Sarwat Chadda - Billi SanGreal 02 - Dark Goddess (24 page)

"I am not a beast," she whispered. She dug her long nails deeper into the iron-hard earth. "I am not a beast." She'd been clawed before, but she hadn't felt like this. She screamed as pain racked her body; the Beast was trying to come out, urging her to give in and transform.

No. Billi went rigid, forcing herself to stay unchanged, human. She would not give in.

The trees rustled and the ground around them trembled. A sigh stroked the fire, and Billi saw the flames weaken— cringe, even. An old mangy crow perched itself on a branch above Billi, cawing. It flicked its head from side to side, watching Billi intently. One by one, the wolves fell silent at the black-feathered herald's cry.

The shadows of the giant trees deepened as a figure—a darkness within the darkness—emerged.

Billi didn't need to be told—the awe and fear radiating from the Polenitsy warned her who it was. Their Dark Goddess.

Twice the size of any of them, she walked slowly, shuffling and hunchbacked, already old beyond measure. The wolves backed away from her.

Baba Yaga held out her hand. A finger uncurled and pointed a curved black nail at Billi. Small polished bones and stones hung from a bracelet on her bony wrist. Her face was lost behind a thicket of white hair tangled with more bones, twigs, and shells. Only her eyes peered out, black and shiny as obsidian, and Billi leaned back, afraid.

Old Gray, back in human form, pulled her to her feet. The werewolf's naked body was covered with downy white fur. She squinted at Billi.

"She fights it, Great Mother."

The witch smiled, her jagged iron teeth scraping together like rusty knives.

"She HAZZ a DaRKNEss IN herrr.
Freeeee
it. I want To hEAR
her
HOWL." Hundreds of voices chorused the words together, all from one mouth. Voices of those she'd consumed over the countless centuries, still trapped deep within her soul. Billi clamped her hands over her ears, but the voices penetrated straight into her mind.

"The Beast is strong in her. A gift from her father," said Old Gray. The voices laughed.

"That GIFt did NoT
comme
from HER Faather."

"I am not a beast!" Billi screamed.

The wolves pushed and beat her. Hard hands slapped her, pulled her hair, and tossed her back and forth across the frozen ground. Everywhere she turned, some creature barked and harried her. She was in the heart of the pack. The heady musk of the clamp fur and hot breaths overwhelmed her. Women with wild raging faces, and bodies covered in woad patterns, attacked her with their nails and claws. Wolves barged into her, knocking her down each time she rose. Others, half-human and half-beast, attacked her with blows and heavy cuffs, never letting Billi gather a breath. She spun in confusion.

Fight back
! the Beast urged. Bite! Claw! Kill! Billi's eyes flooded red and a haze of fury roared in her head. Someone grabbed her coat collar, and Billi bit deep into that furry hand. The other person yelled, but Billi shook her head savagely, tearing into the flesh. She felt the blood fresh and hot on her tongue. It tasted good.

Billi threw herself away from the melee, stunned, her head spinning and her legs weak and made of rubber. She spat, wiping out her mouth with her fingers to remove the taint of the rich, mouthwatering smell.

"I am not a beast!" she screamed.

Billi fought back, but steadily weariness took hold of her. There were too many. The dark-pelted wolves climbed over each other to get to her. The feral women formed a small circle around her, and there was Old Gray, the leader of the pack, gazing at her with cold fury. Billi's arms became heavy and her reflexes dull. Unsteady but standing, Billi faced them, head low, breathing heavily, gasping down air. She flexed her fingers and snarled. The monsters crowded around her. But then Billi swayed as the ground under her pitched. Her vision became blurred, and she sank to her knees.

"I am not a—"

"BILLI. WAKE UP."

Billi groaned. She felt warm and safe, as though she'd been buried under the earth. She belonged down here. But the voice persisted.

"Billi. Wake up."

She moved, but it was hard. Her chest throbbed dully, and she could only take tiny sips of breath. She touched her ribs gingerly and found that tight bandages covered her chest. Every bone ached, and every muscle burned, sending sharp spikes of agony along her nerves. Billi gritted her teeth and pushed, forcing herself up. It was hot work. Billi blinked as she emerged. The orange light from an oil lamp flickered on the walls of a nomadic Mongol tent—a
ger—
and weak sunlight shone through the partially open door flap. She hadn't been buried; she'd been lying under a pile of smelly sheepskins.

