LIAM HAD INTENDED to drive over and visit Baba as soon as he’d finished his dinner at Bertie’s. The chatter there had been unusually malicious and unpleasant, swirling around the restaurant in snippets of suspicion and superstition, most of it aimed in Baba’s direction. He’d barely managed to choke down his fried chicken and mashed potatoes in between all the conversations he’d had with people who had casually stopped by his table on the way in or out to complain about “what that woman was up to.”
He’d done his best to calm everyone down, but his stomach was in knots by the time he left, Bertie’s usually tender chicken sitting like a rock right under his heart. The threats and accusations were probably no more than hot air—a way for folks to let out their frustrations—but he didn’t like the hysterical quality of some of the allegations, or the way the word “witch” was being bandied about, as if they’d all suddenly slid a couple of centuries back in time.
Liam didn’t suppose that Baba would thank him for disturbing her peace by coming by to warn her, and he suspected she was perfectly capable of protecting herself if necessary. If nothing else, the sight of Chudo-Yudo’s sharp white teeth and enormous bulk were enough to scare away any sensible person. But none of those things was going to stop him from checking to make sure she was okay. Neither was the mocking little voice in the back of his head quietly suggesting that maybe this was just an excuse to catch a glimpse of the lady’s flashing amber eyes and that amazing cloud of dark hair that floated around her shoulders like a tangible aura of magic and mystery.
But circumstances conspired against his good intentions, first with repeated calls from people reporting strange sightings and possible break-ins (none of which turned out to be anything) and then dealing with the violent storm that sprang up out of nowhere, causing intermittent power outages and blocking roads with snarls of fallen limbs. He’d even had to rescue the proverbial kitten up a tree, shinnying halfway up a crooked old oak to fetch down a bedraggled ball of fur with tiny sharp claws and a piercing yowl that far outpaced its diminutive size.
By the time the winds had died down and the rain eased to a gentle drizzle, it was much later than a normal social call would allow. He didn’t let that stop him either, although he did bring a little something along to sweeten the rudeness of his late arrival.
He’d been a little concerned that Baba would have already gone to bed, but apparently he’d worried for nothing, since the Airstream was still brightly lit, the glow from its windows sending shafts of light out to fall on damp grass, scruffy shrubbery, her battered blue BMW, and—most unwelcome sight of all—the three additional motorcycles parked out front.
Liam recognized the white Yamaha, red Ducati, and black Harley from the day he’d seen them at the bar. Apparently Baba’s friends were still in town. Nobody had mentioned odd-looking strangers with even more Russian accents after that night, so he’d kind of hoped they’d gone away. Not that he was jealous, or anything. They just seemed like disreputable sorts, that’s all.
Grabbing a flat box and a plastic-coated to-go bag off the passenger seat, Liam made his way to the front door and knocked briskly. There was a moment of silence as the voices he could hear inside stopped talking abruptly, then the door swung open and a man with long blond hair peered out into the night at him.
“Ah, Sheriff McClellan. What a pleasant surprise.” His acerbic tone suggested that Liam’s appearance was anything but, although his handsome face was smiling.
“Mikhail Day, wasn’t it?” Liam said, transferring the bag to underneath his left arm so he could shake hands with his right. “We met at The Roadhouse the evening you got into town. Nice to see you again.” He took a step forward as they shook, forcing the other man to take a step back. Once inside, he let go and shut the door behind him, wiping a spatter of rain off the rim of his hat.
“I’ve come to see Dr. Yager,” he explained, glancing around the room to look for her. Gregori sat at the banquette table, sipping tea, and the huge black-leather clad form of Alexei lounged on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him and taking up most of the space. Of Baba, there was no sign. “I need to talk to her. Is she in the back bedroom?”