||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-st...
A mother carrying her baby is a beautiful sight. It gets ridiculous when the kid is eighteen, so the mother has to shift into her werewolf form to lag him around. Absolutely ridiculous.
Honestly, all Volya wanted was to be put in the shade on the grass and be left alone. The crones, however, didn't get their fill of talking yet, so he was ordered off the island while they deliberated.
So his mother shifted into her werewolf form and scooped him off the ground to carry him across the river.
Volya's exclamation of protest got muffled by the rusty red fur coating her collar bone. He would have come up for air sputtering if his heavy head didn't rest so comfortably against his mama's shoulder. Burrowing his face deeper seemed to help with his splitting headache.
It was warm, cozy and still ridiculous.
It would have been just what the doctor ordered back when he was five, and it was a particularly lean year, so he was starved enough to gobble down that stupid cracker. He never did it again, of course, but it was bad.
It would have also been welcome when he had nearly asphyxiated with rage after Toshka wouldn't tell him what waste of human flesh gave him a bloody nose. He'd never figured out who Toshka was protecting—well, obviously, him, but who that dickhead had been—nevermind. Mother's warmth would have been welcome back then too, though he probably would have never admitted needing it. He was too old by then, eleven or twelve...
Strangely, his regrets filtered away in a sigh, not a wail. This hurt had nothing on that time when he'd overheard one of the teachers ask Baba Masha how her kids were doing. Her round face stretched in a smile so wide that Volya had almost choked. He had stalked out of the kitchen, unseen, unheard... Baba Masha's excited voice bounced up and down behind his back, talking about her actual kids. Anger without an outlet imploded within him, leaving the worst pain ever in his emptied chest.
That was the day he had discovered that it would never be his, a mother's love. That was when he bellyached over this particular thing. After he had stomached the disappointment, it couldn't hurt him as bad the second time.
Taina Wolkova could march for miles carrying him—and he still wouldn't do his childhood over sheathed in love.
It was lost forever and that was that. He must move forward. So he slanted his eyes to catch a glimpse of Nadezhda trotting next to them, keeping up despite the werewolf's far wider strides.
A secret smile curled his lips. Yes, he must move forward, forging bonds that span into the future, not anchored him in what could have been. It wasn't that bad of a prospect.
***
Damir was one of those people who cleaned when they were anxious.
Since dusting the steppe was pointless, the camp had been greatly improved. The guy had sourced firewood, chopped and stacked it. A double layer of boulders circled the fire pit and their orange tents. A line even stretched between the tents with some laundry—Damir really dug deep for something to do. Even better, the kettle bubbled over the fire.
Damir pushed to his feet from the folding chair he lounged in. His notebook took a nosedive into the dusty grass. He ignored it, as he had probably ignored it for a while, and stared at their approaching trio, his mouth working soundlessly. A worried frown deepened an habitual crease between his brows.
"What the hell had happened, Volya? Did you win?"
"I'm alive," Volya replied in a reedy voice. He put his other sentiments into an 'it's darn complicated, dude' shrug. The adrenaline washed out of his veins by then. Smaller injuries smartened, bringing in stiffness and soreness on top of the worsening queasiness.
"Okay..." Damir said, semaphoring the way to Volya's mother. "Okay."
Taina judiciously kept her werewolf shape instead of worrying about the lack of suitable attire.
Volya felt strangely content with being lowered to the ground and half-inserted into the tent by a mama-werewolf, particularly when she ruffled his hair with the tips of her claws.
Nadezhda took over his care, and he didn't mind it one bit either. He had sistering for only a little bit longer than he had the mothering, right? It would take a while for either to grow old.
Unlike Taina, Nadezhda preserved the ability to speak, so she started bringing Damir up to speed. Her narrative was frequently interrupted by clicks of her tongue as she tended to Volya.
She maneuvered him the rest of the way inside the tent, then smothered him with some gelatinous stuff she produced out of a jar tied to her belt. It felt cool on his skin, but she kept massaging it in with gentle fingers until it grew hot. It filled the tent with the aroma of mint, camphora and a bunch of less pungent herbs Volya didn't recognize. His sister was practically a shaman and it was a nice perk.
To the sound of Nadezhda's voice and soothing motions his body found the least uncomfortable position. The alarming talk about the ancient bones, werewolves chomping at the bit for a rematch and possibly the end of the world, washed over him. Like, it sounded dire, but it was Damir's turn to be terrified of what Volya had unleashed.
Volya just wanted to sleep for two days straight. However, as the shroud of sleep descended over him, Volya sensed the incoming vision and sighed in resignation.
Lead on, he told his mist-wolf.
Not even a hello? the wolf scoffed.
Volya pulled a smile over his features. Hello, old friend. Show me Yasuwa.
Woo-hoo! the mist-wolf yipped, and then Volya was no longer in the steppes.
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