Magic of Talisman and Blood (Curse of the Ctyri Book 2)

by Raye Wagner

  Phoenix Fire.

  Vasi shuffled forward on her knees to the wall, halting halfway when she realized there was no door. How could there be no door? There had been a door—Vasi spun in a circle to make sure she had her bearings—right here, just last night, when the witch pushed Vasi into the room. But all Vasi could see now were wood planks, plain, white, milk-painted planks, all across the length of the wall. She stood and felt along the walls, searching for a handle or a gap or an indentation, anything that could be used to open the door. When she couldn’t find one, she felt for the edges of an exit. But her fingers ran along the uneven planks, occasionally stripping a piece of the papery, peeling paint. Vasi muttered, “She has me trapped.”

  How could Vasi have ever thought this was a good idea? She was imprisoned by magic as if a reminder of her hostess’s twisted disposition. Who ate people? Hellish monsters and evil djinn, that’s who.

  The smell of cinnamon wafted in the air, and hunger rumbled through Vasi in response. Oh sweet djinn! Was it not enough torture to make the door disappear? She now had to smell the sauce the witch was going to serve over Vasi’s body?

  Sick and twisted witch.

  But Vasi’s empty stomach didn’t care about anything but food. A week of berries and raw, scavenged vegetables was turning her mind to mud. Vasi’s mouth watered, and she decided a quick death was preferable to starvation.

  She renewed her search for an exit, but there was nothing new to find just because she wanted it. Frustrated, anxious, and increasingly hungry, Vasi pounded on the wall, yelling, “Let me out.”

  With a savage kick to the wall, Vasi pivoted and looked at her prison.

  The sun had begun its ascent, and light poured in from the curtained window. A single bed took up the majority of the small space, a patchwork quilt in pale blues and yellows folded at the foot of the otherwise white covers. The frame was constructed of branches of ash, lashed together with thick twine. A chest sat at the foot of the bed, closed with a golden lock on the outside. A dresser was just left of the window, and an oval mirror set in a gilt frame hung above the drawers. A blue ceramic wash basin and pitcher were on the dresser, and to the left of the dresser, a long curtain ran down the wall. Vasi rushed across the room to find the space was only an alcove garderobe. After her morning ablutions, Vasi did her best to wash her hands and face in the basin of water on the dresser.

  Afterward, she glanced at the wall, but when no door appeared, she yanked open the top drawer of the dresser, looking for something to replace her torn and filthy clothing. Stealing from the witch would likely compound the trouble Vasi was in, but her old dress was foul.

  She looked in the first drawer and smiled. Undergarments in a soft material lay folded within, and the other drawers held shifts, skirts, blouses, trousers, stockings, and aprons. Several pairs of shoes and boots were tucked under the foot of the bed. Vasi held one pair after another to her stockinged feet, frowning when everything appeared to be her size.

  Suspicion and doubt clouded her mind, and she wondered if this was some sick test of the witch. Vasi slammed the supple boot to the floor and kicked the lot of them under the bed before pulling on her worn pair. She would not fall victim to the witch’s temptations again. Baba Yaga had called Vasi a thief for stealing berries; she wasn’t about to find out what would happen if she took the clothes.

  A low murmur of voices undulated through the room, and Vasi searched for the source, her gaze snagging on the window where the curtains now billowed out with the slight breeze. She pursed her lips, certain the window had been closed only a moment before. She crossed the room, uncertainty slowing her steps, and then knelt on the window seat. Brushing the curtains aside, she rested her head on the cool pane to peer outside at the sunrise.

  The house must’ve shifted again because the grisly foundation of bones now rested in the grassy meadow. Vasi averted her gaze, past the gruesome underpinning to the now open gate and beyond. The sun was halfway up the horizon, its pale golden rays streaking the blue-and-gray sky. A large path cut through the meadow, beyond the gruesome gate, to the winding road where the hunched and gnarled Baba Yaga stood. Greasy strands of her hair lifted and floated on the soft breeze, and her ragged and patched cloak puddled around her feet. She stood angled toward the forest where the path escaped the trees.

