were the clippings on the mysterious sickness spreading through Britain. The last article was a few days before his death. Billi smiled. He was such a nerd. As Billi flicked through Kay’s comments she saw Vasilisa reaching into the box.
“No!” Billi slapped the girl’s hand, and something silver flew across the room and cracked against the wall. Billi stared at Vasilisa. “I
“I was just helping.” She lowered her head, and her unkempt blond hair fell like a veil over her face. “Sorry.”
Billi rose and picked up the object.
It was Kay’s old cell phone. Billi turned it in her hand. The screen was cracked now. Billi bit her lip. If Vasilisa had broken it, Billi would be furious. She dug out a charger from one of the drawers and plugged it in.
The screen glowed and the bloodred Templar cross appeared.
It was her and Kay.
She didn’t even remember him taking it. They were outside, somewhere in the gardens, sitting on a bench. Wind had caught strands of his platinum-white hair, half covering his face. He was smiling that smile of his-like he knew a big secret. Vasilisa peered over her shoulder and gazed closely at the photo.
Billi looked at Vasilisa. She had a wide pale face with dimpled cheeks that converged into a small pointed chin. Her blond hair was thick and uncombed. She had a young child’s nose, a round button, red from sniffing.
“You’ve got a pixie face,” Billi said, fighting back a sudden urge to gently tuck Vasilisa’s blond locks behind her ear.
“
“Not since 1807.”
“I like you with long hair,” Vasilisa said. She pointed to the photo on the wall. “Like your mum.”
It was a picture of the three of them-Billi, her mum, and her dad. It had been taken when she was five. She was being squeezed between her parents. Jamila was looking toward the camera, but Arthur was just gazing at his wife with open, uninhibited joy. He seemed decades younger, no gray in his hair, and his face smooth and worry-free. Billi grinned at herself, a five-year-old girl with a small gap in the middle of her baby teeth.
“It’s an old picture. My mum died a long time ago.”
Vasilisa stared at the photo, then back into the box. “Whose things are these?” she asked, carefully keeping her hands to herself.
“My friend’s. His name was Kay.”
“Kay? Was he like you?”
Billi looked into Vasilisa’s big summer-sky-blue eyes. “No, I think maybe he was like you.”
There were half a dozen folders saved on Kay’s mobile. She shouldn’t look at them. Kay was dead and she needed to get over him. Quickly. But as she gazed over his belongings she knew that wasn’t fair. Not for Kay, and not for her. He’d been the best part of her life.
“Tell me about Karelia.”
“There was a big garden, and my babushka, my granny, she taught me the names of every plant, every flower.” Vasilisa pointed to the pot of twigs and drooping stalks on the windowsill. “Chrysanthemums. You should put those somewhere sunny.”
“When did you leave?”
“I was five. I didn’t want to. But someone came.”
“Who?”
Vasilisa closed her eyes, and Billi could see she was frightened.
“An old lady. Not nice like my babushka, but horrible, with green eyes. She was looking for me.”
Olga. So the Polenitsy had been after her already.
“My granny made me hide, but she was scared. She said the woman would come back, so we had to run. That night we all packed our bags and we came here, to be safe. I miss them. I miss my granny.” Vasilisa swung her feet, idle and wistful. “They say I’m going to be a Templar.” She looked at the paintings on the wall. “Are they all Templars? Those old men?”
“I’m a Templar.” Vasilisa looked at Billi curiously. “What are they? The Templars.”
Billi breathed a deep sigh. Where to begin? She had almost a thousand years of history in her head. Short or long version?
Short.
“They were a group of knights who swore to defend the Holy Land from the Muslims, back in the Middle Ages. That’s how they started. Just nine men.”
“Like the Bogatyrs?”
“You know about the Bogatyrs?” asked Billi.
Vasilisa’s eyes brightened. “Everybody in Russia knows! My mother used to read me stories about them. They fought dragons, evil witches, the Mongols, the Muslims. All the evil people.”
Billi laughed. “My mother was a Muslim.”
Vasilisa went red. “Are you?”
Billi shrugged. She could pray in Latin, Greek, English, and Arabic. She knew the direction of Mecca and the psalms. Did God really care?
“Anyway, back to the Templars.” She got up and took a picture off the wall. It was a landscape over Jerusalem, an elaborate medieval woodcut of the Holy City. She pointed to a dome in the center. “The knights fought the Muslims for a few hundred years. But then they were betrayed by their fellow Christians, by the Pope himself. After that the survivors rejected the Crusades and chose a new war-a war they call the Bataille Tenebreuse. That means the Dark Conflict. Instead of fighting other men, we fight the Unholy-monsters, like werewolves. Ghosts. The blood-drinkers. To be a knight you have to face one of those monsters. It’s called
“Did you have to do it?”
Billi nodded. Alex Weeks. The ghost of a six-year-old boy. Remembering what she’d had to do still turned her stomach.
“You don’t like being a Templar, Billi?”
“It’smyduty.
“Look, Vasilisa, we’re going to play a game.” With the pad up, she drew a circle. “See if you can guess what shape I’m drawing.”
“I’ve already done this with Elaine.”
“Let’s play again.” Elaine had said the powers would be temperamental at this age, but it was worth a shot.
Vasilisa frowned. “A circle.”
Could just be luck. Billi tore off the sheet and drew a triangle. “Now?”
“A triangle?”
“And this?”
“A star.”
“How many points?”
“Five.”
“What’s on the page? Concentrate.”
“A fish.”
Billi’s heart was beating hard and fast. Perhaps the Templars had their new Oracle after all.
“That’s amazing, Vasilisa.”
Vasilisa shook her head. “No. Anyone could do that.” Billi laughed. “I don’t think so.” But Vasilisa straightened
