WHAT A BLOODY DISASTER!
Billi hurled her body armor across her bedroom. It crashed into an elegant antique chair, sending both across the floor. Then she slumped down onto her bed.
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 yurodivyi, Rasputin.”
“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 battle. They’d never been defeated, only killed. The Order had survived and the Bataille Ténébreuse continued. But not after this. The battle would be over for everyone.
“Lady SanGreal?”
Billi shook her head, freeing herself from the black feelings of hopelessness. Three days. A lot could happen in three days.
Just give me one shot. That’s all I ask for.
“Come, I have something to show you.” Koshchey led Billi away from the shirt and brought her to a corner of the hall.
“For you,” he said.
Amannequin wearing a long red coat stood in the shadows. Golden embroidery ran along its sleeves; flaming wings and emerald peacock eyes stared out, mysterious and alien. Billi brushed her fingertips along the material, and it rippled like feathers. The collar was high and stiff and lined with gold thread. It was something from another age. “Beautiful, is it not?” He carefully unfastened the silk-covered buttons.
Billi couldn’t take her eyes off it-the way its color seemed to change as Koshchey unwrapped it from the mannequin and slung it over his arm. The golden wings stretched out gracefully and the unblinking green eyes turned to watch her. A warm breath passed across her, carrying a subtle perfume; it was as if the coat were alive. The scent seeped down into her lungs and made her tingle.
He handed the coat to her. “Try it.”
Billi hesitated. She’d only just changed out of her fighting clothes, but her usual outfits weren’t much different: tough leather boots, combat trousers with lots of pouches, and a black T-shirt. The cuffs on her hoodie were frayed, and the only jewelery she wore was a small silver crucifix. The coat was too beautiful for her. And could she accept a gift like this from him?
“What do you want for it?”
“You are my guest. It is a gift.”
Billi couldn’t remember when she’d had a new outfit that wasn’t from the army surplus store. God, did she even have a dress at home? The cloth was soft as velvet. She pressed a sleeve against her cheek and inhaled the delicate scent, a smell of dreams.
It fit like a glove. Buttons open, Billi stepped into the light.
“More beautiful than a tsarina,” said Koshchey. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned Billi to face a mirror. “Look.”
It wasn’t her. It wasn’t the Billi she knew, or thought she knew. She barely recognized herself. The coat looked darker in the glass, bloody. The collar forced her to raise her head, to hold up her chin. It was an imperial look.
Billi could imagine what sort of person would wear such a coat. Someone who knew she was important, more special than others. Wear the bloodred coat too long and she might start believing in its promise.
“It suits you.” Koshchey leaned into the reflection, pleased at what he saw. “It suits you indeed.”
Billi called in, and Arthur had real news: there had been massive wolf migrations in the north. Dozens of packs were making their way through the deep forests of Karelia, toward the Girvas volcano. Arthur believed that’s where they’d find Vasilisa. He had also found Vasilisa’s granny and was on his way to talk with her.
Billi had passed the information on to Gwaine immediately, and he’d spoken to Koshchey. They were flying north first thing tomorrow, with extra men and weapons, courtesy of Koshchey. The Bogatyrs might be cruel, but the Templars needed them.
At last the hope she’d been looking for. Billi had her gear packed and ready by her suite door. The red coat lay across the bed, and she inspected her weapons, deciding to pack the Glock alongside her blades.
She checked and rechecked the array of weapons, hardly able to contain her excitement, picking up one of the knives to give it an extra polish. Moscow had been a dead end, but now they had a lead, a real one.
“Billi?” Ivan knocked on the door.
He looked pretty rough, his white shirt hanging out of his trousers and held closed by one button. He swayed slightly and held aloft a small bottle. She’d only ever seen him dressed to the nines, but Ivan would probably look good even when lying in the gutter.
“Why aren’t you celebrating?” he slurred. “Our great victory over the werewolves.”
“Didn’t think that was worth celebrating.” She stepped back as he swayed in. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m Russian.” He stopped as he saw the backpack. “You’re leaving? Already?” He nodded slowly. His hands dropped and he sank into an armchair. “So it’s true. The wolves are at Girvas.”
