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 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

TANSTAV part 17

Chapter 5 part 3

The elevator creaked and groaned, moving with all the speed of a giant ground sloth going uphill.

You'd think a high-tech prison could afford a better elevator system.

Aside from all the mechanical grumbling, the ride was silent.  The ogre was disinclined towards conversation (which was good, because he would probably take the opportunity to mooch more money off me), leaving me free to examine the contraption in which we stood. Small, cramped, badly lit-hello, what was this?  A particle of that black and red magic, the same as had been at the Skald residence!  Why on earth was it in the elevator?  I looked at Flavius.  He was picking at the sleeve of his jacket in a bored manner, paying no attention to me.  Nonchalantly, I stepped in the direction of the magic, sliding a spare baggie out of my pocket, and standing at such an angle that the ogre couldn't see what I was doing, if he bothered to look at me.  You can never be too careful in this job, after all.  There seemed to be no security cameras, no observation orbs, no nothing in here.  So with a swipe of my hand, the light was captured and sealed.  I slipped the baggie into my pocket, just in time.  At the speed of a racing snail, the elevator ground to a halt.  The doors creaked open, and we exited.

The prison tower we were in was shaped like a rectangle with no middle.  The cells were placed all next to each other against the wall, with a walkway next to them, and a balcony on the opposite side of it.  I peeked over the balcony, to see a long, long drop down to the lobby.  I could just make out the lamps by the receptionist's desk down below.  When I looked up, it seemed to me that there was still lots of room to spare, even though we had gone up 10 flights.  The prison had to be expandable, like Mr. Jorgensen's pocket.  I turned away from the balcony, and looked to the cells.  The doors were all made of magically enhanced steel, with a small slot where food could be sent through.  On the left side of each cell were a blue button and a green button.  The blue had the word RESTRAIN on it, and the green RELEASE.  On the door to the right of the elevator, I could see the number 10000.  To the left of the elevator was cell 19999.  I sighed.  We were going to have to do quite a bit of walking, it was apparent.

I shall spare the (probably impatient) reader the long walk and checking of numbers, before we finally found 10642.  But rest assured, find it we did.  It looked no different from the others, but to me, the knowledge of what abomination it contained added a touch of sinister feeling to it.  If, that is, he was still there.  Flavius was about to push the RESTRAIN button, but I interceded.

"May I?" I asked.

Flavius looked unsure.  But another hundred assuaged his fears.  I pressed the button with my index claw; it lit up a paler blue, and from within I heard a muffled cry of surprise, followed by several oaths.  Good.  That meant someone was in there, and if it was who I hoped, it gave me great pleasure to inconvenience him.  I unlocked the door, keeping the key with me, and went in.  There, hanging in midair, with arms out and legs shoulder-width apart, completely immobilized, was Desmond Jessup.  In person.

To the eyes of one who doesn't know him, Jessup isn't that bad-looking.  In fact, to certain frames of mind he might even be called handsome (though not as much as yours truly, of course).  He's tall, maybe 6'2", and though thin, also muscular.  His skin is perfectly tanned, and almost flawless.  The only mark is on his left bicep: a red diamond-shaped outline tattoo, with a smaller red diamond inside.  It looks like a rather peculiar eye. He has shoulder-length black hair, which I think looks rather hideous (Don't get me wrong, shoulder-length hair is nice.  On women.  On men, I think it looks kind of icky.).  Jessup also has deceptively clear grey eyes, heavy-lidded, like Paul McCartney's.  The kind of eyes that make girls swoon.  All in all, he looks like an unusually handsome human, except for his feet.  The left one is a cloven hoof, and the right one has the clawed talons of a bird, maybe a hawk.  They are the only visible signs of his demon heritage, and needless to say, make him walk rather awkwardly.  Many an innocent (and many a guilty too) has trembled in fear at the sound of his approach.

Freegans part 35

Ben continued
I had written, 'Okay, what is going on? Who are these people, and what is he doing to Madiza?'
Kestrel frowned at me. "Who's Madiza?"
I gestured towards her, and the guy who was bent over her. He reminded me of the archetypal college professor: thin, with glasses and a slight beard. I could imagine him in a suit standing in front of a blackboard, holding chalk and writing complex equations.
"Oh. Why do you call her that?"
'It's what she calls herself. Madiza Hatter.'
Getting the pun in the name, Kestrel gave a small smile. "Well, don't worry, the Ox won't hurt her. He just wants to run a small test, make sure she's what he thinks."
'What are you talking about?'
"Wake your friends up. This is something all of you need to know."

Soon all four of us were seated around Kestrel. Madiza had woken up by now, and it appeared that the Ox was asking her some questions, and at the same time holding up some weird little box to the side of her head. It made little beeping sounds, almost as if it were scanning the insides of her brain.
"About six years ago, scientists working for the government developed a new type of technology they referred to as Project 112. Its' purpose was to get rid of schools, by transferring information directly into the brain, since it's basically a living computer. Anyway, before it could be sold, they first needed to experiment to make sure it was safe. To do this, they needed a test subject."
"You mean-" Lucy stopped in shock, and her eyes flicked in Madiza's direction.
"That's right. Your friend was already a prisoner, so they figured why not make her a lab mouse, too. The test run failed, filling up her brain too much. It was like a computer that had been overloaded; so to speak, her wires short-circuited."
"Wow. So there is such a thing as too much information," said Matt. All of us glared at him. This was hardly a laughing matter.