Page 36 of The Red Moon

Dimitri leans back and rubs a hand down the length of his face. “Nikolai. I don’t like this. We can’t take Ms. Nat into an ambush⁠—”

Nik waves his palm and silences him. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

We land and deplane at some private airfield without issue, well, besides Alexey begging Nik to bring his silver-tipped knife set with him and cursing obscenities under his breath when Nik refuses. This airport, closely resembling the one the Vostik pack uses, makes me wonder how many of these places exist to serve another pack hiding in plain sight. Most concerning of all is who or what these packs might be transporting. Is Nik’s family just one of many that found air travel is the best way to ship their food supply? Some kind of werewolf meal delivery service the humans of the world aren’t privy to? I’m not sure, but I do know the second we step outside, an eerie silence lingers in the air like mist. It’s quiet despite the cargo engines whirling to a standstill, and as the last bit of sun descends behind the forests in the distance, the runway lights are the only thing keeping this property illuminated.

The quiet doesn’t last long. Two white sedans race to take position at the front of the cargo plane while two more screech to a stop at the rear, blocking us in at all angles. Nik and Dimitri both make it a point to keep me hidden behind them, walking down the galley to the pavement. Alexey holds an even pace with me as we trail them, peering around Dimitri’s large back the entire way.

This must be our welcome party.

And welcome might be a stretch.

Armed soldiers swarm the tarmac and ready their weapons. Lines of red cut through the night, adding small precise dots to Nik and Dimitri’s bodies. I don’t have to look down to know I have more than a few trained on me as well.

“Haut les mains?” one barks, his accent thick and difficult to place.

Nikolai raises his arms in surrender first, and the rest of us follow suit. I lose count of the rifles aimed at us after ten, but judging the sound of footsteps closing in on all sides, there will be more within seconds. Maybe Dimitri was right. We walked right into an ambush, and the longer we stand here, the more I wonder how in the hell Nik is going to get us out of this.

Nik takes a slow step forward and speaks to the soldier in charge, his voice unusually calm. That’s not what has the air ripping out of my lungs, though. He isn’t speaking in English or Russian. It’s a language I’ve never heard before. And there’s only one word I recognize. Vostik.

The soldier’s eyes widen and he studies Nik for a moment. He doesn’t lower the weapon. No, the small man scans from Nik’s feet to his face, finally landing on the tattoo at his wrist. “Vostik,” he snarls, and signals the other soldiers to box us in. They move forward cautiously, one eye glued to the rear sight of their rifles.

Nik drops to his knees slowly, keeping his arms raised above his head. When the rest of us do the same, he glances over his shoulder and smirks. “Welcome to France, little wolf.”

TWENTY-FOUR

NATALIE

Chains are slapped to Nik’s hands and feet, and once he is secured enough to their liking, they escort him to the back of one of the white sedans and shove him inside. He doesn’t fight. Doesn’t shift in protest. It’s almost as if he was expecting this.

Dimitri and Alexey are next to be bound, clear zip ties clasped around their wrists and rifles urging them to a car at the opposite end. They do as the soldiers say, Dimitri refusing to speak, while Alexey can’t stop himself from muttering curses in Russian the entire way. When their leader gets to me, there’s a set of chains in one palm, and in the other, more zip ties. He glances from me to the chains, the zip ties, and back to me. Uncertainty settles on his brow.

“As-tu tourné,” he says, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air. More soldiers fall in behind him, and a dozen bright red dots decorate my shirt.

Okay. No pressure, Natalie. There’s only fifteen guns aimed at you, and a man you can’t understand asking the questions. Peering from one side of the tarmac to the next, I land on Nik in the backseat of their car, his golden eyes trained on me more precisely than their rifles. I swallow the harsh lump taking residence in my throat and try to speak but the words are little more than a whisper. “I—I can’t speak French.”

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Ave you turn.”

Ave you turn? What does that even mean? My stomach drops as the soldiers take another step toward me, fingers outlining each trigger. Ave you turn. Ave you turn. I don’t know what the hell he’s even asking me.

“Ave. You. Turn?” he screams it now, startling my gaze to the cement.

“I don’t know what you’re saying …” I say, eyes closing while I wait for a gunshot to shudder the airfield. Of course, this is how I’d die, at some uncharted airport in France by a pack with a score to settle.

A deafening thump rings in my ears, the pace quickening with each heartbeat. It’s not coming from me, though. The sound is coming from the backseat of the white car in the distance. It’s Nik. And I know if he turns now, if he kills all these soldiers to protect me, we lose our one chance at stopping his father. I can’t let that happen.

“When,” the leader says slowly, doing his best to articulate the word. “Bitten.”

He knows. I think they all do. Maybe that’s why they’re giving me far more attention than they did Alexey or Dimitri.

“Yesterday,” I force out, saliva lathering the back of my tongue. The red dots on my chest grow larger as they close in. My hands tremble above my head, and a noticeable swell of nausea careens up my neck.

He lifts his hand and halts their advance. Rifles stow one at a time, and after passing off the chains to the soldier closest to him, he steps forward and fastens a set of ties around my wrists.

The leader mutters something in French, helps me to my feet, and walks me to the same backseat as Nik. It isn’t until after I sit down that I notice the thick black lines shooting up his forearms and neck like lightning.

“French, huh?” I say, hoping to soothe the animal boiling inside him. The cracks in his skin start to heal, hiding the thick brown fur beneath his tattooed forearms. “Just how many languages can you speak?”

Nik draws in a calming breath and the sedan interior drops a few degrees below scorching. I don’t mind it. “Six. But French is obviously the one I’m the worst at,” he says with a subtle smirk and raises his chained hands for show.