Wickedly Magical Read online

  Also by Deborah Blake

  Wickedly Dangerous

  Wickedly Magical

  A Baba Yaga Novella

  Deborah Blake

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  WICKEDLY MAGICAL

  A Berkley Sensation Special / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2014 by Deborah Blake.

  Excerpt from Wickedly Dangerous by Deborah Blake copyright © 2014 by Deborah Blake.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY SENSATION ® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-0-698-14667-9

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation Special edition / August 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Also by Deborah Blake

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Wickedly Magical

  Excerpt from Wickedly Dangerous

  About the Author

  For my sisters, Sarah and Becky.

  Because as any Baba Yaga would tell you, sisters are important.

  Long ago, in Russia and its neighboring countries, legends told of a witch named Baba Yaga. Some of the stories portrayed her as a frightening old crone who lived in a log hut that stalked through the forests on chicken legs. Others said she was an elemental goddess who was guardian over the natural world and the doorway into the mystical Otherworld.

  As with all stories, some parts were true and others . . . a little less true. The Baba Yagas were powerful witches; that much the tales got right. But there was never just one, and they were neither good nor evil. Just very, very powerful. And very dedicated to doing their jobs, no matter who got in the way.

  These days, the United States is home to three Baba Yagas: Barbara, Beka, and Bella. Each of them powerful, beautiful, and magical, and each with her own story—for of such women and their deeds are legends made . . .

  ***

  Barbara Yager glided her classic BMW motorcycle to a halt in front of the silver Airstream trailer that she lived in whenever she was on the road. It was currently parked in a lot on the campus of the Northern Illinois University where she was presenting a series of guest lectures on wild-crafting herbs. Traveling botanist and college professor made for a useful cover for her other activities, which tended to be a little less conventional. To say the least.

  As she swung one lean, leather-clad leg over the saddle of the bike, she caught a glimpse of something curious reflected in the shiny royal blue paint. The reflection should have been impossible, given the angle, but like everything else about Barbara Yager, the motorcycle was not quite what it seemed.

  “Hmph,” she said, not very loudly, and strolled over to the front door of the Airstream without looking back.

  “We have company,” she said as she closed the door behind her. “Again.”

  She removed her helmet, releasing a cloud of dark hair that flowed over her shoulders like silk. The helmet and black leather jacket were hung on branchlike pegs that sprouted out of the wall as she snapped her fingers, leaving her clad in matching black leather pants and a crimson tee. Not what the university administrators had been expecting, she suspected, but she didn’t much care. Following the rules had never been her strong suit.

  A blunt black-nosed snout pushed aside the velvet curtain covering the window, as Chudo-Yudo looked for himself. He gave a barking laugh, one that went well with his current guise as a huge white pit bull; not exactly subtle, but a lot easier to explain than his true form of a ten-foot dragon. They’d been companions since she’d been a child . . . which was a lot longer ago than one would suppose based on appearances.

  “Not very smart,” Chudo-Yudo growled. “Stalking a Baba Yaga.” He showed a set of sharp white teeth. “Maybe he has a death wish. I could help with that. You want me to eat him?”

  Barbara rolled her eyes. “I don’t think that will be necessary. It is not as though he is a threat.”

  As if an ordinary mortal could harm a Baba Yaga in a face-to-face confrontation. Barbara was one of the three Babas currently living in—and responsible for—the United States. Like the others, she’d been trained in magic by the Baba Yaga who’d preceded her, and like the others, she was tasked with guarding the doorway to the Otherworld, keeping the balance of nature (as much as anyone could in these modern times), and occasionally, helping a worthy seeker.

  That last one was a pain in the butt.

  Barbara sighed, peering out the window over Chudo-Yudo’s massive furry shoulder at the rusting blue pickup truck parked under a nearby tree. For three days, it had followed her from the building where her class was held. Each day, it sat there, idling, for about twenty minutes, no doubt while its driver attempted to work up his nerve to confront one of the most powerful witches on the planet. Each day, it drove off again, the man inside only a vague image of ragged hair and bowed shoulders, leaving behind it a miasma of exhaust and sorrow.

  Barbara was tired of waiting. In theory, those seeking her assistance were supposed to come to her. She decided that parking within twenty feet of her home was close enough to count. There was a cold beer with her name on it (literally, since a small organic brewery in Utah made a beer called “Baba” that she was quite fond of), and she wasn’t going to be able to relax until she figured out if she was truly needed, or if whoever was out there was just wasting her time and annoying her. It was never a good idea to annoy a Baba Yaga. Particularly not this Baba.

  Muttering under her breath, she stomped over to stand in front of the driver’s side door, arms crossed, booted feet planted firmly on the ground. Chudo-Yudo trailed along behind her, probably out of sheer boredom. They tended to spend more time away from civilization than in it, which made it easier for him to be out and about, and a week stuck in the Airstream in the middle of a parking lot had made the dog-dragon even grumpier than usual.

