“So Koshchey survived,” said Ivan as he joined her. He’d covered himself with his deep blue coat, and his hands were tucked into the sleeves. The Polenitsy didn’t trust him with his crutch anymore, but though Ivan moved slowly, he didn’t show any weakness, just gritty determination. He squinted as the freezing air blew into his face.
“It could be one of the others,” Billi replied.
“No. He is Koshchey the Undying.” He pulled out his hands and flexed his fingers. Despite the wounds Ivan had suffered, Billi could see the power in his hands as he clenched them into fists. “I let him escape once.”
“Baba Yaga’s the priority,” Billi reminded him.
Ivan shook his head. “No, stopping Fimbulwinter is the priority. Listen”-he held her arms and looked at her, hard-“you go after Baba Yaga. But if you fail, we cannot permit her to complete the ritual.”
Billi nodded grimly. “Then you’ll finish the job for me?”
“Da.” He sighed. “I am not happy about this, but while both Vasilisa and Baba Yaga live, we are in double the peril. We have a greater responsibility than just saving the life of a small child, no matter how innocent.”
“Wow.” It was like having Arthur addressing her. Ivan had leader in the making written all over him.
Howls came from all over the camp. Figures moved like shadows on the fringes of the campfires, silhouettes creeping in and out of the stands of tall birch trees. The forest was thick with them. Billi watched as two of the Polenitsy threw off their cloaks, hunched down on all fours, and went from human to beast within a few paces. Some children stood by their tents as their parents packed. Billi watched one child, his shaggy black hair decorated with strips of bright cloth and plastic beads, yelp with laughter as his mother lightly cuffed him into the snow. The boy rolled around happily, wearing nothing but a pair of cotton underpants. Then his mum hauled him up and kissed his eyelids.
Jesus. The Bogatyrs and Koshchey on one side, and Baba Yaga on the other. Where the hell was her dad? She couldn’t fight everyone alone.
“He’s dead, you know that?” Billi said to Olga. “That boy over there-and his mother. You’re all racing off to your deaths.” Olga tried to turn, but Billi just blocked her path. “Fimbulwinter is coming unless we do something.”
They’d stopped beside a rusty-looking van. Two men loaded chests and boxes on to the roof rack. A man in a parka attacked the deep snow with a shovel, hacking at the thick ice that had set around the wheels. The night echoed angrily with the bedlam of machines and wolves. Olga shoved the rear door open. “What’s your answer, then?”
“All I know is that we need to stop this… madness.”
“It is not madness. It is the will of the Great Mother.”
Olga held the door open for Billi. “Do you not have a similar saying? Deus vult?”
Billi stepped into the van, followed by Ivan. A man was already sitting in the passenger seat, a big Swede. There was steel mesh between them. He glanced at Billi and Ivan, then pulled his thick parka closer around him. Olga climbed into the driver’s seat and revved the engine. The headlights came on and the vehicle shook itself into action. Snow slid off the hood as the van climbed out of the snow-packed trench. Olga glanced at Billi through the rear-view mirror.
What is she thinking? Billi wondered. Olga wasn’ta blind fanatic like her granddaughter. She was the Polenitsy pack leader and took her responsibilities seriously. The survival of the pack was paramount, but loyalty to Baba Yaga had been bred into the Polenitsy for thousands of years. Olga looked away, and the van began to move, bouncing over the rough snow.
Billi felt the Venus figurine in her pocket. She shifted closer to Ivan and put her head on his shoulder. His arm came up around her, and they settled into silence together.
She sniffs the air and growls to her sisters. Mingled with the fresh scent of the forest is ash, the smell of burning, of man. She flexes her claws and peers into the veil of snowflakes that drift from the moon-bright sky.
There, at the edge of the trees. She sees light come from a window and hears the sounds of singing and music. But it is a harsh sound that hisses and crackles-men and their false voices and noises. A thin spiral of smoke rises from the stone chimney.
Billi steps over the low fence and comes to a wall of cloth. The human woman has hung out the sheets, though they are brittle with frost. Billi sniffs the white cloth and her head swims with the soft, milky odor of a suckling baby. She licks her lips.
Her sisters creep beside her as they approach the front door. Through the glass, Billi sees the family sitting in front of their glowing box of colors. She blinks. The light is painful and the noise tears at her sensitive ears. No wonder humans are driven mad, in this pandemonium of hateful sounds and lights. The human woman laughs and the babe in her arms wails.
Billi reaches for the door. Her hands, covered in glossy black hair, touch the cold brass handle, and her claws click together as she turns it.
Four humans gaze at her. The woman screams now, clutching the baby close to her chest. The boy stares, eyes blank with terror, and the acid sting of urine rises as he wets himself.
The man reaches for the poker beside the fire, though his hand trembles.
“Manflesh,” Billi growls. She and her sisters will feed well.
She leaps.
“Billi!”
Billi woke. Ivan was staring anxiously at her. Her head was on his lap now.
God, she was boiling: sweat soaked her clothes, and her hair stuck to her scalp.
“Are you okay?” He held her tightly, and his face was close to hers.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just a bad dream.”
Thank God.
She was tossed and bounced as the van rattled across the countryside. Billi saw the lights of a convoy through the rear window; a dozen or so vehicles followed while wolves chased after, weaving in and out of the dense forest on either side of the road.
But where was Vasilisa? Billi caught a glimpse of something above her: a huge, cumbersome bat-shape that darted through the whirling snow. Ribbons trailed from the edges of its cloak, and a scream of wild joy pierced through the wind.
Baba Yaga rode the storm.
Billi desperately fought the primordial feelings threatening to take her over forever. “You’ll make it, Billi,” whispered Ivan. “No I won’t,” she answered. He wanted to reassure her, but she knew she didn’t have long. “Listen, you know where the stone is.” She nodded to her left trouser pocket. “If I change tonight, I’ll need you to take it and use it.”
“You’ll make it. I know you will.” He stroked her hair while Billi hugged him, putting her head against his chest and closing her eyes. She listened to the steady beat of his heart and tried to forget the hunger she’d felt in her dream when she’d walked into that room.
This wasn’t over yet.
The long night wore on, and Billi sweated and shook with lycanthropic fever. The weather worsened, and the only relief came when the moon went behind snow-stuffed clouds. Ivan stayed beside her, never sleeping, murmuring to her in Russian. Billi leaned her head on his shoulder, focusing on his gentle voice.
The engine rattled and gears screamed as the van came to a halt. Billi’s eyes snapped open.
Olga turned the ignition off and on, but the noise was getting even worse, as though the entire vehicle were having a seizure.
The big Swede swore and jumped out of the passenger door. Olga got out too.
The storm had lifted, but snow fell heavily from a dull, colorless sky. The sun was up, somewhere behind the clouds, and Billi was washed over with relief; she could rest now that the moon was no longer in the sky.