Sarwat Chadda - Billi SanGreal 02 - Dark Goddess (3 page)

"Saved that girl, though," said Elaine. She pulled out a box and opened it. The van was suddenly filled with the odor of rotten vegetables and oil.

"They wanted her badly," Billi said. "Think she could be one?"

Elaine paused. "An Oracle?" She pressed a wet flannel over Billi's cuts. "Maybe." Elaine used the Templar term too, but they used to be called
witches
, or
prophets
. The modem secular word was
psychic
. It was children such as these the werewolves ritually sacrificed to their goddess, believing that in return she would bestow on them a spring season full of good hunting.

Billi winced as Elaine got busy with a pair of silver tweezers, not too gently poking the open wounds to check that no claw shards remained. She tightened her hands into fists and buried her face farther down.
Jesus, that hurts
.

Elaine laid the wet poultice on Billi's bare back, pressing it firmly into the channels of flesh, making sure the medicine soaked in deeply.

"It stinks," said Billi.

"This, girl, is my own special recipe. Wolfsbane, a dash of holy oil, and ground-up werewolf bones. You know how hard it is to get werewolf bones? How much it costs?"

"Bet it cost some loony an arm or a leg."

Elaine laughed. "Too true. An arm, in this case."

"How long do I have to keep it on?"

"It takes a while for the herbs to soak in. So keep it on for a few days—long enough to suck the poison out. You don't want to turn, do you?"

As if she didn't know. Billi had spent the last few months studying nothing but lycanthropy. Anyone could turn into a werewolf if they were scratched or bitten by one. Everyone had the Beast Within. It was the savage part of their soul that reveled in slaughter and violence. It was bloodlust.

If injured by a werewolf, the Beast Within would awaken. First there'd be the dreams—of hunting, of running in dark forests and howling. Then the appetite would change—there'd be a craving for raw meat and red juices. The redder the better. Rage would come. Mindless and psychotic urges to kill and feed. Giving in to it accelerated the transformation process. So for some the change was swift; others—those with strong wills— held on to their humanity longer.

Eventually, though, everyone gave in, and a new werewolf would howl with joy beneath the moon's ghostly light. Nothing human would remain except for the eyes. The eyes stayed human. Only Elaine's poultice prevented the infection from taking hold. It had saved more than a few knights in the past.

"You... don't think that'll happen? Do you?"

Elaine tore off long strips of tape. "No, but call me if you have any strange urges."

"Like what?"

"Like wanting to chase cats."

Once the bandages were fixed, Elaine handed Billi a fresh shirt and unrolled a blanket. She stepped out for a cigarette break while Billi changed. Billi glanced at her watch: two in the morning. With any luck she'd get four hours' sleep, then up for morning prayers and off to school.

Just great. PE tomorrow. How was she going to explain why she looked like Tutankhamen? The immense weight of tonights action bore down on her hard, squeezing her into the mattress. It seemed like her bones were made of lead; she couldn't move for the exhaustion. Just a few hours' sleep...

"Well?" came Elaine's voice from outside.

"Too late," said Arthur wearily. "Pelleas is dead."

Even though she'd known it, it still hurt. Billi closed her eyes and tried to ignore the black hole in her stomach.

Arthur continued. "We'll grab what we can, then get out of here. A bloody balls-up, Elaine. Maybe I shouldn't have sent Billi out so soon." He shuffled. "How is she?"

Billi heard the sharp rip of a match, swiftly followed by Elaine's wheezing. They were just outside. The van softly tilted as someone, Dad probably, leaned against it.

"She'll be okay."

"Will she?" Billi heard him kick a stone in frustration. "She's changed, Elaine."

Billi's eyes felt hot and watery. She blamed it on the wolfsbane poultices.

He sighed. "It's been three months, but, if anything, she's worse."

"She loved Kay. You of all people should understand that."

"But she's just a child."

"Sixteen in a few months," Elaine said. "She's young, Art, but I don't think she's ever been a child. Kay died, and she thinks it was her fault. She's taken on a lot of responsibility."

"She's a Templar." Elaine changed the subject. "What about the girl? Think she could be one?"

"An Oracle? Lot of effort's been put in if she isn't." Arthur tapped his sword hilt against the van. "Werewolves aren't usually wrong about this sort of thing. They did the same with Kay, remember? The Bodmin pack came looking soon after we found him." The van rocked slightly as Arthur moved. "But they've stuck to the accord ever since."

