Wickedly Wonderful

by Deborah Blake

  Marcus tried to focus, although having her nearly naked next to him made it difficult. “Um, I think there was a story my ma used to read us when we were young that had someone by that name in it. Didn’t she eat children or something? And lived in a weird hut that ran around on chicken legs?” He stared at her. “Why are we talking about fairy tales now?”

  “We’re not,” Beka said flatly. “We’re talking about me. I’m a Baba Yaga.”

  “What?”

  “A Baba Yaga. It’s not so much a person as it is a job title,” she said, as if she were talking perfect sense and not gibberish. “They were best known in Russia and the surrounding Slavic countries, but there have always been Baba Yagas throughout Europe, and eventually they moved to the Americas too. There are three of us here now: me and my sister Babas, Barbara and Bella. Babas are powerful witches who are responsible for watching over the doorways to the Otherworld and maintaining the balance of the natural world.” She scowled. “That used to be a lot easier in the old days, believe me.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Marcus asked. He could feel himself pulling back, the world turning gray again. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was foolish fairy tales like the ones his da used to tell them when he and Kyle were kids. “Because if it is, it isn’t funny.”

  Those damned stories of magical sea creatures had made Kyle feel safe and invincible on the water. And that had gotten him killed, as much as the stoned-out-hippie flake his father had hired had.

  Beka rolled stormy blue eyes at him, like the sea before a big blow. “You don’t believe me. I don’t blame you. Hell, I wouldn’t believe me either.” She gestured widely. “I don’t expect you to take my word for it, any more than I would expect you to accept that this bus used to be a hut on chicken legs.”

  He glanced around the bus. It was unusual, certainly, but there was nothing enchanted about it. “Look, Beka—I should tell you that I can’t deal with this kind of paranormal nonsense. My father brought us up on idiotic tales of Selkies and Mermaids and sea monsters. Hell, he even told us that a Mermaid had rescued him once during a storm. My brother believed all that shit. I don’t. The world isn’t a romantic place full of magic. It’s a hard, dangerous jungle, which will kill you if your head is in the clouds. So if we’re going to continue to get along, I’m gonna have to ask you to drop it, okay?”

  “I can’t,” Beka said in a small voice. “Because it’s all true.”

  “And next I suppose you’re going to tell me that Chewie really is a dragon,” he snapped.

  “Actually,” Beka said, almost managing a smile, “he is. But I don’t expect you to believe that either. Not without proof.”

  “Fine,” Marcus said. He would be patient. He would be calm. And when she failed to come up with her so-called proof, he would patiently and calmly drag her off to see the best shrink he could find. “Are you going to turn me into a frog?”

  She made a face. “Not while you’re sitting in my bed, I’m not. I like frogs just fine, but ew.”

  Before he could decide if she was taking a joke too far, or just plain crazy, she snapped her fingers with a decisive motion, and her surfboard appeared in the middle of the kitchen with a crisp pop. It spun lazily in midair for a moment before gently coming to rest on the polished wooden boards.

  “Your mouth is open,” Beka said, a tad acerbically. “Need something else?”

  He closed his mouth with a snap and nodded, completely speechless. He had to have imagined that. Or it was some kind of trick. That was it—it was a trick. Crazy people did all sorts of things to support their version of reality. She must have somehow arranged that stunt ahead of time.

  “How about if I pick something?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said, cool as a rock. “Go for it.”

  “Okay,” Marcus said, wracking his brain to come up with something completely impossible. Maybe if he could get her to face reality, it would help her to snap out of this. He leaned down and picked up a pillow from where it had fallen—or been shoved—onto the floor during their passionate lovemaking. “Can you turn this into, oh, I don’t know, a bird?”

  She raised an eyebrow, but took the pillow out of his hands. “I can’t change an inanimate object into a living being; no witch has that kind of power,” she said.

  Aha!

  “But I can make it seem like a bird, if that would help.” She tossed the pillow up into the air, making some kind of swirling gesture with two fingers on her right hand as she did so. As he watched in stunned amazement, the pillow became a vivid crimson cardinal that flew across the room before coming to rest on a countertop and returning to its original form. It even sang a few melodic notes along the way.

