Sarwat Chadda - Billi SanGreal 02 - Dark Goddess (13 page)

"What you had was your ass kicked by that
ghul
." Billi got up and shook off the worst of the snow. Her coat hung in tatters, nothing more than long ragged strips of wool barely held together by the stitching.

"
Ghul?" The
guy stopped. His fingers tightened around the pistol grip. He looked at Billi, his gray eyes darkening. "You called it a
ghul
?"

"Vampire.
Ghul
. Fang-face. Whatever. It was about to rip your throat out." Billi watched warily as he pointed the pistol in her direction. "Easy, tiger. In case you hadn't noticed, I did just save your life."

"Tsarevich Ivan!"

They both turned as a huge man lumbered through the snow like a buffalo, with maybe half a dozen others following. The way they fanned out meant military.

"Easy," said the big man as he approached, hands half raised. "Put the pistol away, Tsarevich." The accent was Russian, but his English was perfect. He stepped into the moonlit clearing.

The pale light gleamed on his polished bald head and red cheeks. He had a red beard and mustache that was curled and turned up. His thick red eyebrows were as bushy as a fox's tail, and he grinned like the Cheshire cat.

Tsarevich
? That meant
prince
, didn't it? Billi gave Ivan an appraising look. He didn't look like a prince. Not with the broken nose, the crew cut, and diamond stud.

But there was something strangely out of time about Ivan. An archaic elegance, even as he wiped the snow off his shoulders and straightened his black leather gloves. He reloaded his pistol, checking each round with the same methodical care he gave his clothes. He flicked back his coat and clipped the weapon away. Then he smoothed out the folds, making sure the weapon didn't leave any telltale lumps. He could have been getting ready for the opera if it weren't for the blood covering his face.

The other men wore discreet body armor that covered the torso. No one but Billi would notice it under a coat, especially in this weather. The trousers weren't too obviously military, but the boots were shin high with triple-knotted laces. One man carried a modern crossbow, all pulleys and matte black carbon fiber, the other a pistol, complete with suppressor. Crucifixes dangled from their necks, and Billi suspected they had holy oil and all the other mystical accessories in their utility pouches.

They were just like the Templars, upgraded for the twenty-first century.

"Bogatyrs, are you?" Billi asked.

"It looks like you've done our work for us," said the man with the red beard, avoiding the question. "I am Koshchey."

"He was trying to take it alone," said Billi.
Idiot
, she thought. Then she remembered she'd been trying to take it alone too.

Koshchey huffed with disapproval. "Foolish. You should have waited, Ivan."

Ivan scowled. "She's lucky I didn't kill her."

Billi wiped her kukri clean. "As if."

Koshchey inspected the dead monster. He looked at Billi with a hint of admiration. "You have obviously done this before,
da
?"

"She called it a
ghul"
said Ivan. His hand hadn't strayed from his holster by much.

"There are only two people who use that term, Assassins and Templars," said Koshchey. "Which are you, child?"

"My name is Billi SanGreal."

Koshchey paused. He drew his beard into a point as he pondered. "Daughter of Arthur SanGreal?" He bowed. "We are honored."

Billi began to laugh, but stifled it when she realized he was sincere. The other men didn't follow suit, but she could feel their eyes on her.

Lance came charging down the slope, Gwaine and Elaine behind. Two of Koshchey's men raised their guns, but Koshchey waved them through. He waited until all four were gathered together.

"Which of you is the Templar Master, Arthur?"

Gwaine shook his head. "The Master isn't here. He sent us. My name is Gwaine, this is Lance, and her"—he jerked his thumb at the old woman puffing for breath beside him—"her name is Elaine." He looked around the group, taking in the weapons, the men, the attitude. "You are the Bogatyrs." It wasn't a question, more a confirmation. He turned his attention to Koshchey. "Am I addressing Tsar Alexei Viktorovich Romanov?"

Ivan flinched, and there was a brief flash of pain as his mouth hardened into a thin line. The big man shook his head sadly. "I am Koshchey."

Lance stepped forward. "I have heard of Koshchey the Undying." He stood between Koshchey and the other Templars. The move was subtle but clear. Whatever Lance knew wasn't all good.

Koshchey jutted out his chest proudly. "That is I. The Undying. The Afghans tried. The Chechens. So did the Bosnians. All tried and failed. This is Tsarevich Ivan Alexeivich Romanov." He slapped Ivan on the back so hard he stumbled forward.

