Wickedly Wonderful (Baba Yaga, #2)(8)
What the hell. “We?” he asked, not really wanting the explanation.
She laughed, a sound like bells. “Oh, sorry, I haven’t introduced you.” She gave a sharp whistle. “Hey, Chewie, come say hi!”
For a moment, Marcus was baffled; it wasn’t as though there was any place for someone to hide in the open space of the bus. Then a large shape lumbered up from behind the futon and shambled over to sit in front of Beka like a gigantic walking mountain of black hair and gleaming teeth.
“Jesus!” Marcus said, taking an involuntary step backward. The thing had to weigh at least two hundred pounds, maybe more, and its head was almost as high as his waist, even sitting down. “What is that?”
Beka tutted, leaning down to pat the monster on its furry head. “This is Chewie. He lives with me. Be nice, now.”
Marcus couldn’t tell if she was talking to him or to the dog, but the creature put out one massive paw to shake. Blinking a couple of times, Marcus took it, mindful of the tough claws.
“Er, hello, Chewie,” he said politely.
“Woof,” the dog said back.
“Chewie is a Newfoundland,” Beka explained. “They’re great water dogs. They swim better than we do, and even have webbed feet. They’re often used for water rescue, and the breed started out as working dogs for fishermen.”
“Uh-huh.” Marcus tried to imagine what his father would say if Marcus brought him a huge black dog to help out on the boat, and failed miserably. Instead, he commented on the dog’s unusual name. “Chewie—I guess you named him for Chewbacca in Star Wars. I can see why; they’re both gigantic and furry.”
Beka giggled. “I never thought of that. Actually, Chewie is short for Chudo-Yudo. Also, he chews on stuff a lot, so it seemed fitting.”
“Chudo what?” Marcus said. The dog made a snuffling sound that might have been canine laughter.
“Chudo-Yudo,” Beka repeated. “He’s a character out of Russian fairy tales, the dragon that guards the Water of Life and Death. You never heard of him?”
Marcus shook his head. “My father used to tell the occasional Irish folk tale when I was a kid, but I’m not familiar with Russian ones at all. Sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be,” she said cheerfully. “Most of them were pretty gory, and they hardly ever had happy endings.”
“Right.” Marcus looked at the dog, who gazed alertly back with big brown eyes, as if trying to figure out if the former Marine was edible or not. “So, you named him after a mythical dragon from a depressing Russian story. Does anyone get eaten in that story, just out of curiosity?”
Chewie sank down onto the floor with a put-upon sigh, and Beka shook her head at Marcus. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course people got eaten. But don’t worry; Chewie hasn’t taken a bite out of anyone in years. He’s very mellow for a dragon.” She patted the massive dark head fondly.
“Don’t you mean he’s very mellow for a dog?” Marcus said with a chuckle. He had to admit, the animal seemed completely laid back. Maybe the dog was a hippie too.
Beka looked startled for a second, then caught herself. “Oh, right. That’s what I meant.” The dog gave another snort, drooling a little on her foot in the process. “Could you turn around, please?”
Marcus raised one eyebrow in question. “Excuse me?”
She made a little spinning gesture with one finger. “Turn around. I’m going to get your money now, and I don’t want you to see where I hide my stash. You can just go outside if you’re afraid to turn your back on me.”
Right. Big, bad Marine is afraid to turn his back on the skinny blond surfer chick. Not likely. Even when the chick in question had a whole lot of sharp pointy objects on her walls and a ginormous hound from hell. He turned his back on her and crossed his arms. “So, do you actually have a job, then?” he asked, as she padded on bare feet across the floor toward the cupboards in the rear. He could feel the dog’s hot breath on his knees like the wind out of the desert.
Muttered words and an odd series of clicks floated up from the end of the bus. Weird. She must have some kind of safe. Somehow she didn’t seem like the type. Hell, the door to the bus hadn’t even been locked when they’d gotten here.
“I make handcrafted jewelry and take it to Renaissance fairs and farmer’s markets and places like that,” she said, suddenly right behind him again.
Marcus tried not to jump. How on earth did she move like that? The elusive scent of fresh strawberries teased his nostrils again, oddly titillating. It didn’t smell like the too-fruity fake smell of some overly perfumed shampoo—more like the first lush strawberry of the season, warm from the sun and filled with impossible sweetness. Everything about this woman confused him, and he hated to be confused. He spun around, hand out for a wad of cash, and gazed in amazement as she dropped a half a dozen gold coins into his outstretched palm.
“And I do some diving and salvage work on the side,” she added. “These came off a wreck in the Gulf of Mexico. I’m not sure what they’re worth, but they ought to more than cover the cost of mending that tiny hole in your nets, as well as a few lost fish.” She tossed long, silky strands of golden hair over her shoulder, her expression wary and defensive.
Marcus realized that she was waiting for him to argue with her again, or say something insulting about someone who makes a living selling crap—that is, crafts—at fairs, and treasure hunting. He’d been about to do just that, truth be told, but he closed his mouth with a snap.