Yaga's Blood (Root and Myth Book 1)

by Katya Kolmakov

  “There are people in Russia who have certain abilities,” he started, drumming long fingers to the wheel. So, they were addressing the whole ‘mortal’ thing right away. “And your Mom was one of them, but then she lost her gift, and… ran.”

  “Abilities? Gift? Like those freakish snakes at your feet?”

  The man at the wheel froze.

  “You can see them?”

  “I could see them through the peephole in the hotel door. And hear the hiss. But when you entered, you looked… normal.”

  “A door is a threshold. There’s a reason why it’s a big deal in every European folklore. And a peephole is an indirect look, the so-called ‘second eye.’ It allows you to see more if you have the ability to.” He shot her a quick glance. “Damn it, I bet your Mom hoped you didn’t inherit it from her.”

  “What exactly is the ‘it?’” Mira asked, and he sighed.

  “Magic. Supernatural. All that rubbish they put in those barmy books and shows you kids watch these days. Isn’t it what they do these days? Take the dark magic of the past, and appropriate it, decorating it with CGI, and fit celebrities, and… Justin Bieber.” The last two words were as much as spat out.

  “You mean, like vampires and demigods?” Mira offered.

  “Whatever you crazy youth read these days,” he grumbled, and suddenly the car made a sharp right and stopped. “What do you want?”

  “Huh?”

  Mira stared at him in shock. He gave out a long theatrical sigh.

  “Tim’s, Mira.”

  She looked around. They were in a drive through.

  “A decaf double double, medium. A pretzel bagel, toasted, with cream cheese.”

  She had well-formed tastes. Another sigh from the man followed. He ordered her food and a large black coffee for himself.

  “Where are we going?”

  Wrapping her hands around the cup - so familiar and comforting - made her feel a bit warmer.

  “We need to make sure your stunt with the spoon didn’t give us away. And we need to hide you. We need a bear.”

  She opened her mouth to ask, but he lifted a long index finger and took a long sip of his coffee. He was as much as downing it in one gulp, and she wondered if the skin on his palate would start peeling off - unless he was a dragon, of course. The thought produced a funny reaction in her - a string of nervous giggles. He looked at her from the corner of his eye.

  She took a sip as well. The coffee was scorching.

  “I didn’t get you decaf,” he said, flooring the gas pedal again. “Since you have the gift, we need you jittery.”

  “Jittery?”

  “You know when you walk in a dark street, and you didn’t eat enough, and then there’s this odd feeling, and shadows seem to slither, and daft images crawl into your noggin?” he asked in a fake light tone.

  Mira nodded.

  “That’s not just a feeling,” the man deadpanned.

  Mira quickly finished her coffee, leaving the bagel untouched.

  ***

  Despite the coffee, she seemed to have nodded off at some point, and woke up when he was parking the car. They were clearly in one of those small towns outside Winnipeg. It was still dark, but she could already see a tractor store and a souvenir shop. Neat little houses, a statue of yet another giant animal, and all other attributes of tiny farmer towns of Manitoba were present. Mira’s Mom adored them. Sometimes she would just make Mira hop in the car, and they would drive for hours. They would eat in a tiny diner, Yana would drink her usual five cups of coffee, buy some ridiculous lawn decoration, and wander the local museum, which would once again be just some old house with faded photos on the walls and a funky smell. All those trips now seemed suspicious.

  They entered a diner with a crooked sign that read Potapytch’s Eat-In and Take-Out. It was a typical place, with wobbly tables and chairs, and tacky decorations on the walls consisting of the usual black and white photos of farming equipment and ceramic figurines. Mira didn’t fail to notice that when Bessemer pushed the door, the sign ‘Open’ wasn’t on, and the door seemed locked, despite the lights being on inside.

  They entered silently, and Mira felt that wonky tension when something’s supposed to happen but doesn't. She looked behind her and realized that there was a bell above the door. And it hadn’t rung.

  “Who the heck are you?” a gruff voice came from the back.

