Yaga's Blood (Root and Myth Book 1)

by Katya Kolmakov

  “But how’s my Mom going to know where I am? Is she with that Mr. Bessemer?” Mira asked quietly, without turning her head.

  Ms. Klaassen sighed and once again reminded Mira that she knew nothing.

  In the hotel Ms. Klaassen talked to the clerk, pretending to rent the room for both of them. She made a fuss about having two beds there, though her acting was appalling, and then they took an elevator to the seventh floor.

  The room was dim, and cold, and smelled of detergent. Mira dropped her backpack on the disgustingly bland coloured carpet and switched the lights on.

  “Well, my dear...” Ms. Klaassen fidgeted with her bag. “I’m sorry to leave you, I’d rather we had dinner together, but I promised to take your phone into your house right away. I’ll order you some room service, and then I’ll be off. I’m also supposed to make sure no one comes to clean your room or bother you in any way. And you need to text Mr. Bessemer, with the hotel address, and the room number.”

  The woman handed Mira a piece of paper with a number. It had a Toronto code.

  “And don’t take off the pendant, alright?”

  Mira nodded, returned Ms. Klaassen’s tight hug and mumbled hurried goodbyes – and suddenly she was alone in the hotel room.

  Mira texted the number, and received a short ‘OK. Stay there. Wait for me. Don’t talk to anyone’ in return.

  She ate the steak and mashed potatoes Ms. Klaassen ordered for her, watched TV, and went to sleep. Falling asleep turned out to be quite easy. The sheets were crisp and clean, and Mira had never slept in such a wide bed. There were so many pillows that she built a wall around herself, and fell asleep clutching Lisa in her hand. Lisa was a three inch tall ragdoll her Mom had made for her. It was distinctly Russian looking, with yellow yarn braids, red cheeks, and a flowery dress, and was normally hanging on Mira’s backpack. Mira was often asked if she’d bought it on Etsy.

  Since she had nowhere to go in the morning, she didn’t set an alarm, and when she woke up the sun was shining through the curtains. A sunny day in November was a rare gift in Winnipeg.

  Mira went down to the restaurant in the lobby, quickly ate her breakfast hoping no one would ask any questions, and hurried up back to the room. She then proceeded to watch TV all day, throwing glances at her iPhone. There was no data on it. She could of course use the hotel’s Wi-Fi, but ‘don’t talk to anyone’ in the mysterious Mr. Bessemer’s text probably meant no social media. She snacked on some crappy chips and candies from the minibar around midday, and for dinner she finished her food from the night before. The steak was still fine. She’d prudently put the plate and Ms. Klaassen’s sandwich into the room’s tiny fridge for the night. The question of the food for the next day was troublesome. She wondered if she’d be allowed to order room service, but then she decided she’d just go out, buy something, and bring it to the room.

  That posed the question of money, and Mira fished the envelope out of her backpack and ripped one side open.

  She’d never in her life seen so much cash! There were four thick stacks of hundred dollar bills, new and crisp, and a smaller envelope inside with twenties and loonies and toonies. Mira couldn’t even imagine how much was in the stacks, but somehow she felt almost sick at the thought of counting it. Until she did, it was still just a weird adventure that she didn’t have to fully participate in. Counting money and budget planning would make it real.

  She stuffed the money back in the backpack and looked in the plastic bag. Cheery socks, colourful underwear – all the usual stuff she bought for herself – were also new and neatly folded. The t-shirts were the cool kind, ordered from ThinkGeek probably, a couple with Tardis, and one with R2D2. All of it was just screaming her Mom, and Mira pushed it inside, wrapped her arms around her knees, and started crying.

  ***

  It was a quiet hissing noise that woke her up. She opened her eyes in the darkness of the room and listened.

  The sound was coming from the door, somewhere low, as if from the appalling brownish greyish carpet. The hiss was high, like air escaping an inflatable mattress. It was also slowly approaching Mira’s bed.

  Mira felt frozen, still staring at the blackness above her, just listening. She ordered herself to turn her head, and look – but couldn’t.