  A beautiful blue roan dun appeared, pulling a rickety cart at an amble. The animal’s coat shone, and the stripe of dark hair down his back, matching his mane and tail, curved in a way to accentuate the animal’s beautiful contrasting colors. The cart was polished ash, the smoothness of the wood brought out by the irregularity of the wood’s colors, and there didn’t appear to be any metal holding the pieces together.

  The rider of the cart had his legs extended, and he wore two different boots, one dark brown and polished and the other scuffed and worn. His black breeches were patched above the left knee, and his pale-blue tunic hung untucked at the waist and open at the throat. His skin was smooth and also pale, but he sat tall as if his perfection was unable to slouch. Holding the reins loosely in his elegant hands, he let his steed control the pace of their travel.

  His features were sculpted in a way that made Vasi think of Aksel, but this man lacked the intensity the masked Horseman exuded. Vasi’s jaw dropped as she realized this was the peddler she’d seen last night. He wore a crooked smile as he approached the gate. But, when he slowed his horse and looked at the witch, even from this distance, Vasi could see the milky film covering his eyes. Vasi had seen blind eyes once before, exactly like this rider’s. How strange she could see so clearly as the pair stood at least forty yards away, and yet the details were clear.

  He hopped off the cart while it was still moving and approached the hag. After a bow, he grabbed for Baba Yaga’s hand. The witch let him flounder a moment before placing her hand in his, and then he brushed his lips over her fingertips.

  Vasi wrinkled her nose, both in confusion and a moderate amount of disgust. Because, ugh. Just the thought of touching the witch made Vasi’s skin crawl. She glanced back down, and the man’s head was tilted up toward her window, his face alight with amusement. How could he know she was here?

  Chilling certainty doused Vasilisa. She stumbled back, falling to the floor as she tried to reconcile the djinn-peddler and the witch outside with what Vasi knew of the djinn. The witch had lied. There were djinn in the forest, but Aksel had said only the witch could help get the Fire.

  A cracking sound behind Vasi made her jump and turn, and her heart pounded as a handle appeared on the inside of a door. A glance outside confirmed Baba Yaga’s attention was held there, so if Vasi hurried, she might be able to search a bit of the house for the Fire. At the very least, she could find the source of the cinnamon smell and ruin the witch’s sauce before she returned. Vasi tested the door, and when it swung wide, she giggled with nervous anticipation.

  Vasi patted her pockets, making sure she had both the blade and doll, and stepped out of her room and into a long hall. Innumerable doors lined the passageway, the wooden barriers of various sizes and colors behind which Baba Yaga must have kept her secrets and prisoners. Vasi passed each one, trying their knobs and handles, but all were locked.

  She kept walking, faster now, rushing from one to the next, grimacing as the locked doors added up behind her. Vasi swayed. The hallway spun, and her vision tunneled.

  Vasi dropped her hands to her sides and closed her eyes, no longer interested in doors, secrets, or even the Fire. There was no sense finding it if she couldn’t even walk down the hall. Escape, right now, was an impossibility. Food was a necessity. Vasi trudged forward, wondering if she would ever get to a kitchen, when the smell of cinnamon returned and caused her to stumble down the stairs. She crossed through a small foyer, turning away from the open front door, and circled around the back of the stairway, following her nose to the kitchen.

  The immaculate room was bursting with light, and in the very center a dark wooden table was laden with food: por
ridge, baked rolls with sugary icing, a pitcher of milk, a bowl of granulated sugar, a huge ham with thick slices on a platter. The dishes went on, spread across the table in a glorious smorgasbord.

  Vasi sucked in a greedy breath and reached for a roll, her hand freezing just before she touched the steaming bread. What if the food was poisoned? What if Baba Yaga was fattening Vasi up to eat? She certainly didn’t have much on her bones, and hadn’t her mother told her a story about a brother and sister eaten by a witch?

  Maybe Vasi should just get out, flee . . . But then what? Where would she go?

  Vasi had no home; she had no one to go to for aid. If she showed up in Beloch, she would have to face the consequences of killing Lord Baine, and honestly, she’d rather be eaten by the witch. Vasi’s only chance to return to Beloch would be with the magic needed to defend the country so her father could return home. She was in the home of the only person with the Phoenix Fire, which meant she was exactly where she needed to be.

  “Why isn’t she eating?” someone whispered in a tiny voice. “She needs to eat.”

