Season of the Witch part 13

Even though she was afraid, and remembering that even though she could swim a little, she was not very adept at it yet, Calla was not willing to give up that easily.  Before the creature could go very far from the surface, she kicked out; even though the water forced her to move more slowly, she felt her shoe connect hard with something.  There was a bellow of pain in her ear, and one of the hands started to release her.  She took advantage of it, and wiggled her left arm free of the lasso, sending a concentrated blast of power over her shoulder at whatever had ahold of her.  Much to her relief, despite it not being a lethal or even hurtful blast, it enabled her to break free, clawing her way to the surface.


She barely took a moment to gratefully breathe before grabbing the plants on the shore, and starting to pull herself up.  However, she had not gotten far before she was being seized again.  Frantically, Calla kicked out, writhing and wrapping some roots around her hands in an attempt to anchor herself in place.  In desperation, and almost instinctively, she raised her head and called out for help-in Ghoulish.*


Calla didn’t even know if there were any Ghuls in the immediate vicinity-it just came out, probably an instinctive result of her connection to Sharky.  And it seemed to startle her captor; the grip faltered enough for her to scramble all the way out of the water, turn around, and come face to face with whatever it was.  Which, if you hadn’t guessed already, is what she did.


It looked, more than anything, like a giant frog masquerading as a man.  He had a wide, sagging mouth, bulbous, fiery gold-green eyes, a large flat nose that sunk into his face, slimy green and brown skin, and long, webbed hands.  Long, green, weedy stuff drooped from his chin and the top of his head; it took Calla a second to realize that it was actually hair, albeit very lank and greasy hair.  And she could see that he was dripping with algae all over.


After her brief examination, Calla, hating to do it but thinking it was the fastest way of communicating with the creature if he didn’t speak English, stared into his eyes.  And was promptly overwhelmed by a flood of strange thoughts and emotions.  They mostly seemed to consist of shock at the moment-shock that she spoke the tongue of the vurdalaki, and shock at how efficiently she had gotten out of his grasp, and shock at what was happening now.  And with a quick scan of his thoughts, Calla learned that the creature was known as a vodyanoy.  It was a Russian water spirit, like the nymphs back home, except this one seemed far more aggressive.  When she probed around to figure out why he had tried to drown her, his thoughts became somewhat indignant.


Drown her!  He had no such intention!  The truth was, he was lonely and seeking companionship.  He had been here for hundreds of years, and the only other sentient creatures in this lake were some silly rusalki** who called him fat and giggled at him behind their webs when they thought he wasn’t looking.
That doesn’t give you the right to just kidnap me! Calla retorted.
However, as she looked at his thoughts, she felt a pang of sympathy for the vodyanoy.  She knew how it felt to be lonely.
Could you try going to another lake?
He twisted around in the water a bit, until he was able to hold up a fat tail.  Calla began to see the problem, since this lake was completely land-locked.  He was stuck here, with nowhere else to go, and despite the other creatures there, he was completely alone.
But there are other ways besides kidnapping…


She spent maybe an hour sitting by the side of the lake, talking mentally to the vodyanoy, whose name she learned was Pavel.  He was overjoyed at finally being able to talk to someone, and determined to make the most of it.  And the mental connection was beneficial for Calla, too; not only was she helping someone and being distracted from her worry about what was happening to Tristan, but it enabled her, after a time, to start figuring out the basics of the Russian language; in a way, killing multiple birds with one stone.


Finally, though, she had to say, I need to go back now.  Baba Yaga needs me to bring these plants to her.
She couldn’t help questioning the veracity of that statement a little bit; both that the witch actually needed the plants, and that she needed Calla to be the one to go and get them.  But Pavel understood; nobody around here ever wanted to cross Baba Yaga.
She would come back, wouldn't she?
...I’ll try.
Calla looked away, rubbing her throbbing temples, and cut some fresh plants to add to the bag, before going back to where she had left the mortar.


Baba Yaga barely bit back a cackle when Calla stepped into the cottage: damp, muddy, a little bloody around the hands, and windblown.
“Have a good time?” she asked innocently.

*Ghoulish had become her word for the Ghul language, if you could call it that, which her blood bond with a Ghul had kind of helped her to understand better.  It’s based on a series of screeches, growls, snarls, and inflections based on current emotions.  A call for help is a sort of long, high banshee-like wail, that if done right, can reach an octave usually saved for dog whistles.
**Russian water nymphs.  Often purported to be the spirits of women who drowned themselves, and well-known for luring young men to their deaths by drowning or something.  A lot like mermaids and other types of woman monsters in mythology, really.