  A large man stepped out, an empty pot for a coffee machine in his hand. As tall and broad as Bessemer was, he was dwarfed by the diner owner.

  The man stepped even closer, shuffling on the floor. He was exceptionally bow-legged. He had short bushy hair and sharp dark eyes under thick eyebrows.

  “Is this your family place? Are you Potapytch? I’m looking for the owner,” Bessemer answered.

  “You found him. And yeah, it’s my family place. Now, who the heck are you?”

  “We need shelter, and we are ready to pay for it,” Bessemer spoke slowly, his eyes intent on the man. “Do you have a place upstairs? We’ll pay cash if you let us stay there.”

  The man stood silently for a few seconds, and Mira held her breath. She watched as he blinked and then nodded.

  “Hundred bucks a night. I’ll stay with my girlfriend in the next house,” the diner owner muttered in a strange flat tone.

  Bessemer nodded.

  “Mira, do you have your Mom’s money?” he asked without turning, and Mira took off her backpack and started frantically digging through it.

  Somehow it felt like she needed to hurry up. She pulled the envelope out and pushed it into Bessemer’s hand.

  One beige bill travelled into the diner owner’s hand, and he shoved it in the back pocket of his baggy jeans.

  “Follow me. I’m Mike.”

  “Even better,” muttered Bessemer.

  Mike placed the coffee pot on the counter with a clank, and they went after him to a dark staircase, and up into his apartment above.

  ***

  The place upstairs was exactly what one would expect: a living room with a TV and a Playstation, a scratched coffee table, a lumpy couch, and two matching armchairs. In the opposite wall there was a door probably leading to a bedroom.

  A large fluffy dog met them at the threshold. Mike pushed the door open, and immediately a growl came.

  “Down, boy.” Mike patted the large furry head, but the animal continued to bare its teeth at Bessemer, snarling, loud raspy gnarring coming from its throat. “C’mon, Beck, move!”

  Bessemer tilted his head and gave the dog a wink. A small whine came, and the hooch scattered away - and under the couch.

  “Beck?” The host gawked at the couch in shock, but Bessemer already placed his hand on the man’s back and gently pushed him inside.

  “C’mon, mate, invite us in.”

  The man stepped over the threshold and to the side. “Come in.”

  “Much obliged,” Bessemer drew out sarcastically.

  Mira followed him.

  “Scram,” Bessemer threw towards the couch, and the dog popped from under it.

  It scampered, its claws scraping on the hardwood - and in a ball of frenzied fur it rushed by its owner, through the door, and disappeared down the stairs. Mira and Potapytch gaped at the empty doorway.

  “Yeah...” Potapytch scratched his head. “So, I’ll just… change the sheets on the bed, I guess.”

  “We’ll need clean ones for the sofa too.” Bessemer dropped heavily in one of the armchairs and rubbed his face with his hands. “Some food as well. I’ll come down and pick it up in twenty minutes.”

  “OK,” the host answered in a lost tone. “Um... I guess I’ll call Tash and ask to stay with her for a while.”

  “Is Tash your girlfriend?” Bessemer was sitting in the armchair, his head dropped back, eyes closed.

  “Yeah, she has a florist shop next door.”

  “Is she a redhead?”

  “What?” The man’s eyes boggled.

  “Is your girlfriend a redh
ead?” Bessemer asked without opening his eyes.

  “No, she’s sort of... blonde.”

  “Alright, you may go,” Bessemer dismissed the man.

  Shuffling his pigeon-toed feet, Potapytch went to the bedroom, grumbling something under his breath. He reappeared a few minutes later and left.

  Bessemer jumped out of his armchair. He opened the messenger bag he had across his shoulder and pulled out several small pouches. He tipped one over his palm, and Mira saw wood chips fall out. He then sprinkled them across the threshold, and onto the window sill.

  “Is it some kind of protection or something? Against vampires?” Mira couldn’t believe she was saying it.

  Bessemer threw her a quick look and nodded.

  “So, it’s all true, they count small things scattered on their path? Like the Count in Muppets?”

  That gained her an exasperated glare.

