Wickedly Dangerous

by Deborah Blake

  “Oh yay,” she said with a glower. “It looks like we’re having a party. And me without my party frock on.”

  “I’m thinking your battle armor might be more useful,” Chudo-Yudo remarked with his usual accuracy. “Do you want me to get you a sword?”

  Baba was seriously tempted. She’d love to see the faces of these yokels if she barreled out of the Airstream, clad in gleaming silver armor and waving a huge scimitar over her head. One ululating battle cry and they’d all be peeing their pants as they ran screaming back down the road.

  Unfortunately, since she was still trying to find a way to live here, at least until the children were found, scaring the locals even further probably wasn’t her best approach.

  Too bad. She loved a good battle yell.

  Instead, she brushed an errant twig out of her long hair, pushed it back over her shoulders, and walked out to face her uninvited guests. A tee shirt and black leather would have to do. At least she was wearing her shit-kicking boots.

  TWENTY-TWO

  A MOTLEY ASSORTMENT of men assembled on her erstwhile front lawn. A few faces she recognized, more that she didn’t. What she did recognize, though, was the madness in the mob-fever that gripped them all, and the weapons they’d brought along to back it up. She saw at least three shotguns, as well as a number of baseball bats and even a few pitchforks. How traditional. All they lacked were the flaming torches; with those, it would be just like home in the tiny superstitious rural villages of Mother Russia.

  As she stepped outside, with Chudo-Yudo in the doorway at her back, a roar like a wounded bear rose up to greet her. Wild and feral, mindless with fear and rage, it flowed over her with bestial power, one of the most frightening sounds in the universe.

  The mob raised their arms, flailing their weapons at her, although as yet, they weren’t aimed with purpose. Individual voices rose above the crowd, yelling incoherent threats, and ugly obscenities. The high-pitched tones of the few women in the group assaulted her ears with shrill hysteria, like angry crows trying to drive a hawk away from their nests.

  One man, larger and angrier than the rest, stepped forward. He was clearly the owner of the mammoth truck, wearing a tee shirt that matched the logo on his Chevy and tattoos over much of the visible parts of his body. The weak late-afternoon sun arced off of his shaved head, and a length of gleaming chain hung loosely from a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.

  “Witch!” he yelled at her, the sound of his voice reducing the others to the background murmur of waves beating on a rocky shore. “This here is your unwelcomin’ committee. We’ve had enough of your mischief around these parts, and we aim to get your ass in that fancy trailer of yours and headed down the road to anywhere but here!” The others howled in agreement, and a fist-sized rock came whizzing by her head and crashed into the Airstream behind her.

  “You know,” Baba said in a conversational tone, “it’s really not polite to throw things. Especially not at my house. It tends to get quite peeved.”

  The big man blinked at her, thrown off his stride by her calm demeanor. “Look, you whore,” he said loudly. “We’ll do whatever it takes for you to get the message. You’re not wanted around here. Everybody knows you’ve been messing with people’s animals and their crops, doin’ some kind of voodoo and making folks sick with that crap you’ve been sellin’.” He lifted the chain he held threateningly. “So are you goin’ to get out on your own, or are we goin’ to have to help you along? Because one way or the other, you’re leavin’.”

  Baba sighed. Despite their numbers, their weapons, and their leader’s size, she wasn’t really worried about her own safety. She figured that she and Chudo-Yudo between them could take care of a mob three times this size, even without calling in the Riders, which she could do quite easily. But she didn’t want to have to hurt anyone here. Underneath the belligerence and nasty words, they were just people who had been manipulated and misled, and she’d just as soon not have to punish them for allowing their fear to be turned into anger and directed at her.

  On the other hand, she wasn’t going to let them scare her away either. And the sooner they figured that out, the better.

  Centering her mind, she concentrated on sending calming vibes out into the assembled mass of churning emotion. While she waited to see if that would have any effect, she tried talking some sense into the people confronting her.

