Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

36. The Base Camp

July 2017, the River Don, Southern Russia

The River Don flowed unobstructed by islands, visible or not, tempting Volya to dive in, raising a spray like in childhood. Dipping into cold water would have been pleasant on a hot July afternoon, even a necessity, if their newest impediment, Dr. Gatchik, shook his head at Dr. Young again.

With his bushy salt-and-pepper beard and clever dark eyes, Dr. Gatchik, the head of the Southern Russia's Archeological Service, or whatever it was called, looked like a swarthy version of Santa. Unlike Santa, Dr. Gatchik held back the gifts.

"Dr. Young, I respect your experience with the aerial surveys—" Gatchik was saying.

The air, Volya sucked in through his gritted teeth, was hot, perfumed by the steppe's grasses, familiar... So was the next 'but' coming from Gatchik. It was always yes, but in Russia. The conversation stalled for about an hour now. The pedantic tick refused to let go when he was so close to his goal!

The river gurgled. The sky and the grass welcomed him like a forgotten childhood home, despite him standing on this particular reach of the Don for the first time. In the beginning, he had stretched on the grass, ignoring the bickering, consumed by this sensation, but the droning eroded his peace.

Were Volya in Young's position, he'd probably strangled Gatchik after the first dozen of questions. Luckily, Young was made of sturdier stuff than Volya. He carried on with the courteous exchange and showed no signs of abandoning the dialogue in favor of brute force.

"Then, Dr. Gatchik, I would like to start work as soon as possible."

"But!" Gatchik removed a wide-brimmed hat to dab a balding spot with a tissue. "But! I am telling you for the hundredth time, there're maybe three square kilometers of Krasnodar with less potential."

Young rocked from heel to toe. "The GPR surveys allowed for finds in less promising locales."

"It's not jungles, for goodness' sake, it's a steppe."

"So it is," Young agreed good-naturedly.

Volya dropped on his back and flung his arms wide to the sides, squinted at the sky. So blue, so calming... like Toshka's eyes.

"It's a waste of your resources." Gatchik's pen tapped out a foxtrot on the clipboard.

Volya turned his head to see that Young stood his ground, straight as if he had a stick inserted up his... yeah, there. His face remained impenetrable, but Volya could smell sweat. The man hated staking his professional reputation on Volya's promises.

Why, oh why, couldn't the Buyan Isle sit near a credible archaeological site?

Because we hid it from the non-Alpha cultures, dummy. They're our mortal enemies, the voice said in his head. Volya glanced at the sky to double-check, but no, not one cloud looked like a wolf-head. His guide resided in his head again.

Damir stepped in, to murmur into Gatchik's ear.

"What is he saying? I know you can hear it," Marina hissed, grabbing Volya's elbow into a vice-grip.

Volya prepared to deny it, but Marina's eyes pierced him like lasers.

"Ah, Damir had said that an eccentric American dame is looking for her abracadabra spiritual lineaments, hence the survey. And that there would be no intrusive work anyway, so just let the foreigners have their fun. They're paying for it after all."

While Volya didn't mention the bribe per se, Marina's face darkened. She wasn't naive.

Gatchik, restored his hat to its rightful place. Humming more tunelessly than Volya, he checked off a bunch of fields on his form, signed it, and stuffed a copy of the permit into Damir's eager hand.

"Good luck with your survey, Dr. Young," he said with a grin. "Make me eat my hat with your astounding results."

Young's face pinched. He said nothing to Damir, however, even after Gatchik hopped into his Jeep and took off.

Marina didn't have Young's epic self-control. She advanced on Damir like a Fury from ancient Greek mythology.

"What are you doing?" she demanded in a dramatic whisper. Her arms flew to his chest, as if to grab his shirt, but stopped at the last second. "Are you daft? If you lose this job—"

Damir's jowls moved. "In case you didn't notice, I've just solved our problem. It is my job."

"Congratulations! Do you think Young would take kindly to you making him a laughingstock in the scientific community? Word travels, Damir, it always travels! Can you use this big, stubborn head of yours—"

Damir stared at Marina sullenly until she came up for air. Once she sucked some into her quivering chest, he put in quickly: "Stop fretting, I'll be fine."

"Damir, go apologize—"

"I was only doing my job," Damir insisted.

"Will he care?" Marina hissed, the venom in her voice implying that no, he wouldn't care. "How can you be such an idiot!"

"If this science gig doesn't work out, I'll just marry well." Damir stomped away to the crates in the cargo truck.

"This might be the smartest thing you've said today," Marina shouted to Damir's back before storming off to unpack at the opposite end of the camp.

"Kids nowadays," Liam whispered into Volya's ear. Volya couldn't help but burst out laughing, which earned him a glare from Damir.

"You two, stop working on your tans," Damir commanded, rolling his sleeves above the elbow to show muscled forearms. "Come and help."

You two... Volya repeated it in his head, unsure how to react. The way Damir's lumped them together as a couple was something totally new to him.

"Sorry, can't risk the moneymakers," Liam presented his hands for examination. "But I'll go see if I can make myself useful with something that doesn't involve heavy lifting."

Damir hopped into the back of the track and grabbed the closest crate. "What's your excuse, Volya?"

"Sorry. Was just daydreaming." Volya scooted over and braced to receive the crate from Damir. Them, sorry losers, had to stick together.

***

For the next two days, Volya had not a single minute for the thoughts about the tortuous ways of love. He did it after dark instead, while staring at the stars. Unlike Montana, the nights here were already warm. He put his sleeping bag next to the tent and lay on it for hours, sleepless. Arms folded under his head, he counted the stars, brooded and howled at the moon.

Liam didn't ask him about it. He even bid a cordial good-night every time he had to step over Volya's prostrate body. Maybe he thought all werewolves behaved that way.

Eventually, the team had everything unpacked, stored, reassembled and secured. The curious or job-seeking locals were politely, yet firmly turned away by the additional security contingent that caught up to the expedition.

Anabelle's secret remained miraculously preserved, without a single blurry snapshot of a centaur surfacing on the net.

The Mnemosyne's tank was installed in a trailer, then pumped full of the red goo after it was out of sight. All and all, knock on wood...

On the morning of the third day after their arrival, Volya was about to find out if he'd created a mid-sized University in the middle of—what did his old principal call them? Aha, the Ponto-Caspian steppes—for nothing.

Involuntarily, his eyes traveled to Liam's hand clutching his cross. Liam's glowing eyes and moving lips were ready for a meme, like Hope spring eternal.

"Godspeed," Volya whispered, put on the revolting mask and plunged into the Mnemosyne.