  “They are called ‘vourdalaks’ in Russian. And they are more like zombies with a wee bit of werewolf mixed in. But the principle is the same,” Bessemer threw over his shoulder in a fake nonchalant manner.

  If he wanted to freak her out, he succeeded.

  The next pouch had some dried herbs. Bessemer fished out three short twigs, and put them crossed in the middle of the coffee table. Out of another two baggies, he shook out a handful of dried rowan berries and poppy seeds respectively and scattered them on the table as well. The whole time his lips were moving silently. He then threw the pouches back in his messenger bag and sat down on the couch.

  “Sit, Mira. As they say in Russia, one doesn’t carry the truth on their feet.”

  Mira’s Mom would say that a lot. Before Mira could move, he raised his hand in warning.

  “And don’t put your bag on the floor. We will need that money.”

  That had been frowned upon in their house as well. Before, Mira doubted that the modest budget of their household would suffer from putting a purse on the floor. Now, with the fat envelope that Bessemer had given back to her tucked inside and all the crazy stuff going on Mira decided not to risk it. She placed the backpack on one armchair and sat down on the other.

  “So, what was it?” she started her interrogation. “Is this Potapytch guy one of the… special people you mentioned before? Or did you just… magic him into helping us?”

  Bessemer gave her another of his sarcastic looks.

  “That’s not how it works, Mira.”

  “Sure. How does it work?” she asked pointedly.

  “Our dear host supposedly comes from a long line of people with abilities. I looked him up in Yellow Pages, by the surname. I just made an educated guess that he’d help us. There’s no such thing as ‘special people.’ Everyone is special. We all have magic. It’s just some people have more, some have less. ”

  “What does it depend on then?”

  “Food, mostly,” Bessemer answered, and Mira lifted one eyebrow. Bessemer smirked lopsidedly.

  “You look just like your Mother.”

  “We’ll discuss that later,” Mira asserted. “Back to the magic in the food, please.”

  Bessemer gave out a fake sigh.

  “Magic is everywhere. It’s in plants, and animals, and minerals. The longer a person is exposed to it - to the right kind of magic - the stronger it is in them. And the more is passed to their children. To use it one needs the Knowledge. But even without it, the magic accumulates in the blood. If the food is all bloody GMO and is brought from a foreign country, after being harvested green, and pumped with hormones, and stuffed with fertilisers, it’s empty.” Bessemer’s lips twisted in annoyance. “An organic farmer living where his ancestors lived and eating the same root vegetables will have more than a person living in a big city noshing on McDonald’s since the age of two.”

  “Are you saying magic is an environmental issue?” Mira asked in disbelief.

  “Everything is an environmental issue, Mira,” Bessemer grumbled in an irked tone. “We live on the bloody planet. It used to contain magic all over, and now it’s dying.”

  “So, you and your snakes— what? Were you born in Somethingshire, ate the same potatoes as your ancestors, and stayed away from fast food?”

  Mira’s usual sarcasm showed its ugly head, as her Mom used to joke.

  “Not exactly,” Bessemer answered.

  Contrary to her expectations, he looked more entertained by her jibe than angry.

  “Magic can be fostered and practised. Some people have genetic predisposition, as well. So, in the old times there were people who accumulated a lot of it and passed it to their children, and with time there would be a person in whom magic would be so strong that they were sort of more than a person.”

  He pointed his long index finger at his chest and gave her a small bow. It looked ridiculous since he was still sitting on Mike Potapytch’s shabby couch.

  “Beings like that live longer, age slower, and if they aren’t careful, people start noticing. That’s how folklore is made.”

  “Are you saying you’re a mythological creature?” The level of disbelief in her voice was up to the ceiling.

  A nod from the man followed.

  “Great. And my Mom? You said she lost her magic.”

  “She… used it up.” Bessemer’s face grew dark. “It happens very rarely, but the circumstances were exceptional.”

  Judging by his tone, he wasn’t going to go into details any time soon.

  “And the people who are after me?”