  “Gentlemen, ladies, I haven’t done any of those things, honest,” she said, trying to project earnest innocence. Not her best look, really, but it was worth a try. “A few folks did get sick after using my herbal remedies, but the sheriff was able to figure out that someone was altering the medicines. And if you ask the people who bought them, you’ll find out that I gave everyone their money back, and gave them new medicines that worked just fine.”

  A few muttering voices agreed that yes, that was true, they’d heard that down at Bertie’s.

  “But that don’t change the fact that you’ve been castin’ hexes on people’s property and their livestock,” the leader shouted.

  Another rock went sailing by, thudding against a window that somehow not only didn’t break, but caused the rock to go ricocheting back along the exact same trajectory from which it had originated. Someone in the crowd let out a howl of pain and Baba bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh. A glance out over the group erased any temptation toward merriment, though, when she saw that they were still too riled up for her efforts at mental soothing to work. Shit.

  “Are you really trying to tell me you believe in all that stuff?” Baba asked, raising her voice. Behind her, Chudo-Yudo growled, looking menacing in the way only a huge, jagged-toothed pit bull can. One man in the front of the group started edging his way subtly toward the back.

  “Witchcraft?” Voodoo? Hexes?” She lifted her hands, sending out tiny impulses to the clouds above while trying to appear as harmless as possible. “Come on, really? You can’t honestly think that stuff exists, can you? This is real life, not some fairy tale.” Of course, her real life kind of was a walking fairy tale, but this was no time to try and explain that. Hell, there never would be a time. Not with these people.

  For a moment, she thought her rational argument might sway them. A few of the saner types lowered their weapons, doubt starting to slide over their features like the clouds that had temporarily covered the sun.

  But a voice from the back of the crowd shouted, “Someone is doing all this crazy stuff! You’re the only stranger around these parts right now, and everybody says you’re a witch! I say it’s true and I want you gone, away from my family!” A small flurry of stones accompanied the high-pitched rant, whistling through the air too close to her head for comfort, and as one, the mob took a few steps closer to Baba, raising their varied impromptu tools of destruction with renewed purpose.

  Right, Baba thought to herself. No more Mrs. Nice Guy. I’ve had a long day and I want my damned dinner. She took a deep breath and pulled her hands down with a drooping motion that might have looked to the crowd like surrender but actually tugged on the suggestion she’d planted in the atmosphere up above.

  The misty purple heavens opened up and dropped icy-fingered rain in torrents on men, women, trucks, and baseball bats alike. Thunder crashed and roared across the sky, accompanied by jagged flashes of lightning that turned the suddenly darkened afternoon intermittently bright as midday. Hail pelted exposed skin like BB’s, stinging and pelting the mob as they stood openmouthed, the sudden unexpected storm cooling their fury in a way that Baba’s kinder methods had failed to do.

  The big man who’d led the mob tried to urge his followers on, screaming above the sound of the ice and rain that pinged and sang as it hit the Airstream. “See! See! She’s a witch! Get her!”

  But he spoke to an emptying field as his friends all raced through the downpour to reach the shelter of their trucks and SUVs. The owner of the VW Bug struggled for a moment to r
aise the convertible top she had lowered in the earlier warmth, then gave up and hopped into a nearby vehicle, leaving the small car abandoned amid the mud, slowly filling with water and pea-sized hailstones.

  Baba and her accuser faced each other across a two-foot space, water coming down so hard she could barely make out his contorted, reddened face. Slowly, he let the hand holding the chain drop, but he stood there for another minute, glaring through the wet, before raising one finger in an obscene salute and stalking off to his outsized truck.

  Huge wheels spun futilely, flinging great gouts of mud up to cover the side of the truck and much of the surrounding area until Baba, deciding she’d had enough fun for one day, twitched the tip of a fingernail and boosted it out. Two deep ruts filled with the blue smoke from the truck’s exhaust as it lumbered off in pursuit of its fellows.

