Sarwat Chadda - Billi SanGreal 02 - Dark Goddess

by Unknown

Billi hurled her body armor across her bedroom. It crashed into an elegant antique chair, sending both across the floor. Then she slumped down onto her bed.

  She glanced at the satellite phone; her dad had left a message. No doubt eager for the good news.

  How many dead? Three Bogatyrs and nine Polenitsy. A couple of the werewolves had escaped in the confusion, but there had been no other children. It was clear that Vasilisa hadn't been there. The photo that Billi had convinced herself was Vasilisa had been the werewolf child. Some news.

  Maybe Elaine had found something in the library. But if she came up blank, Billi had no idea how they could find Vasilisa before it was too late. It was Thursday lunchtime already, and the full moon was coming up on Saturday.

  She grabbed the phone and took the elevator down to report in to her dad outside—you never knew who was listening here.

  The elevators halted on one of the other floors. The doors opened and Koshchey stood waiting.

  His massive frame blocked the elevator doors, and he was so tall he'd have to lower his head to get in. His suit rustled softly as he brushed it and adjusted his cuffs. Billi caught the crimson sparkle of rubies in the cufflinks.

  The guy was vain and flashy. It was as though he'd modeled himself on Ivan: debonair outfits and cool looks. But Ivan carried himself with a seamless, casual elegance. Koshchey was a million miles away from that. Billi wasn't sure what would suit Koshchey except a butcher's apron.

  "Are you well, Lady SanGreal?"

  "I'm fine."

  He stepped into the elevator, and Billi could have sworn it dropped a few inches under his weight.

  "I am sorry about today. Very unpleasant. But do not worry, we will find your friend." He straightened the fat knot of his tie, checking himself, admiring himself, in the mirrored paneling. "We moved too quickly, without confirming our intelligence. Such operations carry a large risk of... "

  "Failure?"

  "Disappointment. We will find her." He spoke with hard certainty. "You will have my best men to help you."

  "And Ivan? Will he help?"

  "Alas, no. I cannot permit it. He is best here, where I can protect him."

  Where you can keep an eye on him, you mean.

  Koshchey made a broad sweep with his hand. "Come with me. I have a gift."

  "Really, it's not necessary."

  "Oh, but it is." He reached out and pressed a button on the elevator's control panel.

  The elevator took them up and up. Billi shifted as far away from Koshchey as she could, but the elevator was small and Koshchey was huge. As they passed each floor, a bell chimed and illuminated the floor numbers above the door.

  The elevator stopped at the thirtieth floor and the doors slid open.

  "My suite," said Koshchey.

  "Which used to be Ivan's father's, right?"

  "And now it is mine. You like Ivan, do you not?" He raised an eyebrow, interested in Billi's response. "All the young women do. He has charm, that boy."

  "And guts."

  "Yes, yes. The Romanovs never lacked for courage." Koshchey shook his massive head. "But the boy is an idealist. He does not understand that there are no rules in war." He smiled as if he were sharing a secret joke with Billi. "Unlike you, SanGreal. I think you understand that all too well."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Is there anything you wouldn't do to get the job done?" He drew his red beard into a neat point as he talked.

  Billi couldn't answer. She couldn't say, "But I don't go around killing innocent children," because she might have to do exactly that before the week was through. Billi lowered her head in shame.

  "I thought as much," said Koshchey. "If Ivan was more like you, I would gladly hand the Bogatyrs over to him." He stepped out of the elevator and strode across into a large entryway, tall windows along one wall, the morning sunlight sweeping across the lofty space. "Magnificent, isn't it?"

  Mist hung over the city of Moscow. Only the tallest towers pierced the white veil, so they looked like the palaces of angels floating on clouds. Billi followed Koshchey along the row of windows toward a pair of doors, each bearing the imperial double-headed eagle in dark bronze.

  The doors opened into a long living room, grander and more opulent than Billi's. Thick black marble columns rose up sixty feet to support a domed roof that was covered in mosaic art. A trio of valiant knights on horseback fought in a circle of wolves, their swords deep red with blood and their bodies slashed and torn by claws. The battle was in a snowbound forest, and within the darker recesses a figure stood, half emerging from a cave. All Billi could see were the shining black eyes and matted gray hair. Long bony fingers clutched a tall staff decorated with bones.

