BABA YAGA STUMBLED BACK AND LIFTED HER HAND to her throat. Vasilisa fell to the ground, motionless.
The old crone coughed. It was a small weak noise, as if she were shaking a seed out of her gullet.
Her hand touched the arrow shaft jutting out just under her chin. She snapped it and tossed it to the ground, then sank to her knees. One by one the werewolves paused in battle.
The blood was flooding out of Baba Yaga’s neck, great gushes with every heartbeat, spraying over Vasilisa’s limp and exhausted body. The young girl blinked, awake.
Billi stumbled over the broken wall to try to reach her.
Vasilisa slowly rose and wiped the blood out of her eyes. Then she saw Baba Yaga.
“I am here, Babushka,” she said.
Baba Yaga hissed as she lowered her head; blood covered most of her chest. Vasilisa reached up and stroked the monster’s face, carefully drawing the broken arrow out.
Billi cautiously made her way toward them. She could hardly breathe after having been crushed under the collapsed roof, and her head swam with exhaustion and pain.
Blood formed soapy bubbles around the old crone’s mouth. Baba Yaga stretched out her fingers, and Vasilisa put her hand in the Dark Goddess’s.
“Vasilisa, get away from her!” Billi dropped her bow and began to run toward them.
“Child …” said Baba Yaga. She gazed at her huge palm. Then, through the crevasses of wrinkled skin, a thin green shoot unfurled itself. Baba Yaga gasped.
The green veins spread along Baba Yaga’s fingers and up her arm. Billi watched as a string of flowers sprouted across the witch’s fingertips. Vasilisa kept her small hand in Baba Yaga’s even as it began to transform, her skin thickening into deep wrinkled bark. Her arms turned into thick, long boughs, and her fingers burst with bright green leaves until her body was covered in lustrous foliage. Baba Yaga’s black eyes flowered with purple irises. Her iron teeth closed forever, and her blood turned to moss.
A wolf crept up to the bent oak tree. It sniffed around the trunk. It whined and molded its body from wolf back into human. Others gathered around, some as wolves, some in human form. Olga was nowhere to be seen.
“My God. It’s over,” whispered Billi. Baba Yaga was gone. Vasilisa stumbled toward her, and they hugged. Billi bent down and cupped Vasilisa’s bloody face. “We did it, Vasilisa. We-”
Koshchey strode toward them, surrounded by what remained of his army-ten or so men. The Bogatyrs had been decimated in the battle, it seemed. They stopped six or seven yards away, and Koshchey pointed his pistol at Billi.
“Give me the girl,” he said.
No, not after all this. He was too far away for her to attack, and at her first move he’d put a bullet in her head. But she didn’t care. “Forget it, Koshchey. You can kill me, but you won’t get a dozen feet before the werewolves rip you to pieces. If they don’t, the Templars certainly will.”
“You have cost me too much, Templar, for me to walk away empty-handed. I have lost half my men getting here. Give me the girl. What I get from the vampires for the Spring Child will barely cover expenses.”
“You will not have her.” Billi’s heart pounded in her chest, and hot blood began to course through her body, filling her muscles with fiery strength. The Beast Within sensed victory.
Koshchey gazed at her, then at the werewolves gathered around him. Nobody would come out of this a clear victor. The bloodbath wasn’t over yet.
Koshchey nodded. “You are right, Templar.” He raised his pistol. “But if I can’t have her, no one can.” A shot rang out, and Billi gasped. Vasilisa let go of Billi and put a hand to her chest. She looked quietly surprised. A red spot grew on her white smock. She tilted away and fell.
Koshchey fired once more, and Vasilisa twitched. Then stopped.
“She’s all yours,” he said.