  “Hush, Sef,” someone else said, his voice much deeper but still a whisper.

  Vasi spun, turning this way and that, but no one was there.

  “She needs to hurry, or Jez might stop her.”

  “Hush, Sef—”

  “Hello?” Vasi whispered. “You can come out. I promise I won’t hurt—”

  The ladle rose from the silver tureen, dishing a healthy portion of porridge into a bowl. A spoon floated in the air, dropped into the warm grain, and then the meal floated its way to her.

  Vasi’s heart beat against her ribs as she stared at the dish. The pungent scent of cinnamon hit her, and her mouth watered. She had to eat. Either that or die.

  She took the bowl. “Thank you,” she said, nodding her acceptance at the empty air. “I-I appreciate it.”

  She slid into a seat and took a bite. Her taste buds cried with joy; the porridge was sweet, spiced, and rich with cream.

  “So good,” she whispered, taking another bite. As her hunger abated, the smell of cinnamon disappeared, replaced with the smell of fresh bread and sweet blackberries. She scraped up the last bite of porridge and glanced up with her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.

  The food on the table was gone. Only the crock of butter, the pot of jam, and a tray of steaming rolls remained. Vasi’s mouth salivated with want, but with the rise in her blood sugar, her wariness returned. Lifting her head to the heavy beams of the ceiling, she asked, “Is the food going to poison me?”

  This time, the room remained silent.

  “If you don’t take one, you’re going to hurt his feelings,” Baba Yaga said from the doorway.

  Vasi sat up and met Baba Yaga’s fiery gaze. “I-I . . . Whose feelings?”

  “Sef,” Baba Yaga said, crossing the threshold into the kitchen. “He likes to feed people”—she glared at a corner—“even intruders, apparently.”

  Vasi looked around the kitchen, searching first for a person then anything that resembled a person, and finally scouring the space for any kind of creature who could cook. Still nothing.

  Baba Yaga slid into the seat across from Vasi and asked, “What are you doing? What game are you playing at?”

  “I just wanted to say thanks to—Sef, was it? Where is he?” she asked, still looking for the mysterious Sef. When Baba Yaga didn’t answer, Vasi forced her gaze back to the hideous hag. “Where’s Sef?”

  Baba Yaga cackled in glee. “Do you hear that, Sef?” she hollered up at the beams in the ceiling. “The girl wishes to thank you.”

  Vasi blushed. She hated being made a fool, but she didn’t like the idea of the witch being cruel to whomever had made breakfast. Glaring at Baba Yaga, Vasi snatched a roll from the tray, broke it open, and slathered it with butter and jam.

  Holding the roll up, she met Baba Yaga’s gaze with a glare, and said, “Sef, your porridge is the best I’ve ever had, and this bread smells divine.”

  Vasi bit into the roll, and the sweet berries and rich butter exploded across her tongue with deliciousness she hadn’t experienced since her mother died. Even if Vasi did die, the roll was worth it. So she raised her voice and her face to the ceiling. “Thank you, Sef.”

  Baba Yaga pushed back from the table, grumbling. “Stop, or you’ll give him a big head.”

  Vasi didn’t care. Someone had made her something delicious, and that in itself was wonderful. She grabbed a second roll and gobbled it down. After the third one, she pushed back the tray with a happy sigh. Patting the table, she murmured her gratitude one more time and then turned to face the witch.

  The food had bolstered Vasi’s courage, and she asked, “Are you going to eat me?”

  Baba Yaga now stood by the embers of fire, stirring the contents of a heavy black pot. She turned toward Vasi, studying her as if considering a recipe. “Keep scarfing down my food like that, and I will. I would have already, but you’re filthy, and there’s not enough of you to eat.”

  Vasi released her breath.

  “But don’t think that means I won’t.” The witch turned back to her pot. “I see you’re wearing your disgusting cloak; I hope that means you’re going to leave soon.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” Vasi answered with a gulp.

  Baba Yaga stopped stirring and growled, “Why do you want magic?”

  Vasi debated telling Baba Yaga a story to convince her to help, something heroic, but lies and deceit were Marika’s way, not Vasi’s, so she stuck with the truth.

  “I ran into the woods to ask the djinn to restore the Phoenix Fire. Aksel brought me here. He said you have it.” Taking a deep breath, she added, “The Cervene army captured my father. I want to get him back.”

