Chapter 4 #2
Mac chuckled. "Afraid it might damage your tough-guy image?"
"I'm more concerned about dignity than image."
"Says the man who turns into a wolf and runs around naked in the moonlight," Delilah quipped.
Sam felt his ears warm. "I don't run around naked. I run around as a wolf. Completely different."
"I've always wondered," Delilah said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "When you shift back to human form, where do your clothes come from?"
"Magic," Mac answered with a straight face. "Very dignified magic."
Elder Thornberry reappeared, now standing upside down on a branch. "No, no, no! South by southeast! The mushrooms always lie on Thursdays!"
They turned right this time, following a path that narrowed until they were walking single file. Sam noticed the paired trees were growing closer together, their trunks sometimes fused.
"Time feels wrong here," Delilah whispered. "My watch is running backward."
Sam checked his phone. The screen showed three different times simultaneously.
"Look!" Mac pointed ahead where the forest suddenly opened into a clearing.
They stepped out—and found themselves exactly where they'd entered the forest an hour ago.
"Perfect," Sam growled. "We've accomplished absolutely nothing."
"Not nothing," Elder Thornberry said, suddenly beside them. He pressed something into Sam's hand—a small wooden carving of two wolves standing back-to-back. "Sometimes you must lose your way to find your path. The Collector seeks pairs that resonate. Like calls to like!"
With that, he skipped into the trees, singing the now-familiar melody that had haunted them since the library.
* * *
Sam stared at the wooden carving in his palm. Two wolves, back-to-back, their tails intertwined. Something about it made his skin prickle.
"What does that old coot mean by 'like calls to like'?" he muttered, pocketing the carving.
Delilah sighed. "At least we're out of those endless loops. Maybe we should—"
A thunderous squawk interrupted her. The ground trembled as an enormous cottage on massive chicken legs stomped into view. The house swiveled toward them, then promptly turned its back and began walking away.
"Oh no you don't," Sam growled, striding after it. "We didn't spend an hour getting lost just to watch you chicken out."
Mac snorted. "Chicken out. Nice one."
"Not intentional," Sam grumbled, quickening his pace.
The house picked up speed, its enormous drumsticks propelling it with surprising agility. Each step left a footprint deep enough to serve as a kiddie pool.
"It's running away from us!" Delilah jogged alongside Sam. "How do we stop a house that doesn't want to be caught?"
Sam's wolf instincts kicked in. "Circle around. Cut off its escape route."
They split up, Mac heading right while Sam and Delilah veered left. The house, sensing their strategy, spun in a complete circle, chicken legs crossing in an awkward dance that would've been comical if it weren't so frustrating.
"Have you tried knocking with your left hand while reciting the Shifter's Code backward?" Sam suggested, remembering an obscure protocol from his childhood.
Delilah shot him a look. "That's not a thing."
"With Baba Yaga's house, anything could be a thing," Mac called from across the clearing.
The house settled into a clearing, legs bent in a defensive posture. It resembled nothing so much as a broody hen, albeit one with windows and a chimney.
Sam approached cautiously. "We need to speak with Baba Yaga. It's urgent."
The house made a sound like a giant door creaking and took two steps backward.
"Let me try," Delilah said, stepping forward with a smile. "Hello, beautiful home! What magnificent drumsticks you have! So powerful and... chicken-y."
The house preened momentarily before remembering itself and turning away again.
"Flattery will get you nowhere," Sam muttered. "These legs have probably heard every compliment in the book."
"At least I'm trying something besides growling at it," Delilah retorted.
Sam's nose twitched as he caught a familiar scent—magic, yes, but also... "Is that disco ball cleaner?"
Mac's eyes lit up. "Of course!" He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Carol! Your disco lights are on!"
The effect was instantaneous. The house froze mid-step, wobbled precariously, then settled with a thump that sent leaves spiraling from nearby trees. A welcome mat unfurled from beneath the door like a tongue, and the house made a sound suspiciously like an embarrassed cluck.
"Disco lights?" Delilah whispered.
"Baba Yaga's stuck in the eighties," Mac explained. "Has a thing for disco balls. Keeps them polished to perfection."
Sam approached the now-stationary house, noticing an intricate symbol etched into the wooden door—identical to the one on Elder Thornberry's token.
"The Collector's mark," he murmured, tracing it with his finger.
The door swung open before he could touch it, releasing a cloud of purple smoke and the unmistakable scent of hairspray and magic.
