

Firebird

Published by Stephanie Kane at Smashwords

Copyright 2019 Stephanie Kane

The prince was born in the northernmost kingdom, with the aurora borealis for his bower. His mother was Snegurochka the Snow Maiden, who once long ago had lost her heart to a village boy. This time she had lost it to a bannik. Perhaps it was the curve of the bathhouse spirit's strong arms as he chopped wood for the banya that had done Snegurochka in. Perhaps it was his rascal smile. Whatever it was, it had worked. Taking unattainable lovers was a snow maiden habit, after all.

Time tended to move in cycles in Buyan, home to the Slavic spirits. Buyan was a land a bit west of the morning and evening star Zorya goddesses and a bit to the north of dreams. Its residents' actions were no exception to the mythic circles of their fairytale land. Snegurochka's heart was notorious for wandering and it too fell victim to Buyan's ebb and flow.

Just like his mother's heart the prince, a strange mix of steam and snow, was born a traveler. After birth, he toddled his first steps out of his mother's womb into the wilds. Snegurochka had to catch him in her snowflake-spun arms before he disappeared for good.

He was named Morozko after Snegurochka's Father Frost, or Ded Moroz's present-giving ways. Ded Moroz was the Winter King that wanted little to do with a bastard prince and much less to do with the rabble-rousing bannik that had sired him. Snegurochka melted with bliss at the sight of her newborn boy and in doing so scared away her lover. Banniks were never good fathers anyways. They were too concerned with steaming saunas and overseeing the rituals of the banya to make attentive parents. Banyas were the heart of Russian communities and banniks, overseers of the rituals of the bathhouse, had little care for their offspring. They considered the banya their only children.

So Morozko grew up fatherless save for Ded Moroz's stern gaze. He was half of frost, half of fire, and nothing at all like his family.

"Mother, why does dedushka hate me?" Morozko asked before Russia was little more than a land fought over by pagans erecting poles the to snakeskin Veles the chthonic god in the underworld below and thundering Perun the king of the gods above. The people still swore on the Earth Mother Mokosh in those days. They still spilled blood on the death goddess Morena's altar. And Baba Yaga, fabled witch of the mountains, devourer of wandering children, was watching. The hag of the iron teeth was young, though she never remotely looked it.

After asking about his grandfather, Snegurochka had enfolded the sparks in her son's hands and molded them into a rose of fire encased in ice. "You are a treasure, Kolya. That is why Ded Moroz does not understand you. My father showers treasure down upon girls in need like ice crystals from clouds but never keeps them for himself. He gave me away once to the people and only took me back when I was on Morena's doorstep. Ded Moroz is known for winter's barrenness, not summer's warmth, and you are your father, all heat. My father does not know what to make of such a rare jewel as you, my dearest prince."

Tsar Vladimirs came and conquered, ambitious princes of Kievan Rus uniting Russia. The capital city was rechristened St. Petersburg in the Eastern Orthodox faith. The rulers burned the wooden idols of the old gods and erected crosses for the new. The kings and magistrates dunked the pagan Slavs in the capital's river to baptize them in impromptu fashion.

Baba Yaga watched from her chicken hut all the while stroking her chin hairs, smoking her pipe, waiting. The pagans, now Christians, still paid tribute to the old gods as saints and renamed them. The peasants of dvoeverie double faith renamed the gods but never forgot them. Veles and Perun retreated, the Zoryas abandoned their shining star thrones, and Mokosh slept deep below the mountains at the base of the Tree of Life.

And one god with a rotting black heart took another name. He watched, coveting, always waiting. He had a thousand princesses kept under lock and key in his palace of ice and glass. It was lit only by flitting firebirds and jewel fresh diamond fruit. Still, it was missing a crucial light in all the dead magnificence. It was something that would haunt Morozko in due time.

Morozko paid little attention to the rise and fall of immortals. He was too busy growing. He watched cranes fly across the northern wastes and shot arrows of steam at elk to be dried and cured in the smokehouse. His grandfather barely tolerated him, Snegurochka loved him, and that was enough to churn butter for a small while.

Morozko gave little heed to the passage of the gods into history.

One day he would remember his mother's stories of Chernobog the Black.

Nechist - what the farmers in fields called land spirits - continued life in Buyan unaffected by Christianity, like Snegurochka and Morozko. Peasants still left out kasha for house elf domovois. Humans continued avoiding the rivers in the evening lest they stray upon the drowned human suicides. The dead girls, now siren rusalka, would sing and seduce them to a freezing watery death. The peasants prayed that the Amazonian vila, guardians of the weather, would not drench crops in rain. Once in a blue moon, a wild girl would wander back to her village covered in moss and half-mad having escaped from an ill-fortuned marriage as a wood wife to a forest king leshy.

Thanks to shifting belief, Ded Moroz became something like Santa and rebranded the family business to deliver presents to children across Russia at New Years. Father Frost was nothing if not good at giving away gifts like blizzards. He and Snegurochka worked with the efficiency of a snowstorm.

Still Morozko couldn't summon a single snowflake, much less command the winds to carry him to merchant's homes and give their daughters baubles. So he set out with his mother's blessing and grandfather's disgrace. He sought his fortune in cities and the wilds when nechist still walked Russia and beyond alongside humanity. Morozko threw his icy crown off the ends of Buyan's glaciers and renounced Ded Moroz's heritage. He was fully content to be a bannik, not a prince.

"To hell with princehood," he muttered, "I'm a bastard through and through, and I would rather have nothing to my name and be free than be bound by convention and a court."

So Morozko set off past the glaciers, to the land of evergreen and birch, and Snegurochka wept tears of ice.

Baba Yaga was aback her mortar and pestle with her witch-daughter Morena, the wind-wild goddess with a body like a birch. Morena flew aback a broom in a red velvet cloak and black rags of a dress. They were flying as fast as an eagle over the Caucasus Mountains, sending their flocks of crows and owls to harvest ingredients: poisonous herbs and dwarven treasures, alongside a fair amount of children's first breaths and mother's last words.

This spell would be one in a long line against Chernobog, the Black God, who longed to unseat Morena and her consort Jarilo from the heavens and spread sterile, cold perfection with the infection of his cursed deathless lands upon Buyan. Nature abhors a vacuum, but vacuums abhor nature, and Chernobog was the void that ate all he drained of blood and left his victims cold and lifeless.

Russia was both light and dark, poison and honey, and black Morena was the queen of immortals. Passionate but feral, she carried madness with her like a worm in her brain. Watching her bare milky-breasted, nipples like pink daggers as she beat at her chest with venik branches to guide the winds, Baba Yaga was proud of Morena's ferocity. Her witch-daughter was all wolf, all wild, and the best hope at destroying Chernobog for good.

If Morena was a wolf, then Chernobog was a vulture, circling in the sky waiting for a feast. Would this spell or the next seal the coffin in his box? The Zorya's whispered in their prophetic trills that Morena would birth Bilobog, the remedy to Chernobog's destruction, but so far her union with the sunlit god Jarilo had proven tempestuous and fruitless.

Baba Yaga had tried spell after spell to make Morena's inhospitable womb of ice and night a planting ground for Jarilo's seed, but stillborn embryo after bloody abortion followed. It drove Morena deeper into her madness and desperation, and it drove Jarilo farther from Morena. They failed again and again, Chernobog's blackness spread, and Buyan was growing darker. The crops failed more, the spirits thirsted, and the deathless maidens haunted the outer boundaries, hunting for ungiven comfort.

It was time for Baba Yaga to tell Morena, her dearest godchild, a heartbreaking truth. They had sent a fetch in the form of a giant to Chernobog's deathless lands with the fruit of that night's labor, enchanted to wreak havoc on his palace of glass and ice and tear the oak tree of his heart from its roots. Each egregore and familiar that died at Chernobog's hands infuriated him more, and drew him further into no man's land, where they might strike him in earnest with spells and curses, but Chernobog was wily, and deathless to boot. It would take a mortal to kill him, and a mortal man to bring life to the goddess of death, as only humanity tasted of the black cup of destruction and passed on into the great unknown no god or nechist knew.

Baba Yaga told this to Morena, that her marriage to Jarilo would prove fruitless, and that she should seek a mortal's bed. There were rats on Morena's shoulders and crows in her black black hair. She gave a ragged sigh, moths leaving her mouth as she exhaled.

"I suppose it is true, witch-mother. Burning day and dark night are never on earth at the same time, and for Bilobog to walk the earth, my child must have mortal blood. All the heroes, from Ilya Muromets to Dobryna Nikitich, were partially human after all. They were the ones to slay dragons, not insipid Jarilo or my stubborn father Perun." Morena looked out the window of Baba Yaga's chicken hut and the darkness of the night shuddered under the death goddess's gaze. "I will travel Russia for however long it takes to find the father of Buyan's avenger, though my trek may span centuries."

Baba Yaga gave a weak smile. "This war is tiring for us both, and you have a heavy cross to bear, dear Marzanna."

Morena plaited her tangled hair. "If I could but have one child, one witch-babe to suckle at my breasts and coddle under the starlight and winds, it will have been worth it."

Baba Yaga did not want to tell the daydreaming Morena that to keep a half-mortal child in a house of immortals at war would be a death sentence, but for once in her long long life, she kept quiet.

Morozko became famed for his treatment of guests at banyas and his divination prowess. Word traveled of the tenderness with which he beat bushels of green peeled venik against patron's backs. He could steam and ice the different pools just so, and his reputation began to precede him. Morozko worked for different leshys in different kingdoms who had carved Buyan up between them in a patchwork thanks to games of chess and war. Leshy tsars sometimes lost half a forest to an ill-thought bet. Winners led their pampered squirrels in great migrations to their new lands.

First Morozko traveled on foot, then on horseback when he had saved enough money. He possessed his mother's wandering heart, always searching for a place to belong but never finding it. He was camping by the Volga River one night when he heard the click-clack creak of a hut on chicken legs. A hag with iron teeth and a fence of bones sat smoking her pipe in a rocking chair. Her wood-dark eyes were like kindling.

She smiled like a shark.

"You are lost, Prince Morozko," Baba Yaga observed.

Morozko stood up and dusted off his trousers of snow. "I have no compass to guide me, babushka. Every day that I wander farther into the wilds I find that I am losing my way. I do not know what I am looking for still! After all these godforsaken years, I am alone."

"Family, a home, a father, love – I can give it all to you if you give me something precious."

Morozko peered up at the famous witch who Snegurochka had sometimes entertained in his grandfather's kingdom. "I have nothing of value – I threw my inheritance away, I travel with only a quiver full of cheap arrows and a doddering broken horse. What could you possibly want?"

Baba Yaga took a gigantic pestle from beside her rocking chair, set down her pipe, and pointed the pestle in Morozko's direction: "Your word, half-blood bannik. One day I will ask you to do me a favor. If you value your life, you will not refuse me. If you accept my offer, I will give your wandering heart a home."

"Where? I have searched nearly every inch of Buyan and I have found nothing but petty leshys. I know warring vila and seductress rusalka and absolutely nothing that suits me. I have had my heart broken by a vampir with hair like autumn leaves. My money was stolen by leshy tsars that shortchanged me and my services. My name has been lost to the wind. All I know is that a bastard belongs nowhere!"

"Pah, soap shavings! Everyone belongs somewhere, even a down-on-his-luck half-breed. Come, sit on my porch, drink my vodka, eat a pierogi, and stop wallowing in your misery. I will take you to Tsar Dmitri's emerald forests where I make my home. There is no place kinder or sweet as baby's bubbling marrow in Buyan."

Morozko's eyes widened. "I thought Dmitri was a myth. He is the famous leshy that won his woods from Saint Vladimir the Great when Russia was first formed. The one with an army of a thousand vila and an inn famed for its beauty. Its banya must be splendid..."

"Hah!" Baba Yaga laughed like a crow. "A banya that needs tending. The old bannik died. Climb up my steps, I promise the snakes do not bite."

Morozko did.

"Hut, hut, turn your back from this wintry waste and your face to Dima's realm!" Baba Yaga commanded, smacking her pestle on the porch.

The chicken-legged hut spun like a drunk duck; their surroundings blurred. Morozko steadied himself on the femur railing. When they landed, they were in a hollow tucked away into autumn woods. Ferns bordered the fence next to an herb garden raked with spines.

Baba Yaga ambled along the porch using her pestle as a cane. "Come come soap shavings! I told Dima he would have a visitor. His staff are excited to meet you – that or scared of what I may bring. They never do like my presents very much, especially the squealing children."

Morozko followed Baba Yaga – the crone moved faster than her hobbled appearance let on. She mounted her hovering mortar, churned the air with her pestle, and was off. Morozko ran to keep up.

"Hah! The wind in my hair makes me feel young again. Being chased by a pretty boy, why, it's just as in my youth!"

Morozko frowned. "I cannot imagine you were ever much to look at," he muttered between breaths.

They came to a wooden three-story inn fronted by a millpond with the most perfect banya Morozko had ever seen. He quaked at the sight of it. His smoky magic reached out and sensed the power and enchantment of the bathhouse. He measured the potency within its wall and suddenly knew how it would bend to his will. It would be his work, bread, and soul.

Tsar Dmitri and his staff waited in the meadow fronting the inn. The smile on the leshy's face was like sunlight on water:

"Welcome home, my son," Dmitri said.

"Tsar Dmitri, it is an honor," Morozko said, kneeling before the forest king.

Dmitri's blue face crinkled in a smile. The bells on his antlers chimed as he extended his hand to help Morozko up: "No use bowing, dear lad. Here we are all just keepers of the woods, wayward souls in the haven that is my forest. Here you will find lecherous vodyanoi mermen that can outdrink you by ten gallons of vodka. There are witches who will steal your heart away if you are not careful. Here, come, Liliya, help Morozko to his quarters."

Morozko found himself inside a banya that was built for him. The fire in his belly simmered to a gentle steam. He stretched on his wolfskin bed and looked up at the ceiling, which would look just so studded with trespassing human's souls. Dmitri's wolves called to salute the rising moon.

He got up and settled at a rickety desk, dipped a quill into an inkpot, and began a letter to Snegurochka:

"Mother, I am finally home. My wandering heart is now, despite all my dreams, content."

Centuries passed, but Buyan stayed the same. Morozko settled into tending the banya and thought of Dmitri as his father and the staff as his brothers and sisters. He delighted in Dmitri's annual councils with his leshy noblemen and the celebrations in the village that followed. He would chase after vila warrior women and flirtatious, dangerous rusalka on St. John's Eve, searching for fern flowers that would lead to an evening of lovemaking. Many times he sat with Dmitri in the kitchen by the woodstove on rainy evenings and read from Dmitri's collection of human literature.

Baba Yaga watched, waited, and smoked her perpetual pipe. She took Morozko under her hoary wing to become the babushka he never had.

It could have been today or tomorrow when Morozko got the letter of a present to deliver. Perhaps a package just like Ded Moroz and Snegurochka carried on the winter holidays. He had not forgotten his word, and it was in his blood to fulfill letters requesting parcel delivery.

After so many years and so many moons Morozko had lost track it had come time for Morozko to make good on his promise to Baba Yaga. She summoned him in the dead of night. He was hoping to get some cigarettes from her storage.

What he got was nothing what he expected.

Night played like a worn balalaika, strumming stars across the sky. Firs bent like widows in the wind. It was a familiar scene in Buyan, minus the human visitor.

Morozko unwrapped the so-called present, unfolding bits of tissue paper to reveal swaddling. He was surprised to see that he held an infant in his arms. "A baby?" he asked, thinking it one of babushka's pranks. "Smells tender. I bet she tastes like chicken. Is this your afternoon palate cleanser?"

"You wish! Hungry for baby soul sashimi, eh?" Baba Yaga's iron teeth flashed. "Spill a drop of her blood and I'll cook you in my pot."

"Yeah right." Morozko pulled back her swaddling and examined the child's face. "Her soul is too appetizing to be anything but a snack."

"Her name is Anya. That is all you need to know." Baba Yaga laughed. The wrinkles on her skin were like furrows in brown earth. "Take her home to your tsar courtesy of your babushka. Bathe her in the banya and ruddy her flesh with birch bark. Make her a child of the woods. When she has ripened like fruit from the love of your inn, send her to me."

Morozko looked at Baba Yaga in confusion. "What? Dima will never stand for this. The borders to Earth are all closed save your world-hopping house. It's unheard of for mortals to come to Buyan anymore."

"Pfft. Your tsar will see my way, even if I have to pluck his eyes out and wear them so he sees my point of view." She cackled like a crow as she rested on her hovering mortar.

"But babushka-"

"No buts! Go, Kolya: back to the banya with you." Baba Yaga took her pestle, ground it into the air, and flew away.