  "Baba Yaga," Billi said.

  "Very good. The greatest foe of the Bogatyrs." Koshchey gazed up at the ceiling. "The Bogatyrs were the first to face Baba Yaga. Many times the old knights came close to defeating her, but she would always retreat into the deepest woods and darkest caves. Places even the bravest knight would not dare to venture. And there she lurks, even now. But she is old and weak, I think, and we have heard nothing from her in a hundred years."

  "The knights almost defeated her? How?"

  "The men of the past were great and blessed heroes, capable of extraordinary things. Such men do not exist anymore."

  Billi walked along the exhibits, inspecting the golden cups, bejeweled icons, crowns, and other ancient treasures arranged on plinths or pedestals. Then one made her stop.

  A heavy gilt frame was suspended from the ceiling by two golden chains. Within it was a flattened shirt with the arms spread out and embroidered with flowers. The white cotton was splattered with blood. Punctures covered the chest, and crimson stained the sleeves and collar.

  Somebody had wanted the wearer very dead.

  "The shirt of the yurodivyi, Rasputin."

  "The what?"

  "It means Holy Fool. A mystic, a shaman." He looked up at the bloodstained garment. "Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin was all these things." Koshchey pointed to the shadowy image of the old crone in the cave. "Did you know, as a young man he was taken by the Polenitsy, as food for their goddess?"

  So Rasputin had been a Spring Child. That didn't surprise her. It was common knowledge that he could read minds and had cured the tsar's son of hemophilia by the laying on of hands.

  What surprised Billi was that he'd met Baba Yaga and lived.

  "He got away? How?" If Rasputin had escaped Baba Yaga, maybe there was a chance to save Vasilisa. Maybe the ancient witch wasn't as powerful as they'd feared.

  "Baba Yaga was injured, very badly, for the first time in thousands of years. Rasputin got away in the confusion. He trekked all the way to Moscow and offered his services to the tsar. In exchange the tsar ordered the Bogatyrs to keep him safe." Koshchey laughed. "At least from Baba Yaga."

  "Was Rasputin the one who hurt Baba Yaga?" Billi struggled to keep the desperation from her voice. They had so little time!

  "No. Rasputin was not that powerful. All he knew was something had happened to the planet, to the land, and that Baba Yaga had suffered as a consequence."

  "Sympathetic magic. Baba Yaga's psychic connection to the Earth."

  "Yes," Koshchey said. "But the knowledge of Baba Yaga's weakness is buried with him."

  So close, so close! She wanted to scream. If only she knew just a little bit more, but hope was fading fast. Three more days until Fimbulwinter. Billi looked at the blood-soaked shirt, and her blood chilled. The tears in the cloth, the stains. All she knew was how to fight. If you fought, there was always a chance, no matter how small the odds, that you might win. Hope lived in the fight. But this was different. You couldn't fight Baba Yaga. Billi felt a sickening void swelling in her stomach, a great hole of despair. Without Vasilisa, without a clue of how to defeat Baba Yaga, they were all going to die.

  For the first time ever, Billi stared at true and final defeat. The Templars had faced countless enemies in battle. They'd never been defeated,
only killed. The Order had survived and the Bataille Ténébreuse continued. But not after this. The battle would be over for everyone.

  "Lady SanGreal?"

  Billi shook her head, freeing herself from the black feelings of hopelessness. Three days. A lot could happen in three days.

  Just give me one shot. That's all I ask for.

  "Come, I have something to show you." Koshchey led Billi away from the shirt and brought her to a corner of the hall.

  "For you," he said.

  A mannequin wearing a long red coat stood in the shadows. Golden embroidery ran along its sleeves; flaming wings and emerald peacock eyes stared out, mysterious and alien. Billi brushed her fingertips along the material, and it rippled like feathers. The collar was high and stiff and lined with gold thread. It was something from another age. "Beautiful, is it not?" He carefully unfastened the silk-covered buttons.

