She glanced at the satellite phone; her dad had left a message. No doubt eager for the good news.
How many dead? Three Bogatyrs and nine Polenitsy. A couple of the werewolves had escaped in the confusion, but there had been no other children. It was clear that Vasilisa hadn’t been there. The photo that Billi had convinced herself was Vasilisa had been the werewolf child. Some news.
Maybe Elaine had found something in the library. But if she came up blank, Billi had no idea how they could find Vasilisa before it was too late. It was Thursday lunchtime already, and the full moon was coming up on Saturday.
She grabbed the phone and took the elevator down to report in to her dad outside-you never knew who was listening here.
The elevators halted on one of the other floors. The doors opened and Koshchey stood waiting.
His massive frame blocked the elevator doors, and he was so tall he’d have to lower his head to get in. His suit rustled softly as he brushed it and adjusted his cuffs. Billi caught the crimson sparkle of rubies in the cuff links. The guy was vain and flashy. It was as though he’d modeled himself on Ivan: debonair outfits and cool looks. But Ivan carried himself with a seamless, casual elegance. Koshchey was a million miles away from that. Billi wasn’t sure what would suit Koshchey except a butcher’s apron.
“Are you well, Lady SanGreal?”
“I’m fine.”
He stepped into the elevator, and Billi could have sworn it dropped a few inches under his weight.
“I am sorry about today. Very unpleasant. But do not worry, we will find your friend.” He straightened the fat knot of his tie, checking himself, admiring himself, in the mirrored paneling. “We moved too quickly, without confirming our intelligence. Such operations carry a large risk of…”
“Failure?”
“Disappointment. We will find her.” He spoke with hard certainty. “You will have my best men to help you.”
“And Ivan? Will he help?”
“Alas, no. I cannot permit it. He is best here, where I can protect him.”
Where you can keep an eye on him, you mean.
Koshchey made a broad sweep with his hand. “Come with me. I have a gift.”
“Really, it’s not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is.” He reached out and pressed a button on the elevator’s control panel.
The elevator took them up and up. Billi shifted as far away from Koshchey as she could, but the elevator was small and Koshchey was huge. As they passed each floor, a bell chimed and illuminated the floor numbers above the door.
The elevator stopped at the thirtieth floor and the doors slid open.
“My suite,” said Koshchey.
“Which used to be Ivan’s father’s, right?”
“And now it is mine. You like Ivan, do you not?” He raised an eyebrow, interested in Billi’s response. “All the young women do. He has charm, that boy.”
“And guts.”
“Yes, yes. The Romanovs never lacked for courage.” Koshchey shook his massive head. “But the boy is an idealist. He does not understand that there are no rules in war.” He smiled as if he were sharing a secret joke with Billi. “Unlike you, SanGreal. I think you understand that all too well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is there anything you wouldn’t do to get the job done?” He drew his red beard into a neat point as he talked.
Billi couldn’t answer. She couldn’t say, “But I don’t go around killing innocent children,” because she might have to do exactly that before the week was through. Billi lowered her head in shame.
“I thought as much,” said Koshchey. “If Ivan was more like you, I would gladly hand the Bogatyrs over to him.” He stepped out of the elevator and strode across into a large entryway, tall windows along one wall, the morning sunlight sweeping across the lofty space. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”
Mist hung over the city of Moscow. Only the tallest towers pierced the white veil, so they looked like the palaces of angels floating on clouds. Billi followed Koshchey along the row of windows toward a pair of doors, each bearing the imperial double-headed eagle in dark bronze.
The doors opened into a long living room, grander and more opulent than Billi’s. Thick black marble columns rose up sixty feet to support a domed roof that was covered in mosaic art. A trio of valiant knights on horseback fought in a circle of wolves, their swords deep red with blood and their bodies slashed and torn by claws. The battle was in a snowbound forest, and within the darker recesses a figure stood, half emerging froma cave. All Billi could see were the shining black eyes and matted gray hair. Long bony fingers clutched a tall staff decorated with bones.
“Baba Yaga,” Billi said.
“Very good. The greatest foe of the Bogatyrs.” Koshchey gazed up at the ceiling. “The Bogatyrs were the first to face Baba Yaga. Many times the old knights came close to defeating her, but she would always retreat into the deepest woods and darkest caves. Places even the bravest knight would not dare to venture. And there she lurks, even now. But she is old and weak, I think, and we have heard nothing from her in a hundred years.”
“The knights almost defeated her? How?”
“The men of the past were great and blessed heroes, capable of extraordinary things. Such men do not exist anymore.”
Billi walked along the exhibits, inspecting the golden cups, bejeweled icons, crowns, and other ancient treasures arranged on plinths or pedestals. Then one made her stop.
A heavy gilt frame was suspended from the ceiling by two golden chains. Within it was a flattened shirt with the arms spread out and embroidered with flowers. The white cotton was splattered with blood. Punctures covered the chest, and crimson stained the sleeves and collar.
Somebody had wanted the wearer very dead.
“The shirt of the
“The what?”
“It means Holy Fool. A mystic, a shaman.” He looked up at the bloodstained garment. “Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin was all these things.” Koshchey pointed to the shadowy image of the old crone in the cave. “Did you know, as a young man he was taken by the Polenitsy, as food for their goddess?”
So Rasputin had been a Spring Child. That didn’t surprise her. It was common knowledge that he could read minds and had cured the tsar’s son of hemophilia by the laying on of hands. What surprised Billi was that he’d met Baba Yaga and lived.
“He got away? How?” If Rasputin had escaped Baba Yaga, maybe there was a chance to save Vasilisa. Maybe the ancient witch wasn’t as powerful as they’d feared.
“Baba Yaga was injured, very badly, for the first time in thousands of years. Rasputin got away in the confusion. He trekked all the way to Moscow and offered his services to the tsar. In exchange the tsar ordered the Bogatyrs to keep him safe.” Koshchey laughed. “At least from Baba Yaga.”
“Was Rasputin the one who hurt Baba Yaga?” Billi struggled to keep the desperation from her voice. They had so little time!
“No. Rasputin was not that powerful. All he knew was something had happened to the planet, to the land, and that Baba Yaga had suffered as a consequence.”
“Sympathetic magic. Baba Yaga’s psychic connection to the Earth.”
“Yes,” Koshchey said. “But the knowledge of Baba Yaga’s weakness is buried with him.”
So close, so close! She wanted to scream. If only she knew just a little bit more, but hope was fading fast. Three more days until Fimbulwinter. Billi looked at the blood-soaked shirt, and her blood chilled. The tears in the cloth, the stains. All she knew was how to fight. If you fought, there was always a chance, no matter how small the odds, that you might win. Hope lived in the fight. But this was different. You couldn’t fight Baba Yaga. Billi felt a sickening void swelling in her stomach, a great hole of despair. Without Vasilisa, without a clue of how to defeat Baba Yaga, they were all going to die.
For the first time ever, Billi stared at true and final defeat. The Templars had faced countless enemies in