Ivan sat to one side. "Welcome back," he said, his face awash with relief. He looked tired, but well.

His leg had been reset and bound in a neat splint, and there was color in his cheeks again. He'd been given fresh clean clothes. An embroidered shirt and heavy woolen trousers. Around his waist was a red sash. He wore a heavy Mongol coat draped over his shoulders—glossy, dark blue silk with wool lining. He looked as though he'd stepped straight out of some Victorian romance. An old wooden crutch lay on the floor behind him.

He handed her a ladle filled with water. Billi emptied it in a gulp, and Ivan refilled it. She looked at her hands, almost expecting her nails to have turned to claws, but no, nothing had changed.

"You didn't give in to it," said Ivan, passing over the ladle again.

But God, did that water taste delicious. She licked her lips, savoring the slight earthy flavor that lingered there.

There was also a bowl of steaming broth—chunks of freshly cooked mutton floating in viscous gravy. Billi emptied it in seconds, then licked her fingers clean. She caught Ivan's disapproving look.

"Sorry."

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The air swam with scents: of sweat and cooking, of the almost fruity perfume of leaded gasoline, and of deliciously smoky mutton.

"How long was I out?"

"Half a day. It's Friday afternoon," replied Ivan.

"Running out of time," said Billi.

She'd fought off a change already, but tonight under the moonlight the urge would come again, stronger than before. And tomorrow, under a full moon? She'd transform.

Billi looked at the neat clean bandages on her forearm, where she'd been bitten. But these weren't Elaine's poultices: these were plain cloth. "I need my backpack," Billi said. More than enough of Elaine's magic patches in there.

Ivan shook his head. "They threw everything into a bonfire." He leaned nearer. "Just hang on, Billi. Your father knows where we are. He'll come, and he'll bring more of Elaine's bandages."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then will it matter what happens? To any of us?" Ivan pondered the next bit. His chin rested on his fist, and he looked at her. "But I will stick with you. You know that, don't you?"

"Even if I become... one of them?"

"You will always be who you are, Billi SanGreal."

She could hear voices around her, speaking in a mixture of languages and accents. People laughed and argued and coughed and cursed. The snow outside her tent crunched with approaching footsteps.

Svetlana—Big Red—threw open the tent flap wide and came in. She was holding a girl's hand.

Vasilisa gave a cry of delight and bundled herself against Billi. The two embraced.

"I knew you'd come, Billi," she whispered. "I just knew it."

For a moment, Billi just hugged the girl. Maybe all the pain and hardship had been worth it.

But then Billi pulled her back, away. Vasilisa continued to smile brightly. She trusted Billi totally.

She doesn't know why I'm here, Billi thought. She thinks I've come to save her.

In spite of the cold, the child wore a white summer smock, beautifully embroidered with green vines and delicate flowers. Her hennaed hands were bound with golden bracelets, and several necklaces hung from her neck. They were strung with beads, decorative stones, and uncut gemstones. Her blond hair had been arranged with seven or eight braids, each threaded with gold wire and old coins. On her feet she wore red slippers with curved toes, the felt decorated as lavishly as her smock.

The Polenitsy valued their Spring Child.

"Don't you feel cold?" asked Billi as she held out a blanket. The smock was as thin as a handkerchief, and the girl's legs were bare. Vasilisa shook her head.

"Not anymore." She scratched her arm. "She's shown me how, Billi. How to change what I am. It's like the wind, the snow." She passed her hand over the lamp flame. "Fire, even. It doesn't touch me."

"Baba Yaga?" Billi whispered. What other changes had the witch wrought on the little girl?

Svetlana hissed, and Vasilisa shuddered. She glanced over her shoulder at the Polenitsy, then nodded. "Yes, the goddess has shown me what I am."

Billi brushed Vasilisa's hair out of her face to get a good look at her. She was fresh and well-fed, but she had changed —she looked at Billi with wise eyes.

Vasilisa turned to Ivan. He'd been watching it all silently. Now he stood and gave Vasilisa a warm smile.

"They say you are a prince," said Vasilisa. "You look like a prince."

"I am Ivan. It is a pleasure to meet you, Vasilisa."

