Red Devil (Dangerous Spirits) (12 page)

Pah. What did he know, anyway? He had grown up soft, with a loving family, never wanting for anything, not on the hard ground of Siberia with stern, cruel eyes watching him every moment in case he misstepped. Someone like this could afford sympathy for his enemies.

Mike turned back to look at Kendall too, perhaps following Alexei’s glance, and Alexei watched the broad muzzle, the brown eyes, with increasing estrangement. How could he have thought Mike would be as attractive as a vixen? Those stubby ears, the strange pupils in the eyes, the pale white fur…none of them matched the vixen he’d seen in his vision. And his scent, distinctly male—

Uncomfortable, Alexei leaned on the table and turned to his left, away from where Kendall and Sol were. He wanted to have the dinner with Mike. It was just strange asking someone on a date, and he was nervous. That was all it was.

His eyes strayed to another shooting game he had only briefly glanced at, now empty of players. The grey battlefield that formed the background of the game, made up of jagged pixelated rocks, held his attention. He knew that landscape, but from where? He was sure he’d never played this game before. The name, WAR ZONE 5, was almost completely unfamiliar.

Mike remained quiet, perhaps still staring off away from Kendall, perhaps waiting for Alexei to answer, but the fox barely noticed, transfixed by the static field. He was certain there had been moving figures on it when they’d first stepped up beside the console, but now the field was empty, scarred rock. It was unusual enough that he wanted to reach out to Mike, to ask what he thought of it, but the words died before he could form them in his throat.

Onto the empty field, the pixelated figure of a fox in a blue military coat walked slowly, in profile. One arm hung at his side, swinging before the gold belt at his midsection. The other carried an ancient-looking sword. When he turned, Alexei could see the crimson red collar and the deep notch in the fox’s ear.

Cold air rushed down around him, the air conditioning kicking in. His fur prickled, his chilled ears flattening. The fox’s black pixel eyes stared out of the game at him. His throat closed as he tried to call Mike’s name. Konstantin’s glare bored deep into Alexei, and he heard the gruff voice.
This is what you wished for?
This
is how you use your soldier’s passion?

He struggled to answer, to recall his place in this situation. He had called Konstantin, and the ghost should be bound to his will. This self-assured contempt was not his; all he wanted was a date with Mike. His stomach churned as he tried to wrench his gaze away from the fox who was not a character in the video game.

No. You will not show weakness before him.

Strength flooded his muscles, braced his legs and lifted his muzzle. He turned back to Mike and tried not to think of the game or his dreams or anything except being with the sheep. “Shall we get something to drink?”

He didn’t want a drink, not now, but perhaps he needed one. Mike tilted his head, said an uncertain “Sure,” and got up from the table. Alexei wanted to grab his arm, to point at Konstantin and demand to know whether Mike saw him, but if the sheep didn’t, then Alexei would seem crazy, and if he did, well, that would be even worse.

Upstairs at the bar, the bartender asked Alexei what he wanted, and he stared, still seeing the pixelated Konstantin in his head. “Red Devil,” he blurted out, then realized that that might just be Meg’s concoction and started to take it back, but the bartender, a lanky cheetah, just nodded and turned to Mike, who gave Alexei a strange look as he ordered one of the same.

“IDs please?” The cheetah looked down at both of them, his gaze lingering on Alexei.

Mike produced his wallet and handed a plastic card over. Alexei’s paw lingered on the pocket containing his new yellow wallet, and frustration clipped his words. “I—lost mine.”

“Sorry,” the cheetah said. “Can’t serve you.”

“Coke,” Alexei said, forgetting that here in Vidalia a “Coke” might be anything carbonated. He took the wallet out and slapped a five dollar bill down on the counter.

They took the drinks over to a high table at the edge of the bar area. Mike sat and lowered his voice. “Did you think he wasn’t going to card you?”

“I do not drink often,” Alexei said. “I forgot.”

The sheep smiled and sipped his drink. “What is this, anyway? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Regional flavors and Siberian vodka.” Alexei looked at the reddish-orange drink. He could smell the sweetness of peach, the sharpness of vodka. “May I have a drink?”

Mike glanced toward the bar. “Uh…if he sees you…”

“Never mind.” Alexei gulped down his Coke, which actually was a Coca-Cola, tart and fizzy and cold. He wanted it to warm him, relax the tension, but all it seemed to do was chill and tighten his chest. He put it down and breathed.

Mike hesitated, then slid the drink across the table. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt…just a drink, I mean.”

Alexei smiled. “Thank you. I promise I will not tell the police.” He picked up the drink and tipped just enough into his muzzle to run across his tongue and fill the back of his mouth, then handed the drink back to Mike and swallowed.

