Dark Goddess

Hummer. “No, I’ll get up by myself, thanks,” she said.

“I didn’t need your help,” the man said. He glared at Billi, then back at the corpse. He held a pistol, and his face was splashed with the ghul’s blood. “I had him.”

“What you had was your ass kicked by that ghul.” Billi got up and shook off the worst of the snow. Her coat hung in tatters, nothing more than long ragged strips of wool barely held together by the stitching.

“Ghul?” The guy stopped. His fingers tightened around the pistol grip. He looked at Billi, his gray eyes darkening. “You called it a ghul?”

“Vampire. Ghul. Fang-face. Whatever. It was about to rip your throat out.” Billi watched warily as he pointed the pistol in her direction. “Easy, tiger. In case you hadn’t noticed, I did just save your life.”

“Tsarevich Ivan!”

They both turned as a huge man lumbered through the snow like a buffalo, with maybe half a dozen others following. The way they fanned out meant military.

“Easy,” said the big man as he approached, hands half raised. “Put the pistol away, Tsarevich.” The accent was Russian, but his English was perfect. He stepped into the moonlit clearing.

The pale light gleamed on his polished bald head and red cheeks. He had a red beard and mustache that was curled and turned up. His thick red eyebrows were as bushy as a fox’s tail, and he grinned like the Cheshire cat.

Tsarevich? That meant prince, didn’t it? Billi gave Ivan an appraising look. He didn’t look like a prince. Not with the broken nose, the crew cut, and diamond stud.

But there was something strangely out of time about Ivan. An archaic elegance, even as he wiped the snow off his shoulders and straightened his black leather gloves. He reloaded his pistol, checking each round with the same methodical care he gave his clothes. He flicked back his coat and clipped the weapon away. Then he smoothed out the folds, making sure the weapon didn’t leave any telltale lumps. He could have been getting ready for the opera if it weren’t for the blood covering his face.

The other men wore discreet body armor that covered the torso. No onebut Billi would noticeit undera coat, especially in this weather. The trousers weren’t too obviously military, but the boots were shin high with triple- knotted laces. One man carried a modern crossbow, all pulleys and matte black carbon fiber, the other a pistol, complete with suppressor. Crucifixes dangled from their necks, and Billi suspected they had holy oil and all the other mystical accessories in their utility pouches.

They were just like the Templars, upgraded for the twenty-first century.

“Bogatyrs, are you?” Billi asked.

“It looks like you’ve done our work for us,” said the man with the red beard, avoiding the question. “I am Koshchey.”

“He was trying to take it alone,” said Billi. Idiot, she thought. Then she remembered she’d been trying to take it alone too.

Koshchey huffed with disapproval. “Foolish. You should have waited, Ivan.”

Ivan scowled. “She’s lucky I didn’t kill her.”

Billi wiped her kukri clean. “As if.”

Koshchey inspected the dead monster. He looked at Billi with a hint of admiration. “You have obviously done this before, da?”

“She called it a ghul,” said Ivan. His hand hadn’t strayed from his holster by much.

“There are only two people who use that term, Assassins and Templars,” said Koshchey. “Which are you, child?”

“My name is Billi SanGreal.”

Koshchey paused. He drew his beard into a point as he pondered. “Daughter of Arthur SanGreal?” He bowed. “We are honored.”

Billi began to laugh, but stifled it when she realized he was sincere. The other men didn’t follow suit, but she could feel their eyes on her.

Lance came charging down the slope, Gwaine and Elaine behind. Two of Koshchey’s men raised their guns, but Koshchey waved them through. He waited until all four were gathered together.

“Which of you is the Templar Master, Arthur?”

Gwaine shook his head. “The Master isn’t here. He sent us. My name is Gwaine, this is Lance, and her”-he jerked his thumb at the old woman puffing for breath beside him-“her name is Elaine.” He looked around the group, taking in the weapons, the men, the attitude. “You are the Bogatyrs.” It wasn’t a question, more a confirmation. He turned his attention to Koshchey. “Am I addressing Tsar Alexei Viktorovich Romanov?”

Ivan flinched, and there was a brief flash of pain as his mouth hardened into a thin line. The big man shook his head sadly. “I am Koshchey.”

Lance stepped forward. “I have heard of Koshchey the Undying.” He stood between Koshchey and the other Templars. The move was subtle but clear. Whatever Lance knew wasn’t all good.

Koshchey jutted out his chest proudly. “That is I. The Undying. The Afghans tried. The Chechens. So did the Bosnians. All tried and failed. This is Tsarevich Ivan Alexeivich Romanov.” He slapped Ivan on the back so hard he stumbled forward.

Ivan straightened his coat and gave a stiff nod. “At your service.” Gwaine turned his attention to Ivan. “And where is your father, Tsarevich Ivan?”

Ivan lifted his head, just enough for Billi to see the fury in his storm-gray eyes. “My father is dead.” With that he left abruptly to join one of the other Bogatyrs. Billi recognized him as the driver of Ivan’s Hummer. She’d been right: the older man had bodyguard written all over him. He spoke with Ivan quietly, his hands resting comfortably on the Heckler &Koch submachine gun strapped across his chest.

Tsar Alexei is dead. And now it seemed Koshchey was the new man in charge.

“What brings the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Jesus Christ and the Temple of Solomon to Moscow?” asked Koshchey, swiftly breaking the silence that had followed Ivan’s pronouncement.

One of the Bogatyrs opened up a small silver bottle and poured its oily contents over the ghul. Puddles of blue flame erupted wherever the oil touched. In seconds the small clearing filled with sharp, sickly-sweet-smelling smoke.

“We’re hunting the Polenitsy,” said Gwaine. “We could do with your help, Koshchey.”

Koshchey thrust out his hand, completely covering Gwaine’s in his massive palm. “You have it, Sir Gwaine.”

Well, that was easy. If Billi had been of a paranoid nature, she would have thought it was too easy.

Koshchey summoned one of his men. “You will be my guests. I will have Nikolai collect your belongings. Where did you say you were staying?”

“We didn’t,” replied Lance, a mite aggressively. Koshchey stopped.

“You’re a long way from home, Templars, and Moscow is not London,” he said. “It is a bad place to be without friends.” The big Russian, his hand still gripping Gwaine’s, frowned. “We know much of the Polenitsy; who would know more? We Bogatyrs have fought them for centuries. Come, friend Gwaine. Let us help you.” He winked. “The Cold War is over, da?”

“It makes sense,” Elaine whispered, barely moving her lips. “And we’re running out of time.” What did Lance know that made him so wary of Koshchey? Gwaine nodded, ignoring Lance’s glare. The Templars fell in together a few paces behind the Bogatyrs.

“Let’s just keep our mouths shut, and leave the talking to me,” said Gwaine. “And that means you, Lance.”

Lance peered at the back of the big Bogatyr. If looks could kill, then Koshchey would have been a corpse.

“What is it?” asked Billi. “What d’you know about him?”

“Ex-Spetsnaz colonel. Did some work for the KGB. Last thing I heard was that he’d joined the Russian mafia. Nothing about the Bogatyrs.” Lance’s voice sank into a whisper. “He is very dangerous.”

“Sounds like just the man we need,” replied Gwaine.

“Nothing about Vasilisa being an avatar, understand?” ordered Lance. Gwaine bristled-he didn’t like his