Free Compelled by Shawntelle Madison Page A

shoots in Russia someday,” he said with a grin afterwards.
    “Where is everyone?” I asked Dmitri.
    “They all got sloppy drunk last night. The bandmaster even ended up passed out under the table.”
    I couldn’t resist snorting. It sounded like my uncles after a few rounds of hard liquor.
    “They’ll be here soon. We need to get going, since we have a party in Vyborg tonight. We have to make it.” Dmitri gave a half-hearted shrug.
    A few minutes later, a few more players showed up. Most of them lumbered about with stubble on their faces and bleary eyes. A bunch of hungover werewolves made the worst travel companions. I tried to smile and introduced myself.
    We stood in a wide circle. The smallest man, who had a tuba about half his size, seemed to be the only cheerful person in the band. He had merry cheeks and the most pleasant demeanor. He probably drank the least last night. Yuri arrived last with Lilith waddling ahead of him. She kissed his cheek, waved in my direction, and then headed back home.
    “Where is the driver with that damn bus?” Dmitri spat.
    “He probably fell asleep inside it,” one man said.
    “That slime bag is probably still between a woman’s legs.” He glanced at me. “No offense.” He introduced himself to me as Andelov.
    “You bark like a pup compared to my aunts,” I reassured him.
    He laughed. “A good woman knows how to handle a man,” he said with a wink. He looked to be around my father’s age, at least a century old.
    An even older man shuffled up to us with a tiny duffle bag in his hand, and Dmitri introduced him as Stary Papa . Old Papa. Wrinkles filled his face and he nodded to us with expansive gray eyes.
    “He plays the cymbals for us,” Dmitri said.
    While we waited, Dmitri opened his case to reveal a beautiful fiddle. The fine instrument smelled of old wood and varnish. He’d cared for the fiddle a lot more than his appearance. With a flourish, he picked up his instrument, began plucking at the strings, and sang the opening line to Korobushka :
    Hey, my carrier box is brimful, there’s calico, print, and brocade.
    Have mercy, my dear, with my juvenile shoulders!
    It had been a few years since I’d heard the Peddler’s Box song.
    The others laughed and clapped, a few opening their respective cases. The atmosphere was hard to resist. I began to sing with them. How long had it been since I’d heard a live band playing Russian folk music? A crowd of bystanders strolling through the park stopped to watch the band. The short tuba player belted out the lively tune. Andelov played the accordion, while Yuri strummed the balalaika , a Russian guitar with a triangular body. Dmitri continued to play his fiddle.
    Ever the showman, he even flipped it backwards in the middle of playing and kept going. The bow danced in his hands, and the growing crowd roared.
    Tyler stomped his foot at my side, his head bobbing to the tune.
    Naturally, right as they began playing the song for a second time, much to the bystanders’ dismay, a grumbling tour bus pulled up to the street nearby.
    Yuri continued to strum the balalaika and Dmitri played while dancing a jig, even as the others stopped and gathered their belongings.  
    Was there some kind of band member rivalry going on? While the others loaded up the bus, Tyler and I gaped at the two until Old Papa gestured for us to get on. “Those two idiots will play until we start to leave,” he said in accented English.
    “Why?” Tyler asked.
    “I don’t know.” Old Papa shook his head. “They once played until Dmitri hurt his hands. Stupid idiots.”
    Tyler and I found empty seats in the middle of the bus.
    As expected, the bus was loaded, still spewing black exhaust, and began to pull away as Dmitri and Yuri gave up their battle. They grabbed their instruments and cases, racing each other to reach the bus first.
    “Wow, you weren’t kidding,” I said to Old Papa.
    The elderly werewolf gave a short laugh. “I once told the