“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.”
“I’ve no more business in Moscow.” Billi put down the knife she’d been cleaning. “But thank you. For helping me when you didn’t have to.” Billi knew Ivan had risked a lot-including his loyalties as a Bogatyr. Let alone overcoming a personal vendetta in order to help the young Polenitsy child escape. Her heart beat faster as she looked at him sitting there. She needed to remind herself why she was here in the first place.
Ivan’s frown slowly mellowed into a smile. He put the bottle on the floor and stood up. He offered his hand.
“Let me show you Moscow before you leave.”
“I really don’t have time. There’s still a lot to do before tomorrow morning.”
“Please. We won’t be long.” Ivan’s hand hadn’t moved. Maybe he wasn’t arrogant, but he was certainly stubborn.
“Ivan Alexeivich Romanov!” Billi exclaimed, frustrated. He straightened some more, head up and proud. Deep shadows formed under the clifflike high cheekbones, and those gray eyes lost their weary drunkenness as she spoke his name.
It was already six, and this was her last night here. She had no idea what lay ahead except hard fighting and doomsday. She could spend it pondering and worrying about things she couldn’t control, just waiting for tomorrow. Or she could spend it with Ivan. There he stood, his wide chest heaving under the half-open shirt as he took a deep breath to steady himself. Despite the vodka flowing through his veins, his hand was steady.
Billi took it.
Dimitri drove them into the heart of the city. Unlike London with its labyrinth of narrow streets and buildings all cramped together, Moscow was wide and broad. The boulevards gave Billi endless panoramas, especially along the river. Ice shone on the roads, and a fresh cloud of snow was beginning to descend.
The tires rumbled on the cobbles of Red Square. Ahead stood the multicolored onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. The composite building was actually interconnected churches, each with its own individual spire and dome. Veiled in snow, the cathedral looked as though it had been snatched from a fairy tale. Moscow had an ethereal magic when it was cloaked in winter. To one side stood GUM, the gigantic department store, its walls and windows outlined by thousands of golden bulbs. Opposite that were the immense, dark-red walls of the Kremlin fortress.