  The window lowered slowly, revealing a pale, rugged face under badly cut brown hair. Baba thought the man might have been reasonably attractive when he didn’t look so tired and worried. The lines of strain had carved crevices and valleys onto an otherwise pleasant landscape, and dark brown eyes were ringed by shadows that spoke of many a sleepless night. A faded purple and green bruise adorned one flat cheekbone.

  Barbara hardened her heart. Just because someone wasn’t sleeping well didn’t mean he merited her assistance. Maybe the guy had a guilty conscience. Or stayed up all night gambling and chasing women.
br />   She hoped he hadn’t come to her in search of some kind of magical treasure to get him out of debt. That might have worked on occasion in the old days, back in the dark green, mysterious forests of Mother Russia, when Baba Yagas were more inclined to play along with the fairy tales people told about them. Not anymore though, and definitely not her. He was going to have to really need her help, or she’d turn him into a toad and go drink that beer.

  “Hey,” she said, possibly a touch more forcefully than she’d intended to, based on the way the guy flinched. “I’m guessing you wanted to talk to me, since you’ve followed me back here three days in a row. Were you ever planning to get out of that truck?”

  The man eyed her dubiously, and looked even less encouraged by the sight of the large canine sitting at her feet, long pink tongue lolling, and just a hint of steam curling out of his nostrils. But after a minute he shut off the engine and opened the door. For all his hesitation, once he was in front of her, he straightened up and pulled his shoulders back, as if gathering his courage. A couple of inches over her five foot ten, he wore a clean blue shirt over jeans that actually looked like they’d been ironed. One hand gripped a small box.

  Barbara raised a dark eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. She’d gone as far as she was going to—the next step was up to him.

  ***

  Ivan Dmetriev tried not to stare, but it was difficult. The woman in front of him was nothing like he’d been expecting. His babushka, his father’s mother, had often told him tales from the land where she’d been born. DeKalb, Illinois had a large Russian community, and after church on Sundays their tiny parlor had always been filled with diminutive elderly women with musical voices. They drank strong, dark tea from his babushka’s battered silver samovar, filling the air with their chatter about grandchildren, and the inferiority of the local produce compared to the fruits from home, and sometimes, if he was lucky, frightening stories about the witch, Baba Yaga.

  How he’d loved those stories as a child. Such a magical, frightening figure, the sometimes wicked, sometimes wise Baba Yaga, with her iron teeth and up-curving pointy chin, and her long nose that always sniffed out the truth. When the babushkas told the tales, their creaky voices lowered to spooky whispers as the night came creeping inward past the lace curtains, he could almost see the witch flying through the air in her enchanted mortar and pestle, and see the wooden hut in which she lived racing around the forest on its giant chicken legs.

  So at first he laughed when his grandmother had pulled him aside last week and told him that the stories were real. That the Baba Yagas were real, too. Powerful witches living among (although often apart from) regular human beings, their ancient magical homes and transportation transformed into modern versions, but their roles mostly unchanged throughout the years.

  Ivan’s initial thought was that perhaps his beloved babushka was finally feeling her years and losing her grip on reality. Especially when she’d informed him, seated in stately upright grace on the carved wooden chair that made her look like a shrunken but regal queen, that in her younger days back in Russia, she had met one of these legendary witches.

  “You should have seen me,” his grandmother said, pride clear in her strongly accented words. “I wasn’t scared at all. Well, not much, at any rate, for all that the Baba Yaga was a fierce and ugly creature. Sparks flew from her eyes and set the leaves around us to smoldering. When she gnashed her teeth, it made a sound like boulders falling down a hill. Oh, she was a fearsome sight. But I was on a quest, and I was young and beautiful, and full of the courage that comes from being in love.”

  “Grandmother,” Ivan had said, trying to be soothing, “I’m sure that you met an old woman in the woods. But it can’t have been the Baba Yaga. She’s just a tale, told to scare small children.”

  His babushka snorted. “And how do you know she is just a tale, my darling Ivanenka? Do you know everything there is to know? I do not think so.” She patted his face with a feathery touch. “Have I ever lied to you? No, I have not. So when I tell you that I met a Baba Yaga, then this too you must believe.”

  Against his will, Ivan had believed. His grandmother told him a story as remarkable as any of the ones he’d listened to as a small, wide-eyed child. A story of how her love (his grandfather!) had gotten lost in the woods, and how the not-quite-wicked witch had made his babushka do three impossible tasks before leading her to the bear pit he’d fallen into.

  But thankfully, the ending was a happy one. His grandmother had been reunited with her beloved, and the Baba Yaga had been so impressed by the young girl’s bravery that she’d promised her a favor, whenever she needed it.