Morozko looked down at the infant.

"Well, mooncalf. Looks like you won't end up in my stomach after all."

Anya gurgled.

"You think this is a joke?" Morozko brought his face close to Anya's. "I could swallow you in one gulp. Your soul would be all mine to play with. A trinket I could use to light the banya, hung from the rafters with my other meals."

Anya reached out and touched Morozko's nose.

"Guh?"

"Get your grubby hands off me," Morozko said, clutching the infant close as snow crunched under his boots. "Forget babushka's dried up hide. That hag has gone senile."

He walked through pillars of birch. Scant clouds brought snow. Patches in cirrus allowed the moon to shine through. Morozko's fur coat sheltered him from the falling white. Snowflakes steamed as they hit his exposed skin.

As a bathhouse spirit Morozko carried the sauna with him. Anya nestled close to his skin and babbled. "Eee?"

"Yes Anya, I see your point." Morozko softened, peering into her eyes. "So where exactly did you come from? Or is that a secret too?"

Anya cried out in hunger.

Morozko thumbed her lips, and she sucked his finger. Anya nipped the soft flesh under his nail with wet gums.

"I am guessing Baba Yaga did not give you dinner," Morozko sighed, accidentally jostling the girl as he plucked his finger away. "She does not have a very good track record with children. Neither do most nechist. We either steal them as thralls, eat or drown them - sometimes both - or abduct them to be our brides. I can't imagine Dmitri would want a wood wife not yet out of diapers."

Anya cooed.

Morozko frowned. "I cannot give you milk, but I might just have something better."

He reached for a flask at his waist, unscrewed the top, and offered her nectar pressed from fern flowers that bloomed on Ivan Kupalo, or St. John's Eve, the summer festival of love, beauty, and magic. The flowers the fern flower bore were rarer than a five-leaf clover.

Anya drank.

"So that is how I get you to shut up, eh?" He rocked Anya as she nursed. "Witch's brew. There is nothing sweeter, except perhaps your soul," he teased.

Anya squirmed, burrowed into his coat. Morozko smoothed her coal-dark curls.

"Eating you would be like killing myself. You have drunk half my mixer anyways. Good thing Baba Yaga did not see me steal it from her fridge. How is that for an introduction, mooncalf? Alcoholic baby food, Mother Mokosh have mercy." Morozko adjusted his collar. He peered into the future, as banniks are wont to do, and got hints of what was to come. This ability did not often work. When it did, his visions were clear as crystal lattice icicles.

"You will call me many things: 'Bannik,' 'bastard,' 'terror.' But however cruel you think me, remember it was I that carried you through the darkness. The banya now runs through your veins. Let it cleanse you of human weakness. I will raise you in the strength of the nechist. I have taken a liking to the girl who survived Baba Yaga's hut."

She burbled. Morozko clutched her close.

"Anya, you are mine. I promise to forever protect you, especially from Baba Yaga's cauldron."

Morozko reached into his pocket and withdrew a cigarette. He spat sparks onto its end and took a contemplative drag. The moon cut a sliver in the star-pricked sky. Morozko watched as silver vila militias flew on high, heralding a storm.

"Great, it is going to blizzard," Morozko said, coming to a rickety bridge. He peered at his reflection in the moonlight and cast his cigarette into the water. His image rippled: white hair braided back, youthful faced, with a proud point to his ears like all nechist.

What was Morozko doing, carrying Baba Yaga's bundle like some errand boy? He was keeper of Tsar Dmitri's inn between realms. Sure, he was the inn's grocery boy, but this was a bit too degrading. What in thrice nine kingdoms was he doing babysitting? Morozko looked into the water, with half a mind to drop Anya in. Giving her to Dmitri would be like sealing his fate as Ded Moroz's heir. He would become a glorified present deliverer to grubby children throughout the whole Soviet Union.

The stream's surface stirred. A curtain of hair pooled below. Morozko walked away, banishing all thoughts of leaving the girl behind. "Not with that crazy fish."

"Kolya?" Elizaveta emerged from the stream. The rusalka's flesh shone fish-silver in the darkness. Her wet hair froze. "What did you bring me?"

Elizaveta, Morozko thought. Sweet girl but completely clueless. Too kind for the seductress rusalka, she had sought haven in Dmitri's kitchen years ago. Now Elizaveta was content to sing her pond weed songs while roasting fowl over a fire. She had never so much as drowned a single peasant or taken a vodyanoi merman to bed, though there were many rowdy vodyanoi that fancied the airheaded rusalka. In fact, she had probably been dented on the head at death. What else would explain her vapid kindness? She had drowned herself over a sailor like Lorelei, but that was many years ago. Now she only loved her baking and her cleaning and her ragtag nechist family.

"Kolya, you are staring at me like I am a ghost. What are you carrying?" Elizaveta repeated.

"Nothing, loon-wife." Morozko backed away. He tripped on a root and fell to the ground, rolling so that he did not hurt Anya.

Anya awoke, crying out.

Elizaveta froze. "Is that a human?" She touched her midriff. "Rusalka are barren. But now I can finally have a daughter. Oh Kolya, you should never have! Whatever will Dmitri think?"

"Morena's frost, no! This is Baba Yaga's brat. Why would I give her to you?"

Elizaveta narrowed her eyes. "Why did not babushka eat her?"

Morozko sighed, smoothing his coat. He rocked Anya. "Quiet, mooncalf." Morozko turned to Elizaveta. "The hag has gone demented, that is why. She wants us to raise Anya. As if Dmitri would have any use for a girl not yet out of diapers."

Elizaveta's eyes swirled. "Anya, eh? How mysterious."

Morozko shrugged. "She is an orphan I would guess, from anywhere. There is not a country babushka does not raid children from. From what I can tell, Baba Yaga thinks it is all a grand prank: a human raised by spirits. I cannot see Dima liking this."

"Dima can suck a mushroom. He can turn as small as one, anyhow. Leshys have such a strange magic. Oh, mooncalf, you poor little lost girl!" Elizaveta said, making to hold Anya.

Morozko backed away. "Chernobog's black heart, you have pond scum for brains swimming around in your fishy head! Mooncalf isn't her name. She is Anya, and she is mine. She will make a nice decoration. I think I will place her in a cage on my dresser. You can clean out the poop."

"But you wanted to eat her."

"I changed my mind."

"Let me just hold her!"

Morozko relented.

Elizaveta glowed, cradling Anya and tucking her deep into her swaddling. "Oh sweet child," Elizaveta crooned. "Little Annushka. You are sweet as a fish's tail, more darling than pondweed. I love you already like a new mother her dearest child."

Morozko rolled his eyes.

Elizaveta kissed Anya's cheek, but paused and wrinkled her nose.

"Her mouth smells like fern flower juice." Elizaveta glared at Morozko. "What the hell did you do? Did you give a human girl an alcoholic mixer?"

Morozko looked at a tree. He began to whistle.

"Kolya!"

"Fine. I fed her witch's brew. She was hungry!"

Elizaveta's eyes widened. "Idiot! How could you hurt such an innocent child? Have you no heart?"

"You know for a fact that I do not. I am all steam and fire." Morozko scoffed. "Pfft. Anyways. Witch's brew will strengthen her. It is a harsh world that Anya will live in. Better to drink up now rather than later when the decades have beaten weariness into her puny human bones."

"You know how that magic works! Whatever nechist feeds a human fern flower juice marks them as their own, just as lovers on Ivan Kupalo mark their union by mixing fern flower nectar. She is bound to you now through raging blizzard and bone-melt summer suns. Oh Kolya, what have you done?"

"I am only counteracting Baba Yaga's claim! The hag cannot have her all to herself. Anya belongs to us all," Morozko said, stubborn.

The howling of wolves silenced them. They shared a furtive look.

Morozko stiffened. "Curse it, it is Dima," he said. "Quick, hand her to me."

The blizzard intensified, snow like a slaver's whip. The vila were skirmishing over territory, Dmitri's battalion waging icy war against Tsar Vladimir the Bent, Dmitri's jealous brother to the North's ragtag forces. Their icy arrows and frosty spears and icicle swords brought the fury of nature down upon Buyan. Morozko tucked Anya into his coat and let steam pour from his skin, ridding her of the cold. Maybe she would look better on his desk. He could teach her to sing like a songbird and dress her up in exotic outfits like a dancing monkey perhaps. Humans could not be that hard to teach tricks.

The vila forces moved their enemies to the left, clearing the sky. But in their absence the woods stirred. A flurry of animals - foxes, caribou, bears - spiraled out from the birch. In the distance a great figure, tall as the tallest fir, moved across the land. He oversaw his flock of beasts. It was Dmitri, the leshy lord of the forest.

He sang a lilting melody, his dinner plate eyes like clover. The leshy's great antlers were rimed with frost. The leaves in his green-gold hair formed a halo in the buffeting wind. Birds nested in his beard, and his bluish skin was like water. He carried a cudgel, signifying his sovereignty over beasts.

Dmitri paused in his song, eyes zeroing in on Morozko. The wolves that thronged round Dmitri's ankles let out plaintive cries.

Their howls froze Morozko's bubbling marrow. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Dmitri's wrath.

Steeling himself, Morozko called out to his tsar: "Dima, get your head out of the clouds and come home with us. There is fresh blini with caviar waiting and medovukha if you are so inclined."

Dmitri's pupils dilated. "I need vodka to warm my sap," he grunted. With great strides he approached, shrinking all the while until he was the size of a burly man. Dmitri buried his hand in the mane of a white wolf. He spread his other arm wide in welcome. "Kolya. Liza. Kinder faces never graced Mother Mokosh's earth." His voice was like the mountains. "What tricks have you two been up to?"

Elizaveta glanced at Morozko. "Help. This is your fault!" she mouthed.

Dmitri's nostrils flared. "A human girl?" he said, cheer gone. In a bolt of lightning he was at Morozko's side. "I smell a child on you, son." The tsar lifted Morozko's coat and saw Anya hidden within the thick white furs.

Dmitri's eyes were cold emeralds. "I told you to never bring mortals to my realm again," he said. Dmitri kneaded his brow. "I know that you have a taste for humans - that banniks delight in trespassing souls - but this is inexcusable. I pardon your unappetizing habits on Earth, but this is the realm of nechist, our home. Her kind does not belong here, not any longer. The girl cannot be your plaything. Return her at once to whatever hole you fished her from."

"I would," Morozko said through gritted teeth, "except that Baba Yaga dropped her into my arms like a demented stork. She is meant as a present to you for whatever idiot reason babushka has. I swear that hag is senile!"

"What?" Dmitri breathed.

"Babushka wants us to raise her," Morozko muttered. "She would at least make a cute decoration."

Elizaveta waited with bated breath for Dmitri's decision. "I could feed her, Dima. I am sure she is so small she could survive off kitchen scraps and my milk."

"Curse that witch." Dmitri appraised Anya then sighed, weighing his cudgel in his hands.

A wolf whined, wanting to be petted. Dmitri obliged. "I guess we should keep her then, or we will invoke babushka's black magick. What Baba Yaga wants with this child I cannot imagine."

"Oh Dima," Elizaveta said, embracing Dmitri. "Do not worry. I will braid fern flowers into her hair on Ivan Kupalo and love Anya with all my gills. I will keep her out of your way. It will be like she does not exist."

"No," Dmitri said. "She is our child now. I will treat Anya as I would any child of my forests. Bring her here. I will bless her with the spirit of the woods. She will need its protection to survive."

Dmitri lifted the baby and placed a kiss on her brow.

Anya cried out at his touch. Flecks of green blossomed in her irises - the leshy's mark - and she laughed, playing with Dmitri's beard.

Dmitri smiled. "Maybe this girl will be a blessing." Dmitri handed Anya back to Morozko. "The claim you have laid on her is deep. Yes, Kolya – I can smell the fern flower nectar. The bonds of friendship and protection run through her and your blood. Do not look like a deer caught in the headlights of Perun's chariot. Witch's brew is a powerful thing, not just in alcoholic drinks."

Morozko flinched. "But?"

"No excuses," said Dmitri. "You are her guardian from now on. She sleeps in your bed tonight."

Morozko cursed. "In the banya? That is no place for a child! It is a house of spirits and witchcraft, not diapers and disasters in the form of toddlers that do not know how to use the toilet."

Anya smiled dreamily. "Muh huh guh?"

"Mooncalf!" Morozko crowed, wiping a bit of drool from her lips.

The baby giggled, then looked at Dmitri. "Hoo?"

Dmitri's face softened. "Yes my girl, he will take care of her. We all will, from now on. Morozko: you will keep her warm. As for disasters, you have a mop." Dmitri smiled at the girl in his arms. "Anya needs no swan feather ticks or silken sheets. She will be our child – a girl of the woods! My dear leshonky, a girl after my own sap-laden heart." Dmitri smoothed Anya's curls.

Morozko begrudgingly accepted Anya back from Dmitri.

The blizzard thickened as the trio made their way back to Dmitri's inn, a waystation between worlds. It served as the tsar's court and a gathering place for nechist.

The proud wooden three-story was decorated with carvings of beings from Slavic folklore: Zmei Gorynych the lethal dragon from knight's tales reared his fearsome three heads, a firebird flitted between golden apple trees in a jeweled garden, proud Prince Vladimir Bright Sun, the former ruthless ruler of Kievan Rus, oversaw noblemen and wind-wild bogatyr knights in his grand palace courtyard. Nightingale the Robber – a scoundrel whose whistling could rid a forest of birds - hid in a fir, awaiting the famous knight Ilya Muromets who had been painted by so many Russian artists. On the stoop a small, furred man frantically swept snow from the floorboards, his efforts fruitless.

"Oi, Osya. Quit sweeping away Father Frost's coat away with your dying breaths and go inside," Dmitri said. "I swear, domovois never know when to quit, even when vilas are raining hell down on the earth."

Iosif froze, spooked. "Oh, Dima, it is just you." Iosif blushed beneath his pelt. He dropped his broom in surprise then hastened to pick it up. "It is just, why, all this snow clutters the stoop so, and once it is iced over, why, someone might trip and break an ankle. Welcome home. Liliya has dinner waiting. She just returned from her battle victorious as always"

Iosif's beady eyes caught sight of Anya, clutched close to Morozko's chest for warmth. "Oh?" Iosif breathed. "Oh sweet Mokosh, such a beautiful child. I - I feel faint. A girl? A mistress for my humble home? Never in thrice nine kingdoms did I dream I would serve a human again. Not since nechist stopped walking the earth centuries ago. But why, my tsar, this is not typical of you at – well, at all!"

Dmitri shrugged. His wolves dispersed. "Baba Yaga demands it. As you well know, babushka works in mysterious ways. We must raise her as our own. She will be my daughter, a leshonky. She is pretty enough to be a forest maiden – look at those eyes like leaves against a cloudless summer sky. I know our Anya will be a strong sapling, sure to bear the most beautiful, fragrant blossoms. Just perfect for halcyon roosts. Is not that right, my little firebird? You are pretty enough to enchant princes and charming enough to grant wishes like a genie."

Anya cooed.

The domovoi put a hand over his heart: "Yes," Iosif breathed. "Yes in a thousand ways. I have not had a mistress in centuries. I long for a child to leave me milk and biscuits. That was my daily bread for centuries – children's treats left in a nook by the stairs, wives' worries combed out in curled hair as my mistresses slept. I will care for her with all my soul: I swear it, my tsar."

"Then you are in luck," Morozko said, shoving Anya at Iosif. "She sleeps with Osya tonight. I absolutely will not have her pissing herself. I need my beauty sleep. Youthful looks do not come easily to me, being half bannik and all. I can feel the fine lines forming on my face already. Maybe I will steal Liliya's wrinkle cream-"

"Kolya, enough!" Dmitri said. "You claimed Anya, now treat her as your own."

"It was an impulse! I mean, sure, she would look good next to my mirror, sort of cute like a chubby china doll. But eventually I will have to feed her, and is keeping a human in a cage really all that easy? What if she outgrows it? Do humans mpt grow? How big exactly do human girls get, anyways?"

"Oh Kolya, you are through and through idiot. She will grow like any rusalka or vila does until she reaches maidenhood, at which point she will stop growing, sprout fangs, and become immortal. I think." Elizaveta's cheeks flamed a fishy green. "Whatever happens, you did feed her witch's brew. That means she is automatically yours," Elizaveta pointed out. The rusalka giggled. "What were you thinking?"

"He was not, as usual." Dmitri chuckled. "Give her back, Osya. You will have time enough to coddle our darling Anya. You can tell by her wood-dark hair that she will be wise like her father. Baba Yaga chose our little orphan well. I feel like she is a cutting from me already."

