Dark Goddess Page 2

  She should stand and fight. That’s what a Templar would do. Billi searched the room and picked up a kid’s hockey stick. The door jumped again as Old Gray slammed against it, and the fallen wardrobe slid a few inches.

  “Want grrrl!”

  Billi gazed at Vasilisa whimpering in the corner.

  There would be no fight. The werewolf would kill Billi and get the girl. The girl seemed to be important. Perhaps she was an Oracle after all.

  “C’mon, we’re leaving,” said Billi as she smashed the window with the hockey stick. The beast in the corridor howled again and charged the door, each crash sounding like a death knell.

  “Vasilisa!” Billi ordered. Vasilisa screamed as claws dug through a crack in the door and a smoldering green eye peered in.

  Billi tossed the stick away and grabbed the child around the waist. She climbed out onto the windowsill, resting her right foot on the trellis. It bent, but held.

  Wood tore and the wardrobe leaped in the air. Old Gray ripped the remains of the door off its hinges and threw it at the window. Billi gripped a thick vine. Her left foot scrabbled on the wall, looking for the smallest purchase, but found nothing. A long hairy arm swiped the air, just missing her face. Billi slipped down the tangle of vines and trellis, tearing her knees and arms as she tried vainly to grab on to something. They hit the ground hard, Vasilisa landing on top of her and punching out all her breath. Billi blinked, trying to get the sparks behind her eyes to stop flashing. She stood groggily and, on her second attempt, took hold of Vasilisa’s sleeve. She heard the car getting closer.

  Old Gray, squatting on the windowsill, hopped off and landed without a sound. Billi ran, half dragging, half carrying Vasilisa. Beyond the hedge the air echoed with the sound of the approaching car, its lights on full beam and spilling across the garden, decorating the ground with a maze of shadows cast by the small bare apple trees that dotted the lawn.

  Billi weaved in and out of the irregular orchard, teeth snapping behind her. She ducked below a branch and skidded around a trunk, but the werewolf matched every move. Her mad-speed heartbeat filled her ears, and her chest burned as she panted in the bitter cold air. She pulled Vasilisa tight as she saw the gate and barged through it, slipping over an iced-up driveway. They rolled across the road into the ditch opposite, and every bone got a bashing. They lay there, stunned, on the icy ground.

  The monster approached, glowing white with victory. Then a Jaguar braked. Its tires screamed and it smashed the werewolf squarely in the chest, and suddenly the beast was gone. Smoke rose off the rubber burned onto the road.

  The doors crashed open and two men leaped out. Billi’s father, Arthur, ran to the front of the car, a heavy sword aloft and his mail armor shimmering silver in the headlights. He gazed around, but Old Gray had vanished. The second man came up to Billi and Vasilisa.

  “Ça va?” said Lance. He hoisted Billi up. “How are you, Bilqis?” He turned his head slightly sideways so he could look with his right eye; his left was hidden behind a worn leather patch. Billi, too winded to speak, just nodded.

  Arthur joined them. His blue eyes shone under his dark brow.

  “It’s gone,” he said. He glanced at Billi and the small girl. “Where’s Pelleas?”

  But before Billi could answer the typically abrupt demand from her dad, another vehicle, a van, came up behind them and screeched to a halt. The side panel slid open and out came Gwaine and Bors. Gwaine, the grisly old warrior, carried his favorite battle-ax, and Bors a pair of machetelike short-swords.

  “There were two,” said Billi. Arthur’s deep blue eyes burned, and the others gathered around her.

  “Where’s the second?” he asked.

  “Back there.” Billi pointed at the farmhouse. “With Pelleas,” she said.

  3

  BILLI WINCED AS SHE STRAIGHTENED. THE CLAW wounds Red had given her felt like burning oil on her back.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Arthur.

  “Nothing.”

  “Doesn’t look like nothing. Go see Elaine.” Arthur tapped Lance’s shoulder. “Lance, you watch ’em both.”

  “Oui.” Lance smiled at Billi and nodded toward the van. He then held out his hand to Vasilisa. “Do not be afraid, ma chérie.” After a moment’s hesitation she took it.

  “My mum…” started Vasilisa. Lance glanced toward Billi, who shook her head. Vasilisa didn’t notice. She was lost, gazing at her home with pale, empty eyes.

