Sarwat Chadda: Dark Goddess

“Where’s my mum-”

Billi slapped her free hand over the girl’s mouth.

Something was scratching at the door.

“Pelleas?” Billi asked.

It sniffed under the gap at the bottom of the door.

Billi’s guts turned cold. Pelleas wasn’t coming. Not ever.

“Want grrrl,” it snarled. The wolf’s voice box mutilated its speech, but Billi heard clearly enough. She glanced back at Vasilisa. A lot of people were already dead because of this girl. “You had better be worth it,” Billi muttered. The door groaned as powerful arms pushed against the wood.

The older werewolf, it had to be. Maybe if she was quick, Billi could shove her sword under and slice it. She reached for her belt.

Bollocks . No sword. She’d dropped it fighting Red. Big bloody bollocks .

The door jumped in its frame as the werewolf charged. It howled as long vertical cracks broke open on the door.

Billi pressed her bleeding shoulder against a heavy wardrobe and pushed. It slid along the wooden floor until it caught on an unseen edge. Billi pushed harder and it tilted, then crashed down in front of the door.

She should stand and fight. That’s what a Templar would do. Billi searched the room and picked up a kid’s hockey stick. The door jumped again as Old Gray slammed against it, and the fallen wardrobe slid a few inches.

“Want grrrl!”

Billi gazed at Vasilisa whimpering in the corner.

There would be no fight. The werewolf would kill Billi and get the girl. The girl seemed to be important. Perhaps she was an Oracle after all.

“C’mon, we’re leaving,” said Billi as she smashed the window with the hockey stick. The beast in the corridor howled again and charged the door, each crash sounding like a death knell.

“Vasilisa!” Billi ordered. Vasilisa screamed as claws dug through a crack in the door and a smoldering green eye peered in.

Billi tossed the stick away and grabbed the child around the waist. She climbed out onto the windowsill, resting her right foot on the trellis. It bent, but held.

Wood tore and the wardrobe leaped in the air. Old Gray ripped the remains of the door off its hinges and threw it at the window. Billi gripped a thick vine. Her left foot scrabbled on the wall, looking for the smallest purchase, but found nothing. A long hairy arm swiped the air, just missing her face. Billi slipped down the tangle of vines and trellis, tearing her knees and arms as she tried vainly to grab on to something. They hit the ground hard, Vasilisa landing on top of her and punching out all her breath. Billi blinked, trying to get the sparks behind her eyes to stop flashing. She stood groggily and, on her second attempt, took hold of Vasilisa’s sleeve. She heard the car getting closer.

Old Gray, squatting on the windowsill, hopped off and landed without a sound. Billi ran, half dragging, half carrying Vasilisa. Beyond the hedge the air echoed with the sound of the approaching car, its lights on full beam and spilling across the garden, decorating the ground with a maze of shadows cast by the small bare apple trees that dotted the lawn.

Billi weaved in and out of the irregular orchard, teeth snapping behind her. She ducked below a branch and skidded around a trunk, but the werewolf matched every move. Her mad-speed heartbeat filled her ears, and her chest burned as she panted in the bitter cold air. She pulled Vasilisa tight as she saw the gate and barged through it, slipping over an iced-up driveway. They rolled across the road into the ditch opposite, and every bone got a bashing. They lay there, stunned, on the icy ground.

The monster approached, glowing white with victory. Then a Jaguar braked. Its tires screamed and it smashed the werewolf squarely in the chest, and suddenly the beast was gone. Smoke rose off the rubber burned onto the road.

The doors crashed open and two men leaped out. Billi’s father, Arthur, ran to the front of the car, a heavy sword aloft and his mail armor shimmering silver in the headlights. He gazed around, but Old Gray had vanished. The second man came up to Billi and Vasilisa.

“ Ça va ?” said Lance. He hoisted Billi up. “How are you, Bilqis?” He turned his head slightly sideways so he could look with his right eye; his left was hidden behind a worn leather patch. Billi, too winded to speak, just nodded.

Arthur joined them. His blue eyes shone under his dark brow.

“It’s gone,” he said. He glanced at Billi and the small girl. “Where’s Pelleas?”

But before Billi could answer the typically abrupt demand from her dad, another vehicle, a van, came up behind them and screeched to a halt. The side panel slid open and out came Gwaine and Bors. Gwaine, the grisly old warrior, carried his favorite battle-ax, and Bors a pair of machetelike short-swords.

“There were two,” said Billi. Arthur’s deep blue eyes burned, and the others gathered around her.

“Where’s the second?” he asked.

“Back there.” Billi pointed at the farmhouse. “With Pelleas,” she said.

BILLI WINCED AS SHE STRAIGHTENED. THE CLAW wounds Red had given her felt like burning oil on her back.

“What’s wrong?” asked Arthur.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing. Go see Elaine.” Arthur tapped Lance’s shoulder. “Lance, you watch ’em both.”

“ Oui .” Lance smiled at Billi and nodded toward the van. He then held out his hand to Vasilisa. “Do not be afraid, ma chérie .” After a moment’s hesitation she took it.

“My mum…” started Vasilisa. Lance glanced toward Billi, who shook her head. Vasilisa didn’t notice. She was lost, gazing at her home with pale, empty eyes.

“We will look after you,” said Lance. He smiled down at Vasilisa and wiped her cheek. The tears came, but she didn’t give in to sobbing. Billi turned away.

She banged on the side of the van. “Wake up, Elaine!”

The driver’s door opened and Elaine sat there, her bony arms resting on the steering wheel. Her slate gray hair hung like thatch down to her shoulders, and she scowled as a stream of cigarette smoke unwound from her nostrils. Billi pointed at her back.

“A loony.”

Elaine flicked the cigarette past Billi as she climbed in. A mattress with a plastic sheet over it lay on the floor. The wall opposite was lined with compartments of various sizes, all with lockable doors. Two long fluorescent tubes hummed to life, filling the small van with stark blue-white light.

“Boots off and lie down,” Elaine ordered.

As Billi lay down on her belly, Elaine cut the back off of Billi’s jacket and began mopping up the blood.

“You’re lucky. It was a young wolf. You can tell by the tears: neat and clean,” said Elaine. “Older werewolves have jagged claws. Bugger to stitch up.”

“Strange, I don’t feel lucky.”

“Well, you are. In more ways than one. The lycanthropy infection is much stronger in older wolves, and takes hold almost immediately. This one”-she poked a raw bit of skin, and Billi winced-“is barely an adult. You probably aren’t infected anyway.”

“Let’s be sure, shall we?”

Elaine wiped the wound clean. “You’ll end up with more scars than your dad.”

“As long as they’re not on my face, I don’t care.”

“Just lie still.”

Billi shifted around, but Elaine, her hands much stronger than her physique implied, held Billi down firmly on the cold mattress.

Billi couldn’t stop thinking about Pelleas. Another Templar gone. Her dad had warned her that the Bataille Ténébreuse, the Templars’ war against the Unholy, took its toll. But the price was heavy. Her godfather Percy; Berrant; Father Balin; now Pelleas. Billi closed her eyes, but their faces were there. She could see them in the mists of the gray shores. But one stood out, closest to her.