“I’ve no more business in Moscow.” Billi put down the knife she’d been cleaning. “But thank you. For helping me when you didn’t have to.” Billi knew Ivan had risked a lot-including his loyalties as a Bogatyr. Let alone overcoming a personal vendetta in order to help the young Polenitsy child escape. Her heart beat faster as she looked at him sitting there. She needed to remind herself why she was here in the first place.
Ivan’s frown slowly mellowed into a smile. He put the bottle on the floor and stood up. He offered his hand.
“Let me show you Moscow before you leave.”
“I really don’t have time. There’s still a lot to do before tomorrow morning.”
“Please. We won’t be long.” Ivan’s hand hadn’t moved. Maybe he wasn’t arrogant, but he was certainly stubborn.
“Ivan Alexeivich Romanov!” Billi exclaimed, frustrated. He straightened some more, head up and proud. Deep shadows formed under the clifflike high cheekbones, and those gray eyes lost their weary drunkenness as she spoke his name.
It was already six, and this was her last night here. She had no idea what lay ahead except hard fighting and doomsday. She could spend it pondering and worrying about things she couldn’t control, just waiting for tomorrow. Or she could spend it with Ivan. There he stood, his wide chest heaving under the half-open shirt as he took a deep breath to steady himself. Despite the vodka flowing through his veins, his hand was steady.
Billi took it.
Dimitri drove them into the heart of the city. Unlike London with its labyrinth of narrow streets and buildings all cramped together, Moscow was wide and broad. The boulevards gave Billi endless panoramas, especially along the river. Ice shone on the roads, and a fresh cloud of snow was beginning to descend.
The tires rumbled on the cobbles of Red Square. Ahead stood the multicolored onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. The composite building was actually interconnected churches, each with its own individual spire and dome. Veiled in snow, the cathedral looked as though it had been snatched from a fairy tale. Moscow had an ethereal magic when it was cloaked in winter. To one side stood GUM, the gigantic department store, its walls and windows outlined by thousands of golden bulbs. Opposite that were the immense, dark-red walls of the Kremlin fortress.
“Once, this was all ours,” said Ivan. His eyes shone with the reflection of the lights and dazzling colors. “My ancestors were crowned there.” He pointed to a series of golden roofs behind the red fortress walls. “Archangel Cathedral. Saint Michael was said to be the protector of our family.” He leaned back in his seat. “I heard a strange story about him recently.”
Billi kept her attention on the scenery, but her voice went soft and quiet. “Oh? What story?”
“Do you believe in God? In His archangels?”
“You’re asking a Templar that?”
“The Patriarch of Moscow is a close personal friend of the Romanovs,” said Ivan, referring to the head of the Russian Orthodox Church. “He told me that Michael had fallen; it came to him in a dream. That he had been cast down.”
Billi didn’t move, but sweat trickled down her back. Did he know? That she had cast the archangel down?
“I wonder what the other archangels must think, knowing that their brother has been sent to Hell.”
Billi could feel how close he was to her.
“What do you think, Billi?”
“I think you should be careful what you read into the dreams of an old man.”
Ivan laughed. Billi liked the sound of his laugh. His guard was down and the imperious barrier he usually put up had fallen away.
“You area difficult person to understand,” he said. “You have many secrets, I think.”
“No more than most.”
Ivan watched her thoughtfully. “Perhaps that is true: we all have things we are frightened of telling others.”
They drove along Kremlevskaya Naberezhnaya, the broad road that ran beside the riverbank. Billi watched the broken platforms of ice drift slowly down the Moscow River.
They were rolling along beside a park when Billi caught a flash of fire from beyond the trees.
“What’s that?” There were more flames. Streaks of light wove and spun in the darkness.
“Dimitri, stop,” said Ivan.
The car pulled up by the curb, and Ivan jumped out and opened Billi’s door. “Bolotnaya Square.” He held out Billi’s new coat for her to put on.
“You’re quite the gentleman, Ivan.” Billi laughed.
“We do things differently in Russia.” His hands lightly brushed her shoulders as he placed it around her. Then he turned her so that they were face-to-face.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked, straightening her collar, his fingers resting on the top button, next to her neck.
Billi flushed. Despite the snowflakes, she was suddenly more than warm enough.
Ivan took a step back and collected his own coat from Dimitri. Then he offered Billi his arm.
“Shall we?”
They moved down the path toward the flames. Music beat across the night sky, a cacophony of clashing beats and drums and guitars, and slowly Billi started to make out groups of people collected like tribes around the open center of the park.