  “We will look after you,” said Lance. He smiled down at Vasilisa and wiped her cheek. The tears came, but she didn’t give in to sobbing. Billi turned away.

  She banged on the side of the van. “Wake up, Elaine!”

  The driver’s door opened and Elaine sat there, her bony arms resting on the steering wheel. Her slate gray hair hung like thatch down to her shoulders, and she scowled as a stream of cigarette smoke unwound from her nostrils. Billi pointed at her back.

  “A loony.”

  Elaine flicked the cigarette past Billi as she climbed in. A mattress with a plastic sheet over it lay on the floor. The wall opposite was lined with compartments of various sizes, all with lockable doors. Two long fluorescent tubes hummed to life, filling the small van with stark blue-white light.

  “Boots off and lie down,” Elaine ordered.

  As Billi lay down on her belly, Elaine cut the back off of Billi’s jacket and began mopping up the blood.

  “You’re lucky. It was a young wolf. You can tell by the tears: neat and clean,” said Elaine. “Older werewolves have jagged claws. Bugger to stitch up.”

  “Strange, I don’t feel lucky.”

  “Well, you are. In more ways than one. The lycanthropy infection is much stronger in older wolves, and takes hold almost immediately. This one”-she poked a raw bit of skin, and Billi winced-“is barely an adult. You probably aren’t infected anyway.”

  “Let’s be sure, shall we?”

  Elaine wiped the wound clean. “You’ll end up with more scars than your dad.”

  “As long as they’re not on my face, I don’t care.”

  “Just lie still.”

  Billi shifted around, but Elaine, her hands much stronger than her physique implied, held Billi down firmly on the cold mattress.

  Billi couldn’t stop thinking about Pelleas. Another Templar gone. Her dad had warned her that the Bataille Ténébreuse, the Templars’ war against the Unholy, took its toll. But the price was heavy. Her godfather Percy; Berrant; Father Balin; now Pelleas. Billi closed her eyes, but their faces were there. She could see them in the mists of the gray shores. But one stood out, closest to her.

  Kay.

  She could picture the white-blond hair, the albino-pale skin, the secret smile he used to have, like he knew all the answers. They’d grown up and trained side by side. They’d made plans to leave the Templars and be like normal people-to be together. It had been a lie, of course. There was only one way out of the Templars.

  Kay would welcome Pelleas now.

  “Pelleas?” asked Elaine.

  “There was nothing I could do. There were two of them.” Billi waited for a response, but Elaine stayed quiet. Her fingers dug into Billi’s muscles, and Billi gritted her teeth, feeling the blood seeping down her back.

  “Saved that girl, though,” said Elaine. She pulled out a box and opened it. The van was suddenly filled with the odor of rotten vegetables and oil.

  “They wanted her badly,” Billi said. “Think she could be one?”

  Elaine paused. “An Oracle?” She pressed a wet flannel over Billi’s cuts. “Maybe.” Elaine used the Templar term too, but they used to be called witches, or prophets. The modern secular word was psychic. It was children such as these the werewolves ritually sacrificed to their goddess, believing thatin return she would bestow on them a spring season full of good hunting.

  Billi winced as Elaine got busy with a pair of silver tweezers, not too gently poking the open wounds to check that no claw shards remained. She tightened her hands into fis
ts and buried her face farther down. Jesus, that hurts.

  Elaine laid the wet poultice on Billi’s bare back, pressing it firmly into the channels of flesh, making sure the medicine soaked in deeply.

  “It stinks,” said Billi.

  “This, girl, is my own special recipe. Wolfsbane, a dash of holy oil, and ground-up werewolf bones. You know how hard it is to get werewolf bones? How much it costs?”

  “Bet it cost some loony an arm or a leg.”

  Elaine laughed. “Too true. An arm, in this case.”

  “How long do I have to keep it on?”

  “It takes a while for the herbs to soak in. So keep it on for a few days-long enough to suck the poison out. You don’t want to turn, do you?”

  As if she didn’t know. Billi had spent the last few months studying nothing but lycanthropy. Anyone could turn into a werewolf if they were scratched or bitten by one. Everyone had the Beast Within. It was the savage part of their soul that reveled in slaughter and violence. It was bloodlust.