  Bessemer emitted one of his sighs again. “They’re your family. You come from a family of ‘mythological creatures,’ as you put it. Considering your Mom’s personal history, they had assumed you’d have no gift, and you two were allowed to disappear. But something changed.”

  Bessemer rose.

  “I’ll go get our food. You can continue your interrogation when I have some nosh inside me.” He smirked. “You have the grip of a bulldog.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be like those characters in a teen fantasy, you know,” Mira mumbled in a defensive tone. “Where no one tells them anything, like they’re idiots, and then they endanger everyone because they go where they shouldn’t go.”

  “Fair enough.” Bessemer headed to the door. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “I am not an idiot.” Mira scoffed. “Oh, by the way, why does it matter if Mike’s girlfriend is a redhead?”

  “She might be a fox. Never trust a fox.”

  Bessemer opened the door, stepped over the line of wood chips on the threshold, and left.

  Mira squeezed her eyes and pleaded to all gods and deities to let her wake up in her bed and have this all be a bad dream. The chances were slim, though.

  Chapter 3. Stay in the Light

  “So, you looked up the diner in the Yellow Pages?" Mira asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

  The man on the couch gave her a lopsided smirk and chewed his burger.

  “Your mother has a lot to answer for,” he drew out and took a large sip from his mug. “You should know this. Potapytch is one of the many epithets for a bear in Russian fairy tales. It’s also a clearly Slavic surname, and there are many Ukrainians in Manitoba. So, if Mike’s the latest Potapytch, I knew he might be the man we could use. There’s always someone with the animal spirit in them. People like him carry certain qualities through generations, and you can exploit them. I looked through the list of diners and motels, and found the one that fit. A bear is a protector who lives on the border of the woods and the human dwelling - thus, a diner by a motorway. Trustworthy but hardly bright. Have you read The Hobbit?”

  “I saw the movies,” Mira answered in a defensive tone.

  “Yeah, your Mom has a lot to answer for.” Bessemer chuckled and continued eating.

  “OK, so it’s not just Russians, Ukrainians, and - who else is there? Serbians? - who have the abilities?”

  “Were you listening to me?” Bessemer wiped his mouth with a napkin, crinkled it, and threw it at the table in an irritated gesture. “Magic is
everywhere. And all folklore is - at least partially - true. That’s why different European cultures have similar mythical creatures. Similar food, plants, animals, water, and weather equal similar magic.”

  “Like Mike and the bearman in Tolkien?”

  “Pretty much.” Bessemer nodded. “Like the undead sucking blood and stopping to count wood chips. Or the use of rowan berries. Or the horseshoe bringing luck. Our dear host is a descendant of many generations of farmers, and now he serves local beef and organic local vegetables in his diner according to the note on his window. He probably visits his Baba on weekends, and she cooks for him, and tells him stories from her life. There should be enough magic in him to protect us in his house.”

  “So, how about you then? Is your magic from the UK? That’s where you met my Mom, right? When she went to school there?”

  Bessemer finished his coffee. His face was dark, and Mira saw him frown.

  “No, that’s not where we met. I’m not actually British, just lived there for the last fifteen years. And… before that too. Picked up the accent, and such.”

  “So, how did you meet? Are you from Russia, then?”

  “It’s complicated, Mira, and has nothing to do with the current situation.” He rose and headed to the bathroom. “You should get some sleep. I’ll take a shower and then make some calls.”

  The door closed, and Mira stared at the empty couch.

  ***

  As soon as her head touched the pillow of Mike Potapytch’s bed, Mira fell into deep, dreamless slumber. She woke up hungry and disoriented. She pulled on her hoodie and stepped out of the bedroom.

  Bessemer was sitting on the couch, and at first she thought he was asleep. His eyes were closed, and his face looked thinned. Deep purple shadows lay under the eyes, making him appear exhausted.

  “Has your Mom ever mentioned a man named Ulf? Wolfgang, maybe?” he suddenly asked, without lifting his head dropped onto the back of the couch. “Anyone with a surname that has something to do with a wolf or the colour grey? Ulfsson? Volchok? Lupin?”