"You can do it!" the brooch exclaimed as she surveyed the room. "Seize the day!"
"Must you always make an entrance like rock star?" Baba Yaga asked no one in particular, adjusting her enormous earrings. "It's exhausting to maintain."
"We caught the witch," Mac said, gesturing toward their prisoner. His militarily cropped neon hair made him look like an action figure that had been left too close to a radioactive site.
Baba Yaga circled the Silver Witch, examining her with narrowed eyes. "Morgana Blackthorn. Haven't seen you since the 1983 disco competition. You cheated with a gravity-defying hair spell."
The witch remained unresponsive.
"You didn't die as quickly as I expected," Baba Yaga announced, turning to face the team. "I win the betting pool with Warren and Herm! They said three days max, I gave you almost five."
"You were betting on our survival?" Delilah asked, blue tongue flashing.
"Of course. What else would we bet on? Warren wanted to bet on the Mayor's hat styles, but they're too unpredictable." She waved dismissively. "Warren's very upset. He's bringing a cheese platter to the consolation party tonight."
Herm suddenly appeared from behind a bookshelf where he definitely hadn't been standing a moment before. "I lost twelve magic beans and my favorite newt-skin wallet," he complained, adjusting his mismatched socks. "I really thought the shadow monsters would get you by Tuesday."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Your confidence is touching."
"It's not about confidence," Baba Yaga corrected. "It's about statistical probability. Magic pairs historically have a thirty percent survival rate against the Collector's agents."
She approached the Silver Witch again, lifting the woman's chin with one long, manicured finger. "Puppet cut from strings still has master's mark," she murmured, then gave Zelda a meaningful look.
Zelda nodded slightly, her expression grave.
"What mark?" Sam asked, leaning forward despite his burns.
"Later," Baba Yaga said. "First, I take the witch for an appropriate magical sentencing. She'll face the Witches' High Council for crimes against the magical community and terrible fashion choices."
"We should interrogate her first," Sam insisted. "She might know?—"
"She knows nothing useful," Baba Yaga interrupted. "Her mind emptied when the connection to her master severed. Like a computer with hard drive wiped." She snapped her fingers, and both she and the Silver Witch disappeared in another cloud of purple smoke.
"Dramatic exit!" her brooch shouted in the silence she left behind.
Fat Bastard, who had followed Sam from the healing room, jumped onto his lap. "She's right," the cat said. "The silver lady was just a pawn. The real game is just beginning."
Delilah tugged at the hem of her purple dress, wishing she'd chosen something less conspicuous. The vibrant green of her hair clashed spectacularly with the fabric, making her look like an exotic flower or possibly a tropical fish. She'd tried three different glamour spells to restore her natural color, but the magical residue from the battle seemed determined to make a statement.
"Stop fidgeting," Sam whispered beside her. His own neon green hair had been buzzed short in what he'd described as "tactical hair management," though she suspected it was more about control than tactics.
"Easy for you to say. You're not wearing heels that could qualify as magical torture devices."
The Town Hall's main chamber had been transformed with streamers, balloons, and what appeared to be hand-painted banners featuring crude but enthusiastic depictions of their battle. One particularly creative interpretation showed Sam as a wolf the size of a house battling shadow monsters while Delilah shot lightning from her fingertips. Neither had happened.
"Is that supposed to be me?" she whispered, pointing to a banner where a stick figure with disproportionately large hair hurled what looked like donuts at the enemy.
"I think those are magical orbs, not donuts," Sam replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Though Fabio's pastry air force might have confused the artist."
The room was packed beyond capacity. Shifters from three counties stood alongside witches, vampires, and other magical townspeople. In the front row, Ivy and Rafe sat hand in hand, with Ivy occasionally checking on the potted plants she'd brought—healing specimens that released soothing aromas to help those still recovering from magical injuries.
"My garden's been in overdrive since your battle," Ivy had told Delilah when they arrived. "The resonance patterns are stronger than ever, as if expecting something else to happen soon."
Before Delilah could ask what she meant, Mayor Grimble had taken the stage, wearing what could only be described as a ceremonial hat of epic proportions. It resembled the Town Hall itself, complete with a working clock tower that chimed softly every fifteen minutes and tiny windows that actually lit up.
"Distinguished citizens of Assjacket," the Mayor began, his voice amplified by the hat rather than the microphone in front of him. "We gather today to honor those who saved our fair town from certain doom, magical catastrophe, and potential property devaluation!"
Delilah caught Sam's eye and bit her lip to keep from laughing.
