Sarwat Chadda - Dark Goddess

Billi dropped the stick, and the man fell face-first onto the carpet. Ivan tipped a jug of water over the smoking edges of the carpet. He used the discarded blankets to smother the small fire.

“Thanks,” she said. “It would help if you told me what you were planning in advance.”

“No time.” Billi checked the man’s pulse. Still alive. “He’ll be out for ten minutes. Gag him and tie him to that.” She pointed at one of the two central tent supports. The post was about twenty inches thick, solid pine and dug in deep.

Billi unbuckled the man’s weapon’s belt. The saber was an old Cossack blade, sharply curved with a single edge tapering into a stiff dagger point. It was old and certainly sharp enough to shave a few hairs off a werewolf. As well as the saber, there was a plain stabbing dagger. Ideal for slipping between the ribs.

“I’m going after Vasilisa,” she said.

Ivan didn’t ask what she was going to do with her: Billi’s cold tone was explanation enough.

“And then?” he asked as he tied up the unconscious man. He stood and smiled sadly, then leaned on the support column, worn out.

Billi shook her head. “There won’t be any ‘then,’ Ivan.” She could run, but how far would she get? The Polenitsy would be on her before she’d gone a mile. They would not treat her well for having killed the Spring Child. But whatever the werewolves did would be quick; Baba Yaga would want her to suffer a longer, crueler death.

“There has to be another way.” Ivan came up to her and put his hands on her arms.

“I’m sorry I got you into this mess.” Billi tried to laugh. “I seem to have a fatal effect on boys.” But maybe they’d let Ivan live if she did the deed alone. It was a fool’s hope, but at this point any hope was foolish.

Hope that Arthur and the Knights Templar would arrive and save the day.

Hope that the Polenitsy would defy Baba Yaga.

Hope that she could save everyone without killing a little girl.

Foolish, foolish, foolish.

Billi looked up at him. There was warmth in what Billi had once thought was a cold and guarded gaze, which matched the emotion behind his sad smile. Billi laced her fingers with his.

I am going to die. The thought hit her like a spear. Billi squeezed her fingers tighter around Ivan’s. Once she let go, that was it. She took a deep breath to quell the fear mounting inside. At least she wouldn’t have to live with the guilt of murdering Vasilisa. Not for long, anyway.

“Let’s think for just a minute,” said Ivan desperately. “Maybe your father-”

Billi pulled herself free. Time to get it finished. “We can’t wait.” She wrapped the belt around her waist, buckling it on the very last hole and checking her weapons again. The scabbard was worn smooth and the sword came free easily.

“Get the guard’s coat and hat and stand out here; they’ll notice if he’s missing.” Billi went to the door flap. “Wish me luck, Ivan.”

“I wish…” He stopped. The time for wishes had run out. He straightened his clothes; if this was good-bye, he’d do it properly. He started to smooth the creases, but faltered. He touched her face gently before letting his hand fall away.

“ Deus vult, Billi SanGreal.”

Billi left.

She looked into the darkening sky. To the west the sun’s dying light covered the clouds with deep crimson smears, the shades turning to dark purple and black in the east. The moon had vanished behind the dense clouds, giving her some reprieve. She felt the feathery kisses of snowflakes on her cheeks. The icy wind whipped at her tattered red coat, and she pulled up the collar to protect her neck, but the cold air ruffled her hair and stung her ears.

She was fifteen years old. Funny, she felt older. She’d been shadowed by death and now it had caught up with her. The warm air of the ger warmed her back, and for a moment Billi could have turned and rushed into Ivan’s arms, but that was a foolish fantasy. She was a Templar. Duty always came first.

You shall keep the company of martyrs.

Billi closed her eyes and searched the air, seeking out a scent that she recognized. The air was filled with emotions-hers, the Polenitsys’. They rolled like a melange of sharp spices. Fear was peppery, eye-watering. Chili-powder rage stung her lips. Musky love swam through her nostrils.

The world of the werewolf overpowered her senses.

Humans lived in such a dull, lifeless world.

I’m human.

Her eyes snapped open.

People waded through the dense snow, their vision limited by the flurries. Nobody paid her any attention. Billi peered into the snowy veil and saw a shock of red against the white field.

Svetlana.

Well, here I come, ready or not.

She was among the trees, twenty yards away. A smaller figure followed a few paces behind. Billi tightened her grip on the sword hilt. This was it. In a few minutes it would all be over.

Billi made her way directly toward them. Step by step she pushed, never taking her eyes off of them. They’d come out of a tent on the opposite side of the clearing and moved onward, oblivious to her. Svetlana held out her hand and helped Vasilisa through the whiteness. The girl still wore only a smock. At times she was invisible; at others she shone brighter than the icicles dangling off the branches. She’d been given even more jewelery, multicolored armlets, rings, necklaces, and small crowns of woven twigs and winter flowers.

Billi clambered over a huge boulder, hauling herself by the net of vines that ran over the gray rock like veins. She reached the top and stood, her scarlet coat flapping in the icy winds. She pulled out the saber in her right hand and settled the dagger in her left.

“Vasilisa,” she said.

Vasilisa looked up and stared. She tried to pull free of Svetlana, but the red-haired girl was too strong. “Billi…” Vasilisa pleaded. “Help me.” But the young Polenitsy understood that Billi wasn’t here to save Vasilisa, and pushed the small girl onto the ground behind her. She smiled, revealing her long canines.

“Death in red,” Svetlana said. “My favorite color.”

SVETLANA CAST OFF HER COAT. SHE WAS NAKED EXCEPT for the downy red hair that covered her broad shoulders and thick upper arms. She stalked forward, flexing her fingers. “Come down here and die, Templar.”

Billi leaped.

Svetlana changed in a heartbeat. Two bounds and she had transformed into a raging monster, the beast Billi had first seen in Thetford. The hulking half-human, half-wolf creature had dense, heavily muscled arms and long ivory claws, each tipped to needle-point sharpness. She threw back her shaggy head and howled. Billi slammed down in front of her and waited until she could feel the claws cutting the air, then dived sideways, slicing horizontally to open the wolf’s belly. But Svetlana stopped dead, and the blade’s edge just scraped her furry pelt.

Billi rolled in the snow, but was up instantly. The Beast Within arose: rage flooded her, and she stabbed. Billi didn’t fight with skill or grace: the battle was for blood, for blood’s sake. Svetlana tooka nickonher ribs while swipingat Billi’s face. Billi stabbed upward with her dagger, but Svetlana dragged her claws across Billi’s wrist, forcing her to drop it.

Ared mist filled Billi’s eyes, and her human self shook under the assault from the Beast. She had to control it, bend that power to her advantage, use the Beast rather than let it use her. If she fought mindlessly, on Red’s terms, she was going to lose. She focused her attention on her saber, on her training, on fighting like a knight, not like a beast.

Something ripped at her leg, and she vaguely saw three red lines through her torn trousers. Instead of backing off, Billi screamed and hurled herself at the young woman. They fell, and Billi heaved the saber down across Svetlana’s neck. Svetlana grabbed the blade and held it, trying to force it away. Her fangs snapped inches from Billi’s face.