Season of the Witch ending

“You know-” Calla gasped as we ran faster- “I think I had-a dream about this once.”
“Really?” I puffed back.
“Yeah.  When I was-maybe five.  I don’t remember everything-just being chased by the house.”
“Did it have chicken legs?”
“Yeah.”  Her eyes widened.  “Maybe-an early vision?”
I shrugged, wincing at my already-aggravated broken wing.
“Wouldn’t-be surprised.”
I awkwardly pulled the towel out of my shirt,* and threw it over my shoulder.
“What’s that for?” Calla yelled.
“Is it doing anything?” I yelled back.
There was a gasp.  “Yes!”
Just in case, I looked over my shoulder.  And yes, just as I’d hoped, it had become a vast, glassy lake, right there in the forest.


Why Baba Yaga kept items in her hut that could be used against her, especially in easy reach of others, was anybody’s guess.  And you’d think she’d have learned from previous times dealing with people who used the same trick.  But maybe it was for the same reason that she wanted to steal the sword.  Arrogance.  Or following the proverb of “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
It slowed her down as we kept running; Baba Yaga couldn’t swim, and as I suspected, she didn’t have the patience to go around.  So I saw her forcing the hut to wade into the lake.  The hut didn’t like it; it squirmed, and shook, and finally jumped out of the water and refused to go back in, water dripping from the floorboards.


“You okay?” Calla suddenly asked.  Since the witch was briefly inconvenienced, we were going a bit slower-though not slow enough to be overconfident.
“...You’re asking this now?”
“You look pale.  And I’m not having to struggle to keep pace with you.  Tristan, I think your wound’s worse than you’re acting.”
“I’m fine, kid.  I’ve got my adrenaline-”
Which is when I started to see colored spots before my eyes.  Because whoever is control of these things loves their moments of irony.


Calla muttered something that was almost a curse, but not quite, and then grabbed my arm, draping it over her shoulders.
“That’s gonna slow you down,” I protested.
“I’m not leaving you.  Xen would never forgive me.”
“Better get this out, then.”  I fumbled around until I got the comb.  “Lake’s probably not gonna hold her for long-”
Sure enough, we heard the sound of the mortar riding the wind across the lake.  I didn’t bother to look this time, focusing on running.
Calla said indignantly, “It flies far better for her than it did for me!”
“Well-” I gasped- “it is her mortar.”


Time for the comb.
I tossed it, just long enough to see it starting to grow into a giant impenetrable forest,** and kept going without looking back.

***

Much to my relief, Baba Yaga did not continue chasing us.  At least, not that I could sense, even though my abilities were a little off par at the moment, so she could have flown past us dressed as a belly dancer playing an accordion, and I might not have noticed.


Eventually we made it into a town with a teleportation mirror, and took the first opportunity to get home.  We materialized in the kitchen...where I’m ashamed to admit that I promptly passed out.
Hey, it had been a long week for me, okay?  And I’d just gone through a lot of physical exertion while suffering from severe blood loss; don’t judge me.


My last conscious thought was, Well, I can add this to my list of Times Tristan felt Useless.
It seemed like all I’d done the entire time was be captured/at the mercy of more powerful beings, and rely on others to do things for me.  I mean, it’s not that I wasn’t grateful to Xen, Morgan and Calla for finding out what I wanted to know, or the vodyanoy-duck for leading me to where the soul was kept...I just felt like I spent more time being acted upon than doing any acting of my own.  Definitely not my finest hour.


I regained consciousness to find myself in bed.  My limbs felt heavy, making me realize after a moment that Xen must have bitten me to keep me paralyzed for some reason.
How long have I been here?
My eyes slowly flicked open, and caught sight of Xen sitting by the side of the bed, glaring at me in a way that made me nervous.
Seeing I was awake, before I could even try to speak, she leaned down and kissed me.  Which felt wonderful, after everything I’d been through.
When she finally stopped, I gasped, “For a moment I thought you were going to hit me.”
“I did consider it.  But decided I’d rather do this.”
“Is there a reason why I’m paralyzed?”
“So you stay in bed until your blood cells have sufficiently multiplied.”
“Geez, doc, you’re taking your practice very seriously.”
She glared at me again.  “You have a bad habit of underestimating the extent of your injuries.  While that can be an admirable quality, it also makes me occasionally want to strangle you.”


“...How’s our son?” I asked.
Xen finally smiled.  “Waiting for his daddy to get better.  He keeps wanting to come in and play with you.  I had to be firm and tell him to let you sleep.”
My throat constricted.  “Well...can I at least see him before bedtime?”
“Of course.  Until then, go back to sleep.”
“Yes, boss,” I sighed.

***

So far there have been no nasty repercussions from Baba Yaga or Koschei the Deathless.  But we’ve been on alert, just in case.  And trying our best to recuperate.  Xen’s had me on a lot of bed rest while my blood cells regenerate and my broken wing finishes healing.  Phil plays with me as often as he can, and hopefully soon I’ll be strong enough to carry him on my shoulders again.  Calla’s been very quiet and thoughtful about whatever the witch told her.  I haven’t pushed about it, figuring she’ll tell me if she wants to, but I am undeniably curious.
For now, though, I’m trying to enjoy life with my family until some new catastrophe hits us.

* Snapping off a button in the process; dang it.
**Which, if the story was correct, she wouldn’t be able to go through, and every time she tried to fly over it it would just grow higher.  And trying to chop down the trees with her iron teeth would just result in splinters in her mouth.  Hopefully she wouldn’t try her magic instead; I wasn’t sure if it was resistant against that.

Season of the Witch part 21

Koschei was bored.  He’d been waiting for almost a full day, and there was no sign of “Mr. Tolstoy.”  Not that he expected him to actually find the right tree.  He just hoped he’d come back and concede defeat, so he could find something more fun to do with him.  The hot blood of gargoyles was said to give them a high tolerance for cold temperatures; it would be interesting to find out just how cold.  Or see how strong their tough skin was when faced with the opposite extreme of intense heat.
Koschei had won yet another game of chess played against his oldest and most loyal manservant, Igor.  The man had some talent, yes, but he was only a hundred and fifty years old, and his opponent had centuries of experience ahead of him.  If he did say so himself, Koschei viewed himself as a chess master.
Sometimes he wondered if he could ever persuade Baba Yaga to play with him again.  The crone so hated to lose at anything, and hated even more to admit how talented he was, but they had enjoyed a few games together in their lifetime.  Maybe if he gave her the sword willingly, she’d be willing to join him for a few rounds…


The Deathless One sipped thoughtfully at his vodka.  There was another day and a half yet; he had plenty of time before-
His body jerked violently, spilling vodka all over himself, staining the fur of his robe.  Koschei leaped up, spluttering and cleaning himself off.  He’d felt something strange in that moment-something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time…
“Sir?” Igor asked.  “Are you all right?”
Before Koschei could answer, his arm moved on its own, and he found himself casting a spell.  A spell that opened a portal.
Before he could try to close it, a gargoyle-bedraggled, pale, with one wing dragging broken at his side, covered in mud and blood, and carrying a very ugly duck under one arm-stepped through.  In one claw he clutched a golden egg.