Fire dancers spun fireballs attached to long chains around their bodies in a seamless path of golden light. There were dozens of them: some competing, others showing off or egging one another on. Large steel bins had been placed around the park, each a fire pit that one of the tribes was gathered around.
Despite the subzero temperatures, some of the men were bare-chested, and the orbiting fireballs threw ever-changing patterns of light and shadow over the contours of their bodies.
“Koshchey doesn’t like me coming here,” said Ivan. “He says I shouldn’t mix with ‘peasants.’”
“Is that what you think?” She’d never met a bona fide member of a royal family before. Her own ancestors were thoroughly anti-monarchy. The SanGreals had taken part in the French Revolution. The closest they’d come to royalty was when they’d operated the guillotine.
“Nobility isn’t about coats of arms or titles.” He nodded in the direction of more dancers. “I’ll never be free, like them. Every moment of my life has been dedicated to one purpose. To lead the Bogatyrs. To protect those under me. And as a Romanov, that means Russia.” He sighed. “That’s why I like it here. Just for a short while I can forget what it is to be Ivan Alexeivich Romanov.”
Billi touched his hand. Ivan took it all so seriously. When she’d met him she’d thought he was just about fancy clothes and posh living, but he was more than that. She knew how he felt. Didn’t she feel the same about being a Templar? They were both dedicated to their lives of duty, and nothing else.
“For what it’s worth,” said Billi, “I think you’ll do a great job.”
“If Koshchey lets me.” Ivan gripped her hand. “I’m not so naive as to think he’ll just hand it all over when I turn eighteen. He’s just waiting for me to slip up.”
“Look, if you’re going to get in trouble for being here, we can go.”
“I’m in enough trouble already.” He waved at one of the dancers. The girl smiled as she whirled a pair of burning chains around her body, wrapping herself in an incandescent pattern.
“For helping me?” Billi should have known that there were always going to be consequences for Ivan. “I’m sorry.”
Ivan frowned. “Don’t apologize. You stepped up to protect that girl. It’s what I should have done.”
“You defied the Bogatyrs.” She thought about that talk she’d had in the elevator, about how Ivan was an idealist. “You defied Koshchey.”
“Only because I followed you.” Ivan raised his hand to her cheek. “You have that effect on people. Haven’t you noticed?”
Billi laughed, trying to cover how unsettled she felt from the heat of his touch on her face. But she didn’t move. “Don’t follow me. I have a bad effect on people.”
“Do you know what it is to be a noble?” he said, more to himself than to her. He peered into the fire, the orange glow of the flames casting him in gold. “It is to have an ideal and to strive toward it. No matter what the cost. To believe in something more important than yourself.”
“I had a friend who thought the same.” A coarse, thick lump, a stifled sob, rose to Billi’s throat as she recalled Kay. Ivan was so like him, but so different. Tears rose, and she tried to stop them. What would Kay think, her being with Ivan? Ivan, the prince, the nobleman. Kay had been a noble man too.
Ivan moved his gaze away from the flames and looked at her. “What happened to him?” He moved his hand from her cheek, cupping her chin, and gently lifted her face.
Billi blinked, but the tears still fell. “He died.”
“I hope his killer suffered.”
“Yes.” Billi held it in by biting her lips. She had done what she’d had to do, but she’d regretted it ever since. Eyes closed, she tried to hold back the misery she’d fought down for the last three months. Kay’s death by her hand. “I suffer every day.”
“I am sorry,” said Ivan. He leaned closer, until she could hear him whisper. “Chekhov said to begin to live in the present, we must atone for our past. But we can only atone by suffering extraordinarily.” He drew her nearer, and as he spoke, Billi’s eyes were drawn to his lips. “But then the suffering has to end.”
Billi could hardly breathe as the distance between them slowly closed. She didn’t want to betray the memory of Kay; she never thought she’d meet anyone as good as him. But Ivan was good; he was like her-trapped in duty and responsibilities beyond his years-yet he still cared.
She paused-just for a second. Ivan waited, sensing her uncertainty. But Billi realized she didn’t want to move away. She leaned forward, grazing his mouth with hers ever so lightly. She felt dizzy with the sensation. With his arm around her, supporting her, Ivan kissed her, and for that moment Billi forgot everything else.
Now was the time to look to the living-to Ivan.