Iosif handed Anya back reluctantly. "Sweet Annushka, my raskovnik," Iosif said, referring to the four-leafed Slavic herbs that opened portals to heaven, hell, and the hereafter, "you've unlocked the door to my heart."

"A raskovnik? Why do you and Dima keep comparing her to a plant!" Morozko took the girl, rocking her in his arms. "Soil yourself and I feed you to Dima's wolves, mooncalf. You are sure to be juicy and fat. Now let me go find a cage in the chicken coup that is just your size..."

Anya gazed up at him with eyes flecked leshy-clover. "Uew gew gah. Muh ugh guh. Kee?" She burped, surprising herself, with breath that smelled like fern flower juice.

Dmitri winced.

Anya giggled, then burped again. "Hoo?"

Morozko sighed. "Veles' snakeskin boots, she is drunk and does not even have any will of her own. All she does is babble and coo. How can I teach her tricks if she cannot even say my name? I am giving her back to Baba Yaga. Humans are useless – she cannot dance like a monkey, sing like a parrot, or fetch a stick like a dog! Humans have needs – the need to be taken care of! This Anya is worthless."

"Kolya. Are you on a bender again? That is no way to talk to a child!" Elizaveta said. She looked imploringly at Dmitri, her wide fish eyes like moons. "Surely there is a better guardian for her. Like – um, like me! Or Liliya even. I will keep Anya in the kitchen and let her wash dishes. Babies can wash dishes, can they not? What if she licks them, or, or takes a bath in the suds? Her skin is so soft and spotless, I bet it has cleansing powers like Baba Yaga's ivory combs."

Dmitri yawned. "Argue all you want, but Kolya staked his claim first. All your watery milk or kitchen scraps will not deny him that. I am going to go sleep and read Evenings on a Farm Near Dinkaka. I suggest you do too: choose something lighthearted by Gogol from the inn's library and doze off. We will sort things out over breakfast, when I come to terms with the fact that I have suddenly become a father to a human."

With that, Dmitri went inside. There was a resolute shut of the door.

Elizaveta looked at Morozko with wet eyes. She was crying like a faucet, something the emotional rusalka tended to do. "Cherish Anya. Mokosh knows you need softness. Maybe she will blunt your rough edges. I do hope so!"

Morozko bit his lip. He rocked Anya with vengeance. "If she cannot dance, I will find some other use for her. A coat hanger maybe, her head is shaped just right-"

"Ugh! You are awful!" Elizaveta stomped over to the mill pond fronting the house. Her silvery form dissolved into water with an angry resounding splash.

Iosif looked with longing at Anya, clutching his broom. "Were that I had found her. She would be all mine. My own sweet mistress to dote on. You are lucky Kolya, just like a winter bloom raskovnik."

"Stop talking about mythical plants! One man's luck is another man's curse."

"Oh, but I do not think so." Iosif blended into the woodwork and was gone.

"Once again, I am alone with a baby... I delivered the present to myself. I completely failed at being dedushka's heir. He and mother give presents away, not claim them on accident!" Morozko sighed, looking up at the stars, then down at his newest acquisition. "What are you grinning at?" Morozko said, smoothing Anya's hair.

She cooed. "Koya?"

It almost sounded like the diminutive of his name. Strange. So fragile. A little defenseless thing. Whatever would Morozko do with this girl named Anya? Anastasia? He could not tell.

Perhaps Elizaveta is right, Morozko thought, and I will soften. Would that be so bad? He pondered this as he went to the banya behind the inn. Morozko's room was between the walls. It was a small humble thing, with a bed covered in wolfskin and a stove. He spat sparks onto the stove's wood and soon the room flooded with warmth.

Morozko stripped and donned his nightshirt, settling into the blankets with Anya. He eyed his dresser, imagining her in a cage, and shook his head. "I took that joke too far and upset Liza. Little tiny Anya, what will I do with you? You are just a human. You do not belong in Buyan, not in this day and age." He rocked her to sleep, singing a lullaby he had once heard long ago in a cradle of ice.

The remnant ragtag forces of the enemy vila fell in white streaks, shedding silver blood onto the snow. Their cries were like sirens' voices. Battle over, the blizzard cleared.

The moon struck like a hammer in the night. Morozko's song drifted far away, over Tsar Dmitri's mountains. It sailed across glacial seas, past thrice nine kingdoms and further, to the great icy keep of the watcher in the night. His old bones shivered as he heard the familiar tune.

"What is this?" asked Kashchei quietly. He looked out his tower window at the unforgiving stars who had witnessed so many of his deaths and shed not a single burning tear between them. Kashchei, who made a habit of collecting fair maidens and keeping them under lock and key in his palace of glass, craved. He wondered if at the end of his days his girls or the Zoryas would mourn for him. Something in the song spoke of his finale, just like his fiddle's supple croon that he was so fond of. He imagined his dancing captive princesses waltzing just for him.

The lullaby drifted under the Milky Way, ferried by Kashchei's longing. Kashchei wanted all that the song touched. He wanted to understand, like a word on the tongue one cannot quite remember. He followed the ribbons of notes to the small room in the banya lit by souls where Morozko was singing.

"A girl?" Kashchei snarled in surprise.

Anya looked at him while Morozko sang. She pointed a chubby finger. "Ooo?"

Morozko caught Anya's hand and laughed. "Hah. What is it, the ghost of Queen Maria Morevna? That is just a legend, just like Ivan Tsarevich or... or Kashchei the Deathless. Only I suppose he is not so much a legend and more a scoundrel. Whoever has frightened you, I promise to keep you safe. You make the sweetest sounds, mooncalf."

His name. The bannik, familiar, had mentioned his name.

Kashchei felt naked before the child and hastened back to his kingdom.

A worm of want bored into his heart: this singular worm different from the maggots and grubs already feasting on his rotting blackness.

This hungry worm had a name: Anastasia.

Kashchei the Deathless coveted Anya.

And that is never good for a girl.

"There's nothing mystic in this magic,"

Baba Yaga said, "nothing so strange

as you would make it out to be."

"This world is wide and wild

and full of wonders, and in your

yearning to see fireworks,

you overlook the glory

in a dandelion, the spectacle

trapped inside a butterfly."

"There's nothing modern in this story,"

Baba Yaga said, "nothing ancient,

nothing old or new or anything except

eternal — we are the wind, the waves,

the water whispering stories

to the dolphins and the dreaming whales."

"We are everything. We are anything.

Remember that, my Vassilisa, and

I will set you free."

"There's nothing gained if nothing's ventured,"

Baba Yaga said, and gave me back my heart,

and opened wide the door,

and let me go.

-"Baba Yaga Said" by Seanan McGuire

The nechist family sat round the kitchen table next morning. A bright storm-born dawn painted frosting on the snow outside the large bay window.

Iosif gazed into his bowl of salted kasha, stirring it with a furred hand. He looked into the cereal as if divining portents from entrails. Witches used organs to tell the future, domovois used cereal. Beside him Dmitri read a newspaper, chuckling occasionally. Elizaveta rocked Anya, singing a song about drowned kisses and sailors lost in Siberian fjords.

"Do not coddle her, Liza," Morozko said. "She was the devil last night, keeping me up with her wailing. I had to change her not once but twice." He indicated the improvised cloth diaper torn from Morozko's shirts that Anya wore beneath her blankets.

Elizaveta's fish-snout flared. She smoothed her sarafan. "Anya is an angel, and you are too stupid to realize it. She is the best thing that has ever happened to you, except perhaps Dima and us taking your down-on-your-luck princehood in."

Iosif looked up from his newly disturbed kasha. He had been scrying, a gift certain nechist like banniks and domovois had. Nechist had many magicks, some of the forest, some of the flame, and some so strange they could tell the future from cereal. "I heard you sing to her late last night Kolya from my perch on the stairs," Iosif said. "Such a lovely song. Anya will come to cherish you above all of us. I have seen it in my bowl."

Morozko grimaced. "Old age has given you cataracts. Do not trust kasha to tell you the truth. You once said Dima would marry a vila, and the only vila in our inn's service is as megalomaniacal and anal retentive as Stalin."

Morozko reached for a piece of rye bread, butter, and sliced sausage – a simple Russian breakfast, but hearty nonetheless. He piled them onto his plate.

Dmitri glanced up from his paper, his antlers hung with pine cones. Leshys were famously bad at accessorizing. "A domovoi never lies. You would be wise to heed Osya's words."

"Osya can dance with Morena," Morozko said, referring to the Slavic goddess of winter and death. He glanced at Anya. "I need a human's affection like I need a sword in the side. Like I said, she is my decoration, nothing more. Cute, but a useless trinket. She cannot dance, can she?"

"We both need a human's love. That is what house spirits were made for," Iosif said softly, his beady eyes downcast. "For Dima and Liza it is different. They are not tied to humans like a bannik or domovoi are. Do you not long for a bather to leave you fir branches and soap clippings in the sauna like they used to before peasants gave way to comrades?"

Morozko steepled his fingers under his chin. "Yes, I suppose so.... I have not served a wandering human in so long though. It feels unnatural now. I usually flay humans, not attend to them. Humans ceased walking in Buyan long ago, and my banya is hung with trespasser's souls. Thieves, murderers, and rapists who tried to take advantage of my bathers once long ago, before the mythic left the material. What kind of place is that to raise a young child in?"

Elizaveta unlaced the neck of her sarafan and set to nursing Anya. The rusalka's milk came watery but sweet. Anya latched on with rosy lips. "It is better than many. At least Anya will know she is protected by a fearsome guardian. You are strong, Morozko. You can protect her like you did the bathers of old."

Dmitri sipped his coffee. "Children do not get to choose their circumstances. It is however up to them to make the best of their surroundings. And Anya is doing swimmingly."

Anya looked up from Elizaveta's silver scale breast and cooed.

Morozko scrunched his nose. "Her pea brain cannot tell that she is surrounded by monsters." He stretched. "Chernobog's black heart, where is the tea? Is Lilyka our grand old general dead? Huzzah! Has the stick up her ass finally punctured her brain?"

There was the sound of bells and rain. The scent of petrichor and ozone. "No. I was serving guests instead of complaining constantly like you, idiot bannik."

In stepped a vila. She carried a steaming brass samovar that smelled of delicious black tea. Hair the color of rain fell to her ankles. Her skin was translucent as mist, and one could see through her vaguely, like a crowded snow globe, or frosted glass.

Liliya's eyes settled on Morozko. "I spent all night defending us and then made breakfast. All you had to do was babysit a child, yet you buzz on like a fly in distress. You were stupid enough to claim her. You cannot go back on a bond as sacred as shared fern flower juice. You know what their bloom symbolizes: eternal union." Liliya slammed the samovar down in front of Morozko. "You may think of it just as alcohol, but it means much more than just an exotic way to get drunk!"

"Whatever Lilyka. Your defense created a blizzard, oh illustrious general. It got in everyone's way, enough so that you almost buried the baby in snow. You are losing your touch, I think!"

Morozko poured tea with a smirk on his face. The vila and he often clashed, each strong personalities – one of rain and one of fire, not likely to mix agreeably.

Liliya settled across from him with her breakfast. She made a point to steal a piece of bread from Morozko's plate. He sighed but did not bother to protest as she took an angry bite. "The battle I won last night was strategic. Who cares about a silly blizzard?" Liliya shrugged. "We secured peace for months to come against Tsar Vladimir the Bent. He waved his patched white flag, as he has a dozen times before, and it is off to his horrible kingdom until he gets the itch to invade again. How he is Dima's brother, I will never understand. There isn't a generous woody bone in his hunched oak gall body."

"My brother Vlad never did play well with me." Dmitri smiled. "I have not had a better general since my antlers were nubs, Liliya. Your service and leadership is invaluable. Kolya, you would do well to learn from her."

Morozko choked on his tea.

"It is my pleasure." Liliya shot a glance at Morozko. "What were you doing, gossiping with Baba Yaga? Did your taste for human souls overwhelm you? Were you going to get piss drunk and hit on that vampir at the edge of the woods again? You know she cannot stand you. No woman can. Also, you do not have a very good record with vampirs, if I remember correctly."

Morozko cleared his throat. "No! All I wanted were some stupid cigarettes, but I got a goddamned baby instead. What the?-" he stopped short, looking down to see that Anya, having been placed on the floor, had crawled over to pull at Morozko's pants. She looked up at him with large questioning eyes.

"Guh?" A bit of drool clung to her lip. "Keeya!"

Anya began chewing on Morozko's sock, wetting it with saliva. He was disgusted.

"Mooncalf." Morozko picked her up, prying her hands loose of his pants. Anya laughed, grabbing his hair. Morozko cursed.

"Well do you not have a way with children? Just like your grandfather Ded Moroz. What are you going to do, leave her to freeze in the forest?" Liliya said.

Anya looked at Morozko with a curious face, nose twitching. "Koya?"

Morozko's eyes widened. "Did pea brain just say my name?"

Dmitri slammed his newspaper shut. "Sweet Mother Mokosh, I cannot believe it. I suppose it is because she has been thrice-blessed. Witch's brew, a rusalka's milk, a leshy's kiss. There is no telling what she will do. She probably knows your name thanks to your ill-laid claim."

"Koya Keeya Koo!" Anya burbled, tugging at his hair. She bounced in his arms, excited.

"Tell me, who am I, little water lily?" Elizaveta crooned.

Anya pointed a plump finger at Elizaveta. "Liya! Loo?" She laughed.

Dmitri whistled. "Color me impressed."

"If she was such a quick learner, she would not soil herself like one of Baba Yaga's feed pig. She would be singing like a parrot already. Anya would actually liven up my cramped room. Not stink it up with crap." Morozko said. The enthusiasm behind his usual bitterness was gone.

Anya continued, pointing at the leshy. "Da?"

Dmitri paled beneath his bluish skin. "Did she just call me father?"

"Da da doo da."

"Sweet Mokosh, I need a drink," Dmitri said. He rubbed his temple. "I have never had a child before. Sure, I have imagined what it would be like, but... but... oh, just look at her. She is irresistible. I have never stolen a human like Vladimir does his wood wives but now I know why. They are too precious to bear!"

"We have no mortal mistress," Iosif said, his voice hallowed. "She is a witch, an enchantress, a Circe or Medea, but encapsulated in a miniature form."

"I doubt she is a witch, just precocious," Morozko snorted, smoothing Anya's damp bark curls.

"Ozya!" Anya cried. She continued to babble, toying with Morozko's hair. She chewed on a lock, talking to herself. "Keeya!"

"Well that was a hard string of letters..." Liliya stopped mid-bite into her kasha. "Chernobog's rot, the kid is smart even though she is the size of a dumpling. We will have to enroll her in university soon: Dumpling University!"

"Dumplings aside, where did Baba Yaga find her is what I would like to know," Dmitri murmured. He picked up his newspaper again and buried his nose and antlers in it.

There was a cackling beyond the lead glass window as if on cue. The smell of rich blood and old bones. The eldritch stink of ancient magick. "America, you nechist!" Crows croaked and flew past the pane.

The nechist looked to find Baba Yaga's face pressed against the window, her breath steaming the pane. In the steam swirled snakes and beetles. "I come with gifts for my witch-daughter, whom you have so diligently protected. I am proud of you, leshy – it is about time you stopped reading your silly books and raised an heir. Your brother Vladimir the Bent has a harem of wood wives to force himself upon and sire leafy children, yet all you have are musty Pushkin and Tolstoy. I wonder what you do late at night, wifeless, with only the page! I did not think Russian classics that racy."

Dmitri winced, his blue skin turning a blueberry shade. "That was low, even for babushka," he muttered.

Baba Yaga flew her mortar to the front and entered like a hyena with feral majesty. Clutched against her back was a burlap sack, the top opened to expose cloth diapers. She looked like a demented, decrepit Snegurochka on her way to a Black Mass, not a New Year's celebration.

The nechist looked on in surprise.

"America?" Dmitri echoed. He scratched his antler nub. "That is a far away country and not a friend of the Soviet Union."

Baba Yaga chuckled. "Yes, you lot of carbuncles. I found her mewling in a park when I was raiding the capital for children, somewhere between Pennsylvania Avenue and Independence Street. Don't be so surprised that I went to the land of liberty. Americans taste like barbecues and long, indulgent summers. The progeny of Washingtonians have a bit of desperation too, which quickens the stew. They add such sweet spice to my winter stews. I was about to devour her when, out of nowhere, she cried out "Yaga, Yaga!" Then she kissed my finger, just so, like a familiar nuzzling her witch-mother. I stopped immediately, recognizing in her the witch-blood." Baba Yaga sniffed the air. "She smells of Russian bone, sweat, and spit. Like coven. Like kin."