Season of the Witch part 4

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.”

The Case of the Lacerated Assistant

Here is another short story; I hope you like it anyway.

I had noticed for some time that my assistant, Calla Gardiner, had been changing.  Not necessarily in a bad way, but in ways that were certainly strange.  For instance, soon after the incidents in Silver’s Bane, or Why Racism Is Wrong, her senses seemed to improve tenfold, especially her sense of smell.  She also began to like her meat a bit more rare than before, and on cases where we had to chase someone, she was much better at keeping up with me, and once even apprehended a crook before I could.  At first, I just figured maybe she was becoming a better detective, getting stronger physically, and having a slight change in tastes.  Then I began to suspect a magical change of some kind.  But somehow, the reason didn't fully occur to me until the incident in October 2013.

We had been out late on a case.  It may sound vaguely familiar: there had been reports of strange noises and explosions out in the cemetery.  This time Ishida took them seriously (which didn't irritate me.  At all), and asked me and Calla to go check it out.  We went over the fence, found the place where the noises had been heard from-and Calla promptly fainted dead away.  Before any of you start making smart-mouth comments about feminine sensibilities and I have to hurt you, it was because what we found was a very dead, bloody Ghul corpse, and since Calla is extremely hemophobic, her fainting was not her fault.  I had to examine the body myself, and noticed that the wounds were mostly typical of fights between Ghuls: claw marks, bites to the throat-normal.  But there also appeared to be some evidence of spells being thrown at the corpse.  I found a few scraps of magical residue attached to wounds near-and in-the heart, and pocketed them as evidence.  It looked like a mage or alchemist of some kind had been involved; but why and how?  There were no footprints anywhere around besides those of Ghuls, no unique smells, nothing that proved anyone else had been in that cemetery.  The body had been there for at least five hours, which was when I suspected the fight had begun, so it hadn't been dragged or carried there.  This was all very interesting...

When Calla regained consciousness-not too long after fainting-we reported the incident to Ishida as just more Ghul warfare (they kind of have different rules from the rest of the monster race; since they’re not as a rule a part of our society, and fights to the death are the way they keep leadership positions, generally the MCPD doesn't worry about it if one is found dead), and now were perched together on the branch of a tree in Styxburg’s park, sharing a bag of fish and chips before Calla would try to glean some clues from the spells.  She got the fish, and I had most of the chips.  And I thought with a sigh that if the spells meant some new kind of hocus pocus that was more than normal Ghul welfare, then this was probably going to be a long night.

And then, as Calla was reaching into the bag again, I noticed that there was a thick bandage peeking out from under the sleeve of her hoodie.
“What happened there?” I asked, pointing to it.
“Believe it or not, I don’t know,” she replied.  “I just noticed earlier today that I had a cut there, and didn't have time to try to get it healed before we went to the cemetery, so I just put on a Band-Aid and left it.  It’s not a big deal.”
“Then why such a thick bandage?”  Calla was not the type to overestimate damage; she would only use a big Band-Aid for a big cut.  I gently reached over and rolled up her sleeve.  And nearly had a heart attack; that Band-Aid stretched all the way up to her elbow, and part of it had been soaked through at one point, but was now just crusty with dried blood.

“What the heck-you call that-”
“I know, I know!”  Calla flinched.  “Sorry, I’ve just gotten into the habit of downplaying my injuries so I won’t upset Lars.  I admit, it’s very irregular and kind of eerie that it started up so abruptly.  But I didn't want to mention it because we were in a hurry, and I figured we’d worry about it later.”
I took a deep breath through my nose, and exhaled through my mouth.  “Okay.  It’s fine.  Very decent of you.  It’s no big deal that you've suddenly developed a random, big, deep cut on your arm and you didn't want to mention it because you thought I’d think the case was more important.”
“No I didn't.  I just didn't want you to lose your focus.”
I looked over at her.  “Kid...next time that happens, please make me lose my focus.”
“Okay, boss.”

I smiled, a tad grimly.  Then I asked, “Any other mysterious injuries you haven’t been telling me about?”
“Not that I know of.  Care to examine me?”  She held out both arms for inspection.  I, unable to resist the challenge, rolled up her other sleeve too, and began checking her over.  Most of the scars I found were old ones, mementos of her dad (I didn't dare tell her, but if he hadn't died, I would have been more than happy to meet him once; once would be all I needed).  But then, I got a good look at her left hand, and found the nail in the coffin of my suspicion.  There was a small, pale scar along the side of her index finger.

