"Gift from ex-husband. Number three. Or maybe four." Baba Yaga waved dismissively. "Sit. Drink. Then talk."
The moment they settled onto a plastic-covered sofa, teacups materialized in their hands. Sam sniffed his cautiously. It smelled like blackberries and something more exotic—possibly the tears of an ancient deity.
"Someone's been using your sigil," Mac said, skipping the pleasantries. "At crime scenes around Assjacket."
Baba Yaga's eyes narrowed. "Stealing my sigil? That thief has no respect for intellectual property rights. I trademarked that symbol in 1743!"
They followed her through another doorway into a 90s grunge-inspired kitchen. Flannel dish towels hung from hooks, and posters of bands Sam vaguely recognized covered the refrigerator.
"First the cursed warlock and witch, now the fortune teller and shifter. Pattern forming. Not coincidence." She pointed at Sam and Delilah with a long, manicured finger.
"What do you mean by pattern?" Sam asked.
One of the slippers lunged forward and nipped his ankle.
"Ow!" He jerked his foot back. "What the?—"
"Bunny no like stupid questions," Baba Yaga said with a shrug. "Pattern obvious. Pairs. Always pairs."
Delilah stepped closer. "Pairs of what? Magical practitioners?"
"Of course magical practitioners! What else? Shoes?" Baba Yaga rolled her eyes. "Resonance phenomenon. Ancient magic. Powerful."
Sam exchanged glances with Delilah. "You mean like the items being stolen in pairs?"
"Items, people, doesn't matter. Energy signature matters." Baba Yaga moved to a chest that hadn't been there a moment before and pulled out a rolled parchment that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. "This map shows more than just stolen trinkets. Watch for shadows within shadows. Not all enemies show their true face."
As she handed the ancient map to Delilah, their fingers brushed, and the parchment glowed briefly.
"Map needs both. Won't work without harmony." Baba Yaga pointed between Sam and Delilah. "Terrible harmony now. Arguing waste energy."
"We don't argue that much," Sam protested.
Both slippers launched themselves at his ankles, teeth bared.
"Fine! We argue. But it's constructive."
"Nothing constructive about male pride," Baba Yaga sniffed.
Delilah smirked. "I think I like you, Carol."
"Out!" Baba Yaga suddenly shouted. "Map has all answers. You figure out the rest!"
The floor beneath them tilted dramatically, sending them sliding toward a trapdoor that hadn't been there seconds before.
"Wait!" Sam called. "We have more questions?—"
The last thing he saw was Baba Yaga's amused face as the house literally ejected them onto the forest floor.
5
Sam gripped the steering wheel of his Jeep so tightly his knuckles turned white. The ancient map from Baba Yaga sat between them, occasionally pulsing with a faint golden light as if it were breathing. His precious vehicle—the one place in Assjacket that remained untouched by anyone else's influence—was being systematically violated by five feet and seven inches of determined clairvoyant.
Delilah reached for the rearview mirror, tilting it slightly.
"What are you doing?" The words came out rougher than intended, his wolf rumbling beneath the surface.
"Adjusting the mirror so I can see." Delilah didn't even look at him, just continued her methodical takeover of his territory.
