Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

21. More Visitors

Volya had his suspicions about field archeology not being Indiana Jones' romp. But even his most level-headed expectations didn't prepare him for how far the movies fell from the truth, particularly in terms of pacing.

"Damir, " he complained, leaning on his shovel. "Damir, remind me what exactly you hated the most about the Russian army? Wasn't it the ditch-digging?"

Damir beamed, impervious to sarcasm. Ever since he assumed control, he acquired that special glow normally associated with pregnant women. "I see what you've done here. The difference is the intent of the action."

Volya wished he shared Damir's enthusiasm for altruistic earthworks, but did they really have to move the piles of dirt they had already piled? Build a grid out of sticks and twine? Couldn't Damir take on faith that Anabelle-2 bones weren't there and stop sieving ash through a colander—yes, an honest-to-God colander, just like Baba Masha used to have for straining pasta—in the dead of the night?

When they weren't moving dirt around, they were unblocking the passage, one stone at a time, passing it down the long line of werewolves... to pile them next to the newly-relocated dirt piles.

Piles, piles, and more piles. Zero wild rides.

With every meter of the passage cleared, Volya hoped that the frigging thing would finally open into a cave full of treasure, but nope. It was always more digging. Never enough digging.

"How is it even possible that one person, even a centaur, stacked all these rocks?" Volya asked one night when he felt particularly beat.

"Time and dedication," Damir muttered, not lifting his head from the notes he was penciling into a notebook in the light of a hand-held torch. "Time and dedication."

Time... Volya harrumphed and glanced at his watch. Yup, 2nd of August. Where did the time go? What was Liam doing all alone in L.A.? Or, worse, not alone. "I hoped things would speed up with your return."

Damir shrugged. "You wanted a proper dig."

"I wish doing the right thing wasn't so bloody hard." It sounded whiny, so he turned around to take himself to his tent. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a Huntress slipping down the crevice Spetsnaz-style. Finally, some excitement!

He rushed to Kramola's side, because the Huntresses reported to her and nobody else. Nadezhda was running to Kramola as well, so he waved at her. The cave-to-piles conveyor line broke into gossiping groups. Obviously, they all could use a break from the drudgery.

The ripple of transformation ran through the Huntress. She grabbed Kramola's still werewolf arm. Her golden eyes blazed with baleful energy--was it what he looked like when he was angry? Ouch.

"You were right!" the Huntress bellowed, pointing a shaking digit at Damir. "He betrayed us! There are strangers heading straight for our camp."

The two werewolves next to Damir stepped as one to twist his arms behind his back, bending him down.

"Wait," Damir gasped from his knees. "I can explain."

"Silence!" Kramola snapped, towering, even though she now assumed her human form and it was shorter than her werewolf.

"Wait!" Volya used the same sharp tone. It was like a lightbulb flashed in his brain to cast light on Damir's antsy behavior, the guy's 180 turn-around and his newfound calm.

"It's a woman who's coming, isn't it? Medium height, gray eyes, brown hair?"

"That describes a lot of women," Kramola pointed out, not unreasonably.

"Right, right," Volya said, "but this one is his mate, Marina. She is a friend and a colleague."

For once, Damir's face opened up like a picture book. Volya interpreted it for the rest of the gathering. "He had to tell her. Had to get her permission to be here—"

"Equipment," Damir grunted an additional explanation.

"Right. That's what they call it nowadays." Volya chuckled to relieve the tension, but his efforts were met with suspicious glares.

He turned to the vigilant Huntress. "If you were here last summer, you would have recognized her."

The golden eyes narrowed. "Then what of the guy with black skin? There're hardly any in these parts—"

Volya stopped listening. He took off at a gallop worthy of Yasuwa down the slippery slope. Liam! Oh God, sweatpants! What is he doing here? When had I even shaved last?