Wickedly Magical (Baba Yaga, #0.5)

“In fact, I had a lovely chat with one of your young ladies when she came around with the offerings basket, and what she said about this being like one big family was what made me decide to come out and visit you.” She looked a bit wistful, her upright posture drooping for a moment before she straightened back up with an effort.

“It has been a long time since I have had relatives,” Miss Volkova admitted. “My parents had me rather late in life, and I was an only child. They died many years ago, and I never married. They left me quite well-off, and I’m afraid that most of my suitors were more interested in my inheritance than they were in me.”

Jonathan made the appropriate shocked noises, his pulse kicking up involuntarily at the thought of adding a wealthy elderly woman to his flock. “Have you no kin at all?” he asked, reaching out to pat her hand comfortingly. “How sad.”

“I have a lovely dog,” the old woman said, giving a tiny laugh. “He’s very good company.”

“Yes, but a dog is no replacement for the joy of having a family, is it?” Pat, pat, pat.

“No, indeed not. In fact, you might not be surprised to discover that I was quite drawn by the idea of becoming part of a ready-made clan , such as the one you have created here,” she said almost shyly. “If you would consider including an old lady such as myself. I noticed that most of your followers are quite young.”

“Ah, yes,” Jonathan said. “But we welcome all here. Think how thrilled the children would be to have a new grandmother.” He gave her his best charming smile and stroked the medallion under his shirt. Its familiar heat was like a reassuring touch from a lover. “I think you’d love it here.”

“There are children?” Miss Volkova said. “How lovely. I do so enjoy children. Might it be possible to take a tour of the house and perhaps meet a few of the people? Something tells me I’d love it here.”

Jonathan suppressed a feeling of gleeful triumph and stood up, putting his hand out to help the old woman rise from her chair. Somehow the curved end of her cane got hooked on the chain of his necklace, and pulled the medallion out to dangle in front of his chest. Before he could tuck it away, a wrinkled hand had wrapped itself around the flat metal disk.

“How curious,” Miss Volkova said, peering at it over her bifocals. “Goodness, this looks almost as old as I am.” She gave a cackling chuckle. “Is it some kind of heirloom?”

Jonathan couldn’t figure out how to get her to let go without risking breaking one of her fragile-looking fingers. “Uh, no, it’s uh, just a lucky piece, I guess you could say.”

“Hmmm,” she muttered, leaning in so close he could smell her rose-scented perfume. “I wonder what language that writing is in. Do you know?”

To his relief, she finally released it, and he tucked it hurriedly back against his skin.

“I don’t, no,” he said, wiping away a tiny bead of sweat. He hated having anyone else touch his prize. “I’ve always assumed it was just some kind of decoration.” He held out his arm. “Shall we go for that tour now?”

“Indeed. Let us see what there is to see.”

***

Jonathan showed Miss Volkova around the large house, carefully pointing out one of the empty bedrooms that was more luxurious than most, saved for special guests he wanted to impress. Eventually they ended up outside, where the backyard was split between a sizable garden (why buy vegetables when you could have your own people grow them for you) and a play area for the children. There were half a dozen small figures cavorting around the jungle gym and a sandbox, with two more seated rather glumly on a set of swings.

“Oh my goodness,” the old woman said. “Are all these children yours?” Her rheumy eyes went wide.

Jonathan chuckled, ruffling one child’s hair as they went by. “They are now. Their mothers live here, and none of their biological fathers show much interest in visiting. Sadly, I can’t have children of my own—a bad case of chicken pox late in my teens—but I love all these children as if they were mine, so it all works out for the best.” The medallion warmed even more, adding a familiar scorching sensation to his already scarred flesh. “The only thing they’re missing is a grandmother to bake them cookies.”

Miss Volkova gave him a brief scornful glance. “I’m afraid I don’t bake, Mr. Bellingwood.”

“Ah, oh, of course not,” he said, backtracking quickly. Obviously, the old lady wasn’t going to be much help around the place. But if she was as rich—and alone—as she looked, he’d willingly put up with that for the short amount of time she had left. And when her time ran out, who was she going to leave her money to, some tiny yipping dog? Or her new loving family, headed by one Jonathan Bellingwood.