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.

TANSTAV part 24

Chapter Seven
In the interests of all parties concerned, I make a proposition

The vanished monster in question was a Fonin, by the name of Clarence Whitechapel.  Age 23, brunette, 5'6", 125 pounds, with wings like a golden eagle.  No prior records, no real status in the world, nothing to distinguish him.  Since Senator Skald was 55 years old, rather gray, 8’4", and over 300 pounds, there seemed to be no connection, besides their both having golden-orange eyes, and how much of a connection could that be?  I asked, "Did anyone at your center see anything?  Any clues?"

"A few people did say they saw something, but it sounds crazy."

"What was it?  This could be important."

Greenbriar looked slightly embarrassed, but she said, "They claim that Mr. Whitechapel was sitting in his usual corner, eating lunch, when they saw-saw a black, shadowy figure appear, and grab him by the shoulder.  Then they both vanished."

"Huh."  That didn't sound too crazy to me.  What it sounded like was some kind of teleporter, with a tendency towards clichés.

"What type of shadow?  Like a Reaper?"

"No, not exactly.  It was wearing a hooded cloak, but they said, in the brief glimpse they caught of it, that it looked more substantial than a Reaper, less billowy."

"May I meet these people, and hear it from them?"

"Well, Mr. Wormwood, the fact is, they're afraid that if they come forward, the shadow will come after them next."  Her pale face had chagrin written all over it.

"That's not an unreasonable fear," I said.  She looked surprised.  "Well, since it obviously has the ability to appear out of nowhere and steal people, whatever it is, I'd say their fear is justified.  However, tell these anonymous tippers that if they will tell me exactly what happened, I might be able to capture and subdue it."  Greenbriar nodded.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Wormwood.  I shall let you know in a week or so if I have made any progress in convincing them."  With that, she got up and left, closing the door behind her.

When I returned home, I noticed that the light was on (I quickly slipped on my shaded glasses, in order to protect my corneas), and that Calla was examining the portrait hung over the sofa.

"Is this your-" she began to ask.

"Yes, that's my family," I interrupted.  She turned her head in my direction, with a raised eyebrow.  I gathered it was due to the fact that my use of the phrase 'that's my family' was in almost the same tone of voice I would use to say 'that's a pile of rotten, maggoty horse flesh.'

I moseyed over, and she turned back to the picture.  It showed the drawing room of my house back in Tarascogne, Massachusetts (a monster suburb of Boston).  It had two blue velvet curtains hanging from the wall, and a blue-and-gray marbled floor.  Standing before the curtains were my parents, my siblings and I.

"What are their names?"

"These two," I jabbed a claw at the two young female gargoyles on the far left, "are my sisters.  Jeannette and Florence."

Jeannette was wearing a pale lavender kimono with blue flowers.  Her black hair, which she got from Mom, was hanging loosely down over her shoulders.  Florence, standing on her left, had on a knee-length black dress with a golden belt.  A diamond ring sparkled on her left hand, signifying the fact that she had just become engaged to Dominic Valdez, one of the richest gargoyle diplomats in Spain.

Next to them, as I indicated to Calla, was Mom.  She wore a blue gown, and held my youngest brother, Ned, in her arms.  By some strange genetic quirk, Ned had acquired small black curls (which neither of my parents had), and they, coupled with his gray fur, fangs, bat-like wings, and tail, gave him the appearance of a very strange demonic cherub.  To the left of Mom were my younger brother Elijah, my older brother Arthur, and, behind both of them, with one hand clapped possessively on Arthur's shoulder, was dear old Dad.  I involuntarily clenched my jaw at the sight of him.  There he stood, looking self-important and in control, with confidence that he was the master, and we merely his puppets, to jump when he pulled the strings.  And, of course, on the far right of the picture lurked a rebellious sixteen-year-old, scruffy and unkempt when compared to the others, red eyes set in a fierce glare.  That's right, me.  In an attempt to shame me for my facial expression, Dad had the painting set up in my room after its completion.  And for some reason, when I finally left home, I had taken it with me.  I guess it was to make his plan backfire.

"You're the only boy who isn't clean-shaven," Calla remarked.

"I like being a little scruffy," I replied.

"How long ago was this taken?”

"Four years."

"You weren't very tall, then-oh!"  As soon as Calla realized what she'd said, she clapped a hand to her mouth, and turned scarlet.  Her eyes slid fearfully in my direction.  I merely chuckled.

"It's okay, kid.  I was a little slow to reach my growth spurt.  Good observation."

Taking her hand from her mouth, she smiled shyly.  Calla turned her head back to the picture, and said after a moment, "You know, without your goatee, you would probably look a lot like your father."

"Don't remind me," I grumbled.

"Why not?"

"It's... complicated."

"Okay."

I appreciated the fact that she didn't try to grill me for information.  However, her curiosity appealed to me.

Suddenly, Calla threw me completely off-guard by asking, in hesitant tones, "Tristan, why don't you and Xen get married?"

"Wha-how-why-" I stumbled, sounding like an idiot, and being fully aware of that fact.

"Well, you love her.  And I can tell she loves you."  She began to look alarmed.  "Have I asked you a question I shouldn't have?"

"No, no, it's fine!  I just wasn't used to your being that direct."

"I've been curious for a long time.  Sorry, that was too-"

"Calla, there is no harm in asking me questions like that.  I'm not going to hurt you for being curious."  I sighed.  Finally, I said, "We want to.  Nothing would give me greater pleasure.  But I’m waiting to ask her at least until after October."

"What happens then?"

"She turns 20.  That seems a more acceptable age for her to get married at."  Granted, it would still be pretty young, but I already knew she was the one for me, so there seemed to be little need to wait.

"Oh."

There was a slightly awkward silence.  Then I cleared my throat.

"Calla, how would you like to become my assistant?"