Billi's clothes had been swapped for a white shirt and baggy cotton trousers. She got out of bed, and her legs almost gave way. Ivan grabbed her. She was still weak from last night's battering. "I need something to drink," she muttered. She licked her lips. "More food, too. Meat." Her tongue ran over her teeth. She wanted to tear at a big juicy steak.

Billi didn't miss the look from Svetlana. Billi was turning into one of them, but the young woman saw only a rival. If Svetlana wanted a fight, that was just dandy. Weak as she was, Billi's heart pumped with desire. She put her hand against her chest. She knew what would happen if she gave in to the anger. Elaine had warned her.

"The wolf you killed, Silver Paws, was a pack elder and her bite was particularly infectious," said Vasilisa. "The other wolves are amazed that you've not transformed already. It takes a lot of willpower to fight it." Vasilisa paused, screwing up her eyes. Her lips lost their color and she swayed. "Fight it," she whispered to herself.

Billi grabbed her wrist. "Vasilisa, you okay?"

The girl rubbed her head. "SiCk, BiLLi. She
IZz
. InSide." Her voice became distorted as dozens of others spoke through her. Billi heard the accents of other languages, of the old and the young—male and female.

Vasilisa's pixie face wrinkled, and her big eyes filled with tears. Her body trembled. "Oh, Billi. They won't stop talking." She gazed at Billi, her voice quiet and intense. "Please, don't let her eat me."

Billi shot an angry look at Svetlana, but said, did, nothing. She didn't want to scare Vasilisa.

"She won't." One way or another.

So Baba Yaga was in there, digging away. All psychics endured the voices until they grew powerful enough to shut them out. Being a telepath, Kay had had it real bad. As a child he'd spent weeks living in isolation, trying to cutoff the invasion of other people's thoughts and dreams. Words and voices had spilled out of him, gibberish that had almost driven him mad. More than one asylum had a psychic patient deranged by all the voices that never quieted.

Olga entered. The old woman wore a long dress made of animal skin and studded with beads. Her feet were in beautifully embroidered fur-lined boots. Heavy bronze bracelets rattled on her wrists, and faded blue tattoos covered her wiry bare arms. "The Great Mother wishes to speak with you, Templar," she said.

The two Polenitsy put themselves between her and Vasilisa.

Olga stepped forward. "We must go now."

Billi stood fixed to the spot. Baba Yaga wanted to see her. She thought of the dreaded power that had risen out of the forest. Then she'd only caught a glimpse of the Dark Goddess, and it had overwhelmed her; now she was going to stand face-to-face with her. Goose bumps rose across her skin.

"What does she want?" Billi asked. Ivan tightened his hold on his crutch. He glanced at her, and there was fear for her in his eyes.

Olga pulled back the tent flap. "Come —now."

They want us to be afraid.

Baba Yaga wanted to see her. That didn't sound good. Billi couldn't change that, but she could either go cowering, or with her head up. She steadied herself against Ivan, then let go and stood on her own two feet. Like a Templar should.

"No point keeping the old girl waiting," she said. Olga pointed at a pair of fur-lined leather boots by the entrance. On the stool lay Billi's red coat, but it was badly torn and all the buttons were missing. She put it on and then pulled on the boots.

"You too," said Svetlana. She grabbed Ivan and dragged him off his stool. He slapped her hand away, and Red's hand sprang up, each finger tipped with an ivory claw.

"Svetlana!" snapped Olga. Slowly, Red lowered her hand. Billi helped Ivan up and passed him the crutch.

"Ivan?"

Ivan wasn't listening: his attention was focused purely on Olga.

"Do you know who I am?" he snarled. Despite the injured leg, Ivan smoldered with anger; every muscle was tensed for battle, and his eyes darkened like an advancing hurricane.

Billi stared at him and the old woman.
Oh, Jesus
, she thought.
Olga killed his father
.

Olga nodded. "The son of the old tsar."

"Son of the man you killed."

Billi took hold of Ivan's wrist. "We'll pick our moment, Ivan." His head snapped in her direction, and for a moment Billi thought he'd break free and attack. But then his rage cooled and he gave a single nod. He looked back at Olga.

She smiled wryly. "And I will be waiting, boy."

As they left the tent, Billi's hair blew loose in the wind. Out of habit she tucked her collar around her neck, but she didn't feel the cold much. Was this part of the infection? The change was coming: first rage and blood thirstiness, the emotions evolving into those of a predator. The physical change was last of all. But she couldn't give in yet. She still had work to do.