Sarwat Chadda - Billi SanGreal 02 - Dark Goddess (11 page)

Billi searched Kay's face, trying to find the answer. He had known his death was coming and had prepared for it. But that hadn't made it any easier for her to be the one left behind.

Billi had killed Kay, and it had almost destroyed her. Now her job was to cross half the world and do the same to a nine-year-old. Billi remembered her last dream. Had Kay been trying to tell her that Vasilisa had to die?

It was hopeless to think otherwise.

Baba Yaga would destroy everything if she had Vasilisa. How could the life of one child compare to that?

There could be no room for pity. The Knights Templar, from being an ancient order of warriors, was now a death squad.

So be it.

Billi looked at Kay one last time, then deleted him forever.

THE ERUPTION HAD THROWN UP SO MUCH ASH THAT flights throughout Europe had been delayed. Now, two days after the eruption, the backlog of weary and irate travelers still hadn't been cleared. People slept on the seats, on the floors, up against the walls. Long lines of cars and buses blocked the entrance to Heathrow Airport as the passengers were transferred to other airports or hotels, all being managed by a forlorn airport staff.

Billi and the other knights picked their way through the groups of abandoned passengers and climbed over piles of waiting luggage. It wasn't yet seven, but the airport was overflowing.

Billi watched the news on one of the big overhead screens. The destruction of Naples dominated everything. Almost thirty feet of ash and rock had fallen over the city in the last two days, and only now were any rescue vehicles able to even approach the devastated city. Buildings had collapsed under the sheer weight of the falling debris, burying scores of people. Ash had set as hard as concrete, and the drills and picks and the desperate hands did little good.

Miracles still occurred. People continued to trickle out of the tunnels. They'd fled into the underground system, then walked out once the eruptions had ended. Thousands were gathered in an ever-growing refugee camp, and families pored over long lists plastered to wooden walls, hoping to find a relative or friend among the survivors.

"It seems so hopeless," said a woman watching the coverage.

Hopeless? Maybe. But people still fought on. Billi stared at the small figures moving over the vast gray city like ants, struggling against the wrath of nature. That's what humanity did, wasn't it? Despite the overwhelming odds, it fought on.

No weapons. Arthur didn't want anyone getting arrested at customs because they'd tried to smuggle in a broadsword. Lance knew an arms dealer in Moscow from his bad old days as a smuggler, and that was where Gwaine's team would tool up. Arthur had friends across the waters in Finland, and they would deliver gear to the Karelia team. Each Templar had a package of Elaine's wolfsbane poultices.

Billi pulled off her backpack while Elaine arranged the boarding passes. She scratched her shoulder blade. The claw marks had healed up nicely, but she had no plans to get bitten or clawed again. She'd put the roll of stinking brown cloth in an airtight Tupperware sandwich box, but still the smell seemed to linger on everything.

The Knights Templar gathered at the coffee shop on the other side of passport control. The Karelia flight was just before the Moscow one.

Arthur brought his latte over to Billi.

"How are you feeling?" He sat down stiffly.

"Better than you, I think."

"Funny girl." He stirred in his sugar, and the chair creaked as he leaned back. "It's going to be a bad one, Billi."

Like she didn't know. They were going in blind. Here in Britain the Templars had secret contacts and hideouts scattered across the country. Russia was the unknown. It was Baba Yaga and the Polenitsys' heartland. They'd be outnumbered ten to one, at least.

"Tell me about the Bogatyrs," Billi said. Everything had been so rushed, she'd had no time to find out about the Russian knights.

"Christian warriors, set up before the Templars. The Russians never got involved in the Crusades; their enemies weren't the Saracens, but the followers of the old ways—pagans, witches, the werewolves."

"And what about this Romanov bloke? Alexeithingamajig?"

"Alexei Viktorovich Romanov. Please get the pronunciation right—he is royalty. Great-grandson of Tsar Nicholas, if I remember correctly." Arthur scratched his beard, trying to remember what else he knew. "The story is that everyone in the royal family was killed at the beginning of the Russian revolution. That much is history. But there were always rumors that one Romanov survived; the princess Anastasia. She was saved by the Bogatyrs. Since then her children and her children's children have served, and led, the Russian order of knights. Stalin tried his best to wipe them out, and they went into hiding, like us. But after the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Bogatyrs became active again, under the leadership of Alexei. Tsar Alexei."

