Dark Goddess

Home.

She sat up and leaned over the passenger seat. It was still early, and the sun wouldn’t be up for a few hours yet. The van’s engine echoed within the narrow confines of the alleyways that dropped south of Fleet Street and into Temple District. Bors was slumped in the passenger seat, his twin swords beside him. Billi knocked them onto the floor with a clatter as she climbed up front.

“Oi, watch it,” muttered Bors as he rubbed the sleep out of his face. Blinking blearily, he searched the dashboard until his hand found a sausage roll, which he shoved into his mouth. He caught Billi’s stare. “Sorry,” he said, spitting flakes over his lap. “Did you want some?”

“God Almighty, d’you have a trough at home or what?”

They entered the main Temple parking lot and found Father Rowland waiting for them with Mordred, the new squire. The chaplain’s thin frame was lost in a huge black overcoat, his bald head and the tips of his frozen ears the only things visible above his scarf.

Bors jumped out the moment the van halted. He handed his swords over to Mordred. “Polish these.” He licked the last few crumbs off his fingers. “And before breakfast, mind.”

The two couldn’t be more different. Mordred, an Ethiopian refugee the Order had literally picked up off the streets, was tall and elegant, with jet-black skin and deep thoughtful eyes. Bors, bigger in girth if not height, was a cannonball of muscle. His neck was nonexistent, his jaw comprised of a patch of ginger bristles, and his eyes were piggy and close together. But he was a knight, and Mordred was a squire.

“Want him to run your bath while he’s at it?” said Billi as Mordred left.

Bors laughed.

Father Rowland helped Elaine out and peered in behind her.

“Where’s Pelleas?”

Elaine looked at Billi. “You want to tell him?”

No, not really. But Elaine had already wandered off.

“Dead, Father.”

“Oh.” Rowland touched his crucifix. “What happened?”

Billi reminded herself that this was all new for Rowland. The previous Temple chaplain had just been buried when Rowland had arrived, fresh-faced and eager, all peachy keen from the seminary. He had thought he’d be running choirs and carrying out christenings. Billi had turned up at the chaplain’s house with Arthur and a few of the others. An unofficial welcoming committee. All in all he’d taken it well. Rowland was to manage the day-to-day affairs of the Temple Church except when the Templars themselves required it. He was responsible for disposing of the bodies and managing their library: the remnants of the original library of occult lore the Templars had salvaged from the Inquisition.

Only later did Billi notice the empty wine bottles piling up in the recycling box outside his door. He looked like he could do with a drink right now.

“Werewolves,” Billi said.

Arthur’s Jaguar rolled up. Lance lifted the sleeping Vasilisa from the backseat while Arthur and Gwaine joined Billi and Rowland. Over his shoulder Arthur carried his chain-mail shirt, rolled up and held in a bundle by an old leather belt. In his right hand he carried the Templar Sword.

Arthur turned to Gwaine. “I want a conclave sorted. We need to review what happened tonight.” He inspected his watch. “Couple of hours’ rest, then we’ll talk at six thirty.” Gwaine nodded and left to make arrangements.

Rowland put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, like a good priest should. “I’ve just heard about Pelleas, Arthur.” He frowned with concern. “Is there anything you need?”

“Shovels,” said Arthur. He pointed toward his car. “Pelleas is in the trunk.”

“You’re…you’re joking, of course,” said Rowland.

Arthur did not have his joking face on. He turned to Billi. “Go with Lance. Put Vasilisa in the spare bedroom.”

“She’s staying with us?” Billi asked. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders. The girl had just seen her parents slaughtered, and they were leaving Billi to pick up the pieces. She didn’t want to be dealing with a hysterical kid first thing in the morning. “It’s not my job to babysit. Give her to Rowland.”

“Your job is to do what I tell you.” Arthur settled the weight of his armor better. “Now, Billi.”

Billi headed toward home on Middle Temple Lane, followed by Lance, who carried the sleeping girl in his arms.

The smell of fresh paint still lingered as she entered their house. Billi inspected the limp fern beside the door. Their attempt to bring some life into their home was failing miserably. None of the paintings were back up yet, except one. Jacques de Molay, the last Templar Grand Master, gazed down at them as they came in.

“Top of the stairs, Lance. I’ll bring some blankets.”

Lance nodded and eased Vasilisa through the doorway and up the steps.

Billi stopped in front of the portrait. As a kid she’d always felt a little scared passing under it.

Now?

These days she didn’t feel anything.

A short nap and Billi was up by six. She dressed, checked that the poultice was still in place and she hadn’t grown a fur pelt overnight. So far-not hairy. If she was infected, the pain of transformation would come with the moonlight, growing stronger as the moon waxed.

She struggled to put her shirt on. Her muscles complained loudly about the treatment they’d received last night. The fragrance of warm bread was rising out of the kitchen as she opened her bedroom door.

“Bonjour, Bilqis,” said Lance as Billi wandered into the kitchen. Lance slid open the oven and drew out a tray of golden croissants. He emptied them onto a china dish with a shake. “Breakfast?”

Of course. Guard duty. Arthur must have arranged a rotation of knights to protect Vasilisa. The werewolves weren’t going to give up their prey that easily. Sooner or later they’d come around here, trying to sniff her out.

Billi sat at the table while Lance stirred up a cup of hot chocolate. She could only remember being made breakfast once before.

Kay had dished up her usual: muesli and a dollop of honey. Exactly two months and nineteen days ago.

Lance knew his way around a kitchen. The Frenchman had been a patisserie chef in Marseilles. He’d also been a smuggler before getting involved with the Templars. Billi didn’t know the full story, but that’s how he’d lost his eye.

Billi rocked back on her chair and looked around. Her wakizashi was leaning against the table. She picked it up and checked the blade: clean and perfect.

“I thought you might like that back,” said Lance. “I found it in the farmhouse.”

“Thanks. I’m seeing Percy after school. Wasn’t looking forward to telling him I’d lost his favorite sword.” She put it down on the table. “What else did you find?”

“Little of use.”

Billi glanced at yesterday’s newspaper, which her dad had spread out to soak up the oil he used for weapons cleaning. The usual blah-blah. Political scandals. More trouble in the Middle East. Football reports and who was wearing what at some charity do last night. Her gaze rested on the image of a smoldering volcano. Out in Italy, Vesuvius was rumbling, as it had been on and off for a month. Half of Naples had been evacuated; half couldn’t make up its mind.

She was doing Vesuvius as part of her Latin course. It was the one subject she excelled in. There were plans for a school trip in the summer to look at the ruins of Pompeii, the Roman city that had been wiped out by the last big eruption, back in a.d. 79. It would be cool to go, and Billi knew if she asked her dad he’d say yes.

Billi scrunched the paper up. No, she had her Templar duties. Only they mattered.

A plate clattered in front of her. The croissant had been gently torn open, and butter lay, molten and puddled, within it.

“Voila.” Lance leaned against the table, waiting. “Eat, please.”

Billi took a bite and the croissant nearly dissolved in her mouth.

“Wow,” she whispered.

He shrugged like it was nothing; excellence came easily to him. Then he started to set up another meal on a