The place positively reeked of magic. It reminded me of being in the forest, or in the presence of Mayor Bodmin: it was covered in older magic, the sort that had been around since probably the dawn of time, and would still be here long after I finally became a statue for good. It wasn’t evil-magic is not good or evil, even the kinds that are forbidden, like blood magic. But it was extremely strong, and if someone wanted to use it for evil...just thinking about it made my fur stand on end. This was why the most powerful monsters-alchemists, sorcerers, elder dragons, sidhe, certain types of demons-all freaked out us more garden-variety monsters. It was people like them who had caused major problems in the past, setting themselves up as gods, exacting horrible punishments on anyone who disagreed with them, and in general causing havoc. Don’t get me wrong, any monster with a mind to can cause havoc; case in point, Desmond Jessup. And we try not to actually discriminate against them, since it was discrimination that drove all of us into hiding, and we know how that feels. But among those monsters history and mythology consider to be bad...these were the Big Bads. So it’s hard not to be wary of them, and in many cases that wariness is justified.
Speak of the devil, as I removed my sunglasses the spell dissipated, and I finally got a good look at the witch herself, who was sitting at an old wooden table in the center of the room. I’d seen her once before, years ago at a diplomatic party that my dad dragged us to in St. Petersburg. As far as I could tell, she hadn’t changed a bit. Still a tall, skinny old woman dressed like a traditional Russian grandmother: old black dress, dark gray shawl, blood red head scarf fastened with a brooch shaped like a skull (the skull is not necessarily traditional)-just how people imagine she looks. Her gray-and-white hair hung underneath the scarf in two long curtains, framing her pale face. Burning red eyes, a long icepick of a nose, and a thin-lipped mouth filled with sharp iron teeth (which seem awfully impractical to me) finished up the ensemble.
The hut, I saw, was a mess. Dust covered the floor, the table, the enormous wardrobe in the corner, the spare chairs, the enormous stone fireplace, the giant mortar and pestle over in the opposite corner-basically everywhere and everything. A tall black sunflower grew in one corner of the room; the ground around it was littered with fallen petals. There were spills and crumbs everywhere, in many interesting hues. Remembering the stories I’d read about Baba Yaga, I wondered if she was going to force us to clean for her. I hoped not.
“Welcome,” she said with a smile that she probably thought looked benevolent. “Who is your lovely companion?”
As if you didn’t know.
“My assistant, Calla Gardiner.” She probably expected me to bow or something; well, good luck with that. Even if I was on my best behavior at the moment, that didn’t mean I was going to go that far. I just stood there as Calla joined me, standing at my side.
“Hello,” she said softly, nodding to the witch while avoiding her eyes.
Baba Yaga made a gesture with an emaciated hand, and two extra chairs appeared at the table.
“Please, sit.”
After a cursory glance confirmed that they were safe, we sat down.
As soon as Calla was in her chair, the witch suddenly reached out and pinched her arm gently. I had to remember Xen’s warning not to start anything so that I wouldn’t swat her hand away.
“Hardly any flesh,” she said in an almost disappointed tone. Her nose twitched, and I remembered that she was reputed to have an exceptional sense of smell.
Calla flinched away. “Sorry. I don’t gain weight easily.”
Baba Yaga withdrew her hand, before abruptly saying, “You are a very interesting person, Miss Gardiner.”
“Am I?” my assistant asked. She glanced up at the witch, unnerved at how closely she was being stared at.
“You have the blood of the vurdalaki in your veins.”
“The-” Then Calla realized who she was referring to, and nodded with a timid smile. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
“In all my years, I have never met someone who has bonded with one. Most fascinating.”
Mentally I cursed; it appeared that Calla didn’t even need to demonstrate her eye powers to be interesting to her.
Baba Yaga went on, “And if I did, I would not expect them to have a soul so...relatively unstained. Even though there is blood on yours, it’s hardly as much as I would expect.”
Any ease Calla had been feeling vanished; her face went white, and her heart rate increased at the mention of the one life she had taken. I felt a rush of anger that the witch would dredge up that old wound, and decided to intervene.
“What’s the issue?” I interrupted.
Baba Yaga looked disappointed at my butting in, but she just gave a small nod and said, “There is something I need you to retrieve for me. It is a sword being kept in the home of Koschei the Deathless.”
If Baba Yaga was Russia’s most powerful witch, then Koschei was its most powerful sorcerer. Legends said that he’d extracted his own soul from his body, and put it where nobody, human, animal, monster or Reaper, could ever find it-making himself basically immortal. He was well-versed in the magical arts, and exceedingly rich. And since he was so powerful, it only followed that he and Baba Yaga would become bitter enemies, constantly squabbling over treasures and territory. In a way, it was a blessing, because if they ever decided to work together, they would probably think to try to leave Russia and take over the world. At least this way they were just holed up in one country.
She dragged me out here to become a part of her petty squabble with Mr. the Deathless?! Heck no, babushka, I am not your errand boy!
I didn’t say that, of course. Instead I asked, “Did he steal it from you?”
Baba Yaga gave me a scornful look at the implication that anyone would be able to steal from her. “Of course not.”
“Has the sword in any way, shape or form been your legal property before coming into his possession?”
She finally realized what I was getting at; her red eyes narrowed into slits, and a slight angry hiss came from her mouth. But she tried to calm down again, and said in a reasonable tone, “You don’t understand. This is not just any sword. It is the sword Kladenets, which gives untold power to whoever wields it. If Koschei has it, think of what he might be able to do.”
And that’s better than you having it, how? I’m not sure which of you is worse, but I don’t need to get involved in this. It’s not my country.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but this job is not in my jurisdiction. If the sword is not your property, then I can’t do anything.”