  “What the—”

  “I’m sorry,” Beka said. “I know it is a lot to take in. But if we were going to have any chance together at all, you had to know the truth.”

  Marcus felt like he’d been standing too close to a mortar strike; as if the ground underneath his feet suddenly shook and disintegrated, filling what had moments before been clear air with sharp and deadly debris. Nothing was what he had thought it was. Least of all Beka.

  “The truth?” he said, raising his voice as he got out of bed and started pulling on clothing as fast as he could. Shock made his head spin. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it hit you over the head with a brick. I can’t believe you let things get this far without telling me you’re some kind of magical creature out of a storybook. Does anyone else know?” He spun around and stared at her, tee shirt crushed in his hand. “Does Kesh?”

  Beka dropped her gaze. “Yes. Kesh knows. But I didn’t tell him. I mean, he’s always known.”

  Marcus jammed the shirt on over his head, not caring that it was inside out. “What, is he a Baba Yaga too?”

  “No,” Beka said. He could tell he was upsetting her, but at the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  “Baba Yagas are always women,” she said. “Kesh is a Selkie.”

  “A Selkie. Like the people who can turn into seals. My da used to tell stories about them too.”

  “More like seals that can turn into people,” she said, then brushed away the correction with a wave. “It doesn’t matter. But yes, Kesh is a Selkie. Um, a Selkie prince, actually. So he knows what I am. But nobody else does. I mean, nobody who isn’t magical.”

  A freaking prince. It figured. He never had a chance, did he? “Well, I’m sure as hell not a prince,” Marcus growled, shoving his feet into his shoes. “But I can do magic.”

  “You can?” Beka looked startled, confused, and hopeful, all at once.

  He took one more moment to look at her, so beautiful, so treacherous. Thank goodness he hadn’t let her get any closer to his heart.

  “Yes,” he said. “I can make myself disappear out of your life.”

  He turned and walked away, stomping across the bus to the door and slamming it open with a shuddering crash. He turned around long enough to see one shimmering tear glide over pale skin to hang, quivering like a frightened faun, before falling in slow motion to the half-empty bed.

  “And I expect you to stay away from me, my father, and the boat,” he said. “Whatever the hell you’re really up to, I want nothing to do with it. Or you.”

  He should have known better, he told himself as he got into his Jeep, feeling shocked and betrayed by the magnitude of the secrets she’d been keeping from him, just when he thought he was coming to know the real Beka. All the things he’d been sure were lies were true. And the one thing he’d been sure was true was a lie.

  If life was a fairy tale, his was never going to have a happy ending.

  * * *

  BEKA GOT DRESSED methodically and folded the futon back into a couch. The air inside the bus smelled like passion and heat and exertion; her skin still held the scent of Marcus. Every time she moved she could feel the pleasant ache of unaccustomed activity between her legs and in the heaviness of her breasts. It should have been glorious. In
stead, it was hell. Finally, she just gave up and sat on the floor in the kitchen, hugging her legs and letting the tears seep into her already sodden tee shirt.

  She should have known better. There was a reason that Baba Yagas didn’t allow themselves to get close to Humans. But Barbara had managed to make it work, and so for one brief moment, Beka had convinced herself she could do it too. She really should have known better.

  Heaving clumping steps and a deep woof heralded the return of Chewie before he slid the door open and ambled inside. She brushed away tears and tried to look normal.

  “Heya, Beka,” Chewie said, “I saw the sailor’s car was gone so I figured it was safe to come back.” He gave a doggy smirk. “Did you have a nice afternoon?”

  Then he took a closer look, sniffed the air, and wandered into the kitchen where she was sitting next to the surfboard she hadn’t bothered to whisk back into its storage space.

  “Okay, I’m confused,” he said. “Either you’ve taken up indoor surfing, or you’ve come up with some kinky new way to have sex. Which is it?”