  Billi couldn't take her eyes off it—the way its color seemed to change as Koshchey unwrapped it from the mannequin and slung it over his arm. The golden wings stretched out gracefully and the unblinking green eyes turned to watch her. A warm breath passed across her, carrying a subtle perfume; it was as if the coat were alive. The scent seeped down into her lungs and made her tingle.

  He handed the coat to her. "Try it."

  Billi hesitated. She'd only just changed out of her fighting clothes, but her usual outfits weren't much different: tough leather boots, combat trousers with lots of pouches, and a black T-shirt. The cuffs on her hoodie were frayed, and the only jewelry she wore was a small silver crucifix. The coat was too beautiful for her. And could she accept a gift like this from him?

  "What do you want for it?"

  "You are my guest. It is a gift."

  Billi couldn't remember when she'd had a new outfit that wasn't from the army surplus store. God, did she even have a dress at home? The cloth was soft as velvet. She pressed a sleeve against her cheek and inhaled the delicate scent, a smell of dreams.

  It fit like a glove. Buttons open, Billi stepped into the light.

  "More beautiful than a tsarina," said Koshchey. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned Billi to face a mirror. "Look."

  It wasn't her. It wasn't the Billi she knew, or thought she knew. She barely recognized herself. The coat looked darker in the glass, bloody. The collar forced her to raise her head, to hold up her chin. It was an imperial look.

  Billi could imagine what sort of person would wear such a coat. Someone who knew she was important, more special than others. Wear the bloodred coat too long and she might start believing in its promise.

  "It suits you." Koshchey leaned into the reflection, pleased at what he saw. "It suits you indeed."

  Billi called in, and Arthur had real news: there had been massive wolf migrations in the north. Dozens of packs were making their way through the deep forests of Karelia, toward the Girvas volcano. Arthur believed that's where they'd find Vasilisa. He had also found Vasilisa's granny and was on his way to talk with her.

  Billi had passed the information on to Gwaine immediately, and he'd spoken to Koshchey. They were flying north first thing tomorrow, with extra men and weapons, courtesy of Koshchey. The Bogatyrs might be cruel, but the Templars needed them.

  At last the hope she'd been looking for. Billi had her gear packed and ready by her suite door. The red coat lay across the bed, and she inspected her weapons, deciding to pack the dock alongside her blades.

  She checked and rechecked the array of weapons, hardly able to contain her excitement, picking up one of the knives to give it an extra polish. Moscow had been a dead end, but now they had a lead, a real one.

  "Billi?" Ivan knocked on the door.

  He looked pretty rough, his white shirt hanging out of his trousers and held closed by one button. He swayed slightly and held aloft a small bottle. She'd only ever seen him dressed to the nines, but Ivan would probably look good even when lying in the gutter.

  "Why aren't you celebrating?" he slurred. "Our great victory over the werewolves."

  "Didn't think that was worth celebrating." She stepped back as he swayed in. "You're drunk."

  "I'm Russian." He stopped as he saw the backpack. "You're leaving? Already?" He nodded slowly. His hands dropped and he sank into an armchair. "So it's true. The wolves are at Girvas."

  "I've no more business in Moscow." Billi put down the knife she'd been cleaning. "But thank you. For helping me when you didn't have to." Billi knew Ivan had risked a lot—including his loyalties as a Bogatyr. Let alone overcoming a personal vendetta in order to help the young Polenitsy child escape. Her heart beat faster as she looked at him sitting there. She needed to remind herself why she was here in the first place.

  Ivan's frown slowly mellowed into a smile. He put the bottle on the floor and stood up. He offered his hand.

  "Let me show you Moscow before you leave."

  "I really don't have time. There's still a lot to do before tomorrow morning."

  "Please. We won't be long." Ivan's hand hadn't moved. Maybe he wasn't arrogant, but he was certainly stubborn.

  "Ivan Alexeivich Romanov!" Billi exclaimed, frustrated. He straightened some more, head up and proud. Deep shadows formed under the clifflike high cheekbones, and those gray eyes lost their weary drunkenness as she spoke his name.

  It was already six, and this was her last night here. She had no idea what lay ahead except hard fighting and doomsday. She could spend it pondering and worrying about things she couldn't control, just waiting for tomorrow. Or she could spend it with Ivan. There he stood, his wide chest heaving under the half-open shirt as he took a deep breath to steady himself. Despite the vodka flowing through his veins, his hand was steady.

