For some reason he didn’t understand, her face grew even sadder, the shadows moving from her eyes to overtake those luscious lips, which no longer smiled in relaxed contentment.
“What?” he said in alarm, raising himself up on one elbow. “Beka, honey, I’m just trying to tell you how much you’ve come to mean to me. I know I’m not good at showing it, but I didn’t want you to think this was just some adrenaline-fueled roll in the sack. It meant something.” He smiled at her, tugging on one golden tress. “I swear, you’ve cast a spell on me. I’ve never felt like this before.”
Beka sighed, sitting up in bed and pulling the light blanket that had been thrown over the back of the futon up to cover most of the amazing body he’d just made love to. Twice.
“For the record,” she said, “I’d like to make it clear that I didn’t. Cast a spell on you, I mean.”
Marcus blinked, feeling like he’d missed something. “What are you talking about, Beka?”
“I have something to tell you,” she said, squaring her shoulders as if facing a firing squad. “But first I need you to know that it meant something to me too. That you mean something. And I definitely didn’t cast a spell on you; not at any time.”
He was starting to get a little irritated, and more than a little worried. “Beka, there is no such thing as spells—we both know that. What the hell are you talking about?”
“There’s something I’ve been keeping from you,” she said. “Something important. I didn’t tell you before because I knew you wouldn’t like it, and really, it wasn’t something you needed to know. But now everything has changed.” She bit her lip, already red and swollen from their lovemaking. “I hope in the end, you can still say that you like me just the way I am.”
“Beka,” Marcus said, “you’re scaring me. Please don’t tell me that you’re married. Or dying from an incurable disease. Or . . . a lesbian, or something.” He stared at her anxiously.
She giggled at that last one, humor for a moment washing away the somber expression that had come over her features. Then she sighed, her entire body drooping. “No, none of those. Definitely not a lesbian.” She stared straight at him, as if daring him to run. “I’m a witch.”
“What?” Marcus almost laughed, too, practically giddy with relief. “You mean you’re a Wiccan? Hell, Beka, I don’t care what kind of tree-hugging religion you follow.” Yes, he thought most of the New Age goddess worship stuff was kind of silly, but it wasn’t as though it bothered him. Hell, one of the guys in his unit was a Wiccan, and he’d been just as tough and dependable as everyone else, even if he wore a pentacle around his neck instead of a cross.
She shook her head. “Not Wiccan, Marcus. A witch. You know: flying broomstick, bubbling cauldron, turns people into toads.” She sighed again, which made her breasts do interesting things under the blanket, distracting him for a moment. “Let’s do this a different way. Have you ever heard of Baba Yaga?”
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.