***

Believe it or not, getting ahold of the soul was the easiest part of my trip.  Because yeah, I broke my wing and lost some blood I couldn’t afford to lose fighting a giant rabbit-duck automaton that sprang out of the chest when I opened it, but the solution for that was simple: destroy it before it could destroy me, then remove the egg from its innards.
Oh, sorry, were you actually interested in reading about that part?  About the big, dramatic action scene?  So you like reading about me getting beat up by some eldritch abomination and having to scramble frantically to a position where I can dig my claws into its belly and rip it open and pull out its wiring, getting myself splattered with oil and grime and being generally crushed and tossed about the whole time?  What kind of monster are you?!


Hefting the egg, I said, “Found it.”
Koschei glared at me.  “So you did.”
“Now give me the sword, before I smash it.”
With a world-weary sigh, the sorcerer handed it over.  Then he asked, “Out of curiosity, how did you find it?”
I nearly said A little bird told me, but I didn’t want him exacting retribution on the innocent creature, so I said, “Just lucky, I guess.”
His eyes strayed to the duck anyway.  And he realized, as I did, that it was under a spell of some kind, and his face twisted with a kind of dark hatred.  “You!”
Whatever connection he had with it escaped me, but I quickly stepped back and brandished the egg.  “You’re not allowed to do anything to hurt this creature, in duck form or whatever its original form is.  Or come after me, or my family or friends.  Promise you won’t do any of those things, and you can have this back.”
Koschei blinked.  Then he said, “Then why bother returning it at all?  It’s nothing short of foolish.  And you could have all you want and more if you just keep my soul.”
Meaning he’d be my servant, like the Dark One’s dagger.*  But I just said, “I don’t think I’m qualified to bear that kind of responsibility.”  Then, more firmly, “Deal?”
He sighed.  “Deal.  I will not do anything to harm you, those you care for, or this-” his lip curled- “vodyanoy.”
So that’s what it is.
“You also need to promise not to entice anything to harm any of us, or act in any way, shape or form that will do so.”
Maybe I should have created a contract.


Looking exasperated, Mr. the Deathless agreed to all my terms.  Once I was sure that the bases were covered, I started to place the egg in his hands.  But then I hesitated.
“One more thing.  What’s Kladenets do?”
He grinned mirthlessly.  “It gives the bearer the gift of making very excellent borscht.  Nothing else.”
You have got to be kidding me.
“Is that the truth?”  I jiggled the egg a bit.
Koschei flinched, but told me, “I swear it on the souls of my ancestors.”
Dramatic, but I decided to believe him.  I placed the egg in his arms.  And for a split second, I saw a bit of a change in him.  The washed-out-ness faded a bit, and I saw something more...human** in him.  Then he glared, and opened a new portal, which swept me and the vodyanoy-duck away.

*From Once Upon a Time, a human TV show that was good, but sucked after season 3.
** For lack of a better word

Season of the Witch part 20

There seemed to be a million trees in this forest.  I knew it was a fool’s errand trying to find the right one in so little time; Koschei covered his tracks so well.  It wasn’t like he made frequent visits here, either, so any traces would have been washed away by the elements centuries ago.  If I had more time to research, then maybe I would be able to find it more easily, but so far I was on a tight schedule, and so far I was getting nowhere.
Well, what a great hero I’ve been.  I made it into the lair and got my claws on the sword, only to get captured, tortured, and lose any connection to anyone who might help me.  And now I’m blundering around in a forest, without much hope of finding what I seek in time.
I wasn’t giving up...but I sent out a silent plea to anyone who might listen.
Help me.  Please.  For the sake of my family.  That includes Calla.


As if on cue, a few minutes later my ears picked up the sound of wings flapping.  Ungainly-sounding wings, accompanied by a squawk, then a crash up in the branches above me.  I looked up...just in time for a duck to land on my head.
This is not a typical occurrence in my life.  It was messy and feathery.  And smelled like pond scum.  I hurriedly clawed it off (without actually harming it), and held it at arm’s length.
Something was odd about this duck, as I took a good look at it.  It was an unusual shade of green all over, and something about its feathers seemed more like they should be scales.  The bill was all flattened out, making it look like a frog masquerading as a duck, and its webbed feet a murky green.  In some ways, this was the ugliest duck I had ever seen.
It looked at me out of big golden eyes (also unusual for a duck), and quacked at me.
“...What’s up, duck?”


It quacked again, and squirmed indignantly until I set it down on the forest floor.  Taking a second to get its feathers back in order, it then waddled up and grabbed my pant leg in its bill, tugging.  I tried to shake it off, but it tugged more insistently.
Hmm…
“If this were a fairy tale,” I said aloud,* “following you would help me to find the tree where Mr. the Deathless keeps his soul.”
The duck nodded its head excitedly, and continued pulling.
This could be a trick by Mr. the Deathless.  But really, what have I got to lose?
“Okay.  I’ll come.  But if you’re here to lead me astray, I’m having duck a l’orange for dinner.  Got it?”
It nodded again, and began waddling away.  This time, I followed.


After a while, I realized that it would be faster to carry the duck, and have it nudge me whenever we needed to make a turn or something.  It did seem to appreciate not having to waddle across the forest floor, and even nestled itself into my side.
And finally, we found the tree, next to a rushing stream.

*In Russian, just in case.

Season of the Witch part 19

Morgan and Xen had been digging for half an hour through ancient transcripts and texts.  When the little ones complained of hunger, Morgan gave them packets of fruit snacks and told them to go play again.  But she knew that sooner or later they would have to go home.
Xen hadn’t stopped to eat.  She didn’t even notice what her companions were doing; she was reading frantically through everything, claws tapping agitatedly and chewing her lips, not paying attention to the amount of blood she was drawing.
Suddenly, she made Morgan jump with the loud whisper of “I’ve found something!”
“What?”
She shoved the vellum manuscript under Morgan’s nose.  Pushing it back so she could actually read it, Morgan said aloud, “The writings of Bogdana Ivanovna Volkana.”
“Yes!  Look down there!”  Xen jabbed an excited claw at a particular paragraph.
Scanning it, Morgan saw that-once again-it had to do with Koschei the Deathless.  But it was the story of how he first hid his soul.

“The only creature that saw him do it,” she read, “was a vodyanoy that happened to live in the nearby stream, and knew the woods like the back of his webbed hand; he saw the exact place where the chest was hidden.  But when Koschei realized that he had seen, and because the vodyanoy had been charmed by another sorcerer long ago, so he couldn’t kill him, he instead sent him far away, to a part of Russia where nobody would dare go: near the home of his rival, Baba Yaga.
"When the hero Ivan accidentally freed Koschei many years later, however, he and Marya came to the vodyanoy for help, because they found out that he knew where Koschei’s soul was.  They went to the place the soul was kept, stole it, and controlled Koschei into giving up his hold on the couple.  They intended to destroy the soul, but the sorcerer successfully stole it back; after that, Koschei realize who had told them about it, and this time locked the memory away in the vodyanoy’s mind, so it would never be spoken again.”
Xen’s eyes sparkled feverishly.  “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
Morgan pulled out her phone and rapidly texted the information to Calla. That done, she said, “I need to get the kids home now. But call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”  After a pause, Xen became perturbed.  “I should see how Mom and Phil are doing…”  She looked torn between wanting to further help her husband, and taking care of her son.
Her friend gently reassured her, “There’s probably nothing more to be done for Tristan. But you can take care of your son. It will probably help.” She didn't have to disguise the longing in her voice. Xen knew how much it had affected Morgan to lose her baby three months into the pregnancy. 
She nodded slowly.  “You’re probably right.”  Then, with a sigh, she looked at the piles of books and manuscripts sprawled across the table.  “Do you think if we hurry, we can get away before the librarians see the mess we’ve made?”
“Bet I can beat you to the door!”
“Not with two girls to supervise, you can’t!”

