Wickedly Dangerous (Baba Yaga, #1)(11)

She opened the door and stuck her head outside, taking a minute to check out her visitor before the woman noticed her. Uniform aside, the woman didn’t seem like anything unusual; pretty in an unexciting sort of way, if you disregarded the droop to her shoulders and the sadness on her face. Baba didn’t, of course. Those things meant something in her line of work.

“Hello,” she called. “Were you looking for me?”

Her visitor jumped up, startled. “How . . . I couldn’t find, I mean . . .” her voice dwindled away as she took a few steps toward the trailer. She walked slowly, her feet dragging as if unsure they wanted to take her in this direction, but eventually ended up at the front door. The difference between the deputy’s five foot two and Baba’s five foot ten was noticeable; the woman had to tilt her head to look directly into Baba’s amber eyes.

“Are you Barbara Yager?” she asked, finally meeting Baba’s gaze.

“I am.” Baba didn’t smile. Those who sought her out always had to past certain tests. Getting through the door wasn’t supposed to be easy. If it were, then everyone would want to do it.

“Uh,” the woman squirmed a little, but didn’t look away. “Are you also the Baba Yaga?”

“I am. And you are?”

“Belinda Shields,” she said. And then added. “My daughter is the one Sheriff McClellan was looking for.”

“Ah.” That explained part of it. “So, are you the one who called me here, then?” Baba scowled, but the woman stood her ground.

“No, that was my mother, Mariska Ivanov. She’d heard stories in the Old Country about how the Baba Yaga sometimes helped those in need. I mean, she told me the stories too, when I was growing up, but I thought they were just fairy tales and—”

“And she believed,” Baba said, cutting to the marrow of the matter. “And so she summoned me, and now you’re here.”

“Yes.” Belinda squared her shoulders and looked Baba in the face. “Can you prove you are who you say you are?”

Baba suppressed a sigh. Things used to be a lot simpler, back in the old days. “You’re not supposed to need proof, you know.”

The smaller woman stared at her through red-rimmed eyes. “I’m a cop. Humor me.”

Tiny swirls of energy flowed from Baba into the ground. “Fine. How’s that for proof?” She gestured at Belinda’s feet, which were now firmly attached to the earth by the thorny vines of a wild rose entwining mockingly around her boots, poking tiny holes in the thick brown leather.

“Oh.” Belinda looked down, blinking in mixed shock and relief. “You are the Baba Yaga. Will you help me find my daughter, please?”

“It is not that simple,” Baba said. “If your mother told you the stories, then you know that there is always a price. Are you willing to pay it?”

“Anything,” Belinda said, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “She’s my child. I would trade my life for hers, if that’s what it takes.”

Baba felt the universe shift; reality changing in some minute way to accommodate the bargain offered and accepted. No turning back now. She was well and truly involved.

She sighed, snapped her fingers to make the vines slither grudgingly back into the soil, and gestured toward the Airstream. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, shall we? You’d better come inside. We have a lot to talk about.”


*

BABA PUT A kettle on the stove for tea and started pulling assorted herbs out of jars to toss into the teapot. After a minute, she realized that her guest was still standing awkwardly by the door, and waved her toward a seat at the dinette table. Too many years living with the old Baba and minimal contact with normal humans meant her manners were less than smooth. She did much better with tree sprites and talking dogs.

Chamomile for calming, she thought, crumpling a few white-and-yellow flowers between her fingers and releasing their pungent odor into the small space. Rosemary for remembrance and honesty. Lemon balm for healing. Without turning around, she said, “So, tell me about your daughter.”

Belinda made a sound that caught halfway between a sigh and a sob. “She’s seven; just celebrated her birthday two weeks before she disappeared. Small for her age, with long blond hair and blue eyes. She takes after her father, not me,” she added, as though answering a question that most people asked. “She’s beautiful.”

“Of course she is,” Baba said impatiently, pouring hot water over the herbs to steep. She realized with a start that she’d never turned the stove on. The water still got hot, because she wanted it to, but she’d have to be more careful if she was going to have wayward guests and snooping sheriffs around. “But I want you to tell me about her. What is her essence? What makes her unique? I can’t find her if I don’t have any sense for who she is.”

She turned around, leaning back against the counter, and gazed calmly at the distraught mother, waiting for her to say something vaguely useful.

“Oh,” Belinda took a moment to think. “Well, she’s smart. She already knows her alphabet, and how to write her own name, the whole long thing: Mary Elizabeth Shields. She loves the color yellow, hates Brussels sprouts, and she wants a dog in the worst way. She’s been bugging me for a puppy for years, especially since her father left.” She sniffed. “If she comes home, the first thing I’m going to do is get her a damned puppy. I don’t care if I end up walking it every single time.”