||BOOK 1 of THE WALKWE|| Assassins' Creed with Werewolves || for content review purposes please note that while Volya is 17 in the first book, he is 18 in the second book.
Ancient magic and werewolves ain't supposed to be center-stage for a pop-sta...
Volya didn't doubt it, but it wouldn't help Damir at all. He tossed Damir an apologetic glance like, sorry, I've messed it up to receive a resigned shrug in response.
"Damir is correct," Volya said, pouring the last vestiges of his power into these words.
"Out." Nesterov pointed at the door.
He retreated up the steps with as much dignity as he could summon, then rushed into the hall. Could he still hear the footfalls of the woman who'd defeated him? Her appearance matched the descriptions of his poisoner: blond, puffy hair, prominent breast, and she moved with agility and speed that closely resembled his own. Also, just like him, she apparently moved without making a sound.
Bummer!
Volya bounded down the closest stairway, then dashed past security like his pants were on fire. He doubted the lady would hole up in the building, so outside was the most logical choice.
The grounds of Lomonsoff's University were planted over with the gardens in the 1950's. The younger trees lined the newer buildings, like the social sciences one, he'd just vacated. The greenery and a wrought-iron fence separated it from a congested street. More buildings stretched in a line to either side. Beyond lay the soccer fields for the students' athletic endeavors. There were plenty of pedestrians all around, but no running women except for joggers in neon t-shirts and shorts.
Volya plopped down on the stone steps leading to the entrance, hugged his knees and let his forehead bump against his knee-caps. A genetic memory storm was brewing in his bone marrow. The images of the long-gone past mixed with his more recent memories, fragmented and troubling. The mist-wolf coughed meaningfully like, nice try, runt.
Yeah, things went swimmingly. Frigging A for fixing everything.
Volya didn't know how long he sat there, when Damir joined him. "How on Earth did you manage to get past the security, Volya?"
Like this was their biggest concern! "I did. Don't worry about it."
Damir's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Next time just let me know, okay? I'll leave a pass for you. We can call you a folklore consultant."
"Uh-huh." Volya winced, then peered into Damir's face. The guy looked surprisingly relaxed. "Ah... how did it go?"
"My thesis has merit, but additional justification is required. Lots of additional justification. They gave me another year."
"I'm sorry for acting like a delusional moron. I really thought I stood a chance to convince them."
"Don't fret. It went better than expected. When I found out that Nesterov had appointed himself to be my opponent, I thought I'm a goner." Damir guffawed. "It was fascinating to get a blast from the past square in the face too. I was holding my breath for someone to bring up corrupting influences of Western intellectuals or something from that era..." he pointed at the spire of the main building towering over the rustling canopy.
Volya shivered. The imposing citadel of knowledge was built during Stalin's rule. Like every citadel, it was guarded against the interlopers, be they burglars or thinkers. In Damir's case, however, the animosity wasn't ideological like in that bygone era.
"So, how's Marina...?" Volya asked, though he had suspected the answer.
"Married," Damir replied curtly. No change then. "But enough of catching up. I have something you have asked for. Just don't tell Young."
"No worries."
Damir handed a couple of folded sheets of paper to Volya. To be civil, Volya should have thanked Damir and stuffed the gift into his pocket, but he couldn't resist. He unfolded it and scanned the list of names.
Ivan Sirota, male aged 45, Saransk prison. Sila Wolkov, male aged 5, orphanage, Rostov. Neljub Dikoy, male aged 19, location unknown. Bronya Wolkov, male approximately 28 to 30 years of age—
Biting his nail, he flipped the page over. Damir let him peruse the list of men just like him in silence. Companionable silence was a foundation of their friendship.
"Thank you," Volya said at last, his eyes misting over. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Damir replied. "Let's go get coffee and talk. You owe me one, and I want to hear this new stuff about Yasuwa."
***
AN: the names Volya lists mean the following things in Russian: Ivan Sirota—Ivan the Orphan, Sila Wolkov—Strength of the Wolves, Neljub Dikoy—Unloved Wild, Bronya Wolkov—Armour of the Wolves.
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