the branch, its head swaddled in some sort of canvas. A coil of rope waited on the saddle. Wasn't that nice.
I snagged the rope and hauled the Nightingale upright against the tree, facing the bark. He was short but well-muscled, his dark hair cut down to a mere fuzz on his head.
A hoarse gasp issued from his mouth. "Bloody bitch."
"That's nice." I finished tying him to the trunk. He couldn't even turn his head. "Just remember, it could've been the other end of the knife."
I stepped back. He looked secure enough. I sliced the tie off and dangled it by the bark so he could see it. "I'm going to go see the witch now. In your place, I'd try to get free. I might be in a bad mood on my way back. Come on, bunny."
The rabbit hopped down the path and I followed it, listening to the sweet serenade of curses.
THE STICK WAS SIX FEET TALL AND TOPPED WITH A grimy human skull, decorated by a half-melted candle. It jutted on the side of the road, like some grisly path marker. A few feet past it another yellowed skull offered a second candle. Some people used tiki torches. Some people used human skulls . ..
I looked at the duck-bunny. "What have you gotten me into?"
The duck-bunny rubbed his nose.
The skull looked a bit odd. For one, all the teeth were even. I stood on my toes and knocked on the bony temple. Plastic. Heh. The bunny hopped down the trail. Nothing to do but follow.
The path opened into a garden. To the left, raspberry bushes rose next to gooseberry and currant. To the right, neat rows of strawberries sat, punctuated by spears of garlic and onion to keep the bugs off. Trees rose here and there, surrounded by herbs. I recognized apple, pear, cherry. Past it all, at the end of a winding path in the middle of a green lawn, sat a large log house. Rather, the back of the large log house. A couple of clean glass windows stared at me above a wraparound porch rail, but no door was visible.
We stopped at the house. Now what?
"Knock-knock?"
The ground shuddered under my feet. I took a step back. The edge of the porch quaked and rose, up and up, rocking a little, and beneath it huge scaled legs dug into the ground with talons the size of my arms.
Holy shit.
The legs moved, turning the house with ponderous slowness ten feet above the ground: corner, wall, another corner, Evdokia in a rocking chair sitting on the porch.
"That's good," the witch said.
The house crouched down and settled back in place. Evdokia gave me a sweet smile. Middle-aged, she was plump and looked happy about it. Her face was round, her stomach was round, and a thick braid of brown hair snaked its way over her shoulder down to her lap. She was knitting some sort of a tube out of strawberry-colored yarn.
There was only one person in the entire Slavic mythology who had a house on chicken legs: Baba Yaga, the Grandmother Witch, the one with a stone leg and iron teeth. She was known for flying around in a mortar and for casual cannibalism of wandering heroes. And I'd walked to her house on my own power. Talk about delivering takeout.
Evdokia nodded to the chair next to her. "Well, come on. V nogah pravdi nyet."
No truth in legs. Right. Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly ...
Her smile got wider. "Scared?"
"Nope." I walked up the steps and took the chair. The house jerked, my stomach jumped, and the garden dropped down below. The house had straightened its chicken legs. Trapped. No matter. "Besides, I'm all gristle and tough meat anyway."
She chuckled. "Oh, I don't know, you might be just right for a nice big pot of borscht. Throw some mushrooms in there and mmm." Borscht, bleah.
"Not a fan?" Evdokia reached to the small table between us, poured two cups of tea, and handed me one.
"No." I sipped. Great tea. I waited a moment to see if I turned into a goat. Nope, no horns, clothes were still there. I raised the cup at her. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. You hate borscht because Voron never made it properly. I swear, anything you gave that man, he'd turn into mush. It took me the longest time to get him to eat normal food. For a while it was all `borscht and taters.' "