  “And?” the witch asked.

  Vasi swallowed. Did there have to be more? “And save Beloch. Is that enough?”

  Baba Yaga turned and, with her fiery gaze, examined Vasi. The witch snorted a laugh and said, “Liar. You have no real interest in saving Beloch. Tell me, why did the Duke of Strasny want you? What did you steal from him?”

  Vasi’s stomach churned with disgust. “My stepmother had me betrothed to him; I refused. He . . . he chased me down. He tried to tie me up. I didn’t mean to kill him.” Vasi shuddered. “But I’m not sorry.”

  “And he thought to bring you to the altar in ropes?” The witch’s features hardened. “So you killed him?”

  “Yes,” Vasi said through clenched teeth. She fisted her hands as she continued, “He’s vile. He . . . he’s cruel, abusive. He said . . .” She couldn’t help how her voice and hands trembled as she recounted the duke’s words. “He wants to break me so I exist only for him.”

  “Who is he?” Baba Yaga leaned toward Vasi, the witch’s tone dripping with disdain. “This duke?”

  Vasi knew she’d been mistaken last night when she thought Aksel had declared Lord Baine their enemy. How could a mortal man be an enemy to the djinn? She slipped her hands into the pocket of her apron, her fingers seeking the doll. She clasped the talisman, her thumb rubbing the smooth wood, and said, “Lord Baine, Duke of Strasny, nephew to the tsar of Beloch.”

  The air in the kitchen went from warm to wintry in less than a second. Vasi’s skin prickled with gooseflesh, and she tried to rub the coldness from her arms.

  Baba Yaga stood, and her figure shimmered as if she were changing shape. In the blink of an eye, the witch’s hair was raven black, her skin smooth as silk and pale as cream. Another blink, and the gnarled witch stood before Vasi.

  The chill persisted, as if the witch's frigid anger gusted through the house.

  “Dom,” Baba Yaga snapped. “Stoke the fire.”

  The glowing embers popped, and new wood appeared, followed by a cheery blaze.

  “Sef,” Baba Yaga continued, “Prepare me proper lunch.”

  The smells of ham and cloves filled the kitchen as well as sugared carrots and molasses and beans. Even though she’d just eaten, Vasi’s stomach rumble
d with anticipation.

  The witch crossed the room and leaned over Vasi. “You think you know what you want. But you have no idea. I may help you. But it won’t be easy. If you succeed, you may leave and take anything you want. It’ll be hard work, but from the look of it, you’re used to that. If you’re idle or self-indulgent or anger me in any way, I’ll eat you—even if you are a stringy little thing.”

  Vasi’s heart pounded. “Why?”

  Baba Yaga grinned, the light glinting off her metallic teeth. “Why eat you?”

  “Why help me?” So much was in those words, but Vasi really wanted to know. What had changed Baba Yaga’s mind? Why was she willing to help now when what Vasi wanted hadn’t changed? “Was it because of what happened with Lord Baine? Because . . . I killed him?”

  Baba Yaga turned away, muttering to herself as she crossed the kitchen to the doorway. She faced Vasi then, eyes blazing with fire, and while the witch’s nose was still hooked and covered in warts—and her gray hair stringy and oily—Baba Yaga’s teeth were white and straight and her pink lips smooth and unmarred by the serrated teeth she’d had only moments before.

  Vasi blinked and the teeth were sharp blades again, the witch’s lips a bloody torn mess.

  “Don’t ask questions, foolish girl. You couldn’t even understand the answers. Now, get out of here. You stink. Take a bath and find some proper clothes, or just get out. I don’t want to have to smell you.” Baba Yaga leaned forward, narrowing her fiery eyes. “If you’re staying, you’d better rest up, pretty girl, because tomorrow we’ll see if you can earn your keep.”

  3

  The next morning, Vasi arose before dawn and, finding no door, rushed to her window. She expected to see the witch at the end of the lane, but in her place stood a woman, tall and slender with flowing black hair whipping about in the wind. She wore a vibrant-purple cape that also rose and fell with the turbulent air, and her dark-red dress clung to her willowy frame. She caught her hair, pulling it to the side, and tilted her head up as she spoke to a man on horseback.