Sarwat Chadda - Dark Goddess

“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.”