  Billi took it.

  Dimitri drove them into the heart of the city. Unlike London with its labyrinth of narrow streets and buildings all cramped together, Moscow was wide and broad. The boulevards gave Billi endless panoramas, especially along the river. Ice shone on the roads, and a fresh cloud of snow was beginning to descend.

  The tires rumbled on the cobbles of Red Square. Ahead stood the multicolored onion domes of St. Basil's Cathedral. The composite building was actually interconnected churches, each with its own individual spire and dome. Veiled in snow, the cathedral looked as though it had been snatched from a fairy tale. Moscow had an ethereal magic when it was cloaked in winter. To one side stood GUM, the gigantic department store, its walls and windows outlined by thousands of golden bulbs. Opposite that were the immense, dark-red walls of the Kremlin fortress.

  "Once, this was all ours," said Ivan. His eyes shone with the reflection of the lights and dazzling colors. "My ancestors were crowned there." He pointed to a series of golden roofs behind the red fortress walls. "Archangel Cathedral. Saint Michael was said to be the protector of our family." He leaned back in his seat. "I heard a strange story about him recently."

  Billi kept her attention on the scenery, but her voice went soft and quiet. "Oh? What story?"

  "Do you believe in God? In His archangels?"

  "You're asking a Templar that?"

  "The Patriarch of Moscow is a close personal friend of the Romanovs," said Ivan, referring to the head of the Russian Orthodox Church. "He told me that Michael had fallen; it came to him in a dream. That he had been cast down."

  Billi didn't move, but sweat trickled down her back. Did he know? That she had cast the archangel down?

  "I wonder what the other archangels must think, knowing that their brother has been sent to Hell."

  Billi could feel how close he was to her.

  "What do you think, Billi?"

  "I think you should be careful what you read into the dreams of an old man."

  Ivan laughed. Billi liked the sound of his laugh. His guard was down and the imperious barrier he usually put up had fallen away.

  "You area difficult person to understand," he said. "You have many secrets, I think."

  "No more than most."

  Ivan watched her thoughtfully
. "Perhaps that is true: we all have things we are frightened of telling others."

  They drove along Kremlevskaya Naberezhnaya, the broad road that ran beside the riverbank. Billi watched the broken platforms of ice drift slowly down the Moscow River.

  They were rolling along beside a park when Billi caught a flash of fire from beyond the trees.

  "What's that?" There were more flames. Streaks of light wove and spun in the darkness.

  "Dimitri, stop," said Ivan.

  The car pulled up by the curb, and Ivan jumped out and opened Billi's door. "Bolotnaya Square." He held out Billi's new coat for her to put on.

  "You're quite the gentleman, Ivan." Billi laughed.

  "We do things differently in Russia." His hands lightly brushed her shoulders as he placed it around her. Then he turned her so that they were face-to-face.

  "Are you warm enough?" he asked, straightening her collar, his fingers resting on the top button, next to her neck.

  Billi flushed. Despite the snowflakes, she was suddenly more than warm enough.

  Ivan took a step back and collected his own coat from Dimitri. Then he offered Billi his arm.

  "Shall we?"

  They moved down the path toward the flames. Music beat across the night sky, a cacophony of clashing beats and drums and guitars, and slowly Billi started to make out groups of people collected like tribes around the open center of the park.

  Fire dancers spun fireballs attached to long chains around their bodies in a seamless path of golden light. There were dozens of them: some competing, others showing off or egging one another on. Large steel bins had been placed around the park, each a fire pit that one of the tribes was gathered around.

  Despite the subzero temperatures, some of the men were bare-chested, and the orbiting fireballs threw ever-changing patterns of light and shadow over the contours of their bodies.

  "Koshchey doesn't like me coming here," said Ivan. "He says I shouldn't mix with 'peasants.'"

  "Is that what you think?" She'd never met a bona fide member of a royal family before. Her own ancestors were thoroughly anti-monarchy. The SanGreals had taken part in the French Revolution. The closest they'd come to royalty was when they'd operated the guillotine.