Of course, he was standing mostly naked in the cold moonlight having a conversation with a dead woman. Maybe they’d be right.
As if she’d read his thoughts again, Heather said in that strange whispery voice, “You should not be here. You should go. Go home, Sam.”
He shook his head, sleep-tousled hair flopping into his eyes, remembering the too-empty rooms of his apartment, a place where he drifted, much like the ghost in front of him. At least here in the fire tower he felt alive. Tormented and losing his mind, maybe, but at least he felt something, unlike the numb nothing that awaited him back in the land where people expected him to act normal and be okay.
“I need this job, Heather,” he said, suddenly desperate to make her understand. The old Heather—the living Heather—would have known why he had to be here without him having to explain. That had been one of the best things about her. She embraced the battle like he did. “I need to stay and fight the fire, at least in this small way.”
Outside the windows the storm growled and rattled, like some mystical creature part lion and part scorpion, its tail banging against the windows as sharp claws scrabbled across the metal roof. His exposed skin crawled with gooseflesh, although whether it was from the cool air, the storm, or the presence—or not—of the ghost of his dead fiancée, it was hard to say.
“Go home,” she said again. “You should not be here. You will cause other deaths as you caused mine. Go home. Leave. Leave. Leave.”
Sam staggered as if he’d been shot. He couldn’t believe that Heather would say such things. But did that mean it was just his warped subconscious? Maybe he didn’t want to believe that she might hold him responsible for her death. Or that she could think he was so dangerous to others he shouldn’t be doing the only job left on earth that had any meaning for him.
“Heather, please,” he said, taking another step closer. But the glowing figure shivered in the moonlight, a ball of incandescent swirling orange and red materializing in one translucent hand. She lobbed it in his direction, and as he ducked involuntarily, Sam thought he saw an expression of rage cross Heather’s normally placid features before he raised his arms protectively over his head.
When he straightened up a moment later, the room was empty, the storm dying away. But the experience trembled through his body and rocked his spirit long after he’d walked around turning on all the lights and scanning the darkness for spots of newly born fire, accusing dead women, or anything else that didn’t belong.
Sam paused for a long time, standing in front of the drawer that held his pills, fingers tight on the metal knob with its peeling white paint. In the end, he took his hand away and went to bed. But sleep eluded him as his mind spun about in fevered circles between bad options and worse: either he was being haunted by the woman he loved who seemed to be telling him to stay away from the one person whose company he enjoyed and leave the job that gave the shattered remains of his life some kind of meaning . . . or he was finally, irrevocably, losing his damned mind.
* * *
MIKHAIL DAY WATCHED through slitted eyes as Brenna made her way out of the cave, huffing as she climbed the steep incline that led to the surface through the dim slivers of the early morning sunshine. He was pretty sure she’d rolled him (and the others after him) down that incline to get them into the cavern, since he’d woken up that first day with bruises he couldn’t explain. Unlike the bruises he had now, whose origins were all too clear.
“Good riddance,” Alexei muttered. “Feel free to get eaten by bears while you look for your stupid poisonous berries and mushrooms, you old witch.”
Gregori shook his head. “I am not so certain that would be such a good thing, much as I would enjoy the idea of that one ending up on the inside of anything’s stomach. After all, if she does not return, we will all starve to death in our cages.”
“A better fate than the one that lies in store for us if she does return,” Mikhail said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I am very much afraid I have led us to our end.”
“Fah,” Alexei said, waving one huge hand through the air. “Baba Yaga will come. You will see.”
“Do you really think that Barbara, Bella, or Beka got our message?” Mikhail asked, pulling himself up on one elbow. Sitting up seemed like more effort than it was worth. “Last I knew, Barbara was in New York State, Bella was in Montana, and Beka was in California. Can sprites fly that far?”