"What's he like?"

Arthur shrugged. "Never met him. But I hear he's a man of honor." He glanced up at the overhead display. "Time to go." He leaned across the table and kissed Billi's cheek. "Good-bye."

The other knights waited. Arthur looked as though there were something else he wanted to say. He fidgeted with his wedding ring. "Listen, Billi. If the worst happens, don't worry about me. Look after yourself." He patted her arm. It was a pathetic gesture, but neither of them knew what else to do. "You'll be fine." Then he turned toward the others.

"Dad, wait."

Billi wanted to say something. She wanted to say she loved him. That despite how things had turned out, it wasn't his fault. She'd chosen this life.

"
Deus vult
, Dad."

Arthur smiled and nodded. "
Deus vult
, Billi."

"WHAT D'YOU THINK?" ASKED ELAINE AS SHE leaned over Billi to peer out the plane window. They were over Russia and would be landing in the next ten minutes. What did she think? Billi stared out over a world of mutilated white.

They'd left the suburban landscape of southeast England, the blotches of orange-roofed estates and fragmented fields. From up above she'd realized how small, how provincial England was, away from the cluster of skyscrapers and parks of London.

Russia was on a different scale entirely. The plane banked over a maze of monolithic housing blocks that seemed to have been dumped at random over the countryside. A huge power station with four hellhole chimneys belched great clouds of steam into the sky. The snow around it was smeared with soot. Motorways ran like scars across the vast plains, razor-straight and black.

The main roads led to vast expanses of forest, with smaller roads winding to clusters of houses on the edge of a river or a lake.

"Dachas," said Elaine. "Once, all Russians dreamed of was their little hidey-hole in the country. Play peasant during the weekend, then go back to big bad Moscow."

"What do they dream of now?"

"Diamonds and caviar, like the rest of us," Elaine said as she summoned the steward. Her tray table was already overflowing with miniature bottles of Gordon's gin.

Lance appeared. The plane was half empty, giving everyone space to spread out. He and Gwaine were up near the front, while Billi and Elaine had gone to the back.

He grabbed a bottle as it rolled off the small flip-down table. Elaine blushed as he handed it back to her. Was she embarrassed because of her drinking? That would be a first.

Maybe it was Lance. He'd joined the order a week or two after Percy's funeral. The Templars had known about him for years, a loner who stalked
ghuls
and the other Unholy across Europe. Billi had seen him in action a few days after he'd arrived. A trio of blood-drinkers had been feeding on people in a nursing home, safe in the assumption that no one would believe horror stories from the elderly inhabitants. Lance had gone through those undead like a hurricane.

Even Arthur had been impressed. The Frenchman had an easy charm, and his eyepatch gave him piratical glamor. He was old, maybe in his mid-thirties, but handsome in that Continental way, with a long, drooping, Gallic mustache. Billi looked at Elaine again. Red as a tomato.

Nah. It couldn't be.

"I've booked us into a small hotel in Arbat. It's central and discreet," Lance said. "Vaslav will meet us there with our shopping and some information."

"Did he get everything?" Billi asked.

"
Oui
. Short-sword, kukri, punch dagger, and those heavy steel
shuriken
you requested." Lance paused. "And the knuckle-dusters, of course." He focused his good eye on Elaine. "And for you, Madame Elaine? Is there anything you would like?"

Elaine shook her head awkwardly.

"
C'est bien
." He stroked his mustache. "It is Wednesday today. If all goes well, we should make contact with the Bogatyrs later in the afternoon."

Leaving them just three days to find Vasilisa. It seemed impossible.

Lance returned to his seat, and Elaine watched him go.

"That is so disgusting," Billi said. "You're old enough to be his granny."

Elaine jumped, caught out. "Oi, none of your lip." She pressed the call button again. "Where is that bloody steward? I'm dying of thirst back here."

The seat belt sign came on, and they descended into Moscow.

