Dark Goddess

by Sarwat Chadda

  “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.”

  17

  “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 leftthe suburban landscapeof 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 likea 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, modern 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’sgeta moveon,” said Gwaineashe threwhis 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 building
s 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.

  Astairway 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.

  “Nice choice, Lance,” said Billi as he followed her in with Gwaine. Lance looked at the big man and grinned. The two embraced and talked rapidly in Russian. Billi didn’t understand a word. That is, all but one.

  Bogatyrs.

  Lance handed over a stuffed envelope. The big man nodded, slid over the suitcase, and left.

  “Who was that?” asked Gwaine suspiciously.

  “Vaslav.” Lance lifted up the suitcase, straining momentarily. “Looks like he got everything.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Of course not. But I payin dollars.”

  “What did he say about the Bogatyrs?” asked Billi. Lance’s eyebrows rose at the fact that Billi had picked out the word.

  “He’s heard they’ve been at work by the Sparrow Hills, hunting vampires.” Lance raised his hand. “How you say, ghuls?” He still hadn’t gotten his head around the Arabic term the Templars used for blood-drinkers. “It would be good for us to start there.”

  The reception desk was half hidden in the shadow of the staircase. The bright white bulb of the table lamp shone low over the gleaming bald head of the clerk. He got up and smiled.

  “My friends. American?”

  “English,” said Gwaine.

  “French,” said Lance.

  The clerk clapped once, and the smile broadened to a grin, revealinga rowof black teeth. “Better than Americans. My name is Jorge.” He ducked behind a wall and brought out a stack of cards. “Fill in, please.”

  They doubled up, Billi with Elaine. The only bathroom was at the end of the corridor, and they shared it with three other rooms. Billi and Elaine’s room looked out ontoa brick wall. The beds creaked and the mattresses sagged in the middle. A pile of light green blankets lay folded at the foot of each bed.

  While Elaine went to check the bar downstairs, Billi dropped her backpack onto one of the beds and locked the door. She went to the sink to wash, and caught her face in the mirror. The image in the glass looked back at her with cold, dead-black eyes. What was in those eyes? Duty? Kay’s had been bright with hope; her father’s burned with passion. Hers were dark and unreadable.

  She was tired. No, she was exhausted. But she wouldn’t rest until they’d saved Vasilisa. Then what? The first plane to Jerusalemfor yearsof trainingand hardshipasaTemplar. Fear, pain, and most likely an early death. Was that the life she was saving Vasilisa for?

  But if she couldn’t be rescued? Arthur was right: she would have to die. What choice did Billi have? None. She doomed Vasilisa if she saved her, and doomed her if she didn’t.

  18

  LANCE SWUNG THE OLD SUITCASE ONTO THE BED, where it landed with a dull thud. Gwaine locked the door and made sure the curtains were fully closed. All four had gathered in Gwaine and Lance’s room and stood around the suitcase as Lance threw it open.

  “Et violà,” he said.

  There were half a dozen or so packages, all neatly wrapped and taped up. Billi lifted one out and tore off the bubble wrap.

  “You like?” asked the Frenchman.

  “I like.” She slid a kukri out of a plain sheath. The wicked Gurkha knife was like a machete, with an asymmetrical blade that was wide and heavy toward the tip, creating greater impact with the cut. The handle was bone, a nice touch that meant it wouldn’t slip if things got bloody.

  The katar was equally plain and very functional. Vaslav knew his knives. The handle was like an H with the cord-wrapped grip along the short crossbar. The blade was shaped like a long isosceles triangle, the tip made of hardened steel and designed for punching through armor. Billi had used her dad’s once on a sheep’s carcass they’d bought for a barbecue. The weapon left deep, wide wounds that wouldn’t heal easily. A few punches with this would upset any loony. With a bit of modification the sheath would sit nicely on the back of her belt. The kukri she strapped to her left thigh.

  The shuriken were black tempered steel, and Billi bounced three of them in her palm, listening to the heavy, satisfying clatter. The star-shaped throwing blades were good for short range, and the weight gave excellent penetration. They went in her right coat pocket.

  “The sword?” she asked. She wanted a short-sword to replace her wakizashi.

  Lance shook his head. “Tomorrow, ma chérie.”

  Gwaine made do with an ax. Not the tree-chopping size-something that could fit under his coat but still be hefty enough to take off an arm with correctly applied violence.