  And then a loud knock came to the door making her jump up and press her hands to her middle. There was a nasty taste in her mouth, just as always when she was scared or nervous, metal and bitter. She then slid off the bed and minced to the door. In the peephole, she was presented with the fisheye view of a tall, dark haired man, with a black beard, in a black peacoat, collar upturned.

  And at his feet, slithering and twisting, Mira saw a giant knot of stark black snakes.

  She could clearly see the forked tongues darting out, the scaly bodies, the beady eyes – and at the same time, while the man seemed corporeal and mundane, the snakes were as if shimmering, not quite present, like a hologram in a sci-fi movie.

  The man impatiently jerked his neck and knocked loudly again.

  “Mira, open the door! It’s me, John Bessemer.”

  The voice was low and authoritative. There was an accent too. Mira watched Doctor Who with her Mom. That was the Northern British accent – like Eccleston’s Doctor.

  “Mira!” the man called again.

  The snakes hissed louder, and Mira saw three or four of them slide towards the door. She pressed a hand over her mouth muffling a squeak and jumped away from the door. There were no snakes inside, but the sound was there.

  Mira rushed back and jumped on the bed, wanting nothing but to get her feet off the floor. She then pulled her knees to her nose and wrapped her arms around them.

  Another knock and another ‘Mira, open the door!’ came, and she covered her ears with her hands. And yet, she could still hear the high monotonous hiss.

  Chapter 2. Bessemer

  “Mira, open up!” the man ordered through the door.

  Mira pressed her hands tighter over her ears. The man added something angry in Russian.

  “At least tell me you’re wearing the pendant!”

  There was some noise outside the door, and another voice came. It seemed the man’s yelling had attracted attention.

  Mira slid off the bed and tiptoed to the door again. Outside, Mr. Bessemer was arguing with a night clerk. Mira twisted her neck trying to see if the snakes were still there, but the two men had shifted, and she could only see the clerk and Mr. Bessemer’s right shoulder. The coat was stark black.

  The clerk was raising his voice, pointing at the other end of the corridor, and was clearly ready to call the police. Mira could see a cell phone in his hand.

  “Listen, mate, I’m telling you again, she just can’t hear me,” Mr. Bessemer’s voice rumbled. He sounded cheery and relaxed. “She’s expecting me, but I was tarded, and—”

  Mira exhaled sharply, unlocked the door, and jerked it open. If anything, she could tell the clerk she didn’t know the guy, and the clerk wouldn’t leave her alone with a stranger. But after all, her Mom had told Ms. Klaassen to call the Bessemer guy and do as he said.

  Bessemer jerked his head and looked at her. His eyes were of astonishingly bright blue, lined with black eyelashes, like a husky dog’s.

  “Do you know this man, miss?” the clerk asked, giving her the typical intent look, the ‘speak up if you’re in danger from a stranger’ kind.

  “Yeah, he’s my— uncle. Uncle John.”

  “That’s what I said, mate. The drive just took longer, but here I am.”

  Bessemer gave the clerk a wide smile, but the blue eyes remained cold.

  The clerk gave both of them a doubtful look. “Alright, then. Have a good night.”

  “Thanks,” Mira answered and stepped aside, letting Bessemer into the room.

  Once the door closed, he swiftly stretched his hand and locked the deadbolt. Even before he turned back to face her, he barked, “Are you wearing the Kolovrat?”

  “Who are you?” Mira
asked, taking a step back from him.

  “Are you wearing the pendant?” he asked, every word punctuated.

  His voice was almost a growl now.

  “Yeah, I am. Now my turn to ask questions. Who are you, and what’s going on?”

  Mira stretched her hand and flipped the switch. The room lit up, and she finally had a good look at him.

  He looked normal - very tall, six four or five maybe, broad shouldered, sort of wide and maybe buff. Mira screwed her eyes down. There were no snakes. There was no hissing noise either.

  “You can call me Kosh. I’m a friend of your Mother’s.”

  “She never mentioned you,” Mira grumbled stubbornly.

  “I bet,” he grumbled back and walked into the room.