***

It was quiet up here.  Nothing but the wind, and the occasional bird, and the repetitive motion of paddling the mortar through the air (Calla’s arms had finally stopped aching after every trip she took in it), and wisps of clouds overhead.  No need to think.  Just row, and stare out at the vast Russian landscape.  Focus on what you can control, not on the fact that you’re a useless weakling who can’t even stand up to the most powerful witch in Russia.
Thinking that made it sound a little silly for her to be so disgusted with herself; of course it would be difficult to do anything when going up against Baba Yaga.  But-but she’d fought Desmond Jessup once.  Sort of.  She’d pushed him into a cage.  Even if he didn’t have much magic, he was crazy and evil on a level equal with the witch’s power.  Surely if she could handle him, she should be able to take down Baba Yaga.  Instead she’d let her break the scrying glass, and was powerless to do anything about it.  Useless.


I’m not doing a very good job of not thinking about this.
Just then, her phone buzzed.  New text message.
Stopping the mortar (and giving it a stern rap with the pestle so it wouldn’t drop and lose altitude on her), Calla slowly pulled out her phone and read the message.
As she did, the despairing glaze fled her eyes, and a new fire erupted in her belly.*  Her body moved out of its hunched-over state, and she shoved the phone into her pocket, seizing the pestle and frantically changing direction until she was pointed towards the lake.
It seemed like an unbelievable coincidence...but something in her gut told her it was the case.  He’d been there for such a long time, and while vodyanoi weren’t that uncommon in Russia, perhaps he’d at least know who she meant if it wasn’t him.


Barely remembering to tie up the mortar, Calla leaped out of it and ran down to the lake.
“Pavel!” she shouted.
Nothing but bubbles in the water.
She spun a hand over it, creating a sort of tunnel, and shouted the name again, before closing it up over the sound.
Five seconds...ten...twenty…
Three red heads poked up out of the water.  The heads belonged to three beautiful young girls, all with fetching green eyes (with slitted pupils), pearly skin, and wide grins filled with sharp teeth.


Staring up at her, they giggled behind their pale webbed hands.
“Where’s Pavel?” Calla demanded, using her best Russian.
“Why do you want that sack of lard?” one of the rusalki giggled.
“He’s no fun at all to talk to,” another said.
“He smells like the moss he lives in,” the youngest-looking squeaked.  Even though their insults weren’t particularly clever, they all laughed, with high, musical voices.


But Calla was out of patience, and knew she was running out of time.  She flung out a hand, and a spell wrapped itself around the first rusalka, lifting her squealing all the way out of the water.
To Calla’s hidden relief, she was wearing what appeared to be a kind of sarong.  It showed off her long legs and big webbed feet, as well as quite a bit of the rest of her, but better than nothing.
The other rusalki screamed, and grabbed her around the legs, trying to pull their sister back into the water.  Calla just used the spell to pull tighter, and asked again, in a clipped tone of voice that really wasn’t like her, “Where’s Pavel?”
“He-he’s in the middle of the lake somewhere!  Probably taking a mud bath or something!” her prisoner (it made her feel guilty to think of her like that, but she had to admit that it was probably true) wailed.
“Go and get him for me, now.”  After a second, Calla added, “Please.”


She released the rusalka, who fell into the water with a splash, and was off like a shot, sisters in tow.
Calla waited, hoping that they weren’t just running away, so she wouldn’t have to chase after them.
Finally, the waters parted, and the familiar frog-like head rose up into the air.
With a sigh of relief, Calla dropped to her knees beside him, and without preamble, placed her hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes.
The vodyanoy was astonished.  Had she really threatened the rusalki?
Calla admitted that she had, kind of.  But she wouldn’t have actually hurt them, she just needed his help.  Did he know where the soul of Koschei the Deathless was being kept?


Pavel froze.  He tried to deny it, shivering in repressed fear.  But thoughts can’t lie, and there was something, back in a corner of his mind…
Calla touched the area, covered as it was by black shadows and chainlike spells.  Where was the weakness...show me the weakness...there.  It was powerful, but also old and frail from lack of use.  She had done this before; granted, it had been one she had made herself, but still.  She broke it open, releasing the memory.
Pavel gasped with relief.  Yes.  Yes, he remembered the place where the soul was.  He hadn’t been there in years, but he could point out the exact tree.  He hadn’t spoken of it since he’d met that nice couple ages ago who needed help finding it.
If I sent you there now, could you help my friend retrieve it?
The vodyanoy was hesitant.  If Koschei found him, he might actually kill him this time, regardless of the consequences.  Besides, it would be hard if he couldn’t get out of this lake…
Leave that to me.

*This one slightly more pleasant than her previous rage.

Season of the Witch part 18

Calla felt a sudden stirring of hope.  If Tristan could find the soul of Koschei, then he could get Kladenets, and then they could go home.  The problem, of course, was getting the information to Tristan once they had it.  This scrying glass only appeared to be a one-way model, so she could see Tristan, but couldn’t communicate with him.
Or could she?
Thoughtfully, Calla pushed on the edges of the glass, using it to zoom in on the detective’s face.  And, despite her hesitation, on his eyes.
There was no way it would work.  At least, it didn’t seem possible, since she’d only ever thought she could do it while in close contact with the other person.  But somehow, she was suddenly sharing thoughts with Tristan.
Naturally, she felt his alarm and instant attempt to escape what he assumed was an attack.  But she hurriedly thought at him, Tristan, it’s okay!  It’s me!
...Calla?  How the blazes-
I’m using a scrying glass.  Apparently this...thing I do can work through that.
Interesting.
They spent a moment immersed in each other’s thoughts, looking at what had happened to each other in the last few days.  Calla was shocked and affronted by seeing how Koschei had tortured Tristan, and when she examined the physical and mental state he was in.  Then she caught a glimpse of a memory of his reflection that he’d seen in a window.
You look terrible.
Thanks. At least his sarcasm was still intact. 
Sorry.
Don’t be.  Tristan saw that apparently Xen and Morgan wanted to help.  You think they’ll find out how to find the soul?
Hey, if we find something it’ll make your job easier.  And it’s better than just sitting and doing nothing.  Xen’s been researching the different stories about Koschei’s soul, where it’s kept.
Tristan scanned the results thoughtfully, then gave a mental nod.
I’m thinking the best place to start looking might be the oldest part of the forest.  I’m going to head over there, look in any hollow trees I can find.
Good idea.  We’ll keep you posted on anything we find out-
The scrying glass shattered itself into hundreds of pieces.

***

Calla?  CALLA!
She was gone.  There had been a crashing sound, and her presence had vanished from my mind.  A lot of words ran through my mind, making it possibly for the best that she was no longer there.
She must have gotten caught.  Confound it all!
I hated that witch.  Hated Baba Yaga and Koschei and the whole bloody pack of Russians who were making my life miserable right now.  Especially when I opened my pack to try using the glasses which would help me decipher the types of spells present here, and found that the lenses had been conveniently removed.
Right then.  I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.