Billi held Ivan’s hand as they walked back to the car, silent. There wasn’t anything to say now. They knew how they felt-but she was leaving tomorrow. Billi felt the calluses along his fingers, which, like hers, he’d gained through years of sword practice. One indent on the forefinger she didn’t have: trigger time. He’d spent as long on the firing range as he had on the dueling deck.
His grip was firm and secure, warm and soft.
Then his fingers tightened.
A woman stepped out from the cover of the trees. The flames swayed in the large steel drum in front of her. She wore a paisley scarf over her hair. Billi recognized her. She was the Polenitsy woman they’d helped escape out of the apartment block earlier that day.
Three other women stalked the darkness on the edge of the firelight, moving like the wolves they truly were.
Billi shot a look at the car and saw Dimitri lying on the ground, a heavily bearded man leaning on his back, knife to his throat. Her hand dropped to her hip, feeling the edge of her kukri strapped to her belt.
“We come under a flag of truce,” said the woman with the scarf. She kept her distance and held her hands open.
“What do you want?” asked Ivan, backing away from the four approaching women, keeping Billi behind him.
“To thank you for allowing us to escape.” She looked up at Billi, eyes narrowed. “And to deliver a message from our pack leader, Olga.”
Old Gray. The fact that they hadn’t been torn to pieces already boded well. Billi moved to Ivan’s side. His fist trembled as he struggled to control his rage. He flipped back the corner of his coat, and a moment later his pistol was in his hand.
“Olga killed my father.” He whispered it, his grip tightening on the pistol.
“He died well, young Romanov. She honored him with single combat, after Koshchey had abandoned him.”
“You are wrong,” hissed Ivan. “He was trapped, betrayed. I was told so.”
The woman shrugged. “He was, as you say, betrayed, but not by the Polenitsy.”
“What do you mean?”
The paisley woman glanced down at Ivan’s gun, then spoke. “People have been disappearing, Tsarevich. Your father knew. We had information regarding who was behind these disappearances. We had agreed to meet. He would allow us to live in the cities, provided we did not hunt humans, and we would tell him who was responsible for the missing people. I’m sure it will come as no shock to you to know who this man is.”
“Koshchey,” Ivan croaked.
Paisley nodded. “Your father trusted him. That was a mistake. He told Koshchey of the meeting, and Koshchey followed secretly. We discovered this and thought your father had planned a double-cross, so he was killed. Just what Koshchey wanted.” She shrugged. “Only too late did we discover we had been used. We regret your father’s death. He was a noble man.”
Ivan stared dumbly at them. But it all made sense. He closed his eyes, and Billi watched the rage build in him. He pressed his fists against his head, teeth clenched together as he held in the anger, letting it swell.
“Nyet, nyet, nyet,” he repeated. Billi touched his hand, and a cracked sob came from deep in his chest.
“Who knew?” asked Ivan.
“Many of the Bogatyrs. We have watched how Koshchey has built his army of loyal followers. Once he controlled your father’s wealth, he bought all the men he needed. Many have become rich with your father’s demise.”
“What is the message you’ve brought?” Billi snapped.
“Go home, Templar. The Spring Child is where she should be. Olga warns you to come no farther: she would be honor-bound to fight you, and that is something she does not wish.”
“And what of Fimbulwinter?” Billi asked. “Wolves freeze as well as men.”
“Fimbulwinter?” repeated Ivan, looking at her, confused. She’d kept this from him, and now Billi realized she’d made a mistake; she should have trusted him. She had a lot of explaining to do.
The woman scowled. “That is a lie. The goddess has promised usa great spring. She would not betray the wolves, who have served her loyally since the earliest times.”
“It is not like the gods to care for mortals,” said Billi. She’d seen enough horror from Michael, and knew that lesser beings were always sacrificed to the ambitions of the divine. “Fimbulwinter is coming, and Baba Yaga won’t care if the packs starve. The Spring Child learned this directly from your goddess.”
“She is mistaken, and afraid. Her death will be a glorious sacrifice-far better than what Koshchey has planned for her.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ivan. “If what you say is true, why is Koshchey even helping the Knights Templar find the Spring Child? Saving her serves no purpose. There is no profit in it for him.”
“You are wrong. There is profit.” The woman turned away. “We can show you what he has planned for the Spring Child.”