  He looked around, his eyes lingering on pillows and Lisa on the bed, and then he pulled a chair out from behind the desk into the middle of the room and sat on it.

  “Alright. Rule number one. Don’t take off the Kolovrat. It’s your best protection. Rule number two. Do as I say, however mental it sounds. If I say hop on one foot, you hop on one foot. Are we clear?”

  He eyed her up and down, his gaze lingering on her hair. She was cold just in her t-shirt and sweatpants, bare feet on the carpet, but she just wasn’t sure if she should sit down.

  “Why would I listen to you?” she asked with tentative resistance.

  “Because you want to live,” he boomed, and Mira gave him a disbelieving look.

  “Isn’t that a bit melodramatic?”

  She decided it was stupid to freeze on the floor and climbed back onto the bed, pulling the comforter over her legs.

  “Your mom is in serious trouble. You are as well. She asked me to take care of you, and I will. But you will listen to me.”

  His tone was growing impatient, and the accent was thicker now. Mira thought she once again heard a quiet hiss from somewhere down near the floor.

  “Mr. Bessemer, I’d like some explanation here. I’ll sure do what my Mom told me, but she’d never mentioned you, and—”

  While talking Mira flailed her hands by her usual habit, and the bed jumped underneath. And with it, the tray with the leftovers of her two day old dinner. The dishes and cutlery clanked, and then a spoon for her chocolate pudding slid off the edge of the bowl she’d left it in. It fell on the floor with a small dull thump.

  Still talking and gesturing, Mira quickly leaned down, off the edge of the bed, and picked it up.

  “And I know I was supposed to text you—” She was still rambling, when the man jumped at his feet and jerked the spoon out of her hand.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled into her face, and she winced away. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to knock it to the floor three times?” he barked.

  “What? You mean that weird superstition of my Mom’s?” Mira mumbled in shock.

  “Superstition?! You just got them on our trail!” He shook the offensive utensil in front of her nose. “Bloody hell!” He grabbed a sachet of salt from the tray, jerked it open, and then for some reason threw it behind him over his left shoulder. “Didn’t Yarina teach you anything?!”

  “Who’s Yarina?”

  Mira’s head was starting to spin.

  “Yarina! Yana! Your Mother! Your nonsensical, irrational, infuriating Mother!” he roared and threw the spoon angrily on the tray. It clanked loudly to the coffee mug. “Damn her! And damn her stubbornness!”

  “Hey, my mother might be a bit scattered, but you’re the one freaking out about a spoon! Who’s irrational here?”

  “What happens when you drop a spoon on the floor, Mira?” he asked in a venomous tone, like a teacher who knew she hadn’t studied for a test.

  “You get a stain on the carpet?” Mira bit back.

  “Oh bloody hell, tell me she taught you something!” he gritted through his teeth.

  “When you drop a utensil on the floor, it means you’re going to have a guest,” Mira recited in a drone-like voice. “If it’s a spoon or a fork, it’s a woman, and if it’s a knife, it’s a guy. To prevent a guest from appearing, you knock the utensil to the floor three times without straightening up.”

  “Exactly!” He huffed air out. “Alright, get dressed. We’re leaving. We should have enough time.”

  “What?! It’s the middle of the night!”

  “You dropped a spoon, Mira!” he shouted at her, as if it explained anything. “I’ll go pay for your room. Be ready in ten minutes. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

  “Hey, no! Just no!” Mira jumped up on the bed and rose on her knees. The floor still felt unsafe. “I need some explanation here! Where’s my Mom? Who the hell are you? And where are we going?”

  He turned around, already by the door.

  “Mira, your Mother is currently running through the country, on random buses, or hitchhiking with some perv lorry drivers to get the people who are after you off your trail! You, personally!” He pointed a long finger at her. “They won’t stop until they get you. And they don’t exactly need your Mom alive. So, do as I say and knock bloody spoons to the floor. And that stands for every and each small ‘superstition’ your Mom ever taught you. Spilling salt, sitting on a corner of the table, breaking mirrors, and so on! Are we clear?” he snarled.