With a growl of frustration I made my way (silently, though) into the oldest part of the forest, where the smell of magic was the strongest.  It had to be here.  Somewhere.

***

Slowly, Calla looked up from the remains of the glass.
Baba Yaga glared back, her hair billowing wildly, even though there was no wind in the hut.  Her eyes glittered with red fire, and her iron teeth gnashed in a snarl.
“No fair helping Chernobyl,” she said softly.  Even though it wasn’t a shout, the words chilled all the way to Calla’s marrow.
“That wasn't in the contract.”  Calla surprised herself with her own boldness.  “There’s nothing in there against my offering him assistance or information.”
The witch looked like thunder, and for a moment Calla thought that she was about to be smited (Smitten?  It was hard to tell which word was more appropriate under the circumstances) into ashes.  Instead, after a second, her bony shoulders relaxed, and she smiled.
“Too bad the imp that controlled the glass is gone, then,” she said with a bit of a chuckle at the end.  “Good luck helping him now, myshka.”
And she went into her room for her afternoon nap, shutting the door behind her.


Calla sat there for a second, perfectly still.  Then a fire lit in her stomach; a hot, burning coal, that rushed up her back and into her arms and through the veins of her neck into her brain.  She was about to explode.  She needed to do something-anything-to make it stop, before she let it loose and seriously hurt someone like last time don’t think about it you might make it happen something needed to happen NOW-
She leaped to her feet, and her hand slammed onto the witch’s table, sending the raging magic fueling her at the moment into the wood and everything on the table, blasting it with what felt like the strength of a nuclear blast in concentrated form.
A moment later Calla was standing next to a pile of ash.  She dropped to her knees into it, heedless of how it affected her jeans, slamming her fists into the floorboards.  As soon as the anger came, though, once it was purged it was replaced by cold, numbing-defeat.


It wasn’t like she knew how to summon an imp and trap it in a scrying glass; that was something she had never really wanted to learn, since it was basically slavery.  And sure, there were other ways to send a message, but she needed something that would do so quickly.  Tristan didn’t have much time left.  Even if Morgan and Xen found the information now…


Finally Calla stood up again, and used a spell to repair all the damage she’d done.  Then, feeling that* blanket of numb complacency and resignation covering her again, she slowly walked out the door, climbed into the mortar, and methodically began paddling her way into the air.  Part of her considered trying to go to wherever Tristan was, but had the feeling Baba Yaga would stop her somehow.  So she just steered blankly into the sky, not caring where she went.  She should probably get used to this thing, just in case.  Even though it continued to be uncooperative.

*Eerily familiar

Season of the Witch part 17

Author's Note
Just a few things: first, I have decided to change gargoyle physiology somewhat.  Gargoyles no longer turn to stone while sleeping.  Now it's only when they die.
Second, this upcoming month is Nanowrimo, and I am planning on participating.  This involves writing a 50,000-word novel in just thirty days.  To help me keep working on this, I intend to post it here, as soon as I'm done with this one.  So keep your eyes peeled, and if possible, please help me feel motivated to keep writing.

Morgan Hartford was walking down the street, on the way to pick up her daughters* from nursery school, when she saw Xen Wormwood sitting at a table outside of a cafe.
Even though her head was buried in her claws, that red hair was recognizable anywhere.
“Xen? Are you okay?”
She jumped a foot when she heard her voice, and quickly glanced up.
“Wha-?  Oh.  Hi.”
Her face looked normal, not blotchy at all, but her voice had cracked the tiniest bit.
“Tristan isn't back yet?” Morgan sat down across from her. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
She sighed, running a claw through her hair.  “My mom’s here, helping look after Phil.  I just-feel very helpless right now.  I don’t even know how he’s doing.  Or if he’s even alive.  I’d like to think he is, since he’s a survivor, but-you know.”
“I think I understand. What if we try to do something to help you feel less useless? Calla could tell us what he's trying to do, and maybe we can find something useful and Calla can think of a way to get the information to him.”
“I know what he’s trying to do.  He’s trying to steal a sword from Koschei the Deathless.”  But she sat up straighter, and pulled out her phone.  “Maybe Calla can create a scrying glass or something that can help her find him.”


A few minutes later, the reply came back, and she held it out to let Morgan see.
Baba Yaga let me use her glass.  I haven’t told her everything, because she might try to stop me from helping, even though that wasn’t strictly speaking in the rules.  He’s alive, but looks awful.
Xen sagged against the table in relief.
“There’s one less thing to worry about,” she whispered.  Then she typed furiously, Where?
In a forest, it looks like. He’s paying a lot of attention to the hollow trees.


Xen frowned, and rubbed her forehead.
“That sounds familiar…”
“Koschei the Deathless... Hollow trees... He's looking for the soul!”
“Yes!”  The frown intensified.  “That doesn’t bode well.  Maybe he’s planning on using it to bargain for the sword.  Anyone who gets the soul could control him with it.  Or even kill him.”  She tapped her claws agitatedly.  “Things are getting serious over there if he’s going that far.”
“It must be. Can you think of any way we could help him?”
“We need to check the library.”  And before she could protest, Morgan found herself being grabbed by the wrist and pulled in the direction of the library.  It wasn’t until they were there and halfway through their research that she remembered, in horror, that her children were still at the nursery school waiting for her.
“I'll be right back, Xen!”
“What-”
Morgan didn’t stop to explain, just running out as quickly as she could.


Poppy and Rebecca’s teacher, Mrs. Flaversham, was waiting anxiously outside the building.
“There ye are, Mrs. Hartford!  The girls have been worried to death!  Rebecca’s been thinking ye’ve abandoned them!”
A familiar tearstained face peeked out from the door behind the caorthannach, looking somewhat relieved to see Morgan there.
“Oh, Rebecca, I'm sorry!”
Poppy looked out next.  “Momma!”  She glanced at Rebecca.  “I told you she’d come for us.” But she looked equally relieved that Morgan had finally showed up, skipping out into her arms.
“I was about to take them home myself, but I’m glad you came,” said Mrs. Flaversham, mollified.
“I'm so sorry!” Morgan hugged her children to her, trying to console them.  At least Friedrich had an extra hour of school left, so she didn’t have to worry that she’d forgotten him too.


Xen looked very shamefaced when Morgan returned with her little girls.
“Sorry.  I forgot that you probably needed to pick them up.”
“It's all right, I forgot too.”
Xen showed her the pile of books she’d picked out.  Many of them were old Russian fairy tale books, or just completely in Russian.  A few were very ancient-looking, leather texts.
“There’s a lot of contradictory tales about where Koschei’s soul is.  In some stories, it’s already been found and destroyed.  But we know that’s not true.”
“What’s a koschei?” asked Poppy.
“It’s not a what.  It’s a who.  Koschei the Deathless is a very bad man who has hidden his soul, and Tristan’s trying to find it,” Xen explained.
Rebecca looked a little perplexed.  “If he doesn’t have a soul...then isn’t he dead?”
“I wish.”


