Chapter 17
Sam winced as Zelda pressed another cooling poultice against the magical burn stretching across his shoulder. The injury pulsed with unnatural green light, matching his ridiculous hair.
"How much longer?" he growled, trying to push himself up on his elbows.
Zelda shoved him back down with surprising strength. "Lie down or I'll have Fat Bastard sit on you until you heal. He's been eating magical enhancing treats and weighs about forty pounds now."
The massive gray cat perched on a nearby shelf, tail swishing with what Sam swore was anticipation. Fat Bastard's eyes narrowed as if to say, Try's it, wolf boy. We's ready.
"I've got cases to solve," Sam muttered, but remained horizontal.
The healing room buzzed with activity as Zelda moved between patients—Vic with a shadow-inflicted gash across his face, two shifters nursing broken bones, and Mayor Grimble being treated for what appeared to be emotional trauma over his hair color.
"My constituents expect dignity in municipal leadership," the Mayor moaned, staring at his reflection. "How can I maintain authority with hair like an anarchist punk rocker?"
Delilah sat on the edge of Sam's healing bed, her own burns bandaged but less severe. Her neon green hair had been pulled into a messy bun that somehow made her look even more appealing.
"You should see yourself," she said, lips quirking. "Very rebellious. I might have to start calling you Spike."
Sam rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "Don't you dare."
Boba Fett appeared suddenly, dropping something shiny onto Sam's chest—his watch, which had been lost during the battle. The cat gave him an appraising look before hopping down and joining his brothers.
"I think you've been accepted into the inner circle," Delilah whispered, nodding toward the three familiars who had arranged themselves in a protective triangle around Sam's bed.
"Great. I've always wanted cat approval."
The door swung open as Mac entered, carrying a steaming bowl. His green hair had been cropped military-short in what appeared to be an attempt to minimize the neon effect.
"Special delivery," he announced, setting the bowl on the side table. "Just something I threw together. Nothing special."
Sam caught the careful way Mac arranged the spoon, the folded napkin, the precise placement of the bowl. The soup smelled of rich bone broth, healing herbs, and something uniquely comforting.
"You made this?" Sam asked, surprised.
Mac shrugged, suddenly interested in a hanging plant. "Found the recipe. Thought it might help with the magical burns."
"He spent three hours making it," Zelda called from across the room, not looking up from where she was bandaging Vic's face. "Cursed at my stove for getting too hot, then not hot enough. It was adorable."
Mac's ears reddened. "It's just soup."
Sam reached for the bowl, touched by his friend's concern. "Thanks, Mac."
Fat Bastard suddenly tensed, his attention fixed on the darkest corner of the room. The other cats followed his gaze, fur bristling. For a moment, Sam thought he saw something—a deeper shadow within the shadows, watching.
"What is it?" Delilah asked, following their gaze.
The shadow vanished. Fat Bastard relaxed marginally but kept glancing back at the corner.
"Probably nothing," Sam said, but didn't believe it. "Cats see things we don't."
Zelda approached, wiping her hands on her apron. "The familiars have been on edge since you all returned. They sense something."
"The Collector?" Delilah asked quietly.
"Maybe." Zelda frowned. "Whatever it is, it's patient. Watching. Waiting."
Sam sipped the soup, which tasted even better than it smelled. "We disrupted one plan. There will be others."
"You's right," Fat Bastard said unexpectedly, making everyone stare. "The shadow man wears many faces. We's been watching him watching you's."
Jango Fett hopped onto the bed, positioning himself at Sam's feet. Boba Fett took up position near his shoulder.
"They're protecting you," Zelda said, surprise evident in her voice. "All three of them. I've never seen them do this for anyone except me."
Fat Bastard's eyes never left the shadows. "We's knows what's coming. The wolf is important."
Sam exchanged looks with Delilah. "Important for what?"
The cat just blinked slowly, settling his considerable bulk at the head of Sam's bed. "You's will see. We's will be ready."
* * *
The afternoon sun cast long rectangles of light across Zelda's living room floor. Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair, magical burns still protesting every movement despite Zelda's healing treatments. The blue cookie he'd reluctantly accepted sat untouched on his napkin.
"I'm not eating anything that changes body parts," he muttered to Delilah, who sat beside him with her own cookie. Her neon green hair caught the light, practically glowing.
