"I thought there would not be another coyote so rash as to climb the snow elf.
You owe me nothing for this, Green Man." I'd heard Uncle Mike called Green Man before.
I still wasn't sure exactly what it meant.
And when the fae reached those long fingers out and touched me, I wasn't worried about much other than my own furry hide.
"I did it because of you, coyote.
Do you know how much chaos you have caused? The Morrigan says that is your gift.
Rash, quick, and lucky, just like Coyote himself.
But that old Trickster dies in his adventures--but you won't be able to put yourself back together with the dawn." I didn't say anything.
I'd thought her to be just another of the Tri- Cities fae, denizens (mostly) of Fairyland, the fae reservation just outside of Walla Walla, built either to keep us safe from the fae, or the fae safe from the rest of us.
Her healing Mary Jo had given me a clue--healing with magic is no common or weak gift among the fae.
Uncle Mike's caution told me she was scary powerful.
"We'll have more words at a later date, Green Man." She looked back at me.
"Who are you, little coyote, to cause the Great Ones such consternation? You broke our laws, yet your defiance of our ruling has been greatly to our benefit.
Siebold Adlebertsmiter is innocent and all the trouble was caused by humans.
You must be punished-- and rewarded." She laughed as if I was pretty amusing.
"Consider yourself rewarded." The light that had continued to swirl around her feet uneasily stirred and darkened until it was a dark stone circle about three feet around and six inches thick.
It solidified under her feet, lifting her half a foot in the air like Aladdin's carpet.
The sides curved upward and formed a dish--the memory of an old story supplied the rest.
Not a dish but a mortar.
A giant mortar.
And she was gone.
Not the way that Stefan could go, but just so swiftly my eyes couldn't follow her.
I'd seen a fae fly through solid matter before, so it wasn't a surprise that she did so.
Which was good, because I'd just had one terrible surprise, I didn't need any more.
The first rule about the fae is that you don't want to attract their attention--but they don't tell you what to do once you have.
"I thought Baba Yaga was a witch," I told Uncle Mike hollowly.
Who else would be flying around in a giant mortar? "Witches aren't immortal," he told me.
"Of course she's not a witch." Baba Yaga is featured in the stories of a dozen countries scattered around Eastern Europe.
She's not the hero in most of them.
She eats children.