  Lance clipped a modern combat knife to his belt.

  “That all?” asked Billi.

  “Oui.”

  Your funeral, mate.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Lance. He handed Billi a chunky knuckle-duster.

  Billi slipped it into her left pocket. “What’s the plan?”

  “We’ll head up to Sparrow Hills. Keep our eyes peeled for the Bogatyrs,” said Gwaine. “Leave the talking to me.”

  It wasn’t like the tube back home. Here the station was marble and polished granite. Chandeliers and mosaics. No expense spared.

  The escalator sank them deep, deep underground. Ornate lamps from the 1930s lined the walls, their golden light casting long shadows that arched over Billi. A night reveler sat on the escalator, head sunk between his knees like one of the damned on his way down to Hell.

  Billi gripped the rail, her hand damp with sweat. The last time she’d been on the tube she had held Vasilisa.

  It was now Wednesday evening. Just three days to go.

  Art Deco chandeliers made of bronze and amber crystal hung along the platform, and puddles of melted snow shone on the polished granite floor. Billi followed Lance and the others to the end. The platform wasn’t busy: the few late-night commuters waited quietly, wrapped in heavy fur coats or thick hooded parkas. A cleaner patrolled the platform, collecting abandoned cans, bottles, and newspapers. Though Billi couldn’t read the headlines, she saw that the front pages bore pictures of the still-smoking Vesuvius.

  Bronze statues of heroes of the Soviet era lined the platform. Noble soldiers, proud peasant women, handsome engineers and scientists, all striving forward as part of Stalin’s great experiment.

  Awoman rubbed the nose of a bronze guard dog. The sheen had come off, leaving its nose a light golden color. Obviously she wasn’t the first to rub its nose.

  “For good luck,” said Lance.

  Couldn’t hurt, thought Billi. Taking off her glove, she ran her hand over the Alsatian’s muzzle. She could do with all the luck she could get.

  A short train ride later and Billi was gazing over Moscow from up on high. Dominated by the gigantic Moscow State University building, Sparrow Hills rose over the southwest of the city and allowed Billi to grasp the enormous scale of Russia’s capital. It spread out to the far horizon, full of gothic towers, billboards, and bridges whose lights sparkled on the broken ice on the river, which wound in huge loops through the city.

  Golden towers blazed against the dark blanket of t
he night sky, marked onlybya hazy, waxing half-moon. Below the wide boulevard spread the woods of Vorobyovy Gory Nature Reserve, woven through by lamplit paths, descending down the slope to the Moscow River and the vast oval of the Moscow Olympic Stadium.

  Engines roared behind Billi. Cars lined the ulitsa Kosygina, hoods popped and engines screaming for an audience. The wide curving road in front of the giant university building was the place for road racing among the bored rich sons and daughters of the new city elite, the oligarchs. Hundreds milled on the street and snowy square, and music boomed from the open windows of the prowling roadsters. Some even bore flags, gang signs of the various racing teams. Young men in leather jackets crowded around the rumbling cars while their girlfriends, dressed in furs and miniskirts, huddled in their own cliques.

  This was where they’d find the Bogatyrs? What had she expected? A bunch of guys in plate armor, riding war-horses? If they were anything like the Templars, they’d be low-profile and discreet.

  A chunky, growling Hummer mounted the pavement. A blazing firebird covered the hood. Its feathers were sweeping red-and-orange flames, and its eyes golden drops of lava. The headlights lit the hordes like a supernova, and the crowds backed away reverentially as it lumbered along the pavement.

  The passenger door opened and a young man jumped out. He had short-cropped dark hair, wide cheekbones, and a broken nose that only enhanced the icy look of his aristocratic face. He swept his hand across a nonexistent crease on his black coat, a coat that probably cost more than most of the cars on the street. He spotted one of the posing girls, and a smile flickered over his lips-easy, charming, and arrogant. Her boyfriend moved instinctively in front of her, glowering back. Billi half expected them to start beating their chests at one another, the rivalry was so animal. Instead the young man touched the diamond stud in his left ear and turned away, dismissing them both. He had the confidence of a person who’d found life way, way too easy. Gorgeous, and didn’t he just know it. His driver leaned against the door, lighting up a smoke. Tough and nasty. Definitely a bodyguard.