"Ever since you chopped their leader's arm off."

"Right."

"And if she is an Oracle?" asked Elaine. Billi could hear the fear—and excitement—in the old woman's voice.

"Then thank God we got to her first." Arthur's boots squelched in the slush as he walked away.

BILLI SLEPT IN THE VAN AND ONLY STARTED TO STIR when the tires trundled over the cobbles of Temple District.

Home.

She sat up and leaned over the passenger seat. It was still early, and the sun wouldn't be up for a few hours yet. The van's engine echoed within the narrow confines of the alleyways that dropped south of Fleet Street and into Temple District. Bors was slumped in the passenger seat, his twin swords beside him. Billi knocked them onto the floor with a clatter as she climbed up front.

"Oi, watch it," muttered Bors as he rubbed the sleep out of his face. Blinking blearily, he searched the dashboard until his hand found a sausage roll, which he shoved into his mouth. He caught Billi's stare. "Sorry," he said, spitting flakes over his lap. "Did you want some?"

"God Almighty, d'you have a trough at home or what?"

They entered the main Temple parking lot and found Father Rowland waiting for them with Mordred, the new squire. The chaplain's thin frame was lost in a huge black overcoat, his bald head and the tips of his frozen ears the only things visible above his scarf.

Bors jumped out the moment the van halted. He handed his swords over to Mordred. "Polish these." He licked the last few crumbs off his fingers. "And before breakfast, mind."

The two couldn't be more different.

Mordred, an Ethiopian refugee the Order had literally picked up off the streets, was tall and elegant, with jet-black skin and deep thoughtful eyes. Bors, bigger in girth if not height, was a cannonball of muscle. His neck was nonexistent, his jaw comprised of a patch of ginger bristles, and his eyes were piggy and close together. But he was a knight, and Mordred was a squire.

"Want him to run your bath while he's at it?" said Billi as Mordred left.

Bors laughed.

Father Rowland helped Elaine out and peered in behind her.

"Where's Pelleas?"

Elaine looked at Billi. "You want to tell him?"

No, not really
. But Elaine had already wandered off.

"Dead, Father."

"Oh." Rowland touched his crucifix. "What happened?"

Billi reminded herself that this was all new for Rowland. The previous Temple chaplain had just been buried when Rowland had arrived, fresh-faced and eager, all peachy keen from the seminary. He had thought he'd be running choirs and carrying out christenings. Billi had turned up at the chaplain's house with Arthur and a few of the others. An unofficial welcoming committee. All in all he'd taken it well. Rowland was to manage the day-to-day affairs of the Temple Church except when the Templars themselves required it. He was responsible for disposing of the bodies and managing their library: the remnants of the original library of occult lore the Templars had salvaged from the Inquisition.

Only later did Billi notice the empty wine bottles piling up in the recycling box outside his door. He looked like he could do with a drink right now.

"Werewolves," Billi said.

Arthur's Jaguar rolled up. Lance lifted the sleeping Vasilisa from the backseat while Arthur and Gwaine joined Billi and Rowland. Over his shoulder Arthur carried his chain-mail shirt, rolled up and held in a bundle by an old leather belt. In his right hand he carried the Templar Sword.

Arthur turned to Gwaine. "I want a conclave sorted. We need to review what happened tonight." He inspected his watch. "Couple of hours' rest, then we'll talk at six thirty." Gwaine nodded and left to make arrangements.

Rowland put his hand on Arthur's shoulder, like a good priest should. "I've just heard about Pelleas, Arthur." He frowned with concern. "Is there anything you need?"

"Shovels," said Arthur. He pointed toward his car. "Pelleas is in the trunk."

"You're... you're joking, of course," said Rowland.

Arthur did not have his joking face on. He turned to Billi. "Go with Lance. Put Vasilisa in the spare bedroom."

"She's staying with us?" Billi asked. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders. The girl had just seen her parents slaughtered, and they were leaving Billi to pick up the pieces. She didn't want to be dealing with a hysterical kid first thing in the morning. "It's not my job to babysit. Give her to Rowland."

"Your job is to do what I tell you." Arthur settled the weight of his armor better. "
Now
, Billi."

Billi headed toward home on Middle Temple Lane, followed by Lance, who carried the sleeping girl in his arms.

