authority questioned-but relented.
“Nothing about avatars.”
They plodded silently down the slope until they approached a line of cars. Ivan headed to his Hummer, doing his best to ignore them. He unholstered his pistol and put it on the dashboard. But just before he shut the door he looked back at Billi. He’d cleaned the worst of the blood off his face, but a single dark line smeared his cheek, underlining his startlingly pale eyes.
Beautiful and dangerous. Billi knew all about that sort of boy.
She needed to watch out for Ivan Alexeivich Romanov.
20
BILLI AND GWAINE RODE IN THE BACKSEAT OF the limousine with Koshchey, who sat opposite, silently watching her. Lance and Elaine were in the car behind.
She gazed out at Moscow as they sped along the wide lanes that ringed the city. Despite the cold, people were out. Wrapped in furs and fueled with vodka, they made their way across slush-swamped pavements to cafes, bars, and restaurants, which seem to glow with a magical, golden light. All around her shone bright skyscrapers, huge hotels, and vast apartment blocks, relics of the city’s Soviet past. Power cables crisscrossed the roads like the broken webs of giant spiders, and chunky trams rattled by on the old cobbled pathways that still ran through the city’s older districts.
“You have come a long way to hunt, Sir Gwaine,” said Koshchey. “While the Polenitsy are the enemy of the Bogatyrs, that doesn’t mean I’ll send my men to battle without a good reason.”
“The Polenitsy have taken someone from us. We wish to recover her,” replied Gwaine.
Koshchey smiled. “A Spring Child, is she? Who else would the werewolves be after?”
Gwaine’s eyelid twitched, then he nodded. “Yes. Her name is Vasilisa Bulgakov.” Despite Gwaine’s initial reaction, Billi could hear the caution in his answers. He wasn’t going to tell Koshchey any more than was absolutely necessary-certainly nothing about her being an avatar. Lance had put all of them on guard.
Koshchey nodded. “We cannot allow the werewolves to murder innocent children. I will put all my men on it.” He looked out the window. “If she is here, I will find her.”
“I thank you.”
“What’s Ivan’s story?” asked Billi. Not that she was interested in any way. But if they were going to work together, it would be useful to know a little more about him. That’s all.
Koshchey sighed. The leather of the seat creaked as he leaned into it. “It is sad. His father, the great Alexei, was killed by the Polenitsy six months ago. So you see, your enemies are ours.”
“Did you find the ones that did it?”
“Alas, no. We suspect it was their leader, Olga Khanova. She is a dangerous one.”
Olga. The dates matched up. They must have come to Britain via Moscow. Did that mean they’d returned by the same route? Could they be here right now?
“We are in a rush to find our kidnapped friend,” added Gwaine. “The Polenitsy will sacrifice her on the full moon, three days from tonight.”
“I will put all my men on it,” repeated Koshchey.
They crossed a bridge and came to an immense structure that dominated a whole block on the river. The building comprised three towers, the highest one bearing a shining red star on its spire. No light shone from any of the windows, and as they approached, Billi saw that the entire block was protected by a tall wire-mesh fence. For a building so extravagant, it bore an ominous ambience.
“Stalin’s Ministry,” said Gwaine. “I thought it had been sold off during the collapse of Communism.”
“To me,” said Koshchey. “You will treat it as your own home during your stay here. You will want for nothing.”
The gates opened up and the cavalcade of cars rolled down a ramp into the parking garage. Only small patches of the underground chamber were lit, but the distant reflections of light on metal gave Billi a sense of its size. It had to be as big as a football field.
Koshchey owned all of this?
While the Bogatyrs got busy unloading their luggage, Koshchey directed the Templars toward the row of elevators. “Ivan.” He summoned the young man over. “Escort Billi to her room. I have business to discuss with the seneschal.”
Billi stepped between them. “We don’t have any time to waste. I think we-”
“Enough, squire,” snapped Gwaine. He glowered at her, and for a second Billi was tempted to ignore him. The full moon was only days away. But slowly she shut her mouth. Ivan, close by, cleared his throat.
“Which one?” he asked.
“The Morevna suite.”
“Shall we?” Ivan gave a mock bow and led her to a polished bronze door. An elevator. The door slid open and they entered.
The lift car was paneled with dark wood and inlaid with an abstract pattern of mother-of-pearl that glimmered in the hazy lamplight. Ivan pulled a small key from his pocket and inserted it into a brightly polished plaque in the wall.
As the elevator ascended, Billi took a long look at Ivan. He had typically Slavic features: pale skin, wide, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes of storm-cloud gray. Ivan sensed her studying him, and his hand rose to awkwardly cover his face as he drew his fingers through his bristling brown hair.
“The thirteenth floor?” asked Billi. “Isn’t that unlucky?”
“Only for a Templar.” The elevator settled gently to a halt, and the door opened into darkness. The light from the elevator illuminated just the first few feet of an emerald-veined marble floor. Then, one by one, like night constellations, enormous chandeliers came to life, their light caught and amplified a thousand fold through a sparkling cosmos of brilliant crystal.
Tall columns like flutes rose to support the huge, multivaulted ceiling, and Billi peered at the sky-filled mosaics of gods, heroes, and demons. Warriors clad in gold battled monstrous bears and wolves. Castles floated among the clouds, and wolves flew from the towers. In a vast battlefield stood a shining warrior woman, sword aloft and long blond hair swirling. She wore a deep-red coat, its sleeves and front embroidered with golden designs of flaming phoenixes.
“Maria Morevna,” said Ivan. “A great princess. A Bogatyr.”
“Who made all this?” It was unreal.
“The Soviets.”
“No expense spared, eh?”
Ivan marched onward. “Follow me.”
Ahead was a double door decorated with gilt filigree. Ivan pushed it open.
The bedroom was dominated by a canopied bed, the wood as pale as pearl. Sheer white curtains hung from the bed’s frame, while thick red drapes half covered gilt-framed mirrors on the walls. They reflected the room infinitely upon itself; it was difficult to see where the room ended and the illusion began. Through a curtain Billi saw a freestanding marble bath on curling, clawed legs, with steam rising from the water.
“How do you like my home?” asked Ivan.
“Yours? Koshchey said it was his.”
Ivan’s eyes flashed angrily. He was a strange mix of coolness and anger. The two emotions played out just under the surface. He acted the aristocrat, in control and in command. But underneath was a young man who’d just lost his father. And from the way he’d spoken to Koshchey, all was not well on that front either.
Ivan peered around the vast suite. “Bought with Romanov money. Koshchey is…safeguarding it for me until I’m old enough to inherit, when I’m eighteen.” He smiled ruefully. “I need to make sure I stay healthy for two more years.”
“Then just avoid fighting
