Dark Goddess

“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