  If injured by a werewolf, the Beast Within would awaken. First there’d be the dreams-of hunting, of running in dark forests and howling. Then the appetite would change-there’d be a craving for raw meat and red juices. The redder the better. Rage would come. Mindless and psychotic urges to kill and feed. Giving in to it accelerated the transformation process. So for some the change was swift; others-those with strong wills-held on to their humanity longer.

  Eventually, though, everyone gave in, and a new werewolf would howl with joy beneath the moon’s ghostly light. Nothing human would remain except for the eyes. The eyes stayed human. Only Elaine’s poultice prevented the infection from taking hold. It had saved more than a few knights in the past.

  “You…don’t think that’ll happen? Do you?”

  Elaine tore off long strips of tape. “No, but call me if you have any strange urges.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like wanting to chase cats.”

  Once the bandages were fixed, Elaine handed Billi a fresh shirt and unrolled a blanket. She stepped out for a cigarette break while Billi changed. Billi glanced at her watch: two in the morning. With any luck she’d get four hours’ sleep, then up for morning prayers and off to school.

  Just great. PE tomorrow. How was she going to explain why she looked like Tutankhamen? The immense weight of tonight’s action bore down on her hard, squeezing her into the mattress. It seemed like her bones were made of lead; she couldn’t move for the exhaustion. Just a few hours’ sleep…

  “Well?” came Elaine’s voice from outside.

  “Too late,” said Arthur wearily. “Pelleas is dead.”

  Even though she’d known it, it still hurt. Billi closed her eyes and tried to ignore the black hole in her stomach.

  Arthur continued. “We’ll grab what we can, then get out of here. A bloody balls-up, Elaine. Maybe I shouldn’t have sent Billi out so soon.” He shuffled. “How is she?”

  Billi heard the sharp rip of a match, swiftly followed by Elaine’s wheezing. They were just outside. The van softly tilted as someone, Dad probably, leaned against it.

  “She’ll be okay.”

  “Will she?” Billi heard him kick a stone in frustration. “She’s changed, Elaine.”

  Billi’s eyes felt hot and watery. She blamed it on the wolfsbane poultices.

  He sighed. “It’s been three months, but, if anything, she’s worse.”

  “She loved Kay. You of all people should understand that.”

  “But she’s just a child.”

  “Sixteen in a few months,” Elaine said. “She’s young, Art, but I don’t think she’s ever been a child. Kay died, and she thinks it was her fault. She’s taken on a lot of responsibility.”

  “She’s a Templar.” Elaine changed the subject. “What about the girl? Think she could be one?”

  “An Oracle? Lot of effort’s been put in if she isn’t.” Arthur tapped his sword hilt against the van. “Werewolves aren’t usually wrong about this sort of thing. They did the same with Kay, remember? The Bodmin pack came looking soon after we found him.” The van rocked slightly as Arthur moved. “But they’ve stuck to the accord ever since.”

  “Ever since you chopped their leader’s arm off.”

  “Right.”

  “And if she is an Oracle?” asked Elaine. Billi could hear the fear-and excitement-in the old woman’s voice.

  “Then thank God we got to her first.” Arthur’s boots squelched in the slush as he walked away.

  4

  BILLI SLEPT IN THE VAN AND ONLY STARTED TO STIR when the tires trundled over the cobbles of Temple District.

  Home.

  She sat up and leaned over the passenger seat. It was still early, and the sun wouldn’t be up for a few hours yet. The van’s engine echoed within the narrow confines of the alleyways that dropped south of Fleet Street and into Temple District. Bors was slumped in the passenger seat, his twin swords beside him. Billi knocked them onto the floor with a clatter as she climbed up front.

  “Oi, watch it,” muttered Bors as he rubbed the sleep out of his face. Blinking blearily, he searched the dashboard until his hand found a sausage roll, which he shoved into his mouth. He caught Billi’s stare. “Sorry,” he said, spitting flakes over his lap. “Did you want some?”

  “God Almighty, d’you have a trough at home or what?”

  They entered the main Temple parking lot and found Father Rowland waiting for them with Mordred, the new squire. The chaplain’s thin frame was lost in a huge black overcoat, his bald head and the tips of his frozen ears the only things visible above his scarf.

