Wickedly Magical (Baba Yaga, #0.5)
Deborah Blake
For my sisters, Sarah and Becky.
Because as any Baba Yaga would tell you, sisters are important.
Long ago, in Russia and its neighboring countries, legends told of a witch named Baba Yaga. Some of the stories portrayed her as a frightening old crone who lived in a log hut that stalked through the forests on chicken legs. Others said she was an elemental goddess who was guardian over the natural world and the doorway into the mystical Otherworld.
As with all stories, some parts were true and others . . . a little less true. The Baba Yagas were powerful witches; that much the tales got right. But there was never just one, and they were neither good nor evil. Just very, very powerful. And very dedicated to doing their jobs, no matter who got in the way.
These days, the United States is home to three Baba Yagas: Barbara, Beka, and Bella. Each of them powerful, beautiful, and magical, and each with her own story—for of such women and their deeds are legends made . . .
***
Barbara Yager glided her classic BMW motorcycle to a halt in front of the silver Airstream trailer that she lived in whenever she was on the road. It was currently parked in a lot on the campus of the Northern Illinois University where she was presenting a series of guest lectures on wild-crafting herbs. Traveling botanist and college professor made for a useful cover for her other activities, which tended to be a little less conventional. To say the least.
As she swung one lean, leather-clad leg over the saddle of the bike, she caught a glimpse of something curious reflected in the shiny royal blue paint. The reflection should have been impossible, given the angle, but like everything else about Barbara Yager, the motorcycle was not quite what it seemed.
“Hmph,” she said, not very loudly, and strolled over to the front door of the Airstream without looking back.
“We have company,” she said as she closed the door behind her. “Again.”
She removed her helmet, releasing a cloud of dark hair that flowed over her shoulders like silk. The helmet and black leather jacket were hung on branchlike pegs that sprouted out of the wall as she snapped her fingers, leaving her clad in matching black leather pants and a crimson tee. Not what the university administrators had been expecting, she suspected, but she didn’t much care. Following the rules had never been her strong suit.
A blunt black-nosed snout pushed aside the velvet curtain covering the window, as Chudo-Yudo looked for himself. He gave a barking laugh, one that went well with his current guise as a huge white pit bull; not exactly subtle, but a lot easier to explain than his true form of a ten-foot dragon. They’d been companions since she’d been a child . . . which was a lot longer ago than one would suppose based on appearances.
“Not very smart,” Chudo-Yudo growled. “Stalking a Baba Yaga.” He showed a set of sharp white teeth. “Maybe he has a death wish. I could help with that. You want me to eat him?”
Barbara rolled her eyes. “I don’t think that will be necessary. It is not as though he is a threat.”
As if an ordinary mortal could harm a Baba Yaga in a face-to-face confrontation. Barbara was one of the three Babas currently living in—and responsible for—the United States. Like the others, she’d been trained in magic by the Baba Yaga who’d preceded her, and like the others, she was tasked with guarding the doorway to the Otherworld, keeping the balance of nature (as much as anyone could in these modern times), and occasionally, helping a worthy seeker.
That last one was a pain in the butt.
Barbara sighed, peering out the window over Chudo-Yudo’s massive furry shoulder at the rusting blue pickup truck parked under a nearby tree. For three days, it had followed her from the building where her class was held. Each day, it sat there, idling, for about twenty minutes, no doubt while its driver attempted to work up his nerve to confront one of the most powerful witches on the planet. Each day, it drove off again, the man inside only a vague image of ragged hair and bowed shoulders, leaving behind it a miasma of exhaust and sorrow.