The sheep sipped. “It’s pretty good.” He lifted his head and looked up at Alexei. “Are you…okay?”

Alexei nodded curtly, breathing in the peach aroma, feeling the tension inside him fight the warmth of the alcohol. This drink was weak, fruity. He picked up his Coke again in case anyone had seen him drinking, and took a sip to cover the alcohol on his breath.

Sol came up on Alexei’s other side. “You’re not answering your phone.”

“I am talking to Mike,” Alexei replied, setting his glass down on the counter with a crack.

The black wolf sniffed at Alexei’s breath, nostrils wide. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

“Not any more. Not very much,” he said, but the whirl of emotions was settling. With the vodka calming him and Konstantin’s voice receding into memory, Alexei’s ears came up. He turned to Mike and gave the sheep a warm, full smile, lifting the Coke to him. Mike met his glass with a clink and a return smile, and that warmed Alexei more than the drink: just what he needed. He drained the glass and put it back on the table.

“Is that what happened to you? How did you even get a drink without your ID?” Sol leaned on the table and looked at Mike. His voice sharpened. “Did you buy him a drink?”

“Just a swallow.” Mike’s smile vanished and his eyes widened.

Alexei’s fear and anger at Konstantin bubbled up again. “I have not broken any laws,” he snapped at Sol. “Your father gave you beer.”

“That’s different,” Sol said, but he flattened his ears and stepped back. “I just want to make sure that you’re not going to be drunk out here in public. Without your ID. You could get in a lot of trouble. Make some bad choices.” The wolf glared again at Mike.

Alexei raised his voice. “Mike is
not
Carcy,” he said, challenging Sol with his eyes.

The wolf’s ears did not come back up at the mention of his ex-boyfriend’s name. “Fine,” he said, and turned on his heels to walk off.

Fox and sheep stared down at their glasses. Alexei watched the ice shift as it melted, and ran his finger down the condensation on the side. He wanted to go after Sol and apologize, but he didn’t want to leave Mike. At least he no longer felt the dual emotions of Konstantin’s presence; here at the table with Mike, warmth enveloped him and his tail hung behind him, swishing slowly. He belonged here, and Mike wanted him here.

“Are you mad at him?” Mike asked.

Alexei shook his head slowly. “He is mad at me,” he said, and emotion drained out of him, leaving him tired enough that he had to grip the edge of the table. “I think perhaps I should go home.”

But on the way home, the insulating cocoon created by the swallow of vodka frayed and thinned, and the shadows outside the bus window loomed sinister as they slid past. Alexei wondered what they might be concealing. Sol sat in silence beside him, and without conversation, his eyelids drifted down.

The rocky field swam into his mind’s eye.

He drew his arms around himself and forced his eyes open. The field had remained bare, no fox in military coat. But the possibility hovered there, so real that he could swear he saw the flip of a coat in the play of a streetlight as the bus rounded a corner.

It was nothing, merely a trick of the light. Alexei held on to his pride, to the date with Mike and the sweet nature of the sheep, the exhilaration of the conversation they’d had. He could not put off sleep forever, and soon he would need to remember those feelings, he thought.

Chapter 14

At fifteen, I made the friendship of a reindeer who was also training to be admitted to the Semenovsky regiment. His name was Pavel, and like me, he had a military father. Unlike me, his father was his blood father, a reindeer from Finnska with a dubious military career of his own who had come into a small fortune during the disastrous war twenty years back. With it, he bought his way into the lower levels of the aristocracy, and his son a Semenovsky candidacy.

At first, I was wary of Pavel. Vasily warned me against the aristocrats, those who valued their personal fortunes over the welfare of the Empire, and I carried myself very carefully around Pavel at first. But his easy manner and devotion to his duties wore down my suspicions, and when he took my side in an argument over the proper way to conduct our training, I extended a paw to him, and he took it. His family, he told me, kept always in their minds the source of their fortune, and were determined to repay the Empire for its generosity. Using the fortune to purchase a candidacy only served to further their service.

Some of the other candidates resented him for having bought his place, but I did not; they resented me, too, for the patronage of Vasily Petrovich. These candidates were the ones whose fathers had served in the regiment, and yet they did not feel that this chance of fate was as unearned as my adoption or Pavel’s father’s wealth. Pavel and I trained together, fox and deer, and we agreed that by whatever means one reached the regiment, one still had to apply oneself to meet the qualifications of the regiment.