Baba Yaga plopped the burlap bag onto the floor. Out spilled baby toiletries, bars of soap, and traditional Russian toys. There were china dolls in sarafans, painted wooden eggs, clay animals, matroyshka, a rattle painted with a firebird. And, at the very bottom, there was a silver mirror embossed with the Alkonost, the mythical Slavic siren who promised sanctuary, paradise. The Alkonost's song stopped tsars in their tracks and made them forget their tsarinas, wanting nothing else but the bird maiden forevermore.

Anya fixated on the Alkonost mirror. Morozko set her down, curious as to what powers such an object had. He could smell some kind of magic on it, an old dark musty spell.

Anya, like a firefly to a flame, darted for the toy, plopped herself down, and looked into it.

Morozko peered at it too. Its surface was smooth as water, reflecting Anya's chubby face. He picked it up.

Instead of his visage in the mercury, he saw Anya giggling. Morozko traced the gold filigree on the edge, his lips forming an O of surprise.

"It is enchanted?" Morozko turned the mirror in his hands. "I would expect no less from you, babushka. Even your mirrors have devious uses."

"Of course," Baba Yaga clucked. "This is so your wayward family can watch over Anya when she is off wandering like witches do. I have a personal investment in her, so make sure you keep her safe, leshy who calls himself tsar. And you especially – wayward prince after my own heart." Baba Yaga took Anya into her wizened arms. "Oh, little bird, what I have in store for you! You would never guess if my hounds were at your throat and you needed the answer to survive."

Anya's surrogate father winced at the metaphor. "Can we ask what exactly you have planned for my new child?" Dmitri glanced over his coffee cup, his green gaze hardening like malachite.

Baba Yaga cackled. "Inquiring noses inevitably get chopped off, bookish leshy who calls himself tsar. What I plan for Anya is neither here nor there – it is somewhere in between, just like Buyan. All you need to do is raise her well and keep your babushka happy!"

"But what will we teach her?" asked Liliya, stirring her kasha. "We did not exactly go to college. Maybe Dumpling University is a good idea after all..."

Baba Yaga snorted. "As if I would leave a girl's education up to talking streams and saunas. She will go to school where I found her, with me posing as her legal guardian. Do not look at me like that, Dima. I can shimmy my chest and don a woman's skin like any witch worth her salt. Humans will not be able to tell the difference between Baba Yaga and her real babushka!"

"This seems like a world of pain for one girl," Morozko opined. Anya was chewing on his pant leg again, but this time he did not stop her.

"It is always about one girl." Baba Yaga smiled, fire kindling in her wood-dark eyes. "One girl Ivan Tsarevich chases after. One princess Kashchei carries away. One Vasilissa that braves my hut. One ballerina that dances the Firebird. The world moves for singular girls more often than you know."

"The world stops just as often for fools." Morozko placed the Alkonost mirror before Anya. He gently pried her mouthy appetite from his pants. "She is too small, too fragile. Too easily broken. Anyways, how can a girl raised by nechist be anything but a joke?"

"Jokes and riddles have potent power - a deep magic all their own. So what if Anya is our jester? At least she is good for a laugh." Baba Yaga's rheumy eyes locked on Morozko's. "She will bring you laughter, and much more pain. You were an idiot to claim her as usual, little lost prince."

Morozko was pinned under the hag's gaze. His breath came fitfully as his vision hazed. Old magic from his father's side gripped him. A bannik's foresight, but instead of cereal, it was Baba Yaga's words that brought the vision on. He had rarely seen things of the future since he was a young boy playing with flames, staring into the heart of the fire. This revelation took Morozko by surprise:

He saw crimson on snow. A girl with hair like wet wood and a body like a birch, throwing knives, dancing the khorovod, twirling in a skirt of embers. Flames like a firebird. A long, sharp needle. Golden eggs. A tree more man than wood, and a woman more wood than man.

Finally, the face of his lover, better left for dead, crumbling in his hands into dust.

Morozko inhaled sharply, gaze clearing. "Shit."

His nechist family looked at him in confusion, but Baba Yaga? She just laughed. Few spirits knew more of the future's song than she who whistled it over a loom of dried tendons and bones, spinning secrets and legends.

"Kolya, are you alright? Whatever did you see?" Dmitri asked, his voice an anchoring force. It pulled Morozko back to the present. "You look like you've seen the ghost of Kashchei's lost girls."

"I saw flames. A temptress. Blood," Morozko breathed. He looked at Anya in fear, shaking. "Take her back, babushka. Please! She will bring suffering our adoptive family and soon to all of Buyan. A witchling does not belong in Tsar Dmitri the Bountiful's kingdom. She was born under an ill-omened moon, under witch stars, in a curse."

Baba Yaga smiled all wolf-woman, flashing serrated iron teeth. "I do everything for a reason, Snegurochka's bastard. You fear your heart spilling out like pine nuts into your hands. You frighten at the thought that you will quake like fir trees in the winter wind all but for a child. That you could become nothing but steam in her arms. Stripped of your skin and mind. Temptress indeed, you say? The only temptation she will bring is the challenge for you to grow into your much-delayed adulthood."

Morozko's stomach fell to the ground. "I cannot be responsible for this – for what I saw. I took her in, not knowing what I was looking for. I still do not know what I left Ded Moroz's kingdom for, but whatever it was, it was never for this. Destruction at the hands of a girl!"

Baba Yaga laughed. "You will find in dear Annushka what you seek: all of you. Comfort. Love. A joke. But you, Kolya - in her you will find your humility. Perhaps that is what frightens you so much."

"Changing cloth diapers will humble me?" Morozko echoed, queasy. "No, there is more that you are not telling us, but it is not like you would ever give me a straight answer, babushka. You are as crooked as a chess piece bent out of shape by a leshy that lost his forest on a bet."

Baba Yaga clicked her lips. "Right you are, soap shavings. Stop worrying so much and relax. Me? I would never plant a curse in your inn. Tscha! Come bother me in a handful of years when our dear Anya has grown."

Baba Yaga bent over to run her hands through Anya's hair.

Anya burbled. "Yaya?"

"Yes, little bird. Your babushka has spoiled you rotten." Baba Yaga stroked her chin-hairs and glanced at the nechist. "Keep my witch-daughter safe. Especially you two, Dima and Kolya. You will come to treasure her more than your majestic woods or your humble banya. That I can guarantee."

Baba Yaga strode through the back door, mounted her mortar, and churned her pestle away. She left a murder of ravens and the stench of drying blood in her wake. Her quivering skirts shook snow.

The nechist looked to each other.

"Is it wise to keep her under our roof after the calamity Kolya saw?" Liliya said, clutching the sword she kept perpetually at her side.

Dmitri rubbed his antlers, which were shedding their velvet in bits and close to falling off at the season's turn. "She has been with us yet a night and morning, but already this little wood child has a place in my heart. Divination is always faulty. In her Osya sees beauty, a blessing. Yet Kolya has seen danger, a curse. I would guess the truth is somewhere in between. Just like a good story read by the hearth – always keeping you guessing."

Elizaveta dabbed her eyes with an already wet handkerchief. "I do not care if she is cursed. I love her."

Morozko looked at the sun that was beginning to rise: "I will admit it, the mooncalf grows on you. Even if you are more used to stripping human trespassers of skin than guarding small defenseless babies. I suppose we shall wait and see what happens with Baba Yaga's little witchling..."

If there was a curse upon Anya, it seemed to work in reverse. The more she grew, the more her adoptive family fell in love with the preternatural child. Elizaveta carried her in a sling on her back, twirling around with a mop as she sung lullabies to the child who burbled along like a songbird. Liliya had to be dissuaded by Dmitri from beginning training the small girl on bow and arrow. She could not yet walk, just play with blocks and crawl around the inn like a missile headed straight for disaster. Iosif was never not slipping Anya freshly pared fruit slices or spoonful's of apple sauce. And Morozko? He played and played with her, tucking her in each night as he sang a glimmering winter lullaby.

Frost's kiss on the ground melted. Dmitri began taking Anya on his sojourns through the woods as the weather warmed. Seasons turned as Mother Mokosh woke from her winter hibernation at the base of the Tree of Life. Dmitri tucked his little surrogate wood child against his chest like a cross. The wolves tried to nip her chubby heels. They would have eaten her if not for Dmitri's protection and several story-tall height.

"Da da? Kree!" she cooed one day when they were in the thick of the wilderness. They were in a grove where sweet flowers and fruits grew round the year despite summer's warmth or winter's barren winds. It was a space sacred to the old gods, where rare beasts made their roosts.

Anya was pointing at a firebird. It nested in a golden apple tree, preening its brilliant fiery peacock wings.

"Yes, my love. It is zhar ptica, the firebird. She brings good fortune to all who see her. Unless of course, you are a fool of a prince that wishes for more than he can handle! Then, my dear, you will find yourself in for a world of pain."

Grinning as only a leshy can, with a smile like sunlight on water, Dmitri coaxed the firebird from her nest. The bird cried out, rustled her tail, flitted into his hand and then off into the forest. A single feather fell into Dmitri's palm. The firebird fled with a song like chapel bells. She left a trail of sparks that traced loop-de-loops in the encroaching gloaming.

Anya reached for the feather. Dmitri gave it to her, warmed by his daughter's joy.

"Ooo," she said again, clutching it with tiny hands. She did not let it go until Morozko pried it from her stubborn fingers in return for several Cheerios.

The feather glowed late into the night in the room between the banya walls. Anya sat at a high chair, refusing her mushed peas as usual.

She banged her tiny fists onto her high chair's wooden table, smushing the peas in the process. "No! No! No!" Her green hands were covered in vegetable goop.

Morozko groaned. "Morsel, if you do not eat this green crap, so help me, I will flay you ten ways til morning. Just like I do those who harm the peace of the banya, which you are most certainly doing.

Anya's lips quivered. Tears spilled from her eyes. "Koya?" she whined, crying.

Morozko cursed himself. "Damnit, I upset the little vegetable destroyer. Shh, shh it is alright, Annushka." He lifted her up out of the chair and into his arms. She squirmed in his grasp, mashing the remnants of the peas on his face. "Mooncalf, I would never dream of hurting you. No matter how hungry I was. Here." He handed her the firebird feather. "Your favorite toy, I suppose."

She giggled, sorrow forgotten as she took the glowing plumage into her dollish hands. Morozko rocked her on his knee as she played with the feather.

"Mother Mokosh help me, I will have to feed you that dry cereal crap you just love, just like I always do, will I not? Getting you to eat peas is a battle I just cannot win."

Morozko sighed, placing her on his bed and reaching under it to withdraw a box of Cheerios. He reached into the cabinet beside his bed and found a bowl. Pouring the cereal in, he set it before Anya and began feeding them to her one by one. She pecked at the Cheerios like a bird, her grin wide, then began to pick them up with stubby fingers and bring them to her mouth.

"You sure are ravenous, little witch. You take after me in that regard. Except my appetite is more for alcohol, and yours is for subpar cereal that tastes like soggy cardboard and wood shavings."

"Ooo goo?"

"Right. Ooo goo indeed. Whatever the hell that means."

"Keeya! Koya? Kree!" She waved the firebird feather aloft, so enthusiastic that she almost dropped it.

Morozko steadied her hand. "Be careful not to light the bed on fire with your excitement, silly mooncalf."

"Muh huh. Keeya?"

Anya crawled to Morozko and fell asleep almost instantly in his lap, the beloved firebird feather still safe in her grasp.

Morozko touched the girl as if she were shards of glass. "Oh Annushka, what will become of a girl as trusting as you in a realm where your kind is flapjacked into blini for Baba Yaga's breakfast? How will you become my ruin? You could not hurt a mayfly, for you are one. A slave to time, an ending so close to your beginning. Will you even remember me, I wonder, in your next life?"

Anya sighed and sucked her thumb.

Morozko stroked her hair. "Do you know what you are at all? And when you realize it, Anya, will it be too late for all of us?"

The next morning, with dark bags under his eyes, Morozko sat round the table of spirits while Iosif doted on Anya. Liliya applied mascara with an embossed compact mirror, darkening her silver lashes. Elizaveta hummed to herself, sewing a dress for Anya. Her sharp silver needle reminded Morozko of something, but of what – well, he was not quit sure.

"Annushka, you will be beautiful in this little red sarafan. My miniature firebird," Elizaveta said. She looked at the girl. Iosif was on his brown, furred back, holding Anya high as if she were a plane, moving her to and fro. "Osya. Whatever are you doing? Make sure not to drop my breakable daughter!"

"Why, I am teaching her to fly, just like her favorite bird," Iosif said, bashful. He made the sounds of a firebird. All chiming whistles and bells tolling like Eastern Orthodox monks being called to prayer.

Anya laughed, wiggling her arms. "Scree kree!"

Dmitri surveyed the room, his nose still buried in another one of his tattered books. He noticed Morozko's listless stare. "Oi, my son. What kept you up last night? You look exhausted, not like your usual stubborn self."

Morozko stared at the floor, scuffing his feet on the worn whorled wood. "Nothing," he murmured. He sipped his black tea quietly.

Liliya scrutinized Morozko. Her translucent form shifted like mist, lit by shafts of light from the window only to burst into opaline colors. "Afraid you will break the baby?"

"No. I just - what if I crush her in my sleep? What if Anya gets sick from some exotic disease or something as simple as the flu and even Baba Yaga's witchery cannot heal her? She will not eat her food half the time, especially peas. She just smears them on the table and my face! It is like she does not trust me. What if she grows up and- and-"

"And what? Has no need for you?" Liliya laughed. "Please. She has not even taken her first steps. She cannot run away from you yet, soap shavings."

"Shut up. Only babushka calls me that,'" Morozko grumbled. "Do not call a bannik anything to do with soap. It is demeaning. Remember, I am Artic royalty, illustrious general of sticks up the ass."

Liliya fluoresced silver with laughter. She tucked her blue robe close round her shoulders. "What can I say? The nickname has caught on. And if I have a stick up my ass, you have Perun's hammer up yours."

Iosif set Anya down. "Please, you two, you are speaking foul words in front of an innocent child!"

The almost-toddler crawled towards Morozko and plopped herself down at his feet, tugging at his boots. "Yum yum?" she asked, her most recent word for food.

"See, look at that!" Liliya snorted. "She is joined at the hip to you, Kolya. Annushka will not even eat if you do not feed her directly." Liliya closed her compact mirror, finished with beautifying her already ethereal vila form.

Liliya went to the kitchen and came back with fresh apple sauce crushed and sweetened with sugar from the golden apples of the firebird's roost. Morozko lifted Anya into his lap and set to feeding her. One spoonful at a time until her small stomach puffed out under her dress like a round pastry.

Anya beamed. Her small hand enfolded his thumb, toying with the silver ring at its base. A silver ring that flashed like a vampir's fang so Morozko thought. He flinched.

Apple sauce dribbled down Anya's open-mouth grin. "Keeya!"

"Oh, mooncalf," Morozko said. He dabbed at the dripping sauce with his napkin. "Keep your mouth open that wide and your soul will slip out. It has happened to many a human. Their soul slips out and they become shades in the deathless lands, forever cursed to wander. To hunger, and never ever find succor. Keep your little lips shut, Anya. Make sure your soul stays safe."

Dmitri chuckled, the ivy on his antlers bristling with green shoots. "For once you want a soul to stay put and have no desire to hang it from your rafters, my son," Dmitri observed. "It seems you have had a change of heart for once. You have even been avoiding bars as of late. I cannot remember your last bender. Not even your last frolic with a vila or that rusalka with the bad teeth but rather... well, busty assets. Ahem..."

"Yum!" Anya approved. Morozko spooned apple sauce into her rosy mouth.

"I have all the souls I need," Morozko said, distant. "My banya could not be lighter if I set it aflame. As for the girls and the booze, that would not be a good example for Annushka. I feel like this girl is judging me with her raskovnik eyes, unlocking my every sin. I see why you and Osya compare her to plants so much," Morozko referred to the rare greens that were the keys to the spiritual world.

The day wore on. The inn bustled with guests of all colors, with tails from different tales. Lecherous mermen vodyanoi soaked in tubs by the hearth, drinking vodka and courting rusalka – especially flustered Elizaveta, who stumbled over her wet hair and tripped over her words - as the lusty mermen were wont to do. The inn's rarely seen nameless kikimora, the ill-luck companion house elf to the resident domovoi, spun on a loom. Vampir dined on fresh blood. Long-traveling witches exchanged tales of daring-do and drank toad tea. A lone wizard with a crooked hat played chess with a minor imp of Hell, betting over a rare map and shining jewels.