  “But I never had to use it,” his babushka said. “And so we have it still, and you need only take it to the Baba Yaga, and ask for her help. I am certain she will grant it to you, for your need is great and your heart is true.” She handed him a small wooden box. “This holds the token the witch gave me. If you give it to her, she will know I sent you.”

  Ivan’s head spun with a dizzying combination of hope and disbelief. “I lost the last court appeal. My own lawyer won’t even talk to me because of all those lies. We’re out of options. What could she possibly do? And how am I supposed to find this mythical witch? Is she simply going to appear, just because we need her help?”

  His babushka made that particular clicking noise with her tongue that only disapproving grandmothers can make. “It will not be quite that easy, my little rabbit, but I suspect you will not have to look very far. Did you not pay attention to all the stories? This is how magic works.”

  And so it had.

  Now Ivan stood in front of a tall, dark-haired woman with glittering amber eyes and a forbidding expression, and he wasn’t at all sure that he’d come to the right place. She looked fierce enough to be a witch, and her nose was, perhaps, a little long, but she was way too beautiful to be the ancient crone he was seeking. Did Baba Yagas have assistants?

  “Well?” the woman asked again, a faint Russian accent making her low voice sound almost familiar in his ears. “Did you want something?”

  Ivan held out the box his grandmother had given him, his calloused hands barely shaking at all.

  “My name is Ivan Dmetriev. I have come to redeem a favor owed to my family by the Baba Yaga. Can you take me to her?” he said.

  The dark-haired woman snatched the carved wooden container out of his fingers, muttered something in Russian, and tapped the top of the box three times. It popped open, and he caught a glimpse of something that shone with an iridescent glimmer in shades of red tipped with black. It looked like a shard of rock, if rocks ever came in that color. Or maybe some sort of shell from a creature that lived in a mythical sea.

  Strong fingers snapped the box shut before he could get a better look, and it disappeared into a pouch Ivan hadn’t noticed before. If anything, the woman’s scowl deepened.

  “A family debt of honor,” she growled. “Wonderful. Just what I needed. Now I’m never going to get that beer.” At her feet, he could swear the dog was laughing.

  ***

  Barbara stared at the box in front of her, as if her gaze could cause it to burst into flames. Which it could, of course, if she wanted it to, but that wouldn’t get rid of the problem. She’d recognized the contents immediately—not a shell or a crystal, but rather, a single large dragon’s scale. And not from just any dragon, either. The scale inside the wooden box came from her dragon. Her Chudo-Yudo, and therefore the Chudo-Yudo of the Baba Yaga who’d trained her. Why her mentor Baba had given such a token to this man’s grandmother was a mystery, but given it she clearly had. Which made it—and him—Barbara’s problem.

  Her mentor was long gone, having lived well beyond even the normal couple of centuries that Baba Yagas were granted by their use of the Water of Life and Death, a gift from the High Queen of the Otherworld that prolonged life, increased strength, and boosted the Baba’s natural magical powers. (While also conferring obligations to the Queen and the denizens
of her world, of course. There’s no such thing as a free elixir.) Barbara had inherited her predecessor’s home, her possessions, and her duties. And now it looked like she’d inherited one unused promise, as well. Fabulous.

  “I guess you’d better come in,” she said, and walked back to the Airstream. Where the front door had disappeared. Again.

  “Oh, cut that the hell out,” Barbara said, giving the blank silver wall a hard whack with her fist. “You’re supposed to hide the door from visitors, not from me, you temperamental tin can.”

  Her guest gaped at the suddenly visible door, and then at her. “How, what?” Then added with alarm, looking over his shoulder, “You know, you probably shouldn’t do that. In all the stories, it says it’s not a good idea to anger the Baba Yaga.”

  “You don’t say?” Chudo-Yudo muttered, although thankfully, he said it in Dog, not in English (or gods forbid, Dragon, which tended to involve a lot of flames).

  Barbara rolled her eyes. “It’s my house; I can bang on it if I want to.”

  Ivan stopped dead, one foot hovering over the second step. “Wait. Your house? You’re the Baba Yaga?” He gazed at her in disbelief. “But the Baba Yaga is an ugly old crone, and you’re, you’re . . . not!”

  Chudo-Yudo was laughing so hard, Barbara had to push him out of the way to get inside; not an easy task with a two-hundred-pound dog. She muttered an obscenity in Russian and beckoned her unwelcome guest the rest of the way in.

  “Thank you, I think,” she said. “And yes, I am the Baba Yaga. One of them, anyway. It’s more of a job title than a name, really. You can call me Barbara, if you’re more comfortable with that.”

  Ivan stumbled his way to the couch, alternately staring at her and around the inside of the Airstream with wide eyes. Apparently its rich velvets and colorful tapestries hadn’t been what he’d been expecting. Nor was she, obviously.