Gregori gave his typical noncommittal shrug, barely a twitch of one shoulder. “Who can say? They are Baba Yagas. They could be anywhere. And as for sprites, to be honest, I have never paid much attention to such things. But they are very small with wings of matching size. It is hard to believe that one would get very far. It seems more likely that we are on our own.”
“Nonsense!” Alexei roared (albeit quietly, just in case Brenna came back unexpectedly). “You felt that tremor in the energy fields the same as I did. There’s no denying it was something magical.”
“Something magical, yes,” Gregori said practically. “But that does not guarantee it was a Baba Yaga.”
Mikhail put his head back down, although he still faced toward the others. “I certainly hope it was one of the Babas, after what Alexei did to himself to distract Brenna in case it was.”
“Fah,” Alexei said again. “It was nothing.” His Russian accent, strongest of them all, especially when he was under stress, made it sound like, “It vas nut-tink.” It made Mikhail pine for home and earlier days, when things had been simpler and the worst thing a Rider was likely to come up against was a rogue ogre or some annoying princeling trying to overthrow an area the Babas held under their protection.
Mikhail peered through the bars at his friend, whose hands were still oozing and raw. “I wouldn’t call it nothing, my large brother. You can’t even use your hands.”
“Ha!” Alexei said, making a rude gesture to prove Mikhail wrong. “I can use them. I am just reserving my strength until I can wrap them around the witch’s scrawny neck.” He scowled. “I am more worried about you, Mikhail. Can you hang on until the Baba comes to get us? You have been here longer than Gregori and I, and you are not looking well.”
“Nothing a good bowl of borscht couldn’t fix,” Mikhail said, coughing a little and holding his ribs so the others couldn’t see him wince. “I am not so weak as I seem. I’m merely trying to lull Brenna into a false sense of security. Sooner or later, she will lower her guard and I will get us out of here.”
He coughed again, feeling broken ends of bones rasping against one another. The pain from that was barely noticeable in the sea of agony from everything else. But worse still was the pain in his soul.
“This is all my fault. It should be me who gets us out of this situation, since I got us into it. If I hadn’t allowed the witch to fool me, falling for her tricks like some young puppy still wet behind the ears, you would not have followed me here to be trapped like animals in a cage.”
“Who are you calling an animal?” Alexei growled. “It is no more your fault than it is ours. After all, we fell into her trap as well.”
Gregori sighed. “There is no point in wasting our energy arguing over this again. None of us expected a Baba Yaga to turn on us. It is unheard of. Just as it is unheard of for a Baba Yaga to have to come to the rescue of the Riders, instead of the other way around. The world has gone insane and no one is to blame.”
Mikhail didn’t agree with him, but Gregori was right about one thing: there was no point in arguing. If he could, Mikhail would sacrifice his life to buy the freedom of his friends. He only hoped he would have a chance to do so.
“Maybe a Baba is really coming,” he said. “Anything is possible.” But he didn’t really believe it, and he didn’t think the others did either.
FIFTEEN
JAZZ OPENED HER eyes, confused for a moment to be looking at a curved wooden ceiling instead of a canopy of trees. Then she rem
embered the day before—the fire that nearly claimed her life and the woman who rescued her who turned out to be a real, honest-to-Grimm witch. She sat up carefully, removing the blanket that covered her as she looked around the inside of the caravan.
Early morning light peeked in through partially drawn curtains, barely illuminating the tidy cupboards and neatly arranged furniture, most of which was tucked against the walls when it wasn’t in use. At the far end of the compact traveling house a motionless form indicated that Bella was still asleep.
Jazz swung her legs over the side of the bed, thinking furiously. It had been nice sleeping in an actual bed, even one that folded out from a wall. And it had been great to eat as much as she wanted for a change. But trusting adults had never worked out well for her, and every instinct in her body was telling her to get out now while she still could. After all, hadn’t most of the witches in her storybooks turned out to be evil?