  Annoyed and disgusted, and not inclined to repeat the entire incident again in an hour, Baba decided to let it keep storming. The rain and thunder suited her mood. Maybe she’d get lucky and the whole county would wash away. The only things left standing would be that damned doorway to the Otherworld and the water-loving Rusalka. She could deal with them both and be done with this place, once and for all.

  * * *

  THE RAIN HAD driven Liam into the dubious shelter of a rickety kids’ fort cobbled together from old planks and some bright blue tarps in a corner of Davy’s backyard. Before that, he’d watched, perched up in the oak tree overlooking the yard, as Davy, his mom, and a tiny, hyperactive, brown dachshund had picnicked and played for hours behind the safety of a high wooden fence. When the rain came, driving the family inside, Liam got ready to leave. But as he began to slide down from his lofty roost, he was hit by that visceral feeling that longtime lawmen learn not to ignore, a little voice that said, Don’t go; something bad is coming.

  So he waited for them to settle inside, and then he crept down an overhanging branch until he could get close enough to the ground to drop down safely. Which made him think grimly: if he could do it, so could someone else. So he tucked himself into the furthest recesses of the tiny fort and watched through the window as Davy’s mom prepared their dinner amid the warmth and light of a cozy kitchen, and hoped that no one would find him skulking in a child’s playhouse and ask him to explain what the hell he was doing there.

  The rain pelted the top of the less-than-waterproof structure, dripping on Liam’s hat and occasionally finding a stealthy path to the back of his neck and down over his shirt collar. The damp seemed to work its way into his bones and his stomach complained bitterly as Mrs. Turner stirred something on the stove that sent tantalizing aromas drifting out the open window, hinting at tomato sauce and onions simmering in butter.

  Liam had almost convinced himself that his instincts had steered him wrong when the back door opened again to reveal five-year-old Davy and his dog, whose wiggling body hesitated briefly before heading out into the rain to pee against the nearest tree. Once done, however, the already drenched animal was in no hurry to return back inside.

  “Trevor, come back here,” Davy called softly, patting his leg and making what were probably supposed to be whistling sounds, but come out more as whooshing puffs of air. “Come on, boy! It’s almost dinnertime!”

  The tiny dog yipped in excited defiance, chasing some smell more interesting than the dry indoors and ignoring his pint-sized master with an attitude that bespoke of common practice.

  “Trevor! Trevor!” Davy hissed at the dog, then looked furtively over his shoulder toward his mother, who was rummaging through a cupboard on the far side of the room. Even through the window, Liam could see that she was focused on finding something deep in the cupboard’s recesses that had so far eluded her.

  Davy gave one more backward glance and then came sprinting across the yard, intent on recapturing his pet and getting him back inside before his mother discovered them missing, and they both got in trouble. He skidded across soggy leaves and pounced, coming up with the squirming dachshund clasped firmly in his pudgy little arms.

  Liam started to pull his too-large body even farther into the too-small fort, worried that the child might spot him, when something wrong tugged at his senses. A foggy gray shadow solidified into a beautiful blond woman, standing almost on top of the boy, who glanced up in surprise, blue eyes wide and mouth opening to call for his mother.

  But Maya held out something that looked like a spinning, glowing ball of sunlight, its brightness only slightly defused by the foggy mist that surrounded her. The child’s eyes fogged too, turning to empty marbles the color of the sky at dawn, and then closing altogether. The dog slid unnoticed from his limp grasp to run under the fort, shivering and whimpering.

  Liam put his right hand on his gun, and then hesitated. She was so close to the boy, standing right over him. It was too dangerous, even though less than two feet separated him from the creature as she stooped to pick up her latest victim. Liam stepped out of the lean-to, taking a giant step in her direction.

  “Step away from the child,” he said in a low, authoritative voice. “Step away now.”

  Maya lifted her head, startled by his sudden appearance, then let loose a silvery laugh that sent cold fingers down his spine. “I don’t think so, Sheriff,” she said, reforming the ball of light that had mesmerized the boy. “I think I’ll take this one too, and leave you lying here in the rain, looking even more incompetent than ever.”