Between them Elizaveta scurried, perpetually wet hair piled atop her head as she served dish after dish of steaming shchi cabbage soup and the choicest cuts of fowl, with freshly smoked meats and mulled wine from the cellars. Liliya was busy in the kitchen after training her sister troops in their daily martial exercises, preparing meals. Iosif tidied the rooms, tending to laundry and beds. Anya was out with Dmitri on one of his wanderings.

Morozko, on break from attending banya guests, peeped into the refrigerator - for even spirits have electricity - searching for kvass, his favorite type of fermented Russian rye bread drink. He discovered they were out of baby food. Morozko admitted he needed to make a shopping trip to Earth. This required going to Baba Yaga's hut, the watchtower between the human world and Buyan, ever spinning on its chicken leg axis in a liminal wayward dance. It moved a bit like the celestial polka, but even more dangerous with Russia's hag in the lead.

Morozko set out into the woods down an overgrown path past the stream. The land steamed where his feet met it. Sometimes he would take a leap like an elk and leave two large indentations like a Soviet missile crash. At this he laughed and skipped. He was, after all, still more boy than man, and found delight in small things.

Eventually he came to a hut on chicken legs, several stories tall, rimmed with bones and majestic as a merchant's house. It took him back to the first time he had seen Baba Yaga's unnerving house at his long-abandoned camp by the Volga River, during his wandering days.

"Hut, hut, turn your back to the forest and your face towards me," Morozko called with confidence.

Baba Yaga's hut turned to face him, creaking and wobbling as it moved. The hag came to the door, dressed in a pink bathrobe and fluffy slippers with cats on them. She yawned and chewed her gums.

"Soap shavings. Why did you disturb my afternoon nap?" Baba Yaga peered at him from beneath a sleeping mask. She had on eye cream, which almost made Morozko laugh. He stopped because her scowl could smite a dinosaur, much less him.

Morozko shifted, tucking his hands in his pockets. "Anya needs food," he told the ground. No way did he want to meet the gaze of a witch whose beauty sleep he had interrupted.

"Hah. Your fern flower mixer not enough for my little bird?"

Morozko bristled. "That was once, by the gods! I do not do that anymore. She is weaned, anyways, and eats Cheerios quite fine. It is not necessary to feed her that way, and I was an idiot to do so before."

"Agreed, you dolt of a bannik. Who knows what magics your bond gave her? Tscha, only the turning of the moon will tell. Fine, fine, little hut. Lean down and accept this banya fool."

The hut bent down. Morozko climbed onto the porch, grabbing the skull railing to steady himself. The way up was rickety, as always.

"Thank you, babushka."

"Oh, do not thank me, boy. I would much sooner steam you to a misty cloud than help you. My interest in the girl is personal."

"Do you feel like telling me what those interests are, finally?"

"Hah! Trying our luck today, are we. If you would like to keep your man bits, stay out of my business. You would never understand it, anyways. Just be happy your babushka is feeling generous for her wayward bastard prince."

Baba Yaga whistled. The stamping of hooves echoed through the woods. A mare daisy-yellow as day cantered to her mistress. Baba Yaga reached into her skirts and withdrew a sugar cube. She fed it to the mare, stroking her mane. "Den', would you be so kind as to escort Kolya to Earth?" Her magical horses and manservants were Den', Noch, and Solntse – the familiars Baba Yaga had named after long day, cruel night, and the merciless sun. Her faithful servants always.

The mare whinnied. She bent down gently so Morozko could mount her.

"Little hut, little hut, turn your back to this world and your face toward the realm of man," Baba Yaga ordered.

The hut obliged. They left the world of Slavic nechist, where magic still reigned, and entered Earth, where magic was hidden. It lived on like a wedding dress stowed away in a mother's attic, yellowed but beautiful, waiting to be remade and shine. The hut squawked like a rutting rooster whose interest was piqued by a chicken's strut.

Morozko found himself on the back of Den' on the porch of a picturesque house with white picket fences, tucked away into deciduous woods. Baba Yaga was softer, with a grandmotherly face, dressed in a pink house dress and heels. A gravel path led away from the abode. The air smelled of tranquility, nuclear families, apple pie – in essence, rich American suburbia.

Morozko rode bareback away from the hut. "I will be back before nightfall, I promise," he called to Baba Yaga.

Baba Yaga clucked. "Do not get lost, little prince. You have already strayed far from your icy home. One day Father Frost's legacy will catch up to you."

"By the gods, please do not remind me. The day I become a present deliverer to bratty snot-nosed children is the day I commit seppuku Japanese-style with a butter knife," Morozko muttered. He whipped Den's reins and set off at a steady canter.

The moment the horse's hooves hit the driveway, Morozko found himself inside a citrine-colored car that drove itself down the path. Morozko relaxed, letting Den' take him to the grocers nearby. They sped out of the woods through suburbs and strip malls. Spring glossed the land in verdant greens and blooms. Morozko rolled down the window, inhaling the lush air. American flags dotted some houses, and he chuckled.

"We are far from the motherland, are we not, Den'?"

The engine purred in response.

Baba Yaga had insisted on familiarizing Anya's guardians with her homeland. Nechist naturally knew human languages, so speaking English was never a problem, but the cultural divide still existed. Americans seemed too loud for Morozko's taste. He also hated the specific breed of literati that populated the D.C. metropolis, reciting poet's pamphlets as they walked headfirst into grimy alley walls. He could never tell the difference between them and the homeless – anyways, Baba Yaga could pass for a bag lady. A bloodthirsty one, at least.

Den' parked at a nondescript family-owned mom and pop store. Morozko caught sight of himself in the store's window, glamoured so he blended in with the humans. His nechist features were softened, his fangs gone. Still, Morozko was too vain to rid himself of his white-gold hair, just like his mother's. At least his skin wasn't blue and iced in snow fractal tattoos.

Several women lost their breath at the sight of Morozko. They chittered like birds and giggled to each other as they left, giving him winks and backwards glances.

Morozko smirked. They could be like putty in his hands, if he only so desired. Human women were so easy to manipulate, bed, and taste like fine wine on his tongue. He had dined on their blood in Moscow of old with – with her... a name he did not like to repeat.

He looked at the silver ring on his thumb and his hunger reared its ugly head.

In fact, that wasn't such a bad idea: the day was still young, and it was about time he spent the night with a woman his own age, not a small child in diapers with crayons.

Morozko picked up cigarettes and went to the baby food section, selecting cans and jars of the mushed crap Anya delighted in. He came to the cereal aisle, to the ever-hallowed Cheerios. Morozko piled several boxes into his grocery cart and proceeded to pay at the register. Baba Yaga had been courteous enough to stock the glove box with an endless supply of American currency. Morozko thought the elderly Presidents in white wigs quite hilarious.

The girl at the register eyed Morozko. "Is that it?" she asked, her hair in a beehive.

Morozko gave a crooked smile.

"Wait. Here." The cashier blushed, scribbling her phone number on his receipt. Morozko took it and eyed the string of numbers. "I get off in a while," she said to the floor tiles, too intimidated to meet his gaze. "There is, well, there is a malt shop at the other side of the shopping mall. Maybe we could meet up later, at say, oh, 5:00?"

Morozko gave her a kind look. "You like chocolate malts?"

The girl twirled a ringlet of hair. She nodded, licking her lips.

Morozko herded his groceries into Den's trunk and took a joy ride for a few hours. He returned to the strip mall at precisely 5:00 PM. The cashier was waiting for him in the malt shop, dressed in strappy heels and a classic white dress, Old Hollywood style.

She waved, nervous. Morozko could smell the excitement in her blood.

"Hi," she said, "Thanks for meeting me. It is just, you always come to the store and you are always so mysterious. I would like to get to know you. I hope that this is not awkward. Oh God. I never do this. How unladylike of me, please, forgive me!"

"No, it is my pleasure," Morozko said. "You look like you enjoy a good old-fashioned Coke."

"How did you know?"

"A lucky guess. It is of course on me."

Morozko ordered for them and they drank together, soda and malts, then split a banana sundae, talking about little things.

"So your accent?" She hesitated. "Are you from the Soviet Union?" She ran her nails over the lid of her cup. "It must be dangerous to be Russian in America, with the last decade and all."

"I suppose." He took a small sip. "I do not pay much attention to politics. Nechist – I mean, um, ahem – my community does not care much for Communism."

The cashier beamed. "I agree. So, you buy the same thing every time: baby food and cigarettes. Whoever is the baby food for? You look too young to be married, my apologies if that is offensive. I seem to be saying all the wrong things tonight."

Morozko put his hand on hers to steady her. "You have not said a single wrong thing." Morozko shrugged. "As for the food, it is for a niece."

"That is wonderful, helping your sibling out with their kid. I love my new nephew, he is adorable beyond reason. When he was born, a little bit of my soul flew out to guard him, like an angel, I think. Look at me! Becoming a poet for the love of a baby. Must be my maternal instincts. Sorry if that was saccharine."

"It was the truth. We both have precious things our souls guard."

"You are completely right."

They continued conversing late into the night. Morozko let her do most of the talking.

"So, um, well, I live in an apartment near here, and I just got a bottle of expensive Italian wine for my birthday. I'm a student at Georgetown, not just a cashier, haha." She stumbled over her words. "Do you, well - would you like to try some, I suppose?"

"Of course."

Kisses followed wine, and Morozko's hunger reared its head. The girl, barely a woman, with closed eyes, did not notice when his fangs slipped out. Morozko paused from kissing her.

She murmured. A quick enchantment sent her off to sleep.

Morozko lowered his lips to her neck. His bite was quick and painless - still, the girl's mouth opened in surprise.

He drank her earthy blood and filled with her soul. It smelled like marigolds and tasted like chocolate and forgotten treasure. His hunger subsided.

Morozko healed her wound, a simple magic. He tucked her into bed and left.

Den' awaited Morozko in the parking lot beyond. The horse-turned-car drove pell mell back to Baba Yaga's. Baba Yaga was in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe as the moon sailed past. The smoke formed wisps of worms and inched off into the horizon slowly.

Den' shifted into a mare and stooped low so Morozko could dismount.

Baba Yaga wrinkled her nose, spotting the red on his teeth. "I can smell the delicious sweat, blood, and soul of a human on you. A hapless young woman, as usual?"

Morozko shrugged, taking the groceries from the horse's back onto his shoulder. "I have my dalliances, just like you. Banniks always love souls, after all."

"Pah. My dalliances are more of the eating limbs and bone variety, not easy seductions of boring mortal maidens. You kept me waiting, boy! My hut is not just a door you can stroll through at your own leisure. This place is the watchtower between worlds! Now come." She grinned, baring sharp iron teeth. "Give your babushka a kiss."

Morozko recoiled, nearly dropping his groceries. "In thrice nine kingdoms, no."

The hut stirred, shaking Morozko so that he fell. Baba Yaga cackled. "Dolt. I gave you an easy way out, and you refused. Now you will stay all night mucking the stables of Den', Solntse, and Noch'. The work is hard as the sun on your back, long as the day, and cruel as night. Is that not right, sweet Den'?"

The mare neighed in agreement.

Morozko sighed. "Fine. I will muck your damn stables."

The next morning, Morozko sat bleary-eyed at the inn's breakfast table, with bits of straw in his hair.

Liliya looked at him with disgust. "You smell like horse manure and moldy straw. On one of your benders again? Did you end up piss drunk at the Kentucky Derby?"

Morozko said nothing. He was still in awe at the amount of crap three horses could produce. Why did magical familiars even have bodily processes involving excrement, anyways? Did not the whole point of being a cherti familiar – a demon of fire and smoke – defeat the whole purpose of eating?

Anya sat in Iosif's lap, eating strawberries and yogurt and flapping her arms in circles. "Osya?" she babbled. "Fly, Osya, fly!"

Iosif obliged, lifting Anya into the air. Anya laughed, flapping her arms. "Whee!"

"Wait until she walks," Elizaveta said over her sewing. "She will tear up the inn with her little precious feet! Will you not, sweet Annushka?"

Dmitri laughed. "Do not say that. Too soon she will be all grown up and leave our house for Baba Yaga's. We cannot coddle her forever. She has witch blood and baby bones in her future."

Morozko spat on the floor. "Like hell will I let that hag take her. Anya stays here. This is her home."

Dmitri's clover eyes clouded. "Anya's home is the human world. Not Buyan. We are her family, yes, but we must never forget that she does not belong to us. Sometimes it is wisest to let the things you love go. In freedom they grow, like a dandelion seed setting a course on the winds uncharted, to root in things unknown."

"Bear crap," Morozko said. "She was raised on nechist brew and milk. Anya is as much ours as this inn is the domovoi's. The girl is my kin. My blood. And I will not let a scheming witch take her."

Elizaveta's lips quivered. She pierced her thumb with her sewing needle on accident and winced. "Oh, you are right, Kolya. I cannot bear to part from Anya. She is like the daughter I never had. We have to convince Baba Yaga to let her stay, once she is of age!"

"And do what?" Liliya said. "Anya has no future here, not in the world of nechist. Baba Yaga is an initiator for girls. Think of Vasilissa. In tales she transforms them, for better or for worse. Anya's fate lies in that hut on chicken legs, whether it be boiling in a pot for Baba Yaga's next meal or casting spells with a smile on her face like knives. We have no power over children's destinies, especially hers, when Baba Yaga is involved."

A low sob came from Iosif. He hugged Anya close to him. "No! My mistress will never be in a pot, foul vila. How dare you suggest such a thing, especially in front of the child!"

Anya wailed in distress. "Kolya!" she cried, as she always did when fearful.

Morozko took Anya into his arms. "Look what you idiots did. You have upset her. Annushka, shh shh, I promise, it is alright." he said, burying his face in her curls. He breathed. She smelled like a spring hidden in a sacred grotto.

Anya untensed at his voice, toying with his platinum white hair. "Keeya!"

Morozko rocked her then glared at Liliya. "Do not speak lies. Why would babushka eat a human she has invested so much in? That would defeat the whole purpose of spending so much care and resources on Anya, bending over backwards to help an orphan from nowhere."

Liliya's lips drew into a thin line. She set to braiding her hair. "I am just warning the both of you. To harden your hearts to the worst possibility. You remember what you saw. Blood on snow. A needle. Pain."

"Not that she would be cooked into cabbage and baby meat stew by Baba Yaga!" Morozko said through gritted teeth. He bounced Anya on his knee with a vengeance.

Liliya shrugged, stirring her kasha. "Whatever. I am just saying. Who knows what that witch will do with one of her coven."

Dmitri ran his hands through his mossy hair and sighed. "We all love her. And I will never let any harm to come to my dearest Anya, not if I can help it. But Anya will grow, and with that growth comes the pain every parent has. Of not knowing what will happen to their child."

Morozko gritted his teeth. "I am not her parent. I am her guardian. And I will most certainly see to it that she is safe as a firebird in its nest."

Dmitri set to eating a slice of bread and cheese. "We all will. It is the highest priority of my court. My kingdom's children come first, and my little wood child comes above all else."

"Whatever," Morozko said, handing Anya back to Iosif. "I have to go get Baba Yaga's horse crap off of me so I do not stink like manure for the rest of the day."

Morozko made his way to the luxurious banya adjunct to the inn. It was empty. Morozko peeled off his skin and hung it from the rafters between the dangling souls in the predbannik. He spat sparks onto the stove in the washing room and entered the steam room, letting the heat soak into his bones. Stripped of his skin, he was nothing but solidified, skeleton-shaped steam, a horror even Russian poets had not dreamed of, for no mortal had ever seen a bannik's true form. In the washing room Morozko drew a bucket of water and poured it over heated rocks in the stove.

The rocks steamed. He drew a venik and beat himself, driving away the stink of the stables.

Finally satisfied, he entered the washing room and plunged into the cold water. Morozko dissolved into steam at the icy liquid's touch, swirling in a cloud round the boiling room. The wood walls creaked from the heat. He seeped through the cracks in the banya, out onto the woods, spreading like a mist across the land.

Morozko heard Anya's quiet voice coming from the kitchen. He drifted into the inn and clouded the room. Anya was alone, playing with her china dolls and clay animals in her playpen as Liliya busied herself in the pantry. Anya paused and looked up at the steam that was Morozko.

"Keeya?" she said loudly, quite excited. "Keeya fly!"

Anya pulled herself to her feet and toddled towards the mist.

Morozko witnessed Anya's first steps. His heart cracked - or it would, if he had possessed one.

He retreated to the bathhouse and quickly donned his skin, rushing to the inn. He burst into the kitchen. Anya laughed as he arrived, teetering to fall down. Morozko caught her just in time.

"Annushka?" he said, hugging her close. "By Mokosh, stop growing up. This is too fast."