"Well, don't just stand there catching flies," came a commanding voice from within. "If you've gone to all this trouble to find me, you might as well come in for tea. Or something stronger, depending on how bad the news is."
Sam exchanged glances with Delilah. "After you."
"Such a gentleman," she said dryly, but stepped forward onto the welcome mat.
The house gave a contented cluck as they entered the lair of the most powerful witch in the world.
* * *
The doorway swallowed them like a hungry mouth, depositing Sam into a living room straight out of 1975. Shag carpet in a nauseating shade of orange squished beneath his boots. A lava lamp bubbled on a side table, casting psychedelic shadows across wood-paneled walls.
"Wipe feet. Carpet new," came Baba Yaga's voice from somewhere ahead.
Sam glanced down. The carpet looked anything but new—it had probably been there since Nixon was president.
Delilah stepped forward, her eyes wide as she took in the macramé owl hangings and beaded doorway curtains. "This is incredible," she whispered.
"It's something," Sam muttered, his nose twitching at the competing scents of patchouli, magic, and something that smelled suspiciously like frozen TV dinners.
They followed Mac through the beaded curtain and suddenly found themselves in a room that screamed 1980s excess. Neon geometric patterns covered the walls, a disco ball hung from the ceiling, and the furniture was all chrome and glass.
"Carol?" Mac called. "We need to talk."
"Always need to talk. Nobody comes for tea anymore.
" Baba Yaga stepped through a doorway wearing a hot pink tracksuit, her blonde hair teased into an impressive wall of bangs held aloft by what must have been an entire can of hairspray.
On her feet were fuzzy pink slippers that looked like rabbits—if rabbits had teeth and glowing red eyes.
Sam's wolf instincts went on high alert.
"Nice... slippers," Delilah offered.
"Gift from ex-husband. Number three. Or maybe four." Baba Yaga waved dismissively. "Sit. Drink. Then talk."
The moment they settled onto a plastic-covered sofa, teacups materialized in their hands. Sam sniffed his cautiously. It smelled like blackberries and something more exotic—possibly the tears of an ancient deity.
"Someone's been using your sigil," Mac said, skipping the pleasantries. "At crime scenes around Assjacket."
Baba Yaga's eyes narrowed. "Stealing my sigil? That thief has no respect for intellectual property rights. I trademarked that symbol in 1743!"
They followed her through another doorway into a 90s grunge-inspired kitchen. Flannel dish towels hung from hooks, and posters of bands Sam vaguely recognized covered the refrigerator.
"First the cursed warlock and witch, now the fortune teller and shifter. Pattern forming. Not coincidence." She pointed at Sam and Delilah with a long, manicured finger.
"What do you mean by pattern?" Sam asked.
One of the slippers lunged forward and nipped his ankle.
"Ow!" He jerked his foot back. "What the—"
"Bunny no like stupid questions," Baba Yaga said with a shrug. "Pattern obvious. Pairs. Always pairs."
Delilah stepped closer. "Pairs of what? Magical practitioners?"
"Of course magical practitioners! What else? Shoes?" Baba Yaga rolled her eyes. "Resonance phenomenon. Ancient magic. Powerful."
Sam exchanged glances with Delilah. "You mean like the items being stolen in pairs?"
"Items, people, doesn't matter. Energy signature matters.
" Baba Yaga moved to a chest that hadn't been there a moment before and pulled out a rolled parchment that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.
"This map shows more than just stolen trinkets.
Watch for shadows within shadows. Not all enemies show their true face. "
As she handed the ancient map to Delilah, their fingers brushed, and the parchment glowed briefly.
"Map needs both. Won't work without harmony." Baba Yaga pointed between Sam and Delilah. "Terrible harmony now. Arguing waste energy."
"We don't argue that much," Sam protested.
Both slippers launched themselves at his ankles, teeth bared.
"Fine! We argue. But it's constructive."
"Nothing constructive about male pride," Baba Yaga sniffed.
Delilah smirked. "I think I like you, Carol."
"Out!" Baba Yaga suddenly shouted. "Map has all answers. You figure out the rest!"
The floor beneath them tilted dramatically, sending them sliding toward a trapdoor that hadn't been there seconds before.
"Wait!" Sam called. "We have more questions—"
The last thing he saw was Baba Yaga's amused face as the house literally ejected them onto the forest floor.