  She closed the distance between them, holding the whirring light up in front of his face. For a moment, he felt the world as a distant echo, far away and as illusory as a fireside tale, then a burning sensation from the medallion hanging over his chest snapped the spell like a spinner’s broken thread, unraveling it back to its source.

  Maya faltered for a precious second, stunned by the unexpected failure of her magic, and Liam pulled out the Taser he’d been holding behind his back and shot her with 50,000 volts. She fell to the ground with a satisfying thud and lay there spasming uncontrollably.

  By the time Davy’s mother had flown out of the house with a shriek, Maya’s hands were firmly handcuffed behind her, the cold steel holding her in place in more ways than the obvious. Davy sat up, looking dazed and confused, and Trevor the dog barked loudly as if taking credit for his enemy’s capture.

  Mrs. Turner clasped the boy to her so tightly she threatened to cut off his oxygen, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh my god, oh my god,” she kept saying. “My baby, oh my god.”

  Liam patted her on the shoulder, and then heaved a glowering Maya to her feet. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Turner. It’s all over now.”

  But of course, it wasn’t.

  TWENTY-THREE

  LIAM PULLED HIS cruiser into the sheriff’s department parking lot and cursed fluently under his breath. Someone had clearly been listening to a police scanner, because it looked like half the town was already there.

  He got out of the car and fetched Maya from the backseat, her hands still cuffed. Her lovely blond hair was disheveled, and there was a brown smear of mud on her once pristine white blouse. She looked like she’d been ridden hard and put up wet. Somehow, despite this, she managed to appear cool and professional. Liam, in contrast, felt rumpled and disreputable after an afternoon spent lurking in a tree. It hardly seemed fair.

  On the other hand, he wasn’t the one wearing the cuffs. There was a certain satisfaction in that.

  Mrs. Turner and her husband (who’d returned home from work just in time to be greeted by a hysterical wife, a crying son, a sullen Maya, and Liam) followed the sheriff and his prisoner in through the front door and into a cacophony of chaos. Mrs. Turner hadn’t let go of Davy since she’d reclaimed him in the backyard, and he seemed happy to cling to her hand as they walked into the midst of dozens of competing voices raised in demand of answers that no one there had.

  Molly was frantically trying to contain a crowd made up of most of the board members (includin
g Clive Matthews, of course, who had apparently been dragged away from the dinner table by the news, if the napkin tucked into his top pocket was any indication), the families whose children had been taken, and every deputy who wasn’t officially out on patrol. Liam’s eyes scanned the room for Baba, since he’d made sure to send her a message via the medallion—which apparently had more uses than he’d been told. But there was no sign of a tall fierce-looking woman with a cloud of black hair and piercing amber eyes.

  His secretary, on the other hand, greeted him with a cry of gladness. “Sheriff! Thank goodness you’re back.” Her gaze darted to the handcuffed Maya briefly, but by force of will dragged her attention back to the issue at hand. “Everyone heard that you caught someone trying to kidnap another child. Is it true?” Her normally sweet face hardened into granite as she looked at his prisoner. “Is that her? Did she take all those poor children?”

  Liam nodded. “So it would appear.” He motioned to the Turners. “Can you get the Turners seated in my office please, and get them some coffee or tea, or whatever they need? I’m going to process Ms. Freeman, and then I need to get an official report from them.”

  Before Molly could even take a step, Clive Matthews and Peter Callahan shoved their way out of the crowd, like a mismatched suit-wearing Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Callahan bellowed. “Take those cuffs off my assistant immediately!”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that,” Liam said mildly, but with a certain justifiable satisfaction. “I caught Ms. Freeman in the commission of a crime, trying to take Davy Turner right out of his own backyard. She’s going into a cell and that’s where she’s staying. If you want to be helpful, you might try to convince her to tell us what she’s done with the other three children she’s stolen.”