On the other hand, Bella had saved her from the fire. There was nothing evil about that, as far as Jazz could tell, although it was always possible that she’d only done it so she could use Jazz for some other, even worse purpose. She didn’t have to trust Bella in order to stay, just for a few days until she’d had another couple of good meals. On the other other hand, there was always the possibility that Bella would turn her in to the cops or social services for “her own good.” Jazz had too much experience with people making lousy decisions because they thought they knew what was best for her. It was too risky. Better to take her chances in the woods.
She slipped her feet into her sneakers and grabbed her backpack, trying to move as silently as she could. One step toward the door, then another, sliding her feet on the smooth wooden floor so they wouldn’t make any noise.
Suddenly she bumped into something solid that hadn’t been there a minute ago. Looking down, she saw a pair of yellow eyes gleaming up at her in the dim dawn glow.
“I wouldn’t,” Koshka said. “It’s not safe out there.”
She still couldn’t get used to the fact that she could understand the talking cat. Dragon. Whatever. “Like I’m safer in here with the wicked witch,” she said.
“I heard that,” a sleepy voice said from the rear.
Jazz could swear she heard the cat snicker.
“I was just going to stick my head out and see what the weather was like,” Jazz said, crossing her fingers behind her back. She hated lying, although she did it when she had to. Too many people had lied to her over the years. She figured this one wasn’t exactly a lie—she’d check the weather, and then keep on going.
Bella yawned and sat up in bed, her curly red hair sticking up in every direction like a fiery halo. She sure didn’t look evil. Although in Jazz’s experience, that didn’t mean much. In the last family she’d run away from, the father seemed like every kid’s dream dad—until he shut the door.
“Carrying your backpack?” Bella said. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just open a window and stick your head out?”
Jazz grimaced. Even half asleep, the woman was way too observant. “Look, nothing personal. I just have trust issues, okay? I’d rather be on my own. It’s easier that way.”
Bella rubbed one hand across her face. “Hey, I get it. I’m a loner myself. Except for Koshka, of course.”
At Jazz’s feet, the dragon-cat let out a purr that sounded like an outboard engine.
“Great,” Jazz said. “So I’ll just be going then. Thanks for dinner and the bed and everything.”
“Koshka was right when he said it isn’t safe out there,” Bella said, getting up and padding across the floor in bare feet. She was wearing an oversized tee shirt with a picture of Margaret Hamilton from The Wizard of Oz. Underneath the pointy green face was printed, YOU SAY WICKED LIKE IT’S A BAD THING.
“Uh-huh.” Jazz aimed one finger at the shirt. “Or in here?”
“Oh please,” Bella said. “Where’s your sense of irony?” She pushed a button on the coffeemaker, and the scent of roses filled the caravan. Weird. “Look, I’m working on trying to solve the mystery of whatever is causing these fires and put a stop to it. Just stick around until I’ve done that, so I don’t have to worry about you getting trapped in another tree. After that, if you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
Jazz looked down at the cat, and Koshka shrugged, looking like an earthquake on a fur mountain. “She has her faults,” he said. “But she doesn’t lie.”
“Oh yeah? She told the firefighters and Sam that a sudden rainstorm came up and put out the fire.”
“And one did,” Bella said. “I just didn’t mention that I’d made the rain happen. You’re the one who said the fire must have been started by lightning. And for all we know, it was.”
Jazz thought back through what she could remember of their conversations. She didn’t think Bella had lied to her—she’d even admitted to being a witch when Jazz said she was one.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll stay for a couple of days, but you have to promise you won’t call the authorities on me.”
Bella laughed. “The ‘authorities’ I deal with aren’t interested in runaway girls, I assure you. But I promise not to tell anyone you’re not my niece as long as you stick close until I can figure out what to do with you.”
“Huh.” Jazz rolled her eyes. “I’ve got an idea. You want to figure out what to do with me? You could start by making me breakfast. I’m a growing girl, you know.”