  Mira reminded herself that her Mom had said to listen to him. Mira nodded.

  “Good.” He started unlocking and opening the door, and then quickly looked over his shoulder. “And don’t forget the obereg.”

  “The what?” Mira looked around herself as if her surroundings could translate for her.

  “The bloody doll on your bed, Mira. It’s your personal talisman, for goodness’ sake.”

  The door was already closing after him, when Mira heard him grumble, “I’m going to kill the bloody woman. I’m going to find her alive and unscathed, and then I’m going to kill her.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, Mira found herself in the guy’s enormous black pickup truck. She considered enlightening him that there were other colours in the rainbow, but decided to keep her mouth shut.

  The man drove like a maniac, by the way. They were whizzing through streets, maneuvering between cars, lights blurring into streaks behind the windshield. Mira was getting motion sick. He skipped red lights, jumped from lane to lane, and made right turns on the red even where it wasn’t allowed. It did feel like he was in total control of his car, but still, Mira realized she was digging her nails into the handle on the door.

  “Alright, let’s face it, I clearly don’t know enough here,” she finally spoke up when Pembina whooshed by them in a carousel of smudged street lights. “Can you tell me anything?”

  “Yarina was supposed to prepare you for this! Bloody hell, we talked about it, and I told her it’d happen, but she is just so stroppy sometimes!” Bessemer audibly gritted his teeth. “It’ll be alright, Kosh. They will never find me, Kosh,” he whined in a high pitched voice, in a rather accurate impersonation of Mira’s Mom, her Slavic accent and that peculiar lilt to her voice in place. “Impossible woman. Why didn’t she tell me she had a kid?” He clearly wasn’t addressing Mira, his eyes on the road.

  “So, you know the people who are after us. Is it my dad? Something from Russia? Like the mafia, or something?” Mira asked, and he threw her a quick look.

  She saw one of his eyebrows hiked up in a sarcastic expression.

  “Mafia? You think the mafia is after you?”

  “Well, I mean, I don’t know. But yeah, my father, or Russian mafia being after us seem like the two most plausible theories.”

  It did sound ridiculous now that she voiced it out, but she really had no other ideas.

  He suddenly laughed. It was a small laugh, not a very sincere one, but it still sounded nice. She saw little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and he shook his head in disbelief.

  “No, Mira, it’s not the mafia who’s after you, and I don’t know who your father is. Do you?” he asked in an offhand t
one, but somehow Mira felt he did want to know the answer to this question.

  “No, I don’t. She never told me anything. Just said life in Russia sucked, so she came to Canada, and got a degree at the U of M. She never tells me anything from before she moved here. And we never see or talk to any relatives.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” Bessemer grumbled under his breath. “So, she got a degree. In what?”

  “Agriculture. And Minor in French.”

  “Very typical of her.” Bessemer scoffed. “And where does she work? A greenhouse?”

  “A bakery. It’s local, and organic, and they use ingredients from the local farms, so she goes to the farms, and gets to use her knowledge.”

  Mira was quite proud of her Mom.

  “Herbs and an oven. Couldn’t fit any better.” He chuckled to his own thoughts, and shook his head again. “Any friends? Boyfriend?”

  Here, Mira was totally sure he wanted to know the answer.

  “None that I know of. I mean, no boyfriends. She has friends from work. And we like our neighbour.”

  “The old Mennonite lady?”

  Mira hummed her confirmation.

  “She helped my Mom out when I was small, babysitting me from time to time. And we went to Niagara Falls once together. That was fun.”

  “Well, let’s hope she’s alright then.”

  “What?” Mira gawked at him, but he ignored the question, sharply turning the wheel for yet another of his crazy zigzags.

  “It’s not the Russiab mafia, nor your father who are after you,” he said when the car straightened out finally. “Well, at least, I don’t think so. Your father must have been a mortal, otherwise Yana wouldn’t have been able to hide you from them.”

  “Who are they?” Mira raised her voice in frustration.

  The question of her father being ‘mortal’ needed to be addressed soon as well. What exactly was the alternative?