In the class ahead of us, for example, there was Rurik, a wolverine whose situation was similar to Pavel’s. He had inherited a fortune from his father and had spent it freely to be able to wear the Semenovsky uniform. Rurik was universally despised in his regiment, for although he was unable to master the finer arts of obeying orders and marching in formation, he excelled at fighting his comrades over the smallest slight. He was rumored to have attempted to buy his way into the Preobrazhensky regiment, but thankfully that regiment remained true to its standards and exclusive to tigers. As much as I ached to wear the brilliant gold and dark blue, it was almost worth it to me that Rurik, too, would be excluded.

Prior to induction into the guards, the candidates underwent a week-long intensive training exercise during which they were to remain on the grounds, eating together and completing physically grueling courses. The evenings were to be spent in meditation on the duty to Siberia and the tsar, in preparing the mind as rigorously as they were preparing their bodies. I would undergo this training the following year, using that time to review not only my duty to my mother country and ruler, but also my duty to my commander and to my family, when I should start one. A soldier functions best when his loyalties are clear; one who stops on the battlefield to think of his unborn child may well be the weak spot in a line of defense, or the one whose failed attack dooms an entire advance.

And yet Rurik spent at least two evenings in a bar in Petrograd, frequently fighting, often thrown out. It was clear that the furthest thing from his mind was being a loyal, effective soldier. He preferred to drink and carouse, and of course there would be no room for him in the Semenovsky Guards. Pavel and I said that surely Rurik would see his dream of belonging to an elite regiment ended, and we would be quit of him.

Instead, he was inducted with those loyal, hardworking officers who
had
dedicated their lives to the pursuit of this honor and the upholding of that ideal. Pavel and I spent some time in a bar that evening ourselves, railing bitterly against the unfairness of it. It was then that Pavel said that he hoped there would come a day when a person would be judged on his merit and not on the money he could raise, or the accident of his birth.

I believe he thought I would be sympathetic, but I, just as much in my cups, said that some births were noble, and not accidents. Pavel shook his head, insisting that a noble birth was as much an accident as an ignoble one. Surely, I said, he did not mean
all
noble births. Most surely, I said, he did not mean the noblest birth in all of Siberia.

All
noble births, Pavel said, for if we make exception for the greatest, how then do we differentiate the next greatest? As though the Tsar and his nobles were fish to be measured side by side at the market. I grew angry, and Pavel, though he knew my temper, still insisted that he thought the Tsar had proven his right to rule by his actions and not by his birth.

When I woke the next morning, I did not specifically recall how I came to be lying in my bed with one side of my face aching. Pavel, too, woke with a sore jaw. I did, with the clarity of a cold day, recall his words about the Tsar, and when he laughed about how we had let ourselves go the previous night, I did not smile. I asked if he had been serious in what he said.

He evaded the question, growing more ill-humored, and finally barked that yes, he had meant it. I asked whether he would repeat that once more, sober and in the light of day, and he said that he meant no disloyalty to our fine and capable tsar, but that he believed truly that a more just society would choose its leaders based on merit and not on their birth. Kings had a place, he said, but we had only to look to the nations to our west to see that progressive societies no longer trusted them with absolute power. People around the world were banding together, leaving their countries or forcing the governments to change when the government no longer suited the people.

There were no words I could say to convey the depths of my despair at this conversation. I had considered him a friend and believed that he, as I, trusted in the sanctity of purpose of the guards we worked so hard to be worthy of. And yet, in a single breath, he destroyed that bond. He repudiated the very land we would be called upon to defend, called into question the society that had allowed him and his father to succeed, and proved his unfitness for the post. Government suit the people? That he called upon the decadent, chaos-plagued powers of the West, suffering gruesome wars nearly every decade, as examples of his philosophy showed the rot at its core. The people suited the government; the emperors ruled by right, and what they decided, the people carried out. To doubt that foundation was to doubt Siberia herself.

I reported his conversation to the commanding officer that very noon. When confronted, Pavel did not deny the charge. He was dismissed from the regiment, and I gained the favor of some of the officers. My classmates thought that the desire to curry that favor was the force behind my actions, but the truth is that I would have acted the same even if I were sure that censure would follow. They said that I had betrayed Pavel, but Pavel was the one who betrayed us all. If you do not believe in the right of your lord to rule you, how can you be trusted to fight for him and his country, to value their welfare over your own?

Friendship can suffer many pressures and remain intact, but when the most private and personal beliefs strike across each other, then the friendship must needs crumble. That conflict will always lie between the former friends, a gulf that may never be crossed.

Years later, I would meet Pavel again, and he offered me forgiveness. I told him that he had nothing to forgive me for, as I had done him no wrong.