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.
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.
18
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.