  “Neither.” Beka sniffed. “I was proving to Marcus that I could do magic. I tried telling him about being a Baba Yaga, and he didn’t believe me, so I brought the board in, and then turned a pillow into a bird.”

  Chewie peered at her red eyes. “Either the sex really sucked, or telling him you’re magical didn’t go over well.”

  Beka sniffed again, another couple of errant tears escaping and plopping onto the floor like a mini rainstorm. “The sex didn’t suck.”

  “Ah.” Chewie sank down next to her, his giant head resting on her feet in a gesture of furry solidarity. “So he wasn’t thrilled and excited to discover that he was living in a fairy tale.”

  “Not exactly,” Beka said with a sigh. “More like pissed off and freaked out. He obviously felt like I’d been lying to him by not telling him all along.”

  Chewie growled. “Well, that’s just stupid. It’s not like you can go around telling everyone you’re a powerful witch out of Russian legend.”

  “I know, I know,” Beka said. “I’m not saying his reaction was fair. But maybe I should have told him before we made love and not after. Or before he told me that he was serious about me.” She scrubbed at her eyes with her hands, tired of crying, but not sure how to stop. “Was being the operative word, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you serious about him?” Chewie asked, lifting his head to stare into her face.

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. He told me to stay away from him. It’s over. I just need to concentrate on doing my job and get on with my life. I’m sure Kesh will be happy to console me.”

  Chewie growled again, louder this time. “Stick to chocolate; it might be safer.” He perked up. “Hey, at least you finally got laid. That’s something.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Beka said, but she gave a watery laugh nonetheless, and rested her head against the cabinet behind her. The weight of the dragon leaning against her was comforting; almost enough to make her forget about her burning eyes and the relentless fatigue that made her bones feel like they were filled with lead.

  The sound of a brisk knock on the half-open door made her stand up so fast, her head swam, and she had to grab the counter to keep from passing out.

  “It’s not him,” Chewie said with quiet compassion. He stood on his hind legs to peer out the window. “Whoever it is doesn’t smell Human.”

  “Oh.” Beka scrubbed at her face and straightened her clothes before walking over to the door with Chewie on her heels. She thought about grabbing one of her knives, but no paranormal creature would be foolish enough to try and harm a Baba Yaga inside her own hut. Er, bus.

  When she pulled the door open the rest of the way, she could see their visitor standing just out of the sunshine; the shade from the bus seemed to cause his form to flicker and change. One moment he looked like a skinny Human of indiscriminate age and medium height, with sandy brown hair and no notable features. The next, the light shifted into a suggestion of pointed ears and something that resembled a lashing tail. And possibly an extra arm or two.

  The not-quite-a-man gave a low bow, holding out a curled-up parchment in pale twiggy fingers. The antique paper bore a few thin scores that might have been made by claws clutching it a bit too tightly as its bearer traveled between two worlds.

  “Baba Yaga,” the messenger said in a scratchy voice like wind creaking through gnarled tree limbs. “I bring you greetings and solicitations from my mistress, the Queen, and deliver to you this summons to her most August Presence.” He bowed again, so deeply that the invisible points on his seemingly Human ears scraped twin lines in the sand and gravel surface of the lot.

  Beka swallowed hard. “Uh, when you say the Queen, I don’t suppose you mean the Queen of the Merpeople.”

  The messenger blinked too-large, wide-set eyes. “No, Baba Yaga. The High Queen of the Otherworld is She who requests and requires your attendance.” He placed the parchment into Beka’s outstretched palm. Which, she was happy to see, hardly shook at all.

  Chewie whined deep in his throat as she unrolled the heavy paper and read the elegant scrawl of ink etched into its surface with a quill-tipped pen. The ink itself was bright red, as ominous as the summons it inscribed.

  My dearest Baba Yaga,

  It is Our wish that you attend Us at a meeting in the Otherworld, wherein the King of the Selkies and the Queen of the Mer will discuss their continuing difficulties and seek solutions to the same. Please come prepared to explain your lack of success so far in ameliorating this problem. We expect to be given a positive report of your progress. Or We shall be Most Unhappy.

