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

Season of the Witch part 9

Calla was not enjoying her time in Baba Yaga’s clutches much.  This wasn’t all that surprising, since the witch had this habit of near-constantly watching her out of at least the corner of her eye, with a deeply hungry expression that made her shiver.  Even when the mage looked away, she could still feel Baba Yaga’s eyes on her.  On the good side, she didn’t necessarily seem to be planning to eat her-Calla doubted she’d have gone to all this trouble for a meal, when there were so many people available in Russia.  No, she seemed to be studying her for some other reason…


Soon after Tristan had gone, the witch asked Calla to do her a favor, and clean up the cottage a little bit.  Even though she was sure Baba Yaga could do it herself with a wave of her hand, Calla didn’t ask questions-she waved her own hand, and the dust swept itself into a neat pile, before she levitated it out the window.  She conjured up water and a cleaning rag, and wiped up all the spills, scrubbing down every dirty surface and making everything shiny.  She was picking up the black sunflower’s petals and preparing to throw them out the window (which was finally without the force field from earlier), when she was interrupted.
“Wait!” Baba Yaga interceded with a wave of her hand, “I can use those later.  Just put them in this jar, would you?”
She held out a glass jar.  Calla put the petals inside, and the old witch quickly transferred it to her cabinet.
“Thank you.  Now go out and weed my garden.”


A small, rebellious part of Calla which had only recently started to grow wanted to protest this treatment, especially since she was not Baba Yaga’s servant (and hopefully would not become such-though it was jumping to conclusions for her to already be thinking like that, since it hadn’t even been a full day since Tristan left).  But, remembering some of the old fairy tales about people being asked to do things for magical beings, and the rewards/punishments that could come about based on their response, she simply went outside to do as she was told.


The garden was a small plot close to the fence, and appeared to be absolutely overgrown with weeds.  Not to mention the unforeseen problem of the house still being maybe fifteen or twenty feet off the ground, and she hadn’t been able to bring her carpet, because she hadn’t even known she’d be going on this little excursion; she also wasn’t sure that she trusted the house enough to ask it to bend for her.  So, for the first time in a long while, she had to use her own energy, and a spell, to lower herself to the ground as gently as possible.  It put quite a bit of strain on her body-she was out of practice, and it made her arms tremble violently from trying to keep the magic of levitation focused for so long.  But eventually, she was lowered to a point where she could safely drop without breaking anything, landing rather gracelessly on the wild grass and taking a moment to catch her breath.


By now it was getting close to evening; Calla suspected that Baba Yaga’s next request would be for her to make dinner, so she decided to do a preemptive strike.  After casting a spell to make the weeds start pulling themselves up and being discarded in a pile, she picked carrots, potatoes, onions, radishes, garlic and parsley, conjuring up a bag and putting the vegetables in it and across her shoulder.  Then, hesitantly, she approached the house.  She wasn’t sure if she could levitate herself up safely, thinking of how much her arms had trembled on the way down, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask Baba Yaga for help.  Something gave her the feeling that the witch was testing her, wanting to see how she’d handle all of these chores…  Even if it meant nearly falling again, she did the same thing Tristan had: tickling the leg, she chanted, “Izbushka, Izbushka, lower your door to me.”
Calla stepped back, just in time for the house to lower itself to its knees and allow her to climb up the steps.  And unlike when Tristan had been with her, it waited until she was safely inside before rising.  Odd.  Maybe she could have asked it the first time.


Baba Yaga was sitting at the table reading a very ancient-looking book when Calla came in.  Without looking up, she said, “If you’re done with the weeds, I would like you to pick me some vegetables for dinner.”
“Will these do?”  Calla stepped forward and laid the bag on the table.  The witch actually jumped, and stared at the food with eyes widened.  Though she knew she shouldn’t, the girl felt a rush of satisfaction.
After a second, Baba Yaga coughed, and said, “Yes, they will do quite nicely.”  After another second, she added, “Well done.  You’ll find some meat in the icebox behind the cabinet that you can use to make stew.”
Before she could stop herself, unsure she wanted to know the answer, Calla asked, “What kind of meat?”
The witch gave her an iron grin.  “Good question.  It’s hard for me to keep track of what they all are in there.  Just use whatever looks good.”


Thankfully, Calla was able to find, via a spell, some meat that was formerly the shoulder of a cow.  She didn’t check to see what the others were, because she really didn’t want to know.  Instead she defrosted it, chopped it and the vegetables into bite-size chunks, added spices, and after browning the meat, turned everything into an enormous stew.  By now it was close to evening, and so it was with great relief that Calla, stomach growling, placed the cauldron next to the table and announced that dinner was served.


It was lucky for Calla that she took the time to dish out a bowl for herself, because Baba Yaga devoured all the rest.  It seemed inconceivable that such a thin old woman could eat so much, but eat it she did.  When she finished, she gave a tremendous belch, and then retired to her private room at the back of the cottage without so much as saying goodnight to Calla.  She didn’t even put a new force field on the door to make sure her collateral wouldn’t try to escape.  Both the witch and the mage knew there was no need; they’d signed a contract in blood, and in the magical world, the consequences of breaking one of those were uncertain, but definitely bad.


Calla ended up conjuring a downy sleeping bag and plump pillow, and after taking off her shoes, curled up next to the dying fire.  The warm embers were rather comforting, especially since, now that she was no longer being kept busy, she had time to think about just what she had gotten herself into.


