Sarwat Chadda - Dark Goddess

Nah. It couldn’t be.

“I’ve booked us into a small hotel in Arbat. It’s central and discreet,” Lance said. “Vaslav will meet us there with our shopping and some information.”

“Did he get everything?” Billi asked.

“ Oui . Short-sword, kukri, punch dagger, and those heavy steel shuriken you requested.” Lance paused. “And the knuckle-dusters, of course.” He focused his good eye on Elaine. “And for you, Madame Elaine? Is there anything you would like?”

Elaine shook her head awkwardly.

“ C’est bien .” He stroked his mustache. “It is Wednesday today. If all goes well, we should make contact with the Bogatyrs later in the afternoon.”

Leaving them just three days to find Vasilisa. It seemed impossible.

Lance returned to his seat, and Elaine watched him go.

“That is so disgusting,” Billi said. “You’re old enough to be his granny.”

Elaine jumped, caught out. “Oi, none of your lip.” She pressed the call button again. “Where is that bloody steward? I’m dying of thirst back here.”

The seat belt sign came on, and they descended into Moscow.

Billi’s experiences abroad were pretty limited-the odd trip to France and one rain-sodden week in Spain-but Domodedovo Airport was just like any other. Huge, glazed facade, modern and plastic with high ceilings and the usual shops. The signs were in Russian and English, and so were the announcements.

Beyond the tinted green glass walls of the airport, the landscape was obliterated by white. A hazy road crowded with traffic led arrow-straight from the doorways to the horizon. A dense wood of conifers lined it.

They bundled outside, and instantly the elements attacked. The cold snatched Billi’s breath, and her eyes watered as the snow-laden air slapped her face. She’d never experienced anything like it. Despite the gloves, scarf, greatcoat, and hat, the blistering wind found and attacked every inch of exposed skin. Snowflakes froze on her eyelashes, and Billi covered her mouth and breathed though her scarf, just to stop her lips from chafing.

Jesus, how can they live in this weather? An icy gust stung the back of her neck, and she shivered from top to toe.

Big blockbusting four-by-fours that looked more like tanks than cars were parked alongside brittle, ancient Trebants and Ladas built back in the days of the Cold War. They bore their winter tires, the rubber lined with metal studs that sounded like falling pebbles as they rolled over the grit-sprinkled tarmac. Weather like this would have frozen London solid. But the Russians took the foot-deep snowfall and minus-ten temperatures in fur-wrapped stride.

Russia would manage the volcanic winter better than others, at least to begin with. The country had vast supplies of gas, coal, and oil. Could it make its way through Fimbulwinter? Unlikely. You can’t eat coal.

Lance pointed at a minivan, and the man inside beckoned to them. The interior was cloudy with cigarette smoke.

“Let’sgeta moveon,” said Gwaineashe threwhis backpack in. The others followed, and Billi bagged a window seat.

Huge billboards lined the motorway, hiding many of the estates they passed en route to Moscow. The companies were all big brands Billi recognized-Microsoft, BMW-but the lettering was Cyrillic, a subtle reminder that things were different out here in Russia. The snow was piled chest high along the motorway, and wispy clouds were blown off the tops, as though the snow itself were steaming.

They had been driving toward the city for an hour when Billi saw a statue in the distance. It was a knight on a horse, with his spear stuck in a writhing dragon.

“Russians follow Saint George?” she asked.

Lance nodded. “He’s the patron saint of the city. The Russians take their religion seriously. Especially after decades of Communist suppression. The government and a lot of rich patrons paid to have some of the old religious sites restored. No better way to get into Heaven than by building a church. Saint George is a big man in the city.” Lance pointed at a passing church. “But he’s not the only one.”

The five golden cupolas of the building shone, despite the dense clouds above. The walls were covered in bright mosaics, and the building looked new. Bright as the sun, wreathed in gold, stood a winged warrior. His wings were spread out as though raised to shelter the faithful as they entered the church through the door below him. His long hair was unbound, his eyes sparkled, and he seemed to be staring straight at Billi. He held his sword aloft, ready to strike.

Saint Michael.

The minivan crawled through the winding backstreets of Arbat. They’d come off one of the eight-lane ring roads that encircled central Moscow and were now in the heart of the city’s art district. The buildings here were elegant old mansions and apartments from pre-revolutionary Moscow. The buildings bore ornate frescos; some had dark iron plaques beside their entrances bearing the double-headed eagle, the symbol of Imperial Russia.

“There it is, Olimpiyskaya Hotel,” said Lance. The driver maneuvered the minivan through a pair of tall iron gates into a small courtyard.

The sky, clear now, was a cold white with smudges of red and pink to the southeast. The colors gave a rose tint to the otherwise gray cityscape.

“Pollution from the eruption,” said Elaine. “We’ll have some beautiful sunsets too, thanks to Vesuvius.” She pulled out her backpack, and the two of them went in.

Astairway swept up from the marble-tiled lobby to the next floor. Some of the steps had been repaired with coarse concrete. A dusty chandelier hung down on a heavy brass chain. The place had seen better days. Hell, it had seen better centuries.

Beside the entrance was an old sofa of faded red velvet. On it sat a large man with small eyes. He drew his fingers, heavy with gold rings, through his thinning black hair as he watched the new arrivals. One hand rested on a battered old suitcase.

“Nice choice, Lance,” said Billi as he followed her in with Gwaine. Lance looked at the big man and grinned. The two embraced and talked rapidly in Russian. Billi didn’t understand a word. That is, all but one.

Bogatyrs.

Lance handed over a stuffed envelope. The big man nodded, slid over the suitcase, and left.

“Who was that?” asked Gwaine suspiciously.

“Vaslav.” Lance lifted up the suitcase, straining momentarily. “Looks like he got everything.”

“You trust him?”

“Of course not. But I payin dollars.”

“What did he say about the Bogatyrs?” asked Billi. Lance’s eyebrows rose at the fact that Billi had picked out the word.

“He’s heard they’ve been at work by the Sparrow Hills, hunting vampires.” Lance raised his hand. “How you say, ghuls ?” He still hadn’t gotten his head around the Arabic term the Templars used for blood-drinkers. “It would be good for us to start there.”

The reception desk was half hidden in the shadow of the staircase. The bright white bulb of the table lamp shone low over the gleaming bald head of the clerk. He got up and smiled.

“My friends. American?”

“English,” said Gwaine.

“French,” said Lance.

The clerk clapped once, and the smile broadened to a grin, revealinga rowof black teeth. “Better than Americans. My name is Jorge.” He ducked behind a wall and brought out a stack of cards. “Fill in, please.”

They doubled up, Billi with Elaine. The only bathroom was at the end of the corridor, and they shared it with three other rooms. Billi and Elaine’s room looked out ontoa brick wall. The beds creaked and the mattresses sagged in the middle. A pile of light green blankets lay folded at the foot of each bed.