Chapter One
The full moon rose over Blagoveshchensk, and wolves howled to the night sky, rejoicing in their freedom from humanity. I knew better. I hid so their ved’ma, their witches, wouldn’t find me. Luck alone had spared me from being caught in the monthly unveiling in the Russian city. The unlucky were branded with silver so the crescent scar on their cheeks wouldn’t fade. The more fortunate, while still branded, wore their crescents on their brows and were named the wawkalak, cursed but beloved.
The unlucky bore either the name of bodark, a werewolf by choice to be watched and feared, or sumasshedshiy volk, cursed and mad. My grasp of Russian left much to be desired, and while many spoke English, none would speak of the sumasshedshiy volk, those who were branded on their right cheek and feared by the wise.
The bodark wore their brands on their left cheek, and the wise pitied them as much as feared them.
My wolf and I came to the same conclusion within our first month in Blagoveshchensk. The brand’s placement didn’t matter. Only the wawkalak would live, and it was only a matter of time before the bodark and sumasshedshiy volk snapped and killed those around them, for the Russian ved’ma denied them the right to become their wolves in the misguided belief remaining human would lift their curse, or somehow transform them into wawkalak.
I lived close enough to Blagoveshchensk to hear the wawkalak’s song but far enough away I wasn’t subject to the unveiling. As long as I hid in my cabin deep in the forest with Bodwin’s wolf, I would be safe enough.
What had I been thinking, venturing to the far eastern reaches of Russia? In terms of being remote, while Blagoveshchensk classified as a city, few outsiders ventured to it. If tourism had been more commonplace, more would know of the supernatural, for the inhabitants believed in their superstitions.
Their superstitions had substance here.
As I had from the first day I’d stepped foot in the territory, when I needed to venture into the city, I made certain I was back before nightfall, returning to the property I’d begun building upon my arrival in the spring. Thanks to the proud tradition of bartering, I’d been able to build myself a home from the equivalent of a paperclip, working when I couldn’t buy, buying when I could, and trading what I didn’t need for what I did.
A wiser man would have abandoned Blagoveshchensk, but with winter soon to come and my cabin almost complete, I’d decided to set down roots rather than test my luck again.
The still, deep quiet of winter could drive a wolf to madness. The cold killed, and I’d found bodies on my year-long trek across Russia, a warning I refused to ignore.
Sheltering in my cabin with Bodwin’s wolf would be dangerous enough, as my truck, which I’d salvaged from a junkyard in exchange for helping the owner repair his equipment, had a tendency to break down at the worst possible time. The way I figured, I’d won grudging respect from the locals for my ability to fix just about anything, something I’d picked up from the military and my time on the run.
If I had the right parts and enough time, I could make it work again.
My truck had needed a lot of parts, but I’d gotten those from the junkyard, too.
I liked my antiquated, battered truck, which viewed the journey between the city and my cabin as a challenge to overcome.
To play the part of a morning person, of someone who would legitimately head home before dark, using an illegal ID I’d picked up on the western end of Russia, I took up part-time work in the mornings to offer the illusion I worked hard while my apparent youth deceived most into believing I attended school in the afternoons to better my Russian and become a useful member of society. It worked, as no one questioned my behavior, allowing me to flee from the city and its ved’ma at night.
In reality, after confirming I hadn’t been followed, I hunted with Bodwin’s wolf, sometimes as a man, sometimes as a beast. She didn’t mind my traitorous, glowing fur. While I yearned to hunt beneath the light of the full moon, as did she, we resisted and hid from the watchful, suspicious eyes of the locals.
Where the wawkalak ran, the ved’ma followed, and they branded all they found during their hunts. As long as I stayed in my cabin, hung the expected silver talisman on my door, and remained human in case someone came calling, I would be fine.
I hated that cursed, silver talisman, a gift I’d received shortly upon staking my claim to the land an hour outside of the city. An older man had brought it to me, held within a beautiful wooden box carved with wolves and symbols representing the elements. The sign of the ved’ma decorated the talisman. The damned thing gave me a headache, and Bodwin’s wolf avoided it. It reeked of silver and magic, and when I drew too close for too long, my scarab armband glowed a bloodied red.
The howls of the wawkalak drew closer, and I blew out my oil lamp, locked my door, shuttered my windows, and pretended to sleep, with Bodwin’s wolf hunched over my feet and growling while stinking of fear.
Animals knew when evil lurked nearby, and nothing good could come from meddling in the affairs of the wawkalak, bodark, the sumasshedshiy volk, and the ved’ma who controlled them.
No one knocked at my door, but wolves prowled outside my cabin. I’d staged the exterior well, with a doghouse and chain indicating I owned a pet, an animal I declared to be a husky to my boss, Stanislav Dmitrijevich Morozov, who had nodded and grunted his approval upon learning I believed my girl to be Russian bred.
The wolves left, and the hours dragged until the early dawn. When I emerged from beneath the covers, I peered through my windows to check for any sign of unwanted guests. Nothing seemed disturbed, so I opened the door and whistled for Bodwin’s wolf. For an hour, while I made myself a pot of tea and watched from my cabin’s porch, she would run and pretend she still lived on the snowy peaks of the master she still mourned.
She began her ritual with bolting for the trees, skidding to a halt, and charging back my way. The ground, marred with the new prints belonging to the wolves, confirmed they’d paid me a visit.
I wondered what they thought of me, an American who claimed to be part Russian. Bodwin’s wolf spent a few minutes checking the woods surrounding the cabin. Now and then, she growled loud enough for me to hear. She disliked the smell of wolves, but it would be a few more nights until the full moon’s call eased and the wawkalak returned to their city and lived their human lives.
Then, safe from the watchful eyes of the ved’ma, we would run far and hunt together, and I would ease my wolf’s discomfort. Resisting the urge to transform exhausted us, but he understood the price of failure as well as I did.
The rumble of an engine warned me I had a guest, and I worried who might come calling so early in the morning. I gave Bodwin’s wolf as long as I dared before whistling to call her in. Instead of her usual resistance, issued in warbles of complaint, she bolted inside as though some devil nipped at her tail.
“Good girl,” I praised, speaking in English, as the locals expected of me when at home. Then, to make sure we both stayed safe, I locked her inside.
“Sergei Sokolov, when you tell me you have Siberian, you did not tell me how magnificent and well trained. You have done well by her,” the rumbling voice of my boss greeted, his English far better than my Russian.
When I’d drawn up my paperwork, I’d made a mistake, one I blamed on my American upbringing and my real lack of a father; I lacked a patronymic, which resulted in more attention and awkwardness than I wanted. Sometime soon, I expected someone would assign me one, as the residents of Blagoveshchensk clung to their traditions, and patronymics played a crucial role in how they interacted with each other.