“Do you remember how you got that?”  I pointed at it.
“Uh...no, but I don’t keep track of my scars.  There are many I’d prefer not to remember.”  She frowned.  “What does this one have to do with my sudden need for bandages at all times?”
“Kid, remember when we had to save Morgan?”
“That’s kind of hard to forget.”  Then she traced my line of thought, and I saw that the metaphorical sun was coming up.  She remembered, clearly, how beforehand we’d been attacked by a pack of Ghuls, and it was only when she shared thoughts with their leader and helped heal an injury that we were allowed to get into the prison where she was being kept...an injury that resulted in a lot of blood...
“When you pulled the spike out of the Ghul’s hand, were your hands bleeding at all?”
“No, I’m sure of it!  I do remember getting a scratch on my hand from the wood, but I hadn't thought it was enough to actually cut it open.”  Realization confirmed the situation.  “This means what I think it means, doesn't it?”
“E-yup.  Congratulations, Calla Gardiner, you are probably the only person in this century-or ever, come to think of it-to have instigated a blood bond with a Ghul.”

This revelation was naturally very alarming.  But it did explain a lot.  The question was, was it necessary to do anything about it?  After all, since her bondmate was the leader of a pack of fae known for being feral, primal flesh-eaters who constantly fight each other for pleasure or dominance, there was a distinct element of danger in Calla’s being tied to him until death.  Especially when it led to her getting random injuries.  There was no way to permanently dissolve a blood bond, to my knowledge; but perhaps we could catch the Ghul, and keep him somewhere he’d be less likely to get hurt.  Especially if it appeared that he had recently been in a bit of a nasty scrape.  But when I suggested this to Calla, she didn't instantly jump at the chance.  Instead she said, “I think we should just leave him alone.  He belongs with his pack; it would kill him to be taken away from them.  Besides, if my guess is correct, he’s the one responsible for that corpse in the cemetery, and all the spells attached.”

Author’s Note: Regarding blood bonds, when a fae and another species share blood, it means that if one of them has an injury of some kind, depending on depth and distance between them, the other will have it too, or at least feel the pain of it.  It also means that they start to share some magical abilities, if they have any.  Not all of them, but just enough to help them keep up with each other.  And if one dies, the other will too at that same instant.  But they can try to save each other, by sharing energy and weird, awesome stuff like that.  Nobody completely knows how this works, except that it’s very ancient magic.  It’s not to be taken lightly, or to be formed just on a whim.

Since I had come to this same conclusion soon after realizing what the cuts on Calla meant, I winced.  “Just what the world needs.  A Ghul with magical powers.”
“I don’t think he’d use them for anything besides defending himself or his people.  He doesn't think about things the same way as most monsters; he doesn't have goals besides watching over the welfare of the pack.”
“Couldn't that translate over time to wanting to better their situation from living on the streets and eating roadkill?”
“I don’t think so.  Sharky likes his life as it is, and while he might use his powers to keep others from trying to usurp his position or threaten the pack, he isn't going to try for anything bigger. He’s reasonable enough to see that that would be suicide.”
I raised an eyebrow.  “Sharky?”
Calla blushed.  “It just seemed...appropriate for him.  His teeth...they remind me of a shark exhibit I saw once on a field trip.”
“That’s reasonable enough.  You don’t even want to try to tell him?”
“I think he’s probably figured it out for himself by now.  He’s got enough intelligence to remember what happened that day, and put two and two together to make lots.”
“Point taken.”  I thoughtfully munched a chip.  Suddenly a new point came up in my mind.  “When are you going to tell Lars?”

The kid flinched.  “Good question.”
“You do need to tell him eventually.  Things are getting pretty serious between you two, and if you want to keep a relationship, I think he ought to know that there’s a possibility you’ll outlive him by hundreds of years...or be dead by next week.”
“I know, I know!”  She threw up her hands, wincing as it jostled her injured arm.  I jumped down from the branch, throwing the remains of our fish and chip bag in a convenient trash can.
“Come on, we’d better get that seen to.”
She levitated herself to the ground, and we headed for home.  As we walked, I said, “I won’t push you to tell him yet.  But at some point...”

“Yeah, I know.  There just never seems to be a good opportunity to tell him something like that.”