Liliya walked in on him and saw his terrified expression. "What is it?"

"Anya walked."

Liliya nearly dropped her rolling pin. "I forgot mortals grow so quickly." She swiped hair from her eyes and stared at the child.

Morozko lowered Anya back into the play pen. "Like mayflies," he said, sad. He looked at Liliya. "What you said earlier. About Anya's future. I think it is finally time we take her to the human world – her home"

"That would be wise," Liliya said. "Let us talk about it with Dima over dinner tonight."

The matter was agreed upon. The haphazard staff of Tsar Dmitri's inn wended their way through the woods next Sunday to Baba Yaga's hut, glamoured with nechist magic to look like humans.

Iosif was short of stature and barrel-chested, with a carpet of hair over his body. He walked in stooped-over steps with a cane besides Elizaveta, whose wet locks were bound back in a braid, her fish scales gone and replaced by freckled skin. Liliya, no longer translucent, cut a striking figure, dressed to the height of fashion. Dmitri's blue skin and mossy hair had vanished, replaced by coal black curls and swarthy skin like a Siberian native. Morozko carried Anya, leading the group. He was little changed. They came to the hut on chicken feet.

"Hut, hut. Turn your back to the forest and your face to us," said Morozko.

The hut bent down to receive them. Baba Yaga ambled to the door and threw it open, a sack at her back, her rheumy old eyes scrutinizing the spirits.

"Tscha, it is just you ragtag lot. Come, come, I was expecting you – I saw you marching here in my scrying bowl of course. You are just in time for a hearty slurp of stew!" She herded them into her hut, which smelled of wood smoke and herbs hung out to dry. A cauldron bubbled in the hearth, and she rushed to tend it. Baba Yaga reached into the sack at her back and pulled out a fresh femur. She sniffed it, narrowed her eyes, and cracked it open, letting the marrow dribble out, then tossed it into her stew. Kidneys and hearts bubbled to the surface. She stirred the soup and began whistling the Russian composer Modest Mussorgsky's famous tune about the eponymous witch, 'The Hut on Fowl's Legs.'

Dmitri frowned at the pot. "I do not eat human meat," he said. "It seems you will only be able to feed Kolya, with his taste for blood and souls."

Morozko's stomach churned. He looked down at the girl he held in his arms, imagining her swimming in the pot like a crab gunning to fight. "I am not feeling very hungry either at the moment."

Baba Yaga chuckled. "More to myself, I suppose. Now, are you silly nechist going to keep my old bones company or scurry your way off to the mortal world?"

"We are off to America's capitol, Anya's home. It is supposed to be a beautiful day," Elizaveta said, dreamy. "You should come."

"Tscha. I suppose. The stew can wait."

Baba Yaga disappeared into her room and soon reemerged, glamoured to look younger, her hair in a chignon with an ivory comb of human bone. She grinned. Her teeth were no longer iron but yellowed and sharp. "Now, nechist, you must behave yourselves. Though mortals are juicy and tempting, fit for drowning by rusalka to be water grooms and stealing away by leshy as wood wives, we are not to meddle with them today. Not on the day of Anya's introduction to her human home. Little hut, little hut: turn your back from Buyan and your face to the realm of man!"

The house spun, churning towards the mortal world. It crowed like a rooster. Its exterior shifted to a cheery, white picket-fenced house tucked into the woods, the one Morozko was used to visiting.

Baba Yaga whistled.

A stallion red as the sun galloped from the woods to the driveway. Solntse, Morozko thought. Baba Yaga's pride and joy, whose hooves could leave fields aflame in their tempestuous fury.

Solntse neighed, shifting into the form of a red VW Bug with a shining Slavic sun decal. The nechist and Baba Yaga piled into the car haphazardly, with Baba Yaga at the wheel. She drove like a speed demon past buses and Washingtonians onto the highway and followed the Beltway to Washington, D.C., enchanting her way into not paying at the parking garage. They found themselves strolling along the National Mall, obelisk of the Washington Monument penetrating the sky like a needle.

Baba Yaga doted on Anya, pushing her in a stroller. Anya giggled, pointing at the clouds. Time spun on its axis, and Baba Yaga pushed her through summer and fall, through winter and spring, round and round the years until Anya was no longer pushed but walked, hand in hand with her babushka.

"Babushka?" Anya once asked as she was swung between Dmitri and Baba Yaga.

"Yes, little bird?" Baba Yaga laughed.

"Will I look like you some day, all warty as a toad with hair on my chinny chin chin like the Three Little Pigs?"

Baba Yaga ruffled her hair. "If you are lucky, Annushka, you will look half as ugly and be twice as powerful as me, just like the last Little Pig."

Dmitri chuckled, picking her up to tickle her chin. "And what do we say to black-hearted big bad wolves who want to blow our houses down, my little fern flower?"

"Hehe!" Anya played with her father's beard. "Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin! My da made my house of wood and brick, and my brothers and sisters are wilder than the meanest of wolves. Blow all you want, Mr. Big Bad Wolf, but you will lose lose lose!"

Dmitri tossed her into the air than caught her. "That is right, Anya. We do not let bullies have their way."

The rest of the ragtag family smiled.

The nechist followed, their hearts ever tied to the growing girl. It was on one of these walks that Anya picked a dandelion, another she flew a kite, and another she made snow angels in drifts of white.

"Kolya, watch out!" Anya laughed.

Morozko turned just in time for Anya's snowball to hit him square in the face.

"You little menace," he growled, picking her up to plop her into a snowbank in the middle of the National Mall.

"No fair, you are bigger than me!" Anya said, fishing her way out of the pile of snow. Morozko helped her out, laughing.

"Let us hope it stays that way."

Elizaveta snapped photos greedily, documenting Anya's childhood. Liliya walked stoically ahead, observing from a distance, while Iosif carried Anya on his shoulders, pointing out the moon and constellations like Orion to the girl as dusk kissed the sky.

"That is the Zoryas' throne," Iosif said, pointing to Venus. "In the morning, she is Zorya Utrennjaja, the morning star, and in the evening the star is presided over by her sister, Zorya Vechernjaja, the evening star. Heroes rarely meet them, and nechist even more rarely. It is said the Zoryas guard the deathless lands of King Kashchei, where jewel fruits blossom on crystal trees and a thousand dancing princesses serenade down the moon."

Anya's mouth fell open. "I think I would like to go the deathless lands someday, Osya. They sound perfect."

Iosif steadied her on his shoulders. "Oh, no, why, my rasknovik, key to my heard, no one who goes to the deathless lands ever returns. I pray against the thought."

At home in the inn, Dmitri doted on Anya like no other father before, spoiling her with dolls made of enchanted greenery and pets of every imaginable species. She had a particular love for rabbits, and soon the inn was overrun with them, bunnies multiplying as they were wont to do, with patrons watching their steps to avoid the hopping menaces.

Morozko cursed as he tripped over a gray fluff-ball.

"Damn it, Anya. Stop hiding from me. It is time for your bath. I know you are in there, mooncalf!" he said, bags under his eyes from thankless parenting.

Giggles came from the kitchen cupboard, along with the clatter of dishes.

"Anya, now! If you break anything so help me Mokosh I will spank you to cherti hell!"

Anya burst from the cupboard, pot over her head, banging a wooden spoon on a pan. "Mission abort! Mission abort! He has discovered our location, comrade," she addressed a rabbit, her closest confidant. She waved a Soviet flag she had picked up from the sidewalk on one of her trips to Moscow. Elizaveta had dressed her in winter clothes and a miniature ushanka hat with a sickle and hammer. Anya was the stuff of propaganda films.

The bunny hopped to her side. Anya banged her pan menacingly in Morozko's direction, then began running circles around him, the rabbit hot on her heels. "Quick, comrade, distract him and run away!"

"You cherti," Morozko said, referring to the mischievous demons witches enchanted to do their bidding, wrenching the pot from her head and hauling a squirming Anya up into his arms. "You are filthy from playing outside with your stupid rabbits. You will take a bath even if Hell boils over and the water runs out and all we have left is lava!

Anya screamed, banging him on the head with her pan. Dirt smudged her cheeks and her hat was muddy and askew. Morozko cursed, nearly dropping her.

"Child of Chernobog."

"I hate baths. I wish the banya would burn!"

Morozko growled. "You little menace. I am the keeper of the banya. You sleep in the banya. We would be homeless and cold, left to slumber on snow piles in the taiga. Is that what you want?"

Anya stuck out her stubborn chin. "Yes," she said. "My bunnies would keep me warm. They love me better than you!"

"No, your rabbits have a pen. If the banya burned, you would be stuck with me, and I would not be pleasant company. I would make you build an igloo and put you to work making beds of ice. What do you think about that, eh?"

Anya stuck out her tongue. "When are you pleasant company, Kolya?" she said. "All you do is order me around: 'Do not dare touch the samovar, Anya!' 'Sweep the inn, Anya, and by Mokosh do not bother people while you are at it!' 'Be seen and not heard, Anya!' 'Shut up, Anya, I am trying to sleep!' You are like a mosquito, buzz buzz, you never quit whining, just like Lilyka says. I hate sharing a cramped smoky room with you, and I hate you even more!"

Morozko's mouth set in a hard line. "How dare you address me like that, Anya? That is the problem with humans: you are all brats, your entire frothing species, and you are a mad mooncalf with no redeeming qualities at all. I should have eaten you years ago, right when Baba Yaga gave you to me like a drunk stork with the wrong directions."

Anya pulled down her lower lashes to expose the insides of her eyes and waggled her fingers. "Storks do not drink as much as you do – they sip water, not vodka!" She swerved into his leg. "Look, I'm Kolya: I drink every day even when da tells me to stop and feel so funny the next day that I do not wake Anya up! Ha ha ha!" She slapped her stomach in amusement.

"I only drink because you are as devilish as Chernobog the Black." Morozko narrowed his eyes. "I believe I have made a grave mistake in letting you run wild. You have no respect for your elders, and no respect for nechist, especially me. All you care about is getting up to trouble and your stupid, rapidly multiplying rabbits. Soon we are going to be drowning in fur balls. But no more antics, and by Mokosh, no more attacking me with pans. You are getting shipped off to where rambunctious children fear to tread: school!"

Anya's face widened in horror. "You mean? No, you cannot. Are you drunk?"

"No."

"Then you are evil! As heartless as Kashchei the Deathless. I will get Baba Yaga to turn you into a toad, you mean bully!"

"Oh, I mean it, and Baba Yaga can turn me into a runt of a bunny for all I care." Morozko grinned menacingly. "That is right. Elementary school, where you will be disciplined. Dima has done a piss-poor job of it - you do not know your place, and all Baba Yaga does is teach you witchcraft. That is useless in the modern world. What about arithmetic, finance, or poetry? I am sure those are things human girls your age are schooled at by now – they can help run inns on earth and pen songs to be sung round the hearth fire. I do not think you contribute much to our community..."

Anya stomped her feet and grabbed her pet rabbit, petting it furiously. "No, you poophead! Babushka's lessons are important! She is teaching me to cast spells - someday, I will be as powerful as her. Do not say that, you horrible bannik." Anya pounded Morozko's legs with her small fists. Her long black braid bounced off the back of her red sarafan. Her bunny, ever helpful, bit Morozko's thumb.

"Ow! God damn pests!" He wrestled Anya to the ground as the furred white menace bounced away. "You are like one of those feral children from folklore abandoned by their parents only to be taken in by wild animals. I could not tell the difference between your current state and if you were raised by wolves. Actually, that is selling wolves short – you are far too wild for them. Also, way too dirty. Wolves at least groom themselves"

Fat tears fell down her cherubic face. She grabbed Morozko's face as he plucked her from the ground and balanced her on his hip. "I do not want to go to school. You cannot make me! All my friends are here: Liza, Lilyka, Osya, Da.... even sometimes you." She looked up at Morozko with sorrowful eyes and pulled his cheeks. "I hate humans. They are boring, and they smell like dirt."

"You are a human, morsel. I could eat your soul in one bite. Ow, let go of me, you silly cherti."

She hugged him hard, making a face that would bend the Devil's cruelty. "Please?" she said. "Do not make me go. I would rather you swallow me soul and all than put me in a room with people that know nothing of magic. I have nothing in common with them. Human girls play with dolls, not stick pins in them to relieve pain in the joints of their owners. I want to help nechist like Baba Yaga does, not help humans."

Morozko sighed, tousling her hair. "Annushka, the world does not revolve around magic. There are so many things you do not know, things that you need to learn. Magic does not solve everything. The small tastes of the mortal world we have given you are not enough - you must be immersed in it, drown in its richness, and like blood on the tongue, it will consume you. The Earth has a magic all its own. You are born of two worlds. You must learn to walk them both with ease, just like the heroines in the stories I read to you. Think of Vasilissa the Brave - you have much in common with the girl who braved Baba Yaga's hut and came out victorious to return to Russia with strong, powerful magic. Just because you will visit the human world will not lessen your permanence here. Wherever you go, you will carry us with you: remember that. Maybe I have made a mistake by keeping you in Buyan for so long, away from your peers."

"No. You did not. This is my home and you are my people." Anya clung to his leg. "I am scared of Earth. You will not be there to save me from falling into bear dens or help me to cross roads. I do not understand traffic. Cars are scary! What if a bear drives a car? What will I do then? It will squash me with its tires then eat me with oatmeal, not too hot, not too cold, just like little lost Goldilocks."

Morozko laughed. "That is not how Goldilocks goes. And bears certainly cannot drive cars, last I checked. You will learn to cross roads, mooncalf, just like everyone else. And there are no bears in D.C.. Stop worrying. It is time for your bath."

"Okay, if you are sure. But I do not need your help taking a bath. I am seven years old, you know - I do not need to be beaten down with a bundle of fir branch venik. I can do it all by myself now!"

"And who will steam your bath? Who will spit sparks onto the stove to start a fire? Do not tell me you have suddenly become a bannik. There is only room at this royal inn for one."

Anya scrunched her face so she looked a bit like a wrinkled prune. "Why would I want to be a bannik? You have to help people in the banya all day. How boring. I am going to be like prince Ivan Tsarevich or the warrior queen Maria Morevna – battling monsters, villains, and saving beautiful princesses. All you could do to the princess is give them a bath. How lame."

Morozko bit down his annoyance at her ignorance. "What I do as a bathhouse attendant is sacred work," he explained. "The banya is a place of birth, marriage, death, and magic. Spirits – and peasants in long ago times - came there to give birth, funeral mourners bathe in the bathhouse to ensure souls are warmed on their journey in the afterlife, marriage rites are held in the banya, and divination is performed there. The bannik oversees all of this, every intricate connection and magic. Each pivotal point in a Russian's life is marked by the banya. It is a place where connections are forged and friendships kept. My work is anything but boring. By insulting the banya, you insult me."

Anya sighed. "Fine, you can help me, I guess. But let me choose the venik bushel this time. Yours are always too sappy."

That night, as he tucked her into bed, her rabbits nestled at her feet, she smiled dreamily up at him.

"Kolya, if I have to go to school, promise me something," Anya said.

"What is it?" he said, gently bringing the covers up to her chest.

"That you won't forget me while I am away."

He smiled. "Why would I forget you?" He kissed her forehead and bid her good night.

"Promise?"

"I do, Anya. I do."

Anya returned the next day in tears and ran straight into Dmitri's arms in the dining room, her bright pink backpack unzipped: "They made me learn! My teacher made me learn! I do not want to learn! I want to fight Genghis Khan in the woods with my bunnies riding Kolya-the-horse's back and pick flowers with Liza! Liliya is a good Genghis Khan. Why do I have to learn addition and subtraction? It is awful!"

Dmitri bellowed with laughter: "Darling Annushka, tell me, did you make any friends? And math is important: Someday you shall inherit all my verdant fields and rolling forests. There will be grain stores and villagers to keep count of, the royal coffers to keep track of-

"But da that is so so boring! Put me down, please."

Dmitri did and sighed. "I suppose elementary school will take some getting used to then, my dear."

Anya straightened her skirts.

"I made friends, though, like Sully. They thought I was a Soviet spy. I said I was, um, a transfer student, like babushka enrolled me as. We played at recess – why does there have to be a time to play? Why cannot all day be play time?"

Dmitri ruffled her hair. "I really have let you run wild, Kolya was right. Anya, sometimes learning can be fun: come, let me tell you of how Buyan was first formed."

Anya hopped into her seat, rapt. She grabbed the fork and knife Liliya had set out for her and began banging them on the table. "Story time! Story time!"