There was nothing she could really do about this situation except rely on Tristan to come back with the sword, she realized.  She had to hope that he could do it, and that Koschei wouldn’t find and/or kill him (she didn’t have to worry about him chickening out and deserting her; she knew Tristan too well for that).  And though, of course, she had every confidence in his ability to succeed in stealing the treasure and coming back, a part of her thoughts wondered, What if he doesn’t?
If he didn’t come back, for some reason or other, within the next six days...then Calla would be trapped here forever, as a servant to Baba Yaga.  She’d known the risks when signing the contract...but she hadn’t really thought about the consequences of them.


Up to then, Calla hadn’t cried about her circumstances.  She’d been busy doing what she was told, and therefore distracted from any negative emotions.  Even with magic to make it go by faster, being busy helped.  But now she was alone, she was not quite as full as she would have liked, there was nothing left to do, and it was dark, so before long her eyes were feeling hot, and it felt like a hand was squeezing the inside of her throat, and her stomach was churning.  Not wanting Baba Yaga to hear, she hid her face in her pillow, and felt the tears begin to flow in abundance.
Finally, after she-didn’t-know-how-long, Calla flipped her pillow over and fell asleep.  And, due to one of the few good results of her childhood, she fell asleep almost instantly, and very, very soundly, without any dreams.


She was awakened by a buzzing in her pocket.  Groggily pulling her phone out, she saw that there were two interesting things: 1) it was six in the morning here, and 2) Lars was calling.
“H’lo?”
"Calla, are you okay? I haven't heard from you all day. And I went to pick you up for our date just now but Xen said you were gone."
“Date?  What-”  And then she remembered.  The night of dinner and dancing at Club Lusus Naturae that he’d asked her to go on two days ago.  Her stomach lurched guiltily.  “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, I forgot about it! Sorry, Tristan and I got a case yesterday, and things haven’t quite happened the way we thought.”
"That's all right.”  However, he sounded disappointed.  “Where are you?"
“...Believe it or not, we’re in Russia.”
"... Huh. He has jurisdiction there?"
“Our client requested his help.”  She glanced nervously at the witch’s door, in case her voice woke her.  So far, so good.
"Are you allowed to tell me anything else?"
“I don’t know.  But you might not want to know just yet.”
There was a sigh. "Calla, you're involved. I want to know."
I don’t want you to know, though.  I don’t want to have to know that you’re over on a different continent, freaking out just as much as I am.  But it would be wrong to lie about it, so…
“Have you ever heard of Baba Yaga?”


"Oh man, what are you guys doing with her?"
“I’ll take that as a yes.  She’s having Tristan steal something from Koschei the Deathless.”
The line went quiet. After a moment, she could hear him taking a few deep breaths.  Calla flinched, knowing that was a sign of how upset he was.
Finally she said, “He should be back within a week.”  He’d better be.
"Wait, back? Are you alone with her?"
“...Yes.  It was part of the deal.”  Be honest.  “If she doesn’t get the object, Baba Yaga is going to take me instead.”
"What?!?"
“She wants to add me to her collection if Tristan doesn’t succeed in stealing the item.”


More deep breathing ensued.  Hesitantly, Calla said, “I’m sorry, there was no really good way to tell you.”
He sighed. "I know. Thank you for telling me. Is there anything I can do?"
“I don’t think so.  We signed a contract with blood; I can’t break that.  And even if I could, that wouldn’t be right.  It seems like all we can do now is wait for something to happen.”
"Please be careful, Calla. I love you."
“I know.”  She swallowed.  “Tell Rosie hi for me, okay?  And Isaac.  And everyone else.”
"I will."
“And-and I’ll ask Baba Yaga-if things don’t work the way we hope-to let you come visit me.  I’ll do-I’ll buy her raw dragon livers if I have to, or whatever else she might want in exchange.”
"Calla, if things don't work out, I'll just move to Russia to be closer to you. I won't leave you alone there."
She gave a watery chuckle.  “Hopefully you can learn to speak Russian fast.  Or get a universal translator.”
"Either way, doesn't matter to me, so long as I'm near you."


She really should have been used to that by now-his honest and strong feelings for her.  But her cheeks still felt hot, and she smiled widely as she whispered, “Thank you.”
"Believe me, it's my pleasure."
Before she could think of a reply to that, Calla found herself yawning.
"Oh, I woke you up, didn't I? I'm sorry."
“S’okay.  There’s a big time difference between there and here, you didn’t know.”
"Do you want to go back to sleep?"
“Kind of, yeah.  Who knows what she’s going to have me do when she wakes up?”
"All right, dear. Sleep well. I love you so much."
“And I-I’ll send you some photos, if I get a chance.”
"I will too. And remember that if you need anything at all or even if you just want to talk, I'm always willing to talk to you. You can call any time and I promise I'll answer."
“Okay.  See you later.”
"I'll see you soon, Calla. Goodnight."
She hung up, and as she sunk into sleep, realized that, what with the talk with Lars and the big cry she’d had earlier, she felt...somewhat better about this whole thing.

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 48

Madiza
We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine! Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink! Lots and lots of water! Going down! Ooh, fishies! Little little fish, Cynoscion nebulosus, spotted seatrout! Where where where are we going? Ask the Professor, he'll know. Ox is the Professor. Does that make me Ginger or Mary Ann? Hee hee hee hee!

"We're going to the Golden Church's Prison Sanctum, out in the middle of the ocean."

Gold gold gold all that glitters is not gold. Still really pretty, though. That's the place of the KillCode, need to remember that. Of course I can, not hard at all. Wonder how far we are under the sea. Not quite 20,000 leagues. Under the sea, under the sea! Nobody beat us, fry us and eat us, in fricassee! Wouldn't put it past them, nope, nope, nope. Ooh, bright shiny lights! All in gold...