  Bors jumped out the moment the van halted. He handed his swords over to Mordred. “Polish these.” He licked the last few crumbs off his fingers. “And before breakfast, mind.”

  The two couldn’t be more different. Mordred, an Ethiopian refugee the Order had literally picked up off the streets, was tall and elegant, with jet-black skin and deep thoughtful eyes. Bors, bigger in girth if not height, was a cannonball of muscle. His neck was nonexistent, his jaw comprised of a patch of ginger bristles, and his eyes were piggy and close together. But he was a knight, and Mordred was a squire.

  “Want him to run your bath while he’s at it?” said Billi as Mordred left.

  Bors laughed.

  Father Rowland helped Elaine out and peered in behind her.

  “Where’s Pelleas?”

  Elaine looked at Billi. “You want to tell him?”

  No, not really. But Elaine had already wandered off.

  “Dead, Father.”

  “Oh.” Rowland touched his crucifix. “What happened?”

  Billi reminded herself that this was all new for Rowland. The previous Temple chaplain had just been buried when Rowland had arrived, fresh-faced and eager, all peachy keen from the seminary. He had thought he’d be running choirs and carrying out christenings. Billi had turned up at the chaplain’s house with Arthur and a few of the others. An unofficial welcoming committee. All in all he’d taken it well. Rowland was to manage the day-to-day affairs of the Temple Church except when the Templars themselves required it. He was responsible for disposing of the bodies and managing their library: the remnants of the original library of occult lore the Templars had salvaged from the Inquisition.

  Only later did Billi notice the empty wine bottles piling up in the recycling box outside his door. He looked like he could do with a drink right now.

  “Werewolves,” Billi said.

  Arthur’s Jaguar rolled up. Lance lifted the sleeping Vasilisa from the backseat while Arthur and Gwaine joined Billi and Rowland. Over his shoulder Arthur carried his chain-mail shirt, rolled up and held in a bundle by an old leather belt. In his right hand he carried the Templar Sword.

  Arthur turned to Gwaine. “I want a conclave sorted. We need to review what happened tonight.” He inspected his watch. “Couple of hours’ rest, then we’ll talk at six thirty.” Gwaine nodded and left to make arrangements.

  Rowland pu
t his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, like a good priest should. “I’ve just heard about Pelleas, Arthur.” He frowned with concern. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Shovels,” said Arthur. He pointed toward his car. “Pelleas is in the trunk.”

  “You’re…you’re joking, of course,” said Rowland.

  Arthur did not have his joking face on. He turned to Billi. “Go with Lance. Put Vasilisa in the spare bedroom.”

  “She’s staying with us?” Billi asked. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders. The girl had just seen her parents slaughtered, and they were leaving Billi to pick up the pieces. She didn’t want to be dealing with a hysterical kid first thing in the morning. “It’s not my job to babysit. Give her to Rowland.”

  “Your job is to do what I tell you.” Arthur settled the weight of his armor better. “Now, Billi.”

  Billi headed toward home on Middle Temple Lane, followed by Lance, who carried the sleeping girl in his arms.

  The smell of fresh paint still lingered as she entered their house. Billi inspected the limp fern beside the door. Their attempt to bring some life into their home was failing miserably. None of the paintings were back up yet, except one. Jacques de Molay, the last Templar Grand Master, gazed down at them as they came in.

  “Top of the stairs, Lance. I’ll bring some blankets.”

  Lance nodded and eased Vasilisa through the doorway and up the steps.

  Billi stopped in front of the portrait. As a kid she’d always felt a little scared passing under it.

  Now?

  These days she didn’t feel anything.

  A short nap and Billi was up by six. She dressed, checked that the poultice was still in place and she hadn’t grown a fur pelt overnight. So far-not hairy. If she was infected, the pain of transformation would come with the moonlight, growing stronger as the moon waxed.

  She struggled to put her shirt on. Her muscles complained loudly about the treatment they’d received last night. The fragrance of warm bread was rising out of the kitchen as she opened her bedroom door.

  “Bonjour, Bilqis,” said Lance as Billi wandered into the kitchen. Lance slid open the oven and drew out a tray of golden croissants. He emptied them onto a china dish with a shake. “Breakfast?”