"With Baba Yaga's house, anything could be a thing," Mac called from across the clearing.
The house settled into a clearing, legs bent in a defensive posture. It resembled nothing so much as a broody hen, albeit one with windows and a chimney.
Sam approached cautiously. "We need to speak with Baba Yaga. It's urgent."
The house made a sound like a giant door creaking and took two steps backward.
"Let me try," Delilah said, stepping forward with a smile. "Hello, beautiful home! What magnificent drumsticks you have! So powerful and... chicken-y."
The house preened momentarily before remembering itself and turning away again.
"Flattery will get you nowhere," Sam muttered. "These legs have probably heard every compliment in the book."
"At least I'm trying something besides growling at it," Delilah retorted.
Sam's nose twitched as he caught a familiar scent—magic, yes, but also... "Is that disco ball cleaner?"
Mac's eyes lit up. "Of course!" He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Carol! Your disco lights are on!"
The effect was instantaneous. The house froze mid-step, wobbled precariously, then settled with a thump that sent leaves spiraling from nearby trees. A welcome mat unfurled from beneath the door like a tongue, and the house made a sound suspiciously like an embarrassed cluck.
"Disco lights?" Delilah whispered.
"Baba Yaga's stuck in the eighties," Mac explained. "Has a thing for disco balls. Keeps them polished to perfection."
Sam approached the now-stationary house, noticing an intricate symbol etched into the wooden door—identical to the one on Elder Thornberry's token.
"The Collector's mark," he murmured, tracing it with his finger.
The door swung open before he could touch it, releasing a cloud of purple smoke and the unmistakable scent of hairspray and magic.
"Well, don't just stand there catching flies," came a commanding voice from within. "If you've gone to all this trouble to find me, you might as well come in for tea. Or something stronger, depending on how bad the news is."
Sam exchanged glances with Delilah. "After you."
"Such a gentleman," she said dryly, but stepped forward onto the welcome mat.
The house gave a contented cluck as they entered the lair of the most powerful witch in the world.
The doorway swallowed them like a hungry mouth, depositing Sam into a living room straight out of 1975. Shag carpet in a nauseating shade of orange squished beneath his boots. A lava lamp bubbled on a side table, casting psychedelic shadows across wood-paneled walls.
"Wipe feet. Carpet new," came Baba Yaga's voice from somewhere ahead.
Sam glanced down. The carpet looked anything but new—it had probably been there since Nixon was president.
Delilah stepped forward, her eyes wide as she took in the macramé owl hangings and beaded doorway curtains. "This is incredible," she whispered.
"It's something," Sam muttered, his nose twitching at the competing scents of patchouli, magic, and something that smelled suspiciously like frozen TV dinners.
They followed Mac through the beaded curtain and suddenly found themselves in a room that screamed 1980s excess. Neon geometric patterns covered the walls, a disco ball hung from the ceiling, and the furniture was all chrome and glass.
"Carol?" Mac called. "We need to talk."
"Always need to talk. Nobody comes for tea anymore." Baba Yaga stepped through a doorway wearing a hot pink tracksuit, her blonde hair teased into an impressive wall of bangs held aloft by what must have been an entire can of hairspray. On her feet were fuzzy pink slippers that looked like rabbits—if rabbits had teeth and glowing red eyes.
Sam's wolf instincts went on high alert.
"Nice... slippers," Delilah offered.