Dmitri beckoned for the vines on his antlers and they snaked onto his wrists. Soon they were twining and changing to form mountains and oceans, the taiga and wolves. His story began:

"At first, Anya, there was a seed planted in darkness, like a child in a womb. All that was, will be and ever has been was in that little seed. Just like a firebird egg. Soon, it blossomed into a tree, but also a woman – for the two are often one and the same. That was Mother Mokosh, the spirit of Buyan and Tree of Life, guardian over all things living, dead, and remembered."

Anya twined a thread from her skirt around her finger and snapped it, bouncing in her seat. She set to combing her hair with her fork, paused, then waved it around. "Oh oh, da, I know something! We burn bread crust and grain for Mother Mokosh and give her scraps of spinning. Sometimes when you make a business deal, da, you take dirt into your mouth and spit it out with another leshy lord to make sure that your promise holds true. The earth is Mother Mokosh's body. She loves us all, just like a good mother does. I sure would like to meet her."

Dmitri's vines reached out to brush hair back from Anya's face. "Perhaps you will someday, Anya, though it is said Mokosh has been asleep for centuries since the gateway to Buyan closed." He looked out the window at the verdant leaves.

Anya giggled as a vine wove itself into lips and kissed her cheek. "What happened next?"

"Mokosh awoke and cried in joy at her creation and from her tears, pouring in a river to her roots, was born Veles, the snakeskin trickster of the underworld, agriculture, and nature. But they were not alone: from Mokosh's laughter rose Perun, the king of the gods, whose hammer brings thunder and the rains."

Dmitri's vines formed two men who carried Mokosh's hair like a bridal train down leafy steps onto the table, fronting Anya's dinner of chicken kiev. Anya giggled.

"Veles and Perun were her brothers, and from Mother Mokosh's branches they plucked leaves and fruits with the names of all beasts, nechist, cherti, gods, and humans. They had much work to do, so the three siblings set to creating: first the shining star Zoryas from Mokosh's twin breasts, then windy Stribog and sunny Dazbog from her eyes, and Chernobog the Black from the emptiness that surrounded them. Thus were born the original eight rulers of Buyan, with Mother Mokosh as their queen."

The vines moved in time with Dmitri's story, forming a woman of wood for Mokosh flanked by two riders representing Veles and Perun. Anya was rapt:

Anya took a bite of steaming chicken and greens. She talked with her mouth full: "But whadda bout Lada, who takes care of marriages and love and beauty? Or – or Svarog the Blacksmith and Triglav the warrior? And Perun's twins: shiny Jarilo of spring and frosty Morena of winter-"

"Ha ha, dear Annushka," Dmitri put a pale blue finger over her lips, wiping away crumbs. "We are getting a bit ahead of the story. Veles and Perun took the Zoryas as wives and their children were the rest of the gods, as you said – Lada the daughter of Veles, Triglav like his ruddy father Perun, Svarog of Veles, and of course Morena, goddess of winter, death, and the harvest, and her twin Jarilo, the golden god of spring, the two doomed lovers who come to life and die between harvest and spring, where Jarilo is reaped and Morena turns into a hag in the coldest, harshest months."

Dmitri's vines formed a birch of a woman with a thicket of hair and a green shoot god, their lips touching thrice. Jarilo was plucked like wheat by the goddess and Morena mourned, having killed him in her madness. Cursed, she turned into a crone, only to bathe in a pool come spring and become a beautiful maiden again, with Jarilo rising with the first flower. Like wind-ripple water, repeating, a cycle that had stood since the dawn of time.

"Da, what if I kill the man I love when I am a woman, like Baba Yaga and Morena do? Babushka told me love is a curse, and that curses can only be broken when you bleed their throats for your stew. She eats the men she loves."

Dmitri winced. "I really should supervise your lessons with Baba Yaga... my dear, ordinarily, love does not lead to death. Whoever you fall in love with, as long as you keep your magic in check, you will not cause anything but beauty to blossom in his heart. No bleeding necks, most certainly. Now show me, what do we do when we are scared of Baba Yaga's tales?"

Anya bit her lip.

Dmitri dabbed some gravy from her chin with a napkin. "Come now, Annushka, do not be shy. I know you have it in you."

Anya made fists of her hands and squirmed away from Dmitri, her dinner finished. "Show babushka my witch-light and tell her that I am not scared. That I am as strong as her, and that I am never alone, for my family loves me greatly."

Dmitri grinned, proud, revealing mossy teeth. "Let that little light glow, Anya."

Anya giggled. "Okay." She unfurled her fists and golden flame burnt in them, smelling of lion's manes and cinnamon.

"Very good. You are growing strong, my Annushka." Dmitri placed the living vines back on his antlers.

Anya stared outside at the leaves falling onto the snow. "Da, who drove Morena mad? Why does she always kill Jarilo?"

Dmitri's face darkened. "Chernobog the Black. He courted Morena and she refused, instead preferring the arms of the golden god, for Chernobog is nothing but ice and shadow. In vengeance, Chernobog slipped poison from his black, rotting heart into Morena's wine at one of Perun's feasts, and it rooted in her brain like a worm seeking hope, or perhaps light. Once you eat something, Anya, or taste someone's lips, they are always a part of you. They change you. And sometimes, well, that change is not for the best. Morena kills Jarilo each harvest out of madness, and in madness she hunts Chernobog in vengeance, always at war with he of the blackest heart."

Anya shuddered, setting to combing her hair with Dmitri's clean fork. "Then I will never eat anything black or let my lips touch an enemy. I will not end up like Morena, mad, always fighting, changed."

Dmitri's face cracked with a smile. "You never will, of course not, dear Anya. Now let us go read fairytales by the fire."

"Okay, da. Let us read Finist the Falcon. I wish I was like Prince Finist and could fly!"

Dmitri chuckled as Anya jumped onto his back and he carried her to the hearth in his library. "You have no need to fly, little firebird, for your family are your wings."

Anya was nine, scrappy and rambunctious, and finally, she was learning to fly.

"Ah ah ah, little bird, balance on your broomstick like a steady spindle shaft, not a seesaw. It is not often us witchfolk take to the sky, why, only for Witches' Sabbaths where we flash our witch marks and dance sky clad in sacred groves while our cherti familiars beat child skin drums." Baba Yaga chuckled, steadying Anya's grip on her broomstick outside her hut on chicken legs. Fern flowers bloomed amongst bones. "You are raring to go the Witches' Sabbath, but how will you get there if you fall off your broom's tail end like a cluster of eager dust bunnies!"
"Why can I not have a mortar and pestle like you, babushka? I could even ride on the back of yours..."

Baba Yaga smoothed Anya's red sarafan. It was summer, never too hot in Buyan as it got in swampy Washington, D.C., and the moderate air was a reprieve from muggy May in America where Anya went to school. This was to be her first Witches' Sabbath, full of familiars and unfamiliar witches' faces, and Anya was excited as a volcano ready to bubble over.

Baba Yaga positioned her. Anya stood with a broom twice her size between her legs, its handle facing the sky.

"Repeat the charm, Anya, and let us see what your witch-fire is made of."

"Alright then, babushka." Anya focused.

"From furrows and fields

From bog and fen

Fly broom, fly

Through the dewy glen!"

The switches of the broom caught with Anya's golden witch-fire, the handle warmed, and soon she found herself feet off the ground. She laughed, swerving around, guiding the broom with small hands, the wind at her back just like Prince Finist the Falcon in her favorite fairytale. She imagined herself the peasant girl that nursed him back to health, only to be swept up into Prince Finist's downy breast and to kiss in the sky, high above the stars, with her love.

Baba Yaga cackled, mounting her mortar and churning her pestle away. She circled into the sky after Anya. "You, my dear witch daughter, are a natural."

They flew over the border of the kingdom, past Tsar Dmitri's verdant forests, to a mountain hollow thick with yew. Upon burnt grounds and dead pine needles that spritzed the forest with a pungent aroma of sap and sorrow danced naked witches – some young and beautiful, others old with pendulous breasts and hooked noses, all ethereal and deadly no matter their age. They beat their broomsticks and chanted in Russian, stirred bubbling pots and ate babies, and all the while their familiars of all strains – some half-men, some half-beasts, some animal, all demon cherti, beat drums with human bones, skin, and sinew.

Anya was thrilled yet scared as she landed at the edge of the hollow. She hid behind a rock. "Babushka, I do not want to take my sarafan off."

Baba Yaga took Anya's tentative hand. "Of course not, my girl, only the women do that. Our dripping blood fructifies the earth. You have not had your moon's blood yet, so your blood will have no power to make fern flowers bloom. For that is what they are – drops of witches' blood. That is why their fresh pressed juice has magic, for what drives people to frenzy like intoxication than witchcraft itself!"

"Will you dance sky clad, babushka?"

Baba Yaga guffawed, oxblood skirts rumbling with the thrum of her belly. Her iron teeth shone sharp in the gloaming. "Dearest little bird, the last person who saw me sky clad died of lightning strike. Better not to tempt the gods."

So they stepped into the witch's circle and danced. Their sister witches lifted Anya high, sang cantrips and charms – miracles blossomed on the bloody ground as the witches beat bare feet against thorns. The blood flowed in rivulets onto the mountain side, leaving hungry ferns springing up green and red in their wake. It was an old magic, a true magic, and Anya plucked fern flowers and tossed them into the green bonfire, whispering to the crackling flame her childish heart's desires, just as Baba Yaga had told her:

"I wish to be a hero when I am a woman, just like a bogatyr, but instead, a wandering witch!" Anya murmured, feeding the last blood bright blossom into the flaming neon green witch pyre. "I will journey farther than even Baba Yaga, to the deathless lands, where miracles like diamond fruit grow on ruby trees and firebirds are born. I will not know peace until I have seen the miracles of the deathless lands, and all the hundreds of dancing princesses – I will be queen of them all!"

"Be careful what you wish for," came a growl in Anya's mind.

Anya recoiled, knocking into a dancing witch who carried her aloft in mad circles.

"Who was that?" Anya whispered. She scanned the forest at the edge of the hollow only to find a luminous pair of golden eyes. Anya squirmed from the witch's grasp, away from Baba Yaga's gaze, where the hag was seated on a throne of bones above her coven, drinking virgin blood. Anya scampered to where a vucari hid – great talking wolves from the borders of the deathless lands – and gasped as it opened its mouth not in a howl, but a warning, fangs like silver sickles.

"Anya, you have travelled far, but you have further still to go," the vucari said, his yellow eyes like waxing moons. "Your path is a treacherous one, paved in blood and ice, but I do not think it is anything less than the glory of the gods."

Anya, not heeding the common sense Dmitri had tried to instill in her, reached out to pet the great wolf's nose. His breath steamed the air. "How do you know my name, silver wolf?"

The vucari yipped with laughter. "Call me Greyback, dear child. My master has been watching you. Some call him cursed, some call him royalty, I simply call him the truest heart in Buyan."

"You speak in riddles, Greyback," Anya breathed, clutching her skirts and trembling. "Why is your master watching me?"

"Because sometimes maidens go missing, and his enemy is close at hand." Greyback nuzzled Anya and she laughed despite her quaking legs. "Take that as a blessing, little witch. You are worth something to the gods and outcasts of Buyan. Gods. Princes. Exiles. Sometimes they are all the same."

"You sound like my father, yet you are a Big Bad Wolf. Please do not blow my inn down."

That yip of a laugh again. "I wouldn't dream of it, dear Anya." Greyback looked to the setting moon. There was a call like Nightingale the Robber's infamous whistle. Greyback's fur bristled. "I must go, child. Know that you have friends in your darkest hour, in the coldest reaches of Buyan. Light always burns strongest on the blackest night."

And like that, with padding feet and a howl, the wolf was gone.

Anya let out a small scream.

A hand at her back? Only Baba Yaga, with a smile like it had been sewn on in black gouging thread like a scarecrow's face.

Baba Yaga leaned down to whisper into Anya's ear:

"Sometimes the wood talks to witches. Sometimes we talk to the trees. It is best to heed the spirit of the woods, dear witch-daughter. Whatever it told you, hold it close to your heart like a candle in the vespertine gloam."

Anya put a hand over her chest, feeling the thump- thump of her pulsing blood. "Yes, Baba Yaga. I will."

Anya grew like a spring shoot, twelve harsh Russian winters old. The winds molded her into a birch: tall and slender, with skin pale as the white tree's bark. Her hair came to her waist, black as onyx, and Elizaveta took to braiding it with blood red ribbons. It swung so beautifully as she danced the khorovod, a circling peasant dance of song and turning seasons, with village youths. She was like a fishing lure cast into a valley of dreams: one had to watch their feet lest they step on Anya as she ran mad-dash through the world.

It was the anniversary of the dozen year truce between Tsar Vladimir the Bent and Tsar Dmitri the Bountiful – two brothers as different in disposition as night and day. Liliya and Elizaveta cooked for days on end, harvesting the finest caviar from the rivers for stuffed blini, and Morozko was in charge of the vodka freshly brewed from the potato fields behind the inn. Anya took it upon herself to decorate, cutting snowflakes and flowers out of construction paper and stringing them from the rafters with the help of Dmitri's shoulders. Her greatest creation was a wood-carved firebird, whittling a recent hobby she had picked up from Liliya, who wanted Anya to be good with a weapon. It was to be a peace gift to Tsar Vladimir and his dozen wood wives, all moss mad and dull-eyed, once human, now forest thralls, who spoke in babbling brook song and rain.

A storm followed Tsar Vladimir's retinue as their caravan wended its way through Tsar Dmitri's verdant forests. It was the stillness between winter and spring, with the first blooms pushing up through the permafrost and emerald moss and little tender buds the only greenery in the hush of the rolling forest hills. The rain fell like a bridal veil, so soft, as hunchbacked Vladimir banged on Dmitri's door.

"Brother, I have travelled far and I am weary and wet. Open your door or I will freeze," Tsar Vladimir called in a knotted voice of rough wood. He looked sickly in comparison to burly Dmitri, all bent out of shape and crooked like a wind-worn tree on a stormy hillside slope. His wood wives held far too many children to their breasts and skirts, little leshonky that grew up to form Tsar Vladimir's ragtag army. He bred soldiers upon the women he had abducted from earth long ago, before the borders closed, and the wood wives, covered in moss and moon-mad, uttered prophecy and nonsense like the Oracle of Delphi in equal measure. Whereas Dmitri's books were his advisors, Tsar Vladimir listened to the mutterings of his wives as an advisory council to run his kingdom, perhaps that exact reason – addled wood wife brains – leading to the slow but steady downfall of his holdings. Dmitri was constantly sending extra crops and supplies to his younger jealous brother, for Dmitri had a giving spirit, no matter how crooked Vladimir was or how many times he invaded Dmitri the Bountiful's verdant, crop-heavy lands.

Anya opened the door, dirt smudged on her cheeks. She held a birch wand and said a cantrip. It fluoresced gold with her witch-light and jolted electricity at Vladimir, making his beard stand on end.

"Surprise Uncle Vlad!" Anya crowed, smiling wide as the sun.

Vladimir grumbled. "Hello, Anya. I would say it is a pleasure to see you again, but pleasures are far and few between when your wild ways are present." He smoothed his beard and bade one of his wood wives rub the hunched hump on his back, from which a sickly tree grew. His younger children, all dirty, dressed in rags, cried and moaned for attention. Vladimir spat at their feet: "Shut up, you lot, and tighten your belts. Stop sniveling. We will eat soon, you wailing ruins."

Anya turned her wand on a little girl of a leshonky with frayed skirts.

"Mend and sew,

Bond in two

Threads once broken

Make anew!"

Anya giggled as the child's clothing knitted itself back together. "It is good to see my cousins, Uncle Vlad. And though you are grumpy, I have a present for you. Come in, come in, to the feast hall! You are all so scrawny and hungry. Da's food and our family are waiting."

The wood-wives twittered like squirrels and moved in circles as they swayed in time with the wind. Anya shivered at their glassy eyes, reminded of King Kashchei's dancing princesses in the lullabies Morozko used to sing. A forbidden lust to know what the deathless lands were tickled the back of her mind, as they had since she was a child, but she tucked them away, smiled, and took Vladimir's bark-gnarled hand. He grunted and groaned with aching, with creaking joints as he hobbled his way in.

His children, always hungry, darted to the feast hall and began to stuff their faces without introduction or invitation. Vladimir sniffed. His wood-wives, who could not eat, their throats stuffed with leaves and stones, simply sat at the long table and spun yarn on distaffs in time with the falling leaves. The yarn came undone as always in their branched fingers and they threaded it together again, only to break the fibers as they pulled too taught and the thread knotted.

Dmitri, who sat at the head of the table fresh with choice cuts of elk and bacon-like tender strips of smoked bear meat, rose in blue and burnished green splendor. "Vlad!" he cried, rushing to his gnarled brother and embracing him.

