacing him, its iron wheels grinding less than three feet beside him. Faster! he told himself, and both sets of legs obeyed. He slung his body low, the train’s turbulence whipping at him. His legs pumped against the earth, his heart pounding. Faster. Faster still. He was gaining on the engine… was level with it… was passing it. Cinders burned his back and spun past his face. He kept going, could smell his hair being scorched. And then he was past the engine by six feet… eight feet… ten feet. Faster! Faster! Freed of the train’s wind, he surged forward, a body designed for speed and endurance. He could see the dark hole of the western tunnel. Not going to make it, he thought, but he cast that thought quickly aside before it hobbled him. He was past the engine by twenty feet, and then he began to change.
His skull and face started first, his four legs still hurtling him forward. The black hair on his shoulders and back retreated into the smoothing flesh. He felt pain at his backbone, the spine beginning to lengthen. His body was enveloped in agony, but still he kept running. His pace was slowing, his legs changing, losing their hair, his backbone straightening. The engine was gaining on him, and the eastern tunnel was in front of him. He staggered, caught his balance. Cinders hissed on the white flesh of his shoulders. His paws were changing, losing their traction as fingers and toes emerged. It was now or never.
Mikhail, half human and half wolf, lunged in front of the engine and leaped for the other side.
The headlamp’s glare caught him in midair, and seemed to freeze him there for a precious second. The eye of God, Mikhail thought. He felt the hot breath of the engine, heard its crushing wheels, the cowcatcher about to slam into him and rip him to shreds.
He ducked his head into his chest, his eyes closed and his body braced for impact. He hurtled head over heels through the headlamp’s glare, over the cowcatcher, and into the weeds. He landed on his back, the breath blasting from his lungs. The engine’s heat washed over him, a fierce wind ruffled his hair, and cinders bit his bare chest. He sat up in time to see the red lamp swinging back and forth as the last car went into the tunnel.
And the train was gone.
Every bone in his body felt as if it had been wrenched from its socket. His back and ribs were bruised. His legs were sore, and his feet were cut. But he was in one piece, and he had crossed the tracks.
He sat there for a while, breathing hard, sweat glistening on his body. He didn’t know if he could stand up or not; he couldn’t remember what walking on two legs felt like.
His throat moved. He tried to make words. They emerged, with an effort. “I’m alive,” he said, and the sound of his own voice-deeper than he remembered-was a shock.
Mikhail had never felt so naked. His first impulse was to change back, but he stopped himself. Maybe later, he thought. Not just yet. He lay in the weeds, gathering his strength and letting his mind wander. What lay beyond the forest? he wondered. What was out there, in that world that Wiktor said he belonged to? It must be a monstrous place, full of danger. It must be a wilderness where savagery knew no bounds. He was afraid of that world, afraid of what he would find in it… and afraid, as well, of what he might find in himself.
Your life is waiting for you, out there.
Mikhail sat up, and stared along the tracks that led west.
Don’t fail me.
England-Shakespeare’s land-lay in that direction. A civilized land, Wiktor had said.
Mikhail stood up. His knees buckled, and he went down again.
The second try was better. The third one got him up. He had forgotten he was so tall. He looked up at the full moon. It was the same moon, but not nearly so beautiful as in the wolf’s sight. Moonlight glinted on the rails, and if there were ghosts here, they were singing.
Mikhail took the first, tentative step. His legs were clumsy things. How had he ever walked on them before?
He would learn again. Wiktor had been right; there was no life for him here. But he loved this place, and leaving it would be hard. It was the world of his youth; another, more brutal world awaited.
Don’t fail me, he thought.
He took the second step. Then the third. He still had difficulty, but he was walking.
Mikhail Gallatinov went on, a naked, pale figure in the summer moonlight, and he entered the western tunnel on two legs, as a man.
NINE – The Devil’s Kingdom
1
Michael heard the train whistle. Was it retreating on the tracks, coming back at him for another race? If so, he knew it would beat him this time. His bones ached, and his head felt like a blister on the edge of bursting. The train’s whistle faded. He tried to look back over his shoulder, through the darkness, but could see nothing. Where was the moon? It had been there a moment before, hadn’t it?
There was a soft tapping sound. Then again. “Baron? Are you awake, sir?”
A man’s voice, speaking in German. Michael’s eyes opened. He was staring up at a ceiling of dark, varnished wood.
“Baron? May I come in, please?” The tapping was insistent this time. A doorknob turned, and a narrow door opened. Michael lifted his head, his temples throbbing. “Ah! You’re awake!” the man said with a pleasant smile. He was thin and bald, with a neatly trimmed blond mustache. He wore a pin-striped suit and a red velvet vest. Scarlet light glowed around him, as if he were standing on the rim of a blast furnace. “Herr Sandler wishes you to join him for breakfast.”
Michael sat up slowly. His head pounded like hell’s anvil, and what was that clacking racket? He remembered the blackjack; its blows must’ve unhinged his sense of balance as well as his hearing, because the entire room seemed to be gently rocking back and forth.
“Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes,” the man said, a cheerful announcement. “Would you prefer apple or grapefruit juice?”
“What is this place?” He realized he was on a bed. His shirt collar was open, his white bow tie unknotted, his shoes unlaced and on the floor. They looked as if they’d been freshly polished. The room-a cramped little chamber-held a brown leather chair and a table on which rested a white bowlful of water. Where the window should have been was a square of metal bolted down. He heard the train’s whistle again: a high, piercing note from somewhere far ahead. Well, he knew where he was now, and why the room was rocking, but where was the train headed?
“Herr Sandler’s waiting,” the man said. Michael saw movement behind him. In the corridor, where a curtained window let in a little crack of scarlet light, stood a Nazi soldier with a pistol.