  There is also an additional issue that requires your attention and to which We shall expect an immediate solution, without fail.

  Come to Tir fo Thuinn at the hour of midnight, traveling by the usual way.

  Affectionately,

  Queen Morena Aine Titania Argante Rhiannon

  Beka looked up from the missive to ask the messenger a question, but he was already gone, his errand completed. Only the dust of his passage hung in the air like a harbinger of rapidly oncoming doom. She sighed and showed the letter to Chewie, who read it through and then said, with feeling, “Shit.”

  Her sentiments exactly.

  EIGHTEEN

  BEKA NERVOUSLY ADJUSTED the draped neckline of her outfit, tweaking it so it lay just right. It didn’t do to look less than perfect when you went before the Queen of the Otherworld. Very big on pomp and circumstance, was the Queen. And woe betide the person who didn’t live up to her idea of proper attire. Members of the court still talked in whispers of the lady-in-waiting who had accidentally worn mismatched stockings to an afternoon tea. They said she made a lovely rosebush, always festooned with stunning flowers in two slightly different colors of peach.

  Beka didn’t aspire to be a rosebush.

  She checked the mirror one more time, just to be certain she wasn’t missing anything. Her skirt was made from raw silk, purchased from a woman at the Renaissance Faire who hand-dyed it in various shades of blue and green and then embroidered the hem with scenes of undersea life, so when Beka walked, the skirt swirled around her ankles and fish seemed to dart behind coral reefs and in between waving fronds of emerald seaweed.

  Her top was woven of linen so fine, it flowed with the lines of her body; its pale cerulean tint was like an echo of a fading evening sky. She’d cinched the waist in with a wide leather belt adorned with snowy white pearls and purple-blue abalone and paua shell, iridescent and gleaming with subtle highlights. A matching decorative wire mesh restrained her long hair at the back of her head, and her gold dragon earrings and necklace revealed the jewels usually hidden by a simple glamour—a pearl on the mouth of one earring’s dragon, a black tourmaline in the mouth of the other, and the claws of the dragon on the necklace wrapped around a bright red ruby. These were her version of the more showy tattoos that Barbara wore, and enabled her to summon the three Riders when she neede
d them.

  Lastly, she tucked her favorite ornamental dagger, honed to a sharpness that could almost cut you if you simply looked at it, into the sheath that hung from the leather belt. Dark blue slippers on her feet (and no stockings at all, mismatched or otherwise) meant that she was ready to go.

  Physically, anyway. Psychologically was something else altogether. The Queen scared the sparkly paint right off her toenails.

  “You look fine, Beka,” Chewie said from the side of the bedroom, where he’d been banished lest he accidentally get a stray clump of dog fur on her clothing. “Stop worrying. You’ll go report to Her Majesty about all the things you’ve been working on to try and track down the problem, she’ll scold you for not having solved it already, and you’ll come home. And then we’ll eat s’mores.”

  “Right,” Beka said, not at all convinced things would go that smoothly. She’d rarely had to deal with the Queen herself, but she’d been with Brenna a few times when she’d been summoned to the Otherworld. It had seldom been a pleasant experience.

  The Queen was incredibly beautiful, and could be quite kind, but she was as mercurial and changeable as the sea, and just as deadly when aroused to anger. After ruling the Otherworld for more years than anyone could count, her power was immense and her rule absolute.

  While technically the Baba Yagas were Human, and therefore not her subjects, their unique position juxtaposed between one world and the next meant that they reported back to the Queen. And the Water of Life and Death that gave them their extended lives and increased their magical abilities was a gift from the Queen that came with the job. She might not have been their sovereign, but in a very real way, she was their boss.

  “Maybe I should take a sword too,” Beka mused fretfully, fingering her dagger. “Just for balance.”

  Chewie sighed, gnawing on a bone to soothe the nerves he couldn’t quite hide. “Don’t be silly. You’re going to court, not to war.”