“Poppy, how about you take Rebecca to the children's section?”
“Kay.”
Rebecca started to protest, “But-”  But Poppy pulled her off.
Xen gave her an unapologetic stare.  “It would solve a lot of problems right now if he was dead.”  Then she looked horrified.  “Did I just say that?”
“You're under stress. It makes sense.”
With a sigh, she went back to looking at the works.  “Generally in the stories, if someone is looking for his soul, they need to get the help of some obscure bird or something which somehow knows its location.  Two people who actually managed to beat him once, according to this-” she passed over a book- “are Ivan and Marya, centuries ago.  Marya used to be a guard over Koschei, until Ivan accidentally set him free, but eventually they beat him together by finding his soul and commanding him never to harm either of them again.”  Xen pulled out her phone, sending a text to Calla.  “And, of course, the details are hazy on how they actually found his soul.  D____t.”  Then she glanced at Morgan.  “Sorry.”
Morgan put a hand on her shoulder.  “It might be in another book somewhere.  Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

*Besides Poppy, Morgan and Nathan had adopted a troll named Friedrich, and a little golden-haired girl named Rebecca who was half-mage, half-demon.  Rebecca’s story is a very interesting one indeed...but it will have to wait for later.

Season of the Witch part 16

Unfortunately, I didn’t get that far.  Probably that had something to do with my being both outnumbered and woozy from blood loss; whatever the reason, I found myself being frog-marched (pun totally intended) into one of the blocked-off-from-tourists rooms in the Kremlin.
It was like entering a totally different place.  Like a palace.
The floor was paved with shiny gold tiles, in different shades, in some kind of diamond design.  Elegant tapestries depicting events long past covered the walls.  Old-fashioned electric lamps shone here and there, making my eyes hurt even with the shaded glasses.  And sitting at the other end of the ridiculously long room was Mr. the Deathless, sitting on a gilded throne.  He was wearing another suit, still old-fashioned, and a heavy-looking diamond-covered crown.
“You heroes are so stubborn and reckless,” he said with a sigh as I was dragged close.  “I was almost done deciding what to do with you.”
I wasn’t going to wait around for you to make up your mind, you dried-up bag of bones! I snarled internally.  But since I was still cursed with silence, I could only give him the message by glaring venomously.
“You’re that anxious to steal this sword?”  Mr. the Deathless produced Kladenets and waved it around, taunting me with it.
I gave him a look, and with a sigh he removed the spell from my throat, allowing me to croak, “If I thought I could get it from you any other way, I would.”
“Really?”  He leaned forward on his throne.  “What’s Baba Yaga going to do to your assistant if you don’t get it?”
“That’s none of your business!”*


Koschei gave me a knowing smile which I figured must have taken him centuries to perfect.  Whether or not he actually had figured out my reasons was irrelevant; as long as he acted like he did, he had the satisfaction of feeling superior and trying to make me squirm.  I knew that trick, however, being very much the connoisseur of it myself, so I kept my face blank.
“This is most entertaining, Mr…?”
He left the phrase hovering, waiting patiently for me to complete it.  I finally said, “Tolstoy.”
One bushy eyebrow rose in a skeptical arch, but I didn’t change the pseudonym.
Unless you plan on feeding me phoenix blood again, I’m not volunteering raz”yem.**
Mr. the Deathless finally sighed.  “Very well, Mr. Tolstoy.  If you insist on using that name.  How about we make this interesting?”
Not another one.
“How?”
He stood up, tossing his robes back from his shoulders and twirling the sword again.
“I’ve been waiting for Baba Yaga to entertain me by trying to get this sword back.  You appear to have been a godsend, Mr. Tolstoy; being immortal can be so boring sometimes.  You might not have noticed, but people of my age like to play games with people like you.”  Ignoring my snort, he continued, “So, I will give you this sword freely-if you can find my soul.”


For those of you with more sensitive eyes, I will refrain from writing the string of curses that ran through my mind at this news.
As best I remembered, Koschei’s soul was kept inside a duck that was inside a rabbit inside a giant egg in an obscure tree, or something like that.  This was next to impossible.
But I conjured up an image of Calla, of her big brown eyes and her kind spirit and all the hell she’d gone through already, and asked, “How long have you kept me here?”
The old sorcerer looked down at me and said, “Ten years.”
My legs buckled, and I almost didn’t hear his laughter as he said, “Just kidding.  Around two days, I believe.”
That means I have about three days left.
“Give me two more days to find it,” I said, hating how pleading I sounded, since it would probably give him an edge over me if he knew I had a time limit.
“You’re not asking for three?”
“Everyone asks for three.  I need two.”
Hopefully I can find it before then, but let’s not trust to miracles.


That smirk was back; he probably at least suspected why I was so anxious.  I hurriedly added in, “And give me back the pack of Baba Yaga’s things.”
Leaning on the throne, Koschei asked, “Why should I give anything to the thief who invaded my home?”
“Because there are rules to this sort of thing.  And I’ll be far more entertaining if I have supplies that I can try to fight with.”
He didn’t look quite convinced, but at least my attitude seemed to amuse him again.  “Deal.”

***

Koschei didn’t bother with a contract.  He just had some of his henchfrogs give me the pack, and then I was booted out of the Kremlin.  That at first made me wonder if maybe the soul was inside the place, but that seemed a little obvious.  So, I went to a nearby restaurant, got a bowl of borscht and some bread, and sat outside eating (wolfing, really, since it was my first time eating in days) while I thought about where to look.
In the stories I’d heard, it was on an island somewhere.  And was the rabbit inside the duck, or the duck inside the rabbit-?
Eventually I gave up and bought a book that talked about Russian fairy tales from a convenient store.  According to it, there were different stories about where the soul actually was (Igor Stravinsky’s “Firebird” being just one example), but the general theme persisted of it being kept inside an egg, in a casket, inside a tree.  And in some versions, the egg was inside a duck which was inside a rabbit.***
Leaning back in my chair, I thought about this.  Since whoever could get hold of the soul could control Mr. the Deathless, odds were that he would want to keep it close by, just in case some fool would be lucky enough to stumble across it.  So, since he seemed to have such a tree fetish when it came to his soul,**** the best place to start looking was the nearby forest.
Better get started.

*Hopefully none of you are surprised by my tendency to mouth off in tight situations by now.  If so, then you really haven’t been paying attention if you’ve read my previous books.
**Jack
***Either it had to be the world’s largest rabbit, or the world’s smallest duck.  And how would he get the rabbit to swallow the duck either way?  Wait, stupid question: magic.
****I idly wondered if he’d liked to climb trees when he was younger, before he pulled out his soul and hid it, and that was why he kept it in one.  Assuming that it was actually there.

Season of the Witch part 15

Using the well that was in the nearby woods, a few heat spells, and lots of soap, Calla was able to take a nice warm bath, as well as wash her filthy clothes.  Then, with her hair still wet and unbrushed, she hurried to make dinner, as it was almost the hour when Baba Yaga would announce that she was hungry.  Calla had not yet done anything to make the witch cross, and she was afraid of what would happen.
Luckily, there was no complaint from Baba Yaga, who (as usual) devoured the roast chicken and potatoes and rolls, eating whatever Calla did not get hold of first.  Mentally the girl was resigning herself to another quiet night, perhaps with a phone call to someone back home, when Baba Yaga suddenly said, “You did not kill the vodyanoy.”


Calla jumped, and after composing herself, admitted, “I did not.”
“Why not?  He could have drowned you.”
“I’m not a killer,” she said quietly.  “Once was enough; I don’t need more blood on my conscience.”
Even without looking up from her plate, she could feel those red eyes staring at her.  She just scooped up a piece of chicken with her fork, and bit into it hungrily.  It really was good chicken; soft and chewy, without that horrid dryness that white meat tends to get.  Calla would not dare to call herself the best cook in the world, but she at least knew how to handle meat.


