Dark Goddess

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 buildings 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 viola,” 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 cherie.”

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