Wickedly Dangerous (Baba Yaga, #1)(26)
EIGHT
BABA SPENT THE rest of the evening riding around Clearwater County and checking on the land; now that she was well and truly involved, she thought it was best to get a feel for the essence of the place. Part of a Baba Yaga’s gift was the ability to tune in to and manipulate the elements: earth, air, fire, and water. In some places in the Old World, they had even been viewed as goddesses, although the old Baba used to say that it was better to be an herbalist—less responsibility and shorter hours.
Most of the county was lush and lovely, green and verdant in the waning summer sunlight. Waving rows of corn murmured at her as she passed, and cows trotted their calves over to the field’s edge to show them off, lowing proudly over black-spotted rumps and twitching tails. Red-tailed hawks soared on thermals above her as they headed for their evening roosts.
But there were places where an encroaching darkness showed to her acute senses as blemishes on the otherwise healthy landscape. Here, a stream where toxic minerals leached in from below, studding the water with pockets of slimy gray algae. There, trees hacked down and fields lying ruined and fallow as the debate over their future raged in meetings like the one she’d attended. Even if the county passed the ban on future fracking, it was too late for some places, where it would take decades for the scarred land to repair itself. The damage made her sick to her stomach, and echoes of bad dreams haunted her like the voices of the damned.
Acid anger boiled in her veins. No matter how long she lived, she could never get used to the callous disregard with which so many humans treated the natural world. Perhaps because their lives were so short, and therefore none would be around to reap the disastrous harvest of their shortsighted choices.
As the dusk slowly hid the countryside from view, she turned her headlights back in the direction of the Airstream, looking forward to a cold beer and an evening spent in an environment that didn’t cry out piteously for her to heal it. She slowed her usual precipitous speed as she turned onto the dusty back road. It was long and winding and its gravel surface was pockmarked with ruts and holes. Even she wasn’t crazy enough to take that road at full bore.
Which was probably all that saved her.
Her only warning was a flash of shimmering antlers as an enormous golden stag raced across her path, kicking up dirt and greenery as it charged directly in front of her, a blur of hide and horn and incredible mass. She yanked the handlebars sharply to one side, veering out of its way, braking and swearing and feeling the bike go down in a sickening nightmare of churning wheels, scraping metal, and the agonizing impact of body against ground.
She lay there for a moment, the breath knocked out of her, heart racing, then reached out one gloved hand to turn the key off and allow the tortured engine to tick slowly over into silence. Of the stag, there was no sign. Cicadas buzzed in the underbrush, the dust from the road tickled her nose. She could feel blood oozing slowly from a scrape along her jaw line, although her helmet had done its job protecting her head.
Slowly, she levered herself up into a sitting position, counting bones and finding them all in place. Her worst injuries seemed to be where her left side had scraped against the gravel as she’d gone down; both elbow and knee were bleeding and bruised, the leather that had covered them torn away by the force of the skid. Still, without the leathers, most of her skin would have been shredded instead, so she had no complaints. It hurt like hell now, of course, the throb of it pulsing in her veins, but by tomorrow she’d be mostly healed, and in a few days there would be no sign she’d been in an accident at all.
Her beloved BMW, however, was another story.
She knelt down by the mangled remains of her motorcycle and patted it gently, as one would a wounded horse. Unshed tears burned against the back of her eyelids. She could use magic to fix her clothes and a few sips of the Water of Life and Death to speed up her own already accelerated healing, but metal was resistant to enchantment. It had been hard enough to convince it to leave its original oversized flying mortar-and-pestle form; once it had taken the shape of a motorcycle, it became vulnerable to the human world, its only magic an ability to travel faster than should have been possible.
The rear wheel still spun lazily, turning in lopsided circles as if to say let’s get out of here. But the crooked handlebars and crumpled front fender made it clear that her poor, beautiful bike wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. The front tire was already sagging, and the acrid smell of burned rubber assailed the flower-scented summer air and gave her an excuse for her stinging eyes.
“I’m sorry, Old Thing,” she said, patting it again before rising as creakily as if she’d suddenly manifested her true age to drag the battered motorcycle the rest of the way off of the road. “I’ll come back for you tomorrow at first light and see what I can do.”
She limped away down the verge without looking back, cursing Maya Freeman with every aching step and ragged breath. Each time her booted foot hit the ground, cut-glass shards of pain shot through her knee and jarred the elbow she hugged close to her body. The discomfort barely registered, though, drowned out by the fury that beat like a wild bird against the inside of her chest. That stag was no normal animal—it had either been sent by Maya, or possibly, even been Maya herself in another form or wearing another glamour.
The bitch had tried to kill her. This was war.
*
LIAM DROVE SLOWLY down the long, narrow county highway. Half of his awareness was absorbed by the unpleasant errand that brought him out there, the other half searched the sides of the road for any signs of a lost child, more out of obsessive habit than any conscious intention. His tortoise pace, born of reluctance as much as caution, and that constant, darting sideways glance, were the only reasons he saw the motorcycle at all.