* * *
TINY RAPPED PERFUNCTORILY on the door to the fire tower and ducked his head as he came in, putting down a plate that smelled delectably of grease and sugar on the table where Sam sat, head slumped over a steaming cup of coffee.
“Mrs. Tiny made donuts,” the tall man announced unnecessarily. “So I brought up your mail. Seemed cruel to keep all these calories to myself.”
He patted his still-flat belly and put a small pile of envelopes and circulars down next to the donuts before going to help himself to a cup of coffee and sitting opposite Sam.
“Nothing personal, my friend,” Tiny said, peering across the table at Sam. “But you look like five pounds of shit in a one-pound bag. Something I should know about?”
Sam took a gulp of coffee and shook his head. “I’m okay. Just having some trouble sleeping.”
“I figured,” Tiny said. “What with the bloodshot eyes and the fact that you’re trying to inhale that coffee. Have a donut; they’re good for what ails you.” He shoved the plate closer to Sam. “What’s the problem? The PTSD giving you nightmares? I had those for years after I got back from Nam. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
Sam winced. He wasn’t surprised that Tiny had guessed about the PTSD. After all, the older man knew his history and had already told Sam that he’d dealt with the issue himself years before. Still, he hated to have anyone mention it. Speaking it out loud seemed to give it more power.
He took a donut and nibbled at one powdery edge. “It’s not that,” he said. “I mean, yeah, I have nightmares, but I’m kind of used to them. That’s not what’s keeping me awake nights.” He glanced over one shoulder as if the ghost might appear, even though it was almost seven in the morning on a crystalline clear day.
Tiny leaned back in his chair, a trace of tannish brown cinnamon sugar decorating his denim shirt. “Well, what is it then? Worried about the fires? We all are, but you can’t spot ’em if you can’t keep your eyes open, now can you?”
“It’s not that either,” Sam said, putting the donut back down. He wasn’t going to say it. No way. “Don’t worry about it, Tiny. I’m fine.”
“Son, if you were any farther from fine you’d be in Nebraska,” Tiny said with a chuckle. He had an entire assortment of slightly askew sayings; Sam had never been sure if they were local colloquialisms or if the older man just made them up on the spot. “Come on, you know you can tell me anything. After all, I told you all about me and Mrs. Tiny and the picnic
table.”
Sam shuddered. “I know. And I wish you hadn’t. I’ve never been able to look at that poor, innocent hunk of wood the same way since.” He sighed. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But I warn you, you’re going to think I’m crazy.” And maybe I am.
“I’m pretty sure you’re the sanest man I know,” Tiny said. “’Course, considering the company I keep, that might not be saying much. So, what’s going on?”
Sam took a deep breath. “I think I might have a ghost.” He waited for the laughter.
The older man just looked thoughtful. “Here at the fire tower? We never had one before, leastwise not one that I ever heard of. Not in the years I was working here, anyway, before I married Lisa.”
Most people assumed that Tiny and his wife were an old married couple, but in fact they’d been high school sweethearts who’d lost touch and hadn’t reconnected until after Lisa’s first husband had died suddenly and she’d come back to the area to heal about five years ago. She and Tiny reconnected, fell right back into love, and got married about a year later. That was when he’d given up working the fire tower in the summer, not wanting to miss one more minute with the woman he’d never stopped waiting for.
“You believe in ghosts?” Sam said, a little taken aback by the other man’s casual acceptance of his announcement.
Tiny rolled his eyes. “’Course I do,” he said. “My granny sat in her rocking chair most nights after she died, just rocking back and forth even when there was no wind. We tried to get rid of the damned thing once; my mother said it gave her the willies. But as soon as we took it out to the shed, things started moving around the house. Vases would fall over, little stuff like keys would disappear, and my dad’s favorite coffee mug somehow ended up upside down in the cat’s litter box. That was the last straw. They brought granny’s rocking chair back inside and put it right back in the corner of the living room.” He chuckled. “You bet I believe in ghosts. Besides—”
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