The smell of fresh paint still lingered as she entered their house. Billi inspected the limp fern beside the door. Their attempt to bring some life into their home was failing miserably. None of the paintings were back up yet, except one. Jacques de Molay, the last Templar Grand Master, gazed down at them as they came in.

"Top of the stairs, Lance. I'll bring some blankets."

Lance nodded and eased Vasilisa through the doorway and up the steps.

Billi stopped in front of the portrait. As a kid she'd always felt a little scared passing under it.

Now?

These days she didn't feel anything.

A short nap and Billi was up by six. She dressed, checked that the poultice was still in place and she hadn't grown a fur pelt overnight. So far—not hairy. If she
was
infected, the pain of transformation would come with the moonlight, growing stronger as the moon waxed.

She struggled to put her shirt on. Her muscles complained loudly about the treatment they'd received last night. The fragrance of warm bread was rising out of the kitchen as she opened her bedroom door.

"
Bonjour
, Bilqis," said Lance as Billi wandered into the kitchen. Lance slid open the oven and drew out a tray of golden croissants. He emptied them onto a china dish with a shake. "Breakfast?"

Of course. Guard duty. Arthur must have arranged a rotation of knights to protect Vasilisa. The werewolves weren't going to give up their prey that easily. Sooner or later they'd come around here, trying to sniff her out.

Billi sat at the table while Lance stirred up a cup of hot chocolate. She could only remember being made breakfast once before.

Kay had dished up her usual: muesli and a dollop of honey. Exactly two months and nineteen days ago.

Lance knew his way around a kitchen. The Frenchman had been a patisserie chef in Marseilles. He'd also been a smuggler before getting involved with the Templars. Billi didn't know the full story, but that's how he'd lost his eye.

Billi rocked back on her chair and looked around. Her
wakizashi was
leaning against the table. She picked it up and checked the blade: clean and perfect.

"I thought you might like that back," said Lance. "I found it in the farmhouse."

"Thanks. I'm seeing Percy after school. Wasn't looking forward to telling him I'd lost his favorite sword." She put it down on the table. "What else did you find?"

"Little of use."

Billi glanced at yesterday's newspaper, which her dad had spread out to soak up the oil he used for weapons cleaning. The usual blah-blah. Political scandals. More trouble in the Middle East. Football reports and who was wearing what at some charity do last night. Her gaze rested on the image of a smoldering volcano. Out in Italy, Vesuvius was rumbling, as it had been on and off fora month. Half of Naples had been evacuated; half couldn't make up its mind.

She was doing Vesuvius as part of her Latin course. It was the one subject she excelled in. There were plans for a school trip in the summer to look at the ruins of Pompeii, the Roman city that had been wiped out by the last big eruption, back in a.d. 79. It would be cool to go, and Billi knew if she asked her dad he'd say yes.

Billi scrunched the paper up. No, she had her Templar duties. Only they mattered.

A plate clattered in front of her. The croissant had been gently torn open, and butter lay, molten and puddled, within it.

"
Voilà
." Lance leaned against the table, waiting. "Eat, please."

Billi took a bite and the croissant nearly dissolved in her mouth.

"Wow," she whispered.

He shrugged like it was nothing; excellence came easily to him. Then he started to set up another meal on a tray: breakfast for Vasilisa.

Billi glanced toward the door and the stairs. The girl felt like an uninvited houseguest, an intruder. Why? She didn't mean anything to Billi, so what was it about her that made Billi so uncomfortable? She should be glad: if Vasilisa was an Oracle, she'd strengthen the Order. But Billi wasn't glad, and couldn't understand why.

"How is she?"

"Still asleep." Lance glanced up at the clock over the doorway. It was almost half past six. "I will leave some food; you will take it later?"

Billi nodded and popped the last of the croissant into her mouth as she stood. The conclave was starting.

Billi ran across the courtyard. God didn't like to be kept waiting. Neither did her dad.

Billi rushed across the ice-covered Temple courtyard in her tanned army greatcoat that, despite her height, swept her ankles. Collar up, chin down, she blinked as the frosty breeze stung her eyes. The Temple Church was hidden behind towers of scaffolding and sheets of heavy-duty plastic. The repairs were moving slowly—you didn't rush on a nine-hundred-year-old building. The stained-glass windows were all boarded up, and it would be another year before they could be replaced.