The silhouette of a small girl with pigtails had been painted on to the wall like the shadow left by an atomic explosion. She had been caught forever reaching up to the light switch.
They reached the flat roof and looked out over Chernobyl. The town was a cluster of concrete apartment blocks. Trees broke the outline as the woods had encroached from all directions. Billi saw branches poking out of the upper floors of some buildings, and thick roots rippled over abandoned cars on the roadside.
“Didn’t take long,” Billi said. Not long at all before nature stole back all that was once hers.
The chimneys of the nuclear plant stood up on the horizon. Three slim towers beside the curved shell of the reactor. The silence was deafening. The abandoned town echoed with the sighs of ghosts.
They weren’t here. The Templars hadn’t made it. If her dad had hit Kiev that morning, when she’d called, he would have been herebynow. Billi spent the next ten minutes scanning the streets and rooftops, hoping for some movement or light off armor or blade, but the snowfall made it difficult to see anything clearly. Maybe last night’s storm had cost Arthur and the others an extra day. Maybe he never got to Kiev. And now they were out of days.
“Looks like this is it, then,” said Billi.
Vasilisa stood beside her. Billi held out her hand, but she retreated. Billi put her hand down. Friendships were hard to come by in Billi’s line of work. “She’s close,” said Vasilisa. She scratched her head and frowned. The henna covered her arms up to her elbows. She turned her palms over, staring at the strange patterns, then looked at the reactor in the distance. “Look at what we’ve done. We made the Earth so sick.”
“Sounds like you agree with her,” said Billi. Their eyes met.
“She’s old and tired, Billi. She thinks she’s the only one who cares about the Earth. She hoped mankind would learn, but we haven’t. That’s why she won’t die: she thinks no one else will look after it when she’s gone. So she’s trapped in winter, and it’s always cold.” Tears ran down her cheeks.
The sky was turning red. Billi watched the sun sink lower on the horizon. For now the moon was a weak indistinct circle. But it was full and perfectly round. Her skin itched and she loosened her collar, trying to let the heat out.
“Not yet, not yet,” she promised herself.
The thin birch trees were rustling when the first howl rippled across the snowbound town. Another joined it, then another, until the distant woods erupted with the chorus of hunters’ songs. Olga waved at her from below, and Billi ran down, Vasilisa a few steps behind.
They gathered in front of the amusement park gates. Olga had stripped down to a thin T-shirt and shorts. Her bare legs and arms bristled with gray hair, and already her nails had transformed into claws.
“How long do we have?” Billi asked.
“Five, six minutes,” growled Old Gray, listening hard to the sound of the oncoming army. She snapped her teeth as they grew in length and sharpness.
“We need to give ourselves some space.” Billi searched around: three roads led from this park, giving them options. “Keep the engine running in case we need a quick getaway.”
Olga laughed. “We are not getting away, young Templar. This is where we die.”
“Maybe, but let’s take the old witch with us.” Billi pulled out a stone-tipped arrow. “I just need Baba Yaga out in the open and close, that’s all.”
Old Gray growled as steel scraped across steel. Billi spun around, arrow drawn, as a figure emerged from behind them.
Arthur drew the Templar Sword from his scabbard as he approached. He wore his own mail, covered with a patched-up leather coat. Snowflakes sprinkled his black beard, and his scars were paler than normal, stark white in the frosty, weak sunlight. Gareth joined him, fingers in his composite bow. He saw Billi’s own bow and nodded with approval. He had his quiver strapped to his belt, all the fletching made up of black eagle feathers.
“Hope we’re not too late,” said Arthur.
Mordred, the tall, elegant Ethiopian, stood nearby, his hands eager and anxious around his spear shaft. Hanging from his hip was a quiver, and slung over his back a longbow. He’d wrapped a scarf around his face and had his woolen cap pulled low so only his deep brown eyes showed. With him were Gwaine and Lance. They’d survived, thank God.
Gwaine had taken a battering: there was a clean bandage across his forehead, and his mouth, usually so thin and grim, turned slightly. It could have been a smile, the first Billi had from the old warrior. On his back was a bow and quiver of arrows. In his hands he held a hefty battle-ax and hada dented steel breast plate strapped on. A crude red cross had been painted high on the left of it. A Templar to the last.
“Bonjour, Bilqis,” said Lance as he smoothed out his long brown mustache and bowed. The Frenchman had found a knee-length mail hauberk, older and heavier than Billi’s, and on his left hip he had a longsword. He carried a shield, white with a black band across the top: the argent field and sable fess. The battle banner of the Templars. He looked like he’d stepped out of the Crusades.
Billi’s throat was tight, clogged with relief. She wet her dry lips. “About bloody time.”
40
LANCE KISSED HER ON BOTH CHEEKS.
Billi grinned. “You made it. How?”
Lance looked surprised. “Why would we not make it?” Mordred shook her hand. “You look ready to cause trouble,” he said.
Billi laughed. She had her quiver and bow on her back, a suit of fine chain mail, and a sword and dagger tucked into her belt. “Trouble’s coming,” she said.
Gwaine stopped and looked down at Vasilisa. “She still alive?” He spoke as though she weren’t there. “Why haven’t you killed her?”
Billi drew Vasilisa close beside her. “I’ve found a way to kill Baba Yaga. But I need her close. If we hang on to Vasilisa, she’ll come close enough to give us a chance to be rid of the old witch once and for all.”
“She’s bait, then?” Gwaine said.
Vasilisa flinched as he said it. She pushed Billi’s hand away and stepped back, gazing at the Templars. Billi bent down and faced her.
“Vasilisa, we’re here to protect you, I swear it. But you’ll need to play along.” She looked over at her dad, who watched impassively. “When Baba Yaga comes, we will destroy her.”
“And if you don’t?” asked the Spring Child. “Then we will have done our best.” Billi touched Vasilisa’s cheek.
The other Templars gathered warily around Old Gray. She’d not fully transformed, but her skin was covered in fur, and her skull had elongated to accommodate a snout and a line of fangs. She barely acknowledged them.
Arthur slapped Billi on the back and inspected her armor, nodding with satisfaction. “Well done,” he said. He nodded at Lance. “Get the car ready. I want to be able to make a quick exit, if need be.”
“Bon,” said Lance. He took Vasilisa’s hand and patted it between his palms. “It is good to see you again, Vasilisa.” Then he slung his shield over his shoulder and disappeared down an alleyway.
Billi looked at her dad and held up her arrow. “This is tipped with meteoric rock from the blast. I made it from the Venus figurine.”
Arthur took the arrow and pressed his thumb against the tip. “Elaine told me the statue’d been left in London. You found it?”
Billi gestured to the small girl. “Vasilisa had it all along.”
Arthur handed it to Gareth. “What do you think?”
Gareth, the Templars’ best archer, rolled the arrow in his fingers, testing its weight. He put the arrow to the string, and the bow creaked as he drew it back to his cheek. “Good for thirty, forty yards.”
Billi took out the other two stone-tipped arrows and handed them to Gareth.