After another silence, the witch asked, “You enjoy talking with him?”
“Well enough.  He doesn’t know about much besides the pond, but he’s a good enough soul.  Just very lonely.”
Baba Yaga made a bit of a sniff, and continued masticating her own enormous piece of chicken.  Then she swallowed, and spoke again.
“How about that young man whom you talk to sometimes when I’m asleep?  You enjoy talking with him?”
Calla felt her cheeks grow warm.
Of course she knows about him.
“Y-yes.”
The witch smiled widely.
“He’s a very precious young man, then.  Even if you haven’t told him about the blood bond.”
Calla’s shoulders and neck felt warm this time.
“How do you know that?”
Baba Yaga shrugged, and stabbed her fork into a potato.  “I can see into people’s hearts, myshka.  It’s something you will learn too, if Chernobyl does not get the sword and you’re around long enough.”


The heat burned more fiercely; she’d thought she was growing numb to the idea, but hearing it spoken aloud in the witch’s pronounced Russian voice somehow brought all the pain back with a vengeance.  Calla tried to hold it in, but she had to squeeze her eyes shut and take a gulp of water so that she would try not to cry in front of this woman.
Baba Yaga continued, relentless.  “Even if he does win, if you go home and are no longer in my service, what are you planning to do about your young man?  Will you want to bond him with a vurdalak as well?  Or another of the Folk?  Because otherwise, he is going to grow old and die long before you even start to taste old age.”
Calla stared at the old woman’s plate, unable to look at her face.  “I haven’t really found a solution-”
“That is because you’re young and inexperienced!” she snapped.  Then she used a bony finger to reach over and raise the girl’s chin, forcing her to look at her face.  Though not at her eyes; Calla resisted that urge.


Baba Yaga smiled at her, teeth glinting in the light.  “I might be able to help you.”
Internal alarms went off in Calla’s mind.  But she forced her face to go blank, and asked softly, “How?”
Baba Yaga nodded over to the black sunflower.  “Do you know why I keep this?”
Calla said, “I know it possesses some sort of powerful magic.”
She nodded eagerly.  “Yes, yes!  The sort that kings have quested for, and alchemists wasted their lives trying to find!  Each of those seeds grants the one who eats it one hundred more years to live!”
So, sort of a plant version of the Holy Grail.
Calla managed to keep a straight face and not giggle at her internal commentary.
The witch went on, “If your young man were to eat these, there would be no fuss over age difference.  You could be happy with him.”
“What would your price be?” Calla countered.
The reply was succinct: “Become my apprentice.”


While Calla was still trying to digest that, she said, “You would not have to live here.  You could go back to your home in America, and solve your little problems with Chernobyl, assuming he gets back.  But you would come here every so often, and I would teach you what I know.  And every month, if you had learned well and been a good pupil, I would give you one of these seeds to give to your love.”
Slowly the mage sat back in her chair, blinking and searching for the words she wanted.  Finally she settled on, “Why?”
Baba Yaga said, “Be specific.”
“Why do you want an apprentice all of a sudden?  And why me, of all the people in the world?”
The witch shrugged.  “Call it a whim.”  Then she stood up, cramming the last of the chicken into her mouth and gnashing it to shreds with her iron teeth.  “At least consider it, myshka.”


Morgan, if Baba Yaga wanted to make you her apprentice in exchange for a way to make Nathan live longer, what would you say?
Calla tapped out the text message after cleaning up the remains of dinner, and sent it before thinking, Wait.  That might have been a very stupid idea.  I think she is going to freak.
She was right. Morgan’s first text was a question mark, followed by one comprised only of exclamation points. 
What are you doing with Baba Yaga? was the third.
...It’s for a case, Calla replied.
You and Tristan get the strangest cases.
I know.
Let me think about it a minute.


Calla waited anxiously, curled up by the fire, which she had built up a little bit.  It wasn’t necessarily that cold, but it made her feel a bit more secure.
Finally the response came. I don't know that I would now, but that's because of the blood bond. If you had asked a year ago, the answer would have been yes.
Even if it meant he’d have to watch his parents grow old and die while he stayed young for longer than he was supposed to?
That would be his decision to make, not mine.
She nodded slowly, even knowing that her friend couldn’t see her.  Then she leaned her chin in her hand, staring at the fire.
Her phone vibrated.
Are you okay?
Calla typed back, It’s kind of a long story.
I'm listening.
This is a text message.
You know what I mean…
After a hesitant second, she texted back, Tristan has to steal a sword from Koschei the Deathless or I’m going to be Baba Yaga’s prisoner.
Wow.
Yeah.
Any way I can help?
I doubt it.  But thanks anyway.


Had she been more secure regarding her emotions, Calla might have jumped to Baba Yaga’s offer with a lot less hesitation.  But she wasn’t.
To the best of her understanding, she loved Lars.  But was it enough to make her want to make him immortal?  After all, they were still in the process of getting to know each other.  And frankly, sometimes she was afraid that he felt more passionately for her than she did for him.  Or, to put it a bit more positively, he depended on her more than she did him.  Probably because she was one of the first people he’d cared about outside his group of homeless children.
Is that really a healthy relationship, then?  Maybe we’ve jumped into this whole thing too quickly...so is it really worth preserving his life for longer, especially because it wouldn’t be fair to Rosie?
Relationships are hard.
I wish Tristan was here, so I could talk to him about this.  He’d know what to do.

Season of the Witch part 14

I awoke with a jolt.  A second of confusion, and then everything flooded back to me: Baba Yaga, Calla, Mr. the Deathless, the sword, capture, bleeding-how long had I been asleep?!
I jumped up, feeling an adrenaline rush-and nearly fell over as my vision became covered with colored spots.  I used my left hand to grip the chair, but finally had to slump to the floor and lie down for a few minutes until I could see straight again.
Right; let’s try this again.  First of all, better check my hand.
I pulled it up from my chest, where somehow I’d been able to keep it for all this time, and took a look.  Thank goodness, the bleeding had stopped.  Now it was just clotted with a lot of dried blood.
I miss Xen.


I tried to make some sort of noise; the spell, however, had not worn off, making it impossible even to croak.  Not that I really needed my voice at the moment.  It would just be nice to have it back eventually, you know?  I decided to focus on getting out of here.


Now that I was actually free, and wearing the shaded glasses, I could see that my prison was made out of some kind of stained glass.  It was actually quite pretty, now that it wasn’t searing my retinas and I wasn’t tied to a chair.  The voices were back, too; to my surprise, their conversation made me suspect they were the voices of tourists.
“Come look at this!”
“How long do you think it took them to make that?”
“Derek!  Come back here!”
“I’m bored…”
“Do you know if we can take pictures?  All the signs are in Russian.”
And those were just in the languages I could understand.


My sense of smell was cut off by the glass, so I couldn’t tell if it was all an illusion or not.  So I began looking around the room, trying to find any other potential spells or curses that might be set up.  Eventually, in the far corner I found what looked like an alarm spell-probably set to go off if I broke the glass, since it hadn’t been triggered by my freeing myself from the chair.
Unless I just didn’t notice it went off, and he’s now watching me, waiting to see what I’ll do…
I’ve got to take that chance.
Quickly I found the loophole in the spell, and unraveled it.  A very big risk, but it might buy me some time.  Then I crouched down, and smashed a hole in the floor with my uninjured claw.