Vladimir groaned. "Your grip is too strong as usual, Dima. Why that dirty witch girl you call your daughter is still here, I do not know. Witches bring nothing but ruin, just as Baba Yaga does nothing but steal fortunes from fools and our innocent children while we sleep. Why you consort with their dangerous likes was always beyond me! Soon you will be using them in your armies, I am sure, and betray me yet again." Vladimir harrumphed.

Dmitri's gaze hardened. "Do not dismiss Anya or babushka, dear brother. Witches always prove their worth – as for trusting them, they are the very essence of nature, mercurial and far more powerful than us leshys and other nechist, and as natural to Buyan as Perun's rains or Veles' crops. To ban witches from my kingdom as you have done would rob the land of its fertility. Remember from whose blood the fire flower springs. I do so wish you would allow them back into your expansive lands!"

Anya hid in the shadows, behind Morozko, who went around the table filling glasses of watered-down medovukha for the children and generous shots of vodka for the adults. The children gulped it down at once and wood-wives dipped their fingers in the vodka, licked the droplets, and dryly choked as it caught in their forest-litter throats, which had been stuffed full of leaves and rocks when the ancient forest had taken them and turned their hearts to wood, making their voices nothing more than a whippoorwill whisper.

"Pah!" Vladimir said. "Witches and cherti, curses both. You have grown addled in the brains as you have grown, Dima. All I need are Amazonian vila warriors and my leshonky scion armies. We are well-defended against the other leshys surrounding us. The villagers are at half-rations with all other food and drink and supplies going to my armies. Someday, perhaps we will be strong enough to topple Tsar Dmitri the Bountiful, heh!"

Vladimir guffawed, slapping his stomach, but Dmitri did not laugh – just narrowed his malachite chip eyes.

"There will be nothing but peace between us for as long as we may yet live, my dear brother – do not joke," Dmitri said. "Our youthful squabbles are over – as family, I will always share with you and your lovely wives and scions my crops and fortune."

Vladimir grunted. "Hmmph. My wives are ugly and addled. You always had all the brains in the family, anyways, and I the brawn. Makes you caught up in those atrocious books and quite an easy target... Now where is that brat Anya – I heard she has a gift for me."

Morozko scowled. "She does not need to give a heartfelt handmade gift to an uncle who is only cruel to her."

Vladimir stroked his emerald-gray beard, leaves covered in fungus and mange. "Shut up, bastard prince, and be silent. You were lucky my brother took you in in the first place after your lothario days."

Morozko flinched.

Dmitri sighed. "Go get your gift, Anya, then show your cousins to the playground outside."

Anya darted from behind Morozko's shadow, went to the shelf, and took down a whittled firebird from a cutting of rosewood from a realm far beyond Buyan. "Here, Uncle Vlad." She placed it in his hands.

Vladimir coughed and turned it around. "Sloppy, but what to expect, and look at its wings – they are bent askew like they are broken. It will make good kindling for my fire!"

Tears pricked Anya's eyes. She sniffled, then hugged Morozko close. He picked her up as he had done when she was a young child and steadied her.

"It is okay, Annushka, ignore your uncle. Vlad has no heart."

"Vlad!" Dmitri bellowed.

"I am only joking – your family is far too oversensitive to lord it over my ilk. Tell this grubby girl to grow a spine, or life will only break her, as it breaks the heartbroken firebird. A darkness is coming to Buyan – I can smell it up north in my kingdom, pungently emanating from the deathless lands. The vucari roam and the shades of dancing maidens wander, killing my people - for ghosts are always starving, hungry for flesh and fresh souls. There are whispers of King Kashchei out and about like olden times, even, searching for something as precious as pale gold. It is best we arm ourselves and prepare for long winters to come."

By that, Dmitri was silenced.

And Anya? Anya felt a calling – to go north, where her great Greyback awaited. He still visited her sometimes, in the sacred groves, in witches hollows, at midnight when she was picking star flowers and sucking the sugary dew off ferns. He always spoke in riddles, about two princes, both long lost, one old, one young, one human but immortal, one fire but ice. Sometimes the great grey wolf took her riding on his back.

Sometimes, they rode oh so fast, that the stars pulled from the sky like herbs ripe to the plucking from the rain swollen earth, and Anya felt that there was much more to her story than just her wayward family and her spells and schoolbooks – and that someone, out there somewhere, was watching her from above in the stillness of the night – waiting, dark, and always hungry.

Anya flourished in school, deftly walking the realms between man and spirits. Keeping the secret of her family was like breathing. She felt like a visitor to the Earth, a cast-off ship of dreams, left to travel the world with sails the lapis blue of things forgotten.

Anya often pondered forgotten things, like her beloved nechist and how they had faded from Russian memory, relegated to the realm of myths. No one in America knew of Baba Yaga, and in Moscow and St. Petersburg, where Morozko took her to parks and museums, why, there were no gods at all. Anya wondered if, when the Zoryas shone down on Russia, if their starlight was tears at being forgotten by their humans they so so loved. Dmitri never spoke of when the borders between Buyan and Earth were open, and as Anya grew, her monstrous family took her less to the human world – only Morozko.

"So what are the virtues of birch venik? Of oak? Eucalyptus?" Morozko asked, glancing up from the kitchen table where he peeled potatoes to watch Anya completing homework at her rickety handmade desk.

Anya rolled her eyes. "I am working. Can we do this some other time?" She nibbled the eraser of her pencil, squinting at the page of her workbook. "I hate square roots." She furiously erased her answer and punched new numbers into her calculator. "What cruel god invented math?"

"The same one that saddled me with babysitting you," Morozko said. "Come on. Spit it out. What are the properties of different venik? Baba Yaga expects you to know them by next weekend."

"Babushka is far too demanding! I slave away in school - her lessons in witchcraft are double the pain. How many sigils and warding spells can I have crammed into my head before I explode in an atomic mushroom cloud?"

Morozko accidentally cut his finger while slicing a potato. "Son of Chernobog," he said, sucking the blood. "Look what you made me do. Peel myself like a vegetable."

"You already do that in the banya. Strip off your skin like a banana. It is the creepiest thing since my school's cafeteria food, especially the Monday Surprise. I am pretty sure that is made of mushed up rats. At least, I imagine it tastes like a creature that eats trash."

Morozko narrowed his eyes. "And how, mooncalf, am I creepy?"

Anya rose from her desk and fetched a glass of water. She shrugged. "Oh, I do not know. You just prance around the banya with your skin off like a skeleton nudist. That is horror movie stuff right there. I do not see why Hollywood does not mine Russian mythology for its material."

Morozko peeled the potatoes with a vengeance. "I am far from the creepiest thing in Buyan, Anya. And Russian mythology is far too terrifying for children. Babushka would give serial killers a run for their money. Not to mention King Kashchei."

Anya perked up. "Kashchei the Deathless? I thought he was just an old wives' tale."

Morozko looked at her intently. "There is truth in all the stories I tell you. Somewhere, your beloved Prince Finist the Falcon flies. Far beyond Buyan, Ivan Tsarevich rides his grey wolf across the taiga, on an eternal hunt. Thrice nine kingdoms away, King Kashchei looks from his high tower for maidens to spirit away, his soul hidden inside a needle inside an egg, guarded by an ancient oak tree."

Morozko glanced out the window, as if struggling to remember a dead lover's face. "Russian tales are warnings. My stories are true. Zmei Gorynych will eat you whether you believe in three-headed dragons or not. That is why I tell you to never leave the path on the way to Baba Yaga's hut. There are countless dangers in this world. Which is why you must be fluent in the language of magic, the force that binds Buyan together. Master it, and you master the land. Master the land, and you have the world's greatest ally on your side. The land is Mother Mokosh, after all. So, Anya, I will ask you one more time: what are the values of different venik, freshly harvested at different times of the year?"

Anya sighed. "Birch make wounds heal faster, oak is good for blood pressure, and eucalyptus is good for colds. Venik can be used like wands to cast spells for health."

"And when do you harvest venik?"

"At the beginning of June, on Trinity Day, forty-nine days after Easter. There, now can I get back to the fact that you never told me Kashchei was real?"

Anya wondered if Greyback was from the deathless lands. Excitement bubbled in her chest. She would go there if it would be the death of her. It was like a worm in her brain, writhing – a driving need.

Old ghosts darkened Morozko's face. "Of course he is real. You just never asked."

The back door opened and in walked Dmitri, in heavy wolfskin, his kaftan untied. He shook icicles from his beard. "My girl!" he said, arms spread wide.

"Da!" Anya rocketed into her father's embrace. Dmitri laughed, lifting Anya up and spinning her around. "You will not believe what happened in school today," she said as Dmitri put her down. "Sully tried to light his fart on fire. It was disgusting."

Dmitri's lips curled. "That sounds very unpleasant. Tell me, what of your studies? Did you finish your homework yet?"

"I would have if Kolya had not bothered me. He keeps quizzing me on witchcraft. As if Baba Yaga's lessons do not leak out my ears already. My friends get to play sports or take art lessons, or go to the mall or roller skating, but I have to study magic until I am drowning in spells and cantrips. I swear, babushka does not stop, and would not stop ordering me around like Vasilissa even if it was the Apocalypse and Mokosh was dying. Magic is like my second language, I am almost as good at is as English. I do not know why Kolya is bothering me so much! I have far more important things to do, like my stupid math homework."

"Hey!" Morozko snapped. "I am quizzing you for your own good. And your English is abysmal. Your accent is horrid."

Anya stuck out her tongue. "My friends understand me. Everyone thinks I am a mysterious Russian transfer student, probably a Soviet spy, hah. But Baba Yaga always enchants their memories whenever they think of turning me in to the principal. But we would not have this problem if you let me go to school in Russia, Kolya."

"You are American, mooncalf, get over it. You may have Russian blood, but you were born in the land of the fat, obnoxious and complacent."

"I am glad you think so highly of my heritage," Anya snapped. She stuck out her tongue and crossed her arms. The engaged in a death glare match.

"Enough, the both of you. I have had a long day's work of herding animals and tending the trees, and I came home seeking peace, not squabbling," Dmitri said. He sat beside the stove and began perusing his worn illicit copy of Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and the Margarita, bought from a black market in Moscow.

"Sorry," Morozko and Anya said in unison, then scowled. They glared at each other when their voices intermingled, as if battling for space in the air.

"He started it." Anya's cheeks flushed. "I do not need any more magic lessons shoved down my throat like Baba Yaga stuffs me full of pierogis. Boy do I hope those pierogis do not have babies in them... I do not want to be a cannibal."

"Yes, you do, need magic lessons, I mean" Morozko whispered. "You are young, succulent prey cherti would love to sink their teeth into. They eat witches of course, and only the strongest witches can tame them as their familiars. I am sure your soul would taste extremely delicious, and if it were not forbid me, I would have eaten you long ago when you were small as a dumpling, tender as veal!"

Anya's temple throbbed. "I see your mouth moving, but all I hear are empty threats. You are nothing without me. Just a lonely bannik without a heart."

Morozko's eyes shot open. "What did you say?"

"You heard me, you cruel, heartless alcoholic idiot!"

Words tumbled out of his mouth: "Heartless? Since when does my lack of human anatomy concern you? And I am far from lonely, which would be a blessing. I have you thrust upon me to deal with! My work is serving Dima, and I take pride in my banya. Being a bannik is a lonely vocation, but that does not mean that I am not content. And to Morena's wintry wastes with you. I never needed you, you stupid sniveling mooncalf."

"Liar! You have never opened your heart to anything. You would not threaten to eat me if you cared for me!"

"I raised you, you insolent daughter of Chernobog!" Sparks flew from Morozko's mouth. "The brunt of your rearing fell on me, and did I ever complain?"

"Yes. Loudly and vociferously," said Dmitri, robbed of his desired quiet. The leshy slammed his book shut and looked at the both of them, weary. "Take this argument to the banya. I will peel the potatoes."

"But!-" Anya started.

"As your tsar, I command you to return to your room and sort out your grievances in a dignified manner. You will disturb our patrons if you continue being so loud."

Morozko snarled at Anya as she angrily gathered her study materials and hauled them into her backpack. He opened the back door with a vengeance. "After you," he said, brusquely guiding Anya out onto the snow.

"You pushed me!"

"Pushed you? Now you are imagining things, dumpling of a girl."

"You blackened son of Chernobog. You did too." Anya launched herself at Morozko, who held her at arm's length.

He gave her a withering glance. "Do not curse. It makes you even cruder. Do you want me to wash your mouth with soap?"

"As if you do not swear like a sailor!" Anya's fists flashed with witch-fire through the air. Her eyes were wide in rage.

Morozko sighed. "Mooncalf, what are we even fighting over?"

"Everything. I hate how you patronize me. I hate how you treat me. Like I mean nothing to you. Like you would hurt me without the slightest pang of sympathy. I know what you do, what Baba Yaga does. You prey on humans. Baba Yaga eats their flesh, you their souls. You think I do not hate you for it?" A low sob escaped her throat. She dropped her backpack into a snow drift. "A part of me hates you for what you are. For what my family did to me. You stole me from my home!"

A hardness wrapped itself round Morozko's ribs. "No, Anya." He pulled the girl to his chest, smoothing her hair. "We saved you. You would have died if Baba Yaga had not found you that night, abandoned to freeze in a park. And you are right."

He bit his lip.

"About what?" she sniffled.

He half-smiled. "I was lonely before you came here." Morozko leaned down and buried his face in her hair, just as he had when she was little. He breathed. "But I do have a heart," he said. "It is just a hidden thing. Like Kashchei's death."

"Then Kashchei must be the loneliest man of all."

Morozko's gaze was distant. "I suppose."

Anya yawned. The sky above was wine-dark with night. "I am so tired. It is late, and our fight exhausted me. I do not know how I'll finish my homework."

"Shh. No worries. You can finish it in the morning. Now, it is important you rest."

"You are so warm. Like a furnace. I could fall asleep right here, out in the snow."

Morozko smiled.

Twelve years old, thirteen winters passed – finally fourteen and with her moon's blood upon her. Anya now danced sky clad at Witches Sabbaths. From her bloody feet, finally, fern flowers sprang in fragrant gore red blossoms. She pressed them and made tinctures and potions out of the mashed fronds and roots. Summer turned, and she was between childhood and womanhood, of two ages, belonging not quite anywhere.

Anya's first day of high school had dawned. She wore a pleated white skirt, a blue blouse and had plaited her long black hair back in a French braid and secured it with a red velvet bow that Elizaveta had sewn.

She stood in front of Liliya's vanity in the vila's windy room at the top of the inn's lookout tower, perfect for planning strategic maneuvers and defending Tsar Dmitri's kingdom. The room was all white birch bark, its walls lined with sabers and long swords, whips, and arrows and shields, the narrow bed made constrictingly tight as if Liliya was in an American military bunker – but on the tables were fashion magazines and in the expansive walk in closet were designer outfits so beautiful Anya only dreamed of being pretty enough to wear them one day – and the vanity, oh the vanity?

Plum and pearly pink lipsticks in silver tubes, creamy rogue of bright apples and metallic eyeshadows of gold and emerald, kabuki brushes and kohl eyeliner and sell-your-firstborn-for metal-encased mascaras. They were neatly organized behind flower-carved ivory brushes and combs, and ampoules of perfume and tinctures were lined like little Army men together side by side. The makeup was almost strategically placed, and nothing dared stray out of order.

Liliya had smiled when Anya had asked if she could try makeup on for the first time, presented Anya with the silver keys to her room, then headed off at dawn to practice with her sister soldiers their skilled swordplay and archery in the far practice fields, miles behind the inn.

Anya reached for a rosy lipstick and applied it in a pout on her lips, then blotted it on a tissue. She looked at her breasts in the mirror – once the size of tangerines, now round as apples. Her face, once rounded as a child, was growing angular, with large eyes the color of lapis lazuli and features to sharp to be pretty. She was off the familiar path of beauty, to wild, as if carved from a granite cliff face and left to be sharpened by the winds. Still, Anya thought, she was quite alluring, if too intimidating and rough edged to be conventionally attractive.

She blushed at the thought that she was growing, still changing, as she applied rogue to her cheeks with a kabuki brush – ever so lightly as she had seen Liliya do a hundred times at the morning breakfast table. Anya reached for the eyelash curler, which looked almost like a smelted silver weapon, and wondered if makeup was yet another form of Liliya's many many layers of armor.

Lashes curled, she smoked her lashes with mascara after darkening her eyes with fine lines of kohl, then finally spritzed on a Parisian perfume that smelled of vanilla bean, pumpkin, magnolia blossoms, and the