Ivan straightened his coat and gave a stiff nod. "At your service." Gwaine turned his attention to Ivan. "And where is your father, Tsarevich Ivan?"

Ivan lifted his head, just enough for Billi to see the fury in his storm-gray eyes. "My father is dead." With that he left abruptly to join one of the other Bogatyrs. Billi recognized him as the driver of Ivan's Hummer. She'd been right: the older man had bodyguard written all over him. He spoke with Ivan quietly, his hands resting comfortably on the Heckler&Koch submachine gun strapped across his chest.

Tsar Alexei is dead
. And now it seemed Koshchey was the new man in charge.

"What brings the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Jesus Christ and the Temple of Solomon to Moscow?" asked Koshchey, swiftly breaking the silence that had followed Ivan's pronouncement.

One of the Bogatyrs opened up a small silver bottle and poured its oily contents over the
ghul
. Puddles of blue flame erupted wherever the oil touched.

In seconds the small clearing filled with sharp, sickly-sweet-smelling smoke.

"We're hunting the Polenitsy," said Gwaine. "We could do with your help, Koshchey."

Koshchey thrust out his hand, completely covering Gwaine's in his massive palm. "You have it, Sir Gwaine."

Well, that was easy
. If Billi had been of a paranoid nature, she would have thought it was too easy.

Koshchey summoned one of his men. "You will be my guests. I will have Nikolai collect your belongings. Where did you say you were staying?"

"We didn't," replied Lance, a mite aggressively. Koshchey stopped.

"You're a long way from home, Templars, and Moscow is not London," he said. "It is a bad place to be without friends." The big Russian, his hand still gripping Gwaine's, frowned. "We know much of the Polenitsy; who would know more? We Bogatyrs have fought them for centuries. Come, friend Gwaine. Let us help you." He winked. "The Cold War is over,
da
?"

"It makes sense," Elaine whispered, barely moving her lips. "And we're running out of time." What did Lance know that made him so wary of Koshchey? Gwaine nodded, ignoring Lance's glare. The Templars fell in together a few paces behind the Bogatyrs.

"Let's just keep our mouths shut, and leave the talking to me," said Gwaine. "And that means you, Lance."

Lance peered at the back of the big Bogatyr. If looks could kill, then Koshchey would have been a corpse.

"What is it?" asked Billi. "What d'you know about him?"

"Ex-Spetsnaz colonel. Did some work for the KGB. Last thing I heard was that he'd joined the Russian mafia. Nothing about the Bogatyrs." Lance's voice sank into a whisper. "He is very dangerous."

"Sounds like just the man we need," replied Gwaine.

"Nothing about Vasilisa being an avatar, understand?" ordered Lance. Gwaine bristled—he didn't like his authority questioned—but relented.

"Nothing about avatars."

They plodded silently down the slope until they approached a line of cars. Ivan headed to his Hummer, doing his best to ignore them. He unholstered his pistol and put it on the dashboard. But just before he shut the door he looked back at Billi. He'd cleaned the worst of the blood off his face, but a single dark line smeared his cheek, underlining his startlingly pale eyes.

Beautiful and dangerous. Billi knew all about that sort of boy.

She needed to watch out for Ivan Alexeivich Romanov.

BILLI AND GWAINE RODE IN THE BACKSEAT OF the limousine with Koshchey, who sat opposite, silently watching her. Lance and Elaine were in the car behind.

She gazed out at Moscow as they sped along the wide lanes that ringed the city. Despite the cold, people were out. Wrapped in furs and fueled with vodka, they made their way across slush-swamped pavements to cafes, bars, and restaurants, which seem to glow with a magical, golden light. All around her shone bright skyscrapers, huge hotels, and vast apartment blocks, relics of the city's Soviet past. Power cables crisscrossed the roads like the broken webs of giant spiders, and chunky trams rattled by on the old cobbled pathways that still ran through the city's older districts.

"You have come a long way to hunt, Sir Gwaine," said Koshchey. "While the Polenitsy are the enemy of the Bogatyrs, that doesn't mean I'll send my men to battle without a good reason."

"The Polenitsy have taken someone from us. We wish to recover her," replied Gwaine.

Koshchey smiled. "A Spring Child, is she? Who else would the werewolves be after?"