It turned out that I was forced to break a few more holes before it was big enough for me to squeeze out.  But once I did so, I leaned my head and shoulders out, bracing my arms against the sides.  Beneath me there appeared to be an entire horde of giant people walking around, examining Russian artwork.  This startled me, before I realized: They aren’t giants.  I’ve been shrunk!


One of the people had noticed the little shards of broken glass that had fallen, and had gone to a security guard; he was pointing at where I was, and I could make out the words, “...think the bulb burst...might want to get that fixed…”
I’m in a lightbulb?  Must be something like that-those fancy stained glass light fixtures up top would do the trick, if Mr. the Deathless kept a tiny dimension or something inside one, like a genie bottle...Well, better get out of here before they come to investigate.


I jumped out of the hole I’d made in the glass, and glided down to the ground, ignoring the wave of dizziness that overcame me as a result.  I landed in a corner of the room, by the doorway; a good thing, too, because a few seconds later I found myself growing back to normal size (thankfully along with my clothes).
That makes things a bit easier.  Now, question: am I still in the right place?
I suddenly heard a voice call, “Stop that man!” and saw two frog-headed men* in Russian guardsman’s uniforms running toward me.
Yup, I’m in the right place.
Barely taking time to look at my surroundings, I turned into the first corridor I could find and ran.

*Disguised to any humans, of course.

Season of the Witch part 12

Meanwhile, back in my prison, my luck had started to change for the better.  Not that I had gotten free, or anything as serendipitous as that.  That was too much to hope for.  It also appeared to be too much to hope for that Koschei would ever think to feed me.  And even though I started hearing voices (from down below my prison, somehow-maybe I was on the upper floor of wherever I was), I was unable to call out to them due to the spell on my voice, or in any way make noise that would attract their attention.  And even if I could, who was to say that they weren’t minions of Mr. the Deathless, or something like that?
However, I had at least gotten started on getting free from this chair.


When I’d been captured, my pack and all the contents therein, along with a few odds and ends hidden on my person, had been confiscated.  However, Mr. the Deathless had not checked my insides for anything, a fact I was now using to my advantage.  And yes, I am aware of how weird that sounds.  But it makes sense if you understand that before I left, Baba Yaga brewed a special potion that I then drank, and therefore it was now inside of me.  And it was my secret weapon.


See, something people mostly already know about gargoyle blood is that it’s really, really hot.  It makes it difficult for non-gargoyles to treat us when we’re injured.  What many people don’t know, and which is mostly a deeply-kept secret,* is that when we’re under extreme physical and/or mental stress, it sort of boils.  That is to say, it gets hotter.  It doesn’t hurt us, but it goes from burning to scorching for almost anyone or anything else.  And Baba Yaga had given me a potion that would amplify that in such a way that I could use it to my advantage now.


Most doctors would probably advise against purposely making yourself bleed, especially when your blood sugar is low because you haven’t eaten or drank anything for what is probably more than twenty-four hours.  But this was an emergency, so I dug one of the claws of my right hand into my palm (because I am ambidextrous, it didn’t matter which one I used).  Soon enough I felt the sting of pain as I pierced my own skin, and after pressing a little harder, I felt the blood start to leak out.  The pain caused a bit of an adrenaline rush, and I augmented it by thinking about all the consequences of failure: losing Calla forever, dying here, leaving Xen and Phil alone, never getting to see my family again-well, maybe not that one.  Except my mother. And my little brother Elijah.  And Morty, who was more or less family.  I encouraged all my anger and fear and worry to rise to a fever pitch, and could actually feel my blood temperature rising.  I heard more voices somewhere outside my prison now, but ignored them.  Getting out was far more important.


The chair I was sitting in was solid steel, magically reinforced.  However, my bleeding palm began to burn through it like the third eye of Shiva through Ganesha’s head.  Eagerly, I wiggled it back and forth, feeling the metal dissolving under my hand.  It took longer to eat through than I would have liked, but I doggedly continued on.  Even when I started to see black spots before my eyes, and my ears started ringing, and I started having that light-headed feeling like I’d been out in the sun for far too long.
Wonder how much I’ve lost?  I’ll die if I lose more than six pints.  Let’s see, if one drop can dissolve up to two centimeters of metal, and the arm of this chair is about three inches thick, and if it takes .38 seconds to dissolve the steel-
I was distracted from my inane calculations by the fact that that part of the chair was starting to wobble and bend a bit.  Deciding I didn’t want to waste anymore time waiting, I pushed down as hard as I could.  If I’d been at full strength, I could have done it with much less trouble.  As it was, I had to shove and strain and push several times, before finally, with a satisfying snap! the part of the chair broke, giving me a chance to slide my arm free, albeit with the spell attached.  And as I’d feared, it then shrank to fit snugly around my wrist, like the world’s worst bracelet.  But when I dripped a bit of my blood on it, it actually dissolved the part it touched, allowing me to peel it off and toss it away.  Baba Yaga’s magic is pretty potent stuff.


I dissolved my other bonds, and then pressed my now-numb claw to my chest, in an effort to stop the bleeding.  It ate right through my shirt, so I had to press it against my bare fur and flesh (which, luckily, it didn’t appear to be hurting).  I was still trapped in this hellish place of light.  I still had no voice.  I was also starving, thirsty, and possibly suffering from self-inflicted anemia.  But at least now I was partially free.  I just needed to take a rest, just close my eyes for a moment, and then I could find a method of getting out of here…

*So be grateful that I trust you enough to tell you about it.

Season of the Witch part 10

Very disoriented…
My head hurts…
Okay, where am I?  Need to figure that out.  To start with, open my eyes.
Blink.
Instant, blinding, colorful, multi-faceted light.
Return to blackness.
Okay, bad idea.  Better to keep my eyes shut.  Wherever I am, there’s a lot of light, ugh.
I’m sitting up, in what feels like a chair of some kind.  An old-fashioned, high-backed chair that isn’t doing my tail any favors.  Or my wings, come to think of it...they’re going to get really cramped if I’m here long.  Can I move?  Try.
Slight shifting.
No, evidently not.  I’m tied to the chair somehow; it feels too strong for normal ropes, so probably magical.  The ropes are around my wrists, and ankles, so I’m bound to the arms and the front legs.  It’s starting to get a little uncomfortable.
Probably going to get a lot worse.
No voices anywhere within my hearing range, but do I dare call for help?
Open mouth, try to use vocal chords.
Nothing.
Feels like there’s some kind of spell in my throat that keeps me from speaking; even more effective than a gag.  Shoot.
Can I maybe wiggle the chair around?  Try tipping it over.
Shove, shift, push.
No good; I think it’s bolted to the floor.  That probably means I’m going to be tortured...being alive for all these years, Mr. the Deathless probably has an extensive knowledge of methods of persuasion.  This is probably going to hurt.  I’ll just have to hold out for...for...oh my gosh, how long have I been kept here?!


I felt a sick wave of horror crash down in my stomach, before slowly rising up my throat and into my ears.  What if I’d been in a sleep stasis or something?  For all I knew, centuries had passed, and Calla had become the official property of Baba Yaga-
Why would he keep you here for that long?
Maybe he forgot about me.
...Not entirely impossible, but let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.  Try to think that there’s still time left.  Assuming I get out of here alive.