Billi's experiences abroad were pretty limited—the odd trip to France and one rain-sodden week in Spain—but Domodedovo Airport was just like any other. Huge, glazed facade, modem and plastic with high ceilings and the usual shops. The signs were in Russian and English, and so were the announcements.

Beyond the tinted green glass walls of the airport, the landscape was obliterated by white. A hazy road crowded with traffic led arrow-straight from the doorways to the horizon. A dense wood of conifers lined it.

They bundled outside, and instantly the elements attacked. The cold snatched Billi's breath, and her eyes watered as the snow-laden air slapped her face. She'd never experienced anything like it. Despite the gloves, scarf, greatcoat, and hat, the blistering wind found and attacked every inch of exposed skin. Snowflakes froze on her eyelashes, and Billi covered her mouth and breathed though her scarf, just to stop her lips from chafing.

Jesus, how can they live in this weather
? An icy gust stung the back of her neck, and she shivered from top to toe.

Big blockbusting four-by-fours that looked more like tanks than cars were parked alongside brittle, ancient Trebants and Ladas built back in the days of the Cold War. They bore their winter tires, the rubber lined with metal studs that sounded like falling pebbles as they rolled over the grit-sprinkled tarmac. Weather like this would have frozen London solid. But the Russians took the foot-deep snowfall and minus-ten temperatures in fur-wrapped stride.

Russia would manage the volcanic winter better than others, at least to begin with. The country had vast supplies of gas, coal, and oil. Could it make its way through Fimbulwinter? Unlikely. You can't eat coal.

Lance pointed at a minivan, and the man inside beckoned to them. The interior was cloudy with cigarette smoke.

"Let's get a move on," said Gwaine as he threw his backpack in. The others followed, and Billi bagged a window seat.

Huge billboards lined the motorway, hiding many of the estates they passed en route to Moscow. The companies were all big brands Billi recognized—Microsoft, BMW—but the lettering was Cyrillic, a subtle reminder that things were different out here in Russia. The snow was piled chest high along the motorway, and wispy clouds were blown off the tops, as though the snow itself were steaming.

They had been driving toward the city for an hour when Billi saw a statue in the distance. It was a knight on a horse, with his spear stuck in a writhing dragon.

"Russians follow Saint George?" she asked.

Lance nodded. "He's the patron saint of the city. The Russians take their religion seriously. Especially after decades of Communist suppression. The government and a lot of rich patrons paid to have some of the old religious sites restored. No better way to get into Heaven than by building a church. Saint George is a big man in the city." Lance pointed at a passing church. "But he's not the only one."

The five golden cupolas of the building shone, despite the dense clouds above. The walls were covered in bright mosaics, and the building looked new. Bright as the sun, wreathed in gold, stood a winged warrior. His wings were spread out as though raised to shelter the faithful as they entered the church through the door below him. His long hair was unbound, his eyes sparkled, and he seemed to be staring straight at Billi. He held his sword aloft, ready to strike.

Saint Michael.

The minivan crawled through the winding backstreets of Arbat. They'd come off one of the eight-lane ring roads that encircled central Moscow and were now in the heart of the city's art district. The buildings here were elegant old mansions and apartments from pre-revolutionary Moscow. The buildings bore ornate frescos; some had dark iron plaques beside their entrances bearing the double-headed eagle, the symbol of Imperial Russia.

"There it is, Olimpiyskaya Hotel," said Lance. The driver maneuvered the minivan through a pair of tall iron gates into a small courtyard.

The sky, clear now, was a cold white with smudges of red and pink to the southeast. The colors gave a rose tint to the otherwise gray cityscape.

"Pollution from the eruption," said Elaine. "We'll have some beautiful sunsets too, thanks to Vesuvius." She pulled out her backpack, and the two of them went in.

A stairway swept up from the marble-tiled lobby to the next floor. Some of the steps had been repaired with coarse concrete. A dusty chandelier hung down on a heavy brass chain. The place had seen better days. Hell, it had seen better centuries.

Beside the entrance was an old sofa of faded red velvet. On it sat a large man with small eyes. He drew his fingers, heavy with gold rings, through his thinning black hair as he watched the new arrivals. One hand rested on a battered old suitcase.