Gwaine's eyelid twitched, then he nodded. "Yes. Her name is Vasilisa Bulgakov." Despite Gwaine's initial reaction, Billi could hear the caution in his answers. He wasn't going to tell Koshchey any more than was absolutely necessary—certainly nothing about her being an avatar. Lance had put all of them on guard.

Koshchey nodded. "We cannot allow the werewolves to murder innocent children. I will put all my men on it." He looked out the window. "If she is here, I will find her."

"I thank you."

"What's Ivan's story?" asked Billi. Not that she was interested in any way. But if they were going to work together, it would be useful to know a little more about him. That's all.

Koshchey sighed. The leather of the seat creaked as he leaned into it. "It is sad. His father, the great Alexei, was killed by the Polenitsy six months ago. So you see, your enemies are ours."

"Did you find the ones that did it?"

"Alas, no. We suspect it was their leader, Olga Khanova. She is a dangerous one."

Olga. The dates matched up. They must have come to Britain via Moscow. Did that mean they'd returned by the same route? Could they be here right now?

"We are in a rush to find our kidnapped friend," added Gwaine. "The Polenitsy will sacrifice heron the full moon, three days from tonight."

"I will put all my men on it," repeated Koshchey.

They crossed a bridge and came to an immense structure that dominated a whole block on the river. The building comprised three towers, the highest one bearing a shining red star on its spire. No light shone from any of the windows, and as they approached, Billi saw that the entire block was protected by a tall wire-mesh fence. Fora building so extravagant, it bore an ominous ambience.

"Stalin's Ministry," said Gwaine. "I thought it had been sold off during the collapse of Communism."

"To me," said Koshchey. "You will treat it as your own home during your stay here. You will want for nothing."

The gates opened up and the cavalcade of cars rolled down a ramp into the parking garage. Only small patches of the underground chamber were lit, but the distant reflections of light on metal gave Billi a sense of its size. It had to be as big as a football field.

Koshchey owned all of this?

While the Bogatyrs got busy unloading their luggage, Koshchey directed the Templars toward the row of elevators. "Ivan." He summoned the young man over. "Escort Billi to her room. I have business to discuss with the seneschal."

Billi stepped between them. "We don't have any time to waste. I think we—"

"Enough, squire," snapped Gwaine. He glowered at her, and for a second Billi was tempted to ignore him. The full moon was only days away. But slowly she shut her mouth. Ivan, close by, cleared his throat.

"Which one?" he asked.

"The Morevna suite."

"Shall we?" Ivan gave a mock bow and led her to a polished bronze door. An elevator. The door slid open and they entered.

The lift car was paneled with dark wood and inlaid with an abstract pattern of mother-of-pearl that glimmered in the hazy lamplight. Ivan pulled a small key from his pocket and inserted it into a brightly polished plaque in the wall.

As the elevator ascended, Billi took a long look at Ivan. He had typically Slavic features: pale skin, wide, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes of storm-cloud gray. Ivan sensed her studying him, and his hand rose to awkwardly cover his face as he drew his fingers through his bristling brown hair.

"The thirteenth floor?" asked Billi. "Isn't that unlucky?"

"Only for a Templar." The elevator settled gently to a halt, and the door opened into darkness. The light from the elevator illuminated just the first few feet of an emerald-veined marble floor. Then, one by one, like night constellations, enormous chandeliers came to life, their light caught and amplified a thousand fold through a sparkling cosmos of brilliant crystal.

Tall columns like flutes rose to support the huge, multivaulted ceiling, and Billi peered at the sky-filled mosaics of gods, heroes, and demons. Warriors clad in gold battled monstrous bears and wolves. Castles floated among the clouds, and wolves flew from the towers. In a vast battlefield stood a shining warrior woman, sword aloft and long blond hair swirling. She wore a deep-red coat, its sleeves and front embroidered with golden designs of flaming phoenixes.

"Maria Morevna," said Ivan. "A great princess. A Bogatyr."

"Who made all this?" It was unreal.

"The Soviets."

"No expense spared, eh?"

Ivan marched onward. "Follow me."

Ahead was a double door decorated with gilt filigree. Ivan pushed it open.

The bedroom was dominated by a canopied bed, the wood as pale as pearl. Sheer white curtains hung from the bed's frame, while thick red drapes half covered gilt-framed mirrors on the walls. They reflected the room infinitely upon itself; it was difficult to see where the room ended and the illusion began. Through a curtain Billi saw a freestanding marble bath on curling, clawed legs, with steam rising from the water.