Sarwat Chadda - Dark Goddess

While Elaine went to check the bar downstairs, Billi dropped her backpack onto one of the beds and locked the door. She went to the sink to wash, and caught her face in the mirror. The image in the glass looked back at her with cold, dead-black eyes. What was in those eyes? Duty? Kay’s had been bright with hope; her father’s burned with passion. Hers were dark and unreadable.

She was tired. No, she was exhausted. But she wouldn’t rest until they’d saved Vasilisa. Then what? The first plane to Jerusalemfor yearsof trainingand hardshipasaTemplar. Fear, pain, and most likely an early death. Was that the life she was saving Vasilisa for?

But if she couldn’t be rescued? Arthur was right: she would have to die. What choice did Billi have? None. She doomed Vasilisa if she saved her, and doomed her if she didn’t.

LANCE SWUNG THE OLD SUITCASE ONTO THE BED, where it landed with a dull thud. Gwaine locked the door and made sure the curtains were fully closed. All four had gathered in Gwaine and Lance’s room and stood around the suitcase as Lance threw it open.

“ Et violà,” he said.

There were half a dozen or so packages, all neatly wrapped and taped up. Billi lifted one out and tore off the bubble wrap.

“You like?” asked the Frenchman.

“I like.” She slid a kukri out of a plain sheath. The wicked Gurkha knife was like a machete, with an asymmetrical blade that was wide and heavy toward the tip, creating greater impact with the cut. The handle was bone, a nice touch that meant it wouldn’t slip if things got bloody.

The katar was equally plain and very functional. Vaslav knew his knives. The handle was like an H with the cord-wrapped grip along the short crossbar. The blade was shaped like a long isosceles triangle, the tip made of hardened steel and designed for punching through armor. Billi had used her dad’s once on a sheep’s carcass they’d bought for a barbecue. The weapon left deep, wide wounds that wouldn’t heal easily. A few punches with this would upset any loony. With a bit of modification the sheath would sit nicely on the back of her belt. The kukri she strapped to her left thigh.

The shuriken were black tempered steel, and Billi bounced three of them in her palm, listening to the heavy, satisfying clatter. The star-shaped throwing blades were good for short range, and the weight gave excellent penetration. They went in her right coat pocket.

“The sword?” she asked. She wanted a short-sword to replace her wakizashi.

Lance shook his head. “Tomorrow, ma chérie.”

Gwaine made do with an ax. Not the tree-chopping size-something that could fit under his coat but still be hefty enough to take off an arm with correctly applied violence.

Lance clipped a modern combat knife to his belt.

“That all?” asked Billi.

“Oui.”

Your funeral, mate.

“Oh, one more thing,” said Lance. He handed Billi a chunky knuckle-duster.

Billi slipped it into her left pocket. “What’s the plan?”

“We’ll head up to Sparrow Hills. Keep our eyes peeled for the Bogatyrs,” said Gwaine. “Leave the talking to me.”

It wasn’t like the tube back home. Here the station was marble and polished granite. Chandeliers and mosaics. No expense spared.

The escalator sank them deep, deep underground. Ornate lamps from the 1930s lined the walls, their golden light casting long shadows that arched over Billi. A night reveler sat on the escalator, head sunk between his knees like one of the damned on his way down to Hell.

Billi gripped the rail, her hand damp with sweat. The last time she’d been on the tube she had held Vasilisa.

It was now Wednesday evening. Just three days to go.

Art Deco chandeliers made of bronze and amber crystal hung along the platform, and puddles of melted snow shone on the polished granite floor. Billi followed Lance and the others to the end. The platform wasn’t busy: the few late-night commuters waited quietly, wrapped in heavy fur coats or thick hooded parkas. A cleaner patrolled the platform, collecting abandoned cans, bottles, and newspapers. Though Billi couldn’t read the headlines, she saw that the front pages bore pictures of the still-smoking Vesuvius.

Bronze statues of heroes of the Soviet era lined the platform. Noble soldiers, proud peasant women, handsome engineers and scientists, all striving forward as part of Stalin’s great experiment.

Awoman rubbed the nose of a bronze guard dog. The sheen had come off, leaving its nose a light golden color. Obviously she wasn’t the first to rub its nose.

“For good luck,” said Lance.

Couldn’t hurt, thought Billi. Taking off her glove, she ran her hand over the Alsatian’s muzzle. She could do with all the luck she could get.

A short train ride later and Billi was gazing over Moscow from up on high. Dominated by the gigantic Moscow State University building, Sparrow Hills rose over the southwest of the city and allowed Billi to grasp the enormous scale of Russia’s capital. It spread out to the far horizon, full of gothic towers, billboards, and bridges whose lights sparkled on the broken ice on the river, which wound in huge loops through the city.

Golden towers blazed against the dark blanket of the night sky, marked onlybya hazy, waxing half-moon. Below the wide boulevard spread the woods of Vorobyovy Gory Nature Reserve, woven through by lamplit paths, descending down the slope to the Moscow River and the vast oval of the Moscow Olympic Stadium.

Engines roared behind Billi. Cars lined the ulitsa Kosygina, hoods popped and engines screaming for an audience. The wide curving road in front of the giant university building was the place for road racing among the bored rich sons and daughters of the new city elite, the oligarchs. Hundreds milled on the street and snowy square, and music boomed from the open windows of the prowling roadsters. Some even bore flags, gang signs of the various racing teams. Young men in leather jackets crowded around the rumbling cars while their girlfriends, dressed in furs and miniskirts, huddled in their own cliques.

This was where they’d find the Bogatyrs? What had she expected? A bunch of guys in plate armor, riding war-horses? If they were anything like the Templars, they’d be low-profile and discreet.

A chunky, growling Hummer mounted the pavement. A blazing firebird covered the hood. Its feathers were sweeping red-and-orange flames, and its eyes golden drops of lava. The headlights lit the hordes like a supernova, and the crowds backed away reverentially as it lumbered along the pavement.

The passenger door opened and a young man jumped out. He had short-cropped dark hair, wide cheekbones, and a broken nose that only enhanced the icy look of his aristocratic face. He swept his hand across a nonexistent crease on his black coat, a coat that probably cost more than most of the cars on the street. He spotted one of the posing girls, and a smile flickered over his lips-easy, charming, and arrogant. Her boyfriend moved instinctively in front of her, glowering back. Billi half expected them to start beating their chests at one another, the rivalry was so animal. Instead the young man touched the diamond stud in his left ear and turned away, dismissing them both. He had the confidence of a person who’d found life way, way too easy. Gorgeous, and didn’t he just know it. His driver leaned against the door, lighting up a smoke. Tough and nasty. Definitely a bodyguard.

The young man gazed around the crowds like he owned them. Like he owned Moscow. Their eyes met, and he stopped. Billi must be something new.

Unlike London, with its kaleidoscope of cultures and races, Moscow was pretty homogenous. She’d seena few oriental faces, mainly Mongolian, but otherwise the population seemed overwhelmingly Caucasian. Maybe he didn’t get to meet many Pakistani, or half-Pakistani, girls.