I was there for hours, feeling my limbs grow progressively more numb and cramped.  A few times I dozed off, sleeping fitfully, but for the most part I just had to sit and worry, and wish I’d been able to say a better goodbye to Xen and Phil (among others), and wonder if anyone would ever be able to recover my body.
Finally, I felt my fur stand on end as a spell was enacted, and someone appeared in the room, right in front of me.  Someone who smelled like every old person in the world blended together, as well as vodka, magic, a sharp tang of blood, and an overlying malice.  I squinted my eyes open, and barely made out a shadowy form before the pain of the light forced me to shut them again.  I heard a tongue clicking against teeth, and then a heavily-accented male Russian voice.
“Agh, you gorgul’i* and your sensitive eyes.  Fine, maybe this will help.”**
A few seconds later, I felt some glasses being placed over my eyes.  I opened them a tiny bit, in case this was a trick; but no, they really were shaded.  With a sigh of relief, I opened my eyes all the way, and found myself staring into the face of Mr. the Deathless.


Like Baba Yaga, he was thin and old.  Unlike Baba Yaga, whose hair was a mixture of gray and white, Koschei’s hair and long, full beard were mostly black, though still streaked with gray.  Which made sense, considering that he was younger than her by a century or three.  His eyes were very dark and penetrating, the kind of eyes that women find terribly compelling and attractive in a younger man’s face.  His clothes were more modern than Baba Yaga’s: a very expensive suit with the military look common to Russian aristocrats, and nice leather shoes.  Granted, he also had a fur-lined robe, and what appeared to be the crown jewels from some bygone era adorning his (extremely) bony frame.  As I scrutinized him, I couldn’t help thinking that he seemed almost...washed out.  No, no, that’s not the right word-drained, hollow.  Like he’d had the vitality sucked right out of him, and was now only the shadow of what he’d once been.  Extracting your own soul and hiding it away for hundreds of years will do that to you.


“Why did you try to steal this from me?”
Mr. the Deathless lifted Kladenets, which had been at his side, and brought it right up under my chin.
Really?
I gave him a look to remind him that I was rather incapable of answering any questions at the moment.  Even so, it took him a moment to realize his mistake, after which he gave an exasperated sigh, and waved his other hand towards me.  The feeling in my throat vanished, and I gave a little cough of relief once I knew that I could make sounds again.
“Why did you try to steal this from me?” Mr. the Deathless repeated, as if he thought I hadn’t heard him the first time.
“You’d be surprised what one of them things will go for on the black market,” I lied, taking on a northern Russian dialect.
Lowering the sword, the old sorcerer reached out and smacked my cheek with the back of his hand.  Despite the weakness of his frame, he packed a bit of a wallop, and I could feel my cheek stinging from it.  It even appeared that some of his rings had been hard enough to cut me open a little.
“Do you expect me to believe that someone like you, with no powers to speak of and only a few fancy gadgets, would dare attempt to steal from me?”
“It was the last thing you would expect,” I argued, which technically wasn’t a lie.


Koschei narrowed his eyes at me thoughtfully.  After a second, he asked, “Who sent you?”
“Nobody.”
Thwack.
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody.  I got the idea on my own.”
Thwack.  This time on the other side of my face.  If he thought this was going to break  me, he’d have to try a lot harder.  Sure, it hurt, but I’d experienced pain before.  Getting slapped several times had nothing on getting shot in the stomach.  I sat up straight again, keeping my face carefully neutral.


“Fine.  You won’t tell me the truth on your own?”  Koschei reached inside his robe, pulled out a glass vial filled with blood red liquid, and pulled out the cork.  “I’ll see if you’re lying or not.”
I resisted.  Even though I knew it was futile to do so, even though I knew that whatever I did, I was trapped, and that Koschei was going to get that substance into me whatever I did, I tried to squirm away.  It was instinctive, probably anyone else in my place would have done the same.  And sure enough, the sorcerer waved a hand at me, freezing my head in place.  Then he pried my jaws open, and poured the entire substance down my throat.


I don’t know if any of you have ever been force-fed a potentially poisonous potion by a homicidal, practically immortal sorcerer.  It is decidedly unpleasant.  And it didn’t help that as I was forced to swallow it down, I realized that it was actual blood.  Not any blood I was familiar with, but blood nonetheless-that sharp, coppery tang is hard to replicate.  And gag and choke though I might, soon enough I had drunk it all.


Koschei stood back with a satisfied smile.
“Do you know what I just gave you?”
He released the spell that had kept me frozen, allowing me to shake my head numbly.
“Phoenix blood.  If cooled to room temperature, or at least to the point that it is safe to swallow, it renders the one who drinks it temporarily compelled to honesty.  Once it takes effect, you couldn’t lie to me if you tried.”
I didn’t know phoenix blood did that.  Cool; I’ll have to remember that for the future.
My head was starting to feel heavy-in fact, my whole body was sort of heavy and sloshy all over, like it feels after you’ve just eaten a big, hearty meal.  That didn’t bode well…


“I’ll ask again.  Who are you working for?”
Still speaking in my Russian accent (because he hadn’t specifically said anything against that, or even appeared to realize that it wasn’t my native language), I murmured dreamily, “Baba Yaga.”
“I knew it!”  Koschei gave a triumphant little cackle.  “I knew that old letuchaya mysh’*** couldn’t resist if she found out I had it!  Ha ha, perfect!”  Then he looked at me thoughtfully.  “The question remains, what am I going to do with you?”
“Please don’t...kill me,” I murmured.  Talking, even if I had to talk honestly, was kind of difficult.  Especially in a different language.
“Can you give me a compelling reason why I shouldn’t?”
“...Hard to say...with one so...old and powerful.  But I need...that sword.”


Despite himself, I could tell Mr. the Deathless was curious.
“What for?”
“To save...someone important.”
His eyes rolled.  “Let me guess: wife?  Girlfriend?”
“No...assistant.”
The eyes stopped mid-roll, and focused back on me with some confusion.
“No romantic relationship at all?”
I shook my head-or at least, I lolled it in such a way that I decided to count it as shaking.
“Not with her.”


Silence ensued.  Finally, Mr. the Deathless murmured, “That’s certainly a novelty for a hero.”
I tried to snort and say that I was no hero.  For some reason, the words would not leave my lips.  So instead I stared at him and tried to determine what he was planning to do.
I wasn’t naive enough to think that my reason for stealing the sword would convince him to let me go.  And I had nothing to threaten or bribe him with, either.  I was completely in his power, which meant that my situation looked pretty bleak.


My suspicions were confirmed when Koschei stood up straighter and said, “Until I decide what to do with you, I’ll have to leave you here.  So just...sit tight.”
Chuckling at his own bad joke, he twitched his hand at me, and I felt my throat clog up again.  I strained ineffectually against the spells binding me to the chair, as an image flashed through my mind of Calla, thirty years from now, being Baba Yaga’s slave, helping her to take over the world or something.  And it would be my fault for not stealing that stupid sword.
Koschei vanished, leaving me alone with these dark thoughts.  At least he’d also left me the dark glasses, so I didn’t have to keep my eyes closed.

*Gargoyles

**Just for convenience’s sake, I’m going to translate most of his words into English, okay?

***Bat