"After being a puppy for two days, you're worried about a blue tongue?" She grinned and took a deliberate bite. Her tongue immediately turned a vibrant shade of cobalt that matched the blue streaks now running through her green hair.
"It's a matter of principle," Sam replied, though his resolve weakened when the cookie's scent hit his enhanced senses—butter, sugar, and something distinctly magical that made his nose tingle pleasantly.
Across the room, the captured Silver Witch sat bound in a chair reinforced with protection spells.
Her previously immaculate silver hair hung in disarray, and her once-elegant clothes were singed from magical backlash.
She hadn't spoken since her capture, her eyes vacant as if her mind were elsewhere.
The room tensed as purple smoke billowed suddenly from the fireplace, accompanied by a dramatic saxophone riff from nowhere. Baba Yaga stepped through, wearing what appeared to be a 1980s power suit complete with enormous shoulder pads and a brooch that periodically shouted motivational phrases.
"You can do it!" the brooch exclaimed as she surveyed the room. "Seize the day!"
"Must you always make an entrance like rock star?" Baba Yaga asked no one in particular, adjusting her enormous earrings. "It's exhausting to maintain."
"We caught the witch," Mac said, gesturing toward their prisoner. His militarily cropped neon hair made him look like an action figure that had been left too close to a radioactive site.
Baba Yaga circled the Silver Witch, examining her with narrowed eyes. "Morgana Blackthorn. Haven't seen you since the 1983 disco competition. You cheated with a gravity-defying hair spell."
The witch remained unresponsive.
"You didn't die as quickly as I expected," Baba Yaga announced, turning to face the team. "I win the betting pool with Warren and Herm! They said three days max, I gave you almost five."
"You were betting on our survival?" Delilah asked, blue tongue flashing.
"Of course. What else would we bet on? Warren wanted to bet on the Mayor's hat styles, but they're too unpredictable." She waved dismissively. "Warren's very upset. He's bringing a cheese platter to the consolation party tonight."
Herm suddenly appeared from behind a bookshelf where he definitely hadn't been standing a moment before. "I lost twelve magic beans and my favorite newt-skin wallet," he complained, adjusting his mismatched socks. "I really thought the shadow monsters would get you by Tuesday."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Your confidence is touching."
"It's not about confidence," Baba Yaga corrected. "It's about statistical probability. Magic pairs historically have a thirty percent survival rate against the Collector's agents."
She approached the Silver Witch again, lifting the woman's chin with one long, manicured finger. "Puppet cut from strings still has master's mark," she murmured, then gave Zelda a meaningful look.
Zelda nodded slightly, her expression grave.
"What mark?" Sam asked, leaning forward despite his burns.
"Later," Baba Yaga said. "First, I take the witch for an appropriate magical sentencing. She'll face the Witches' High Council for crimes against the magical community and terrible fashion choices."
"We should interrogate her first," Sam insisted. "She might know—"
"She knows nothing useful," Baba Yaga interrupted. "Her mind emptied when the connection to her master severed. Like a computer with hard drive wiped." She snapped her fingers, and both she and the Silver Witch disappeared in another cloud of purple smoke.
"Dramatic exit!" her brooch shouted in the silence she left behind.
Fat Bastard, who had followed Sam from the healing room, jumped onto his lap. "She's right," the cat said. "The silver lady was just a pawn. The real game is just beginning."
* * *
Delilah tugged at the hem of her purple dress, wishing she'd chosen something less conspicuous.
The vibrant green of her hair clashed spectacularly with the fabric, making her look like an exotic flower or possibly a tropical fish.
She'd tried three different glamour spells to restore her natural color, but the magical residue from the battle seemed determined to make a statement.
"Stop fidgeting," Sam whispered beside her. His own neon green hair had been buzzed short in what he'd described as "tactical hair management," though she suspected it was more about control than tactics.
"Easy for you to say. You're not wearing heels that could qualify as magical torture devices."
The Town Hall's main chamber had been transformed with streamers, balloons, and what appeared to be hand-painted banners featuring crude but enthusiastic depictions of their battle.
One particularly creative interpretation showed Sam as a wolf the size of a house battling shadow monsters while Delilah shot lightning from her fingertips. Neither had happened.
"Is that supposed to be me?" she whispered, pointing to a banner where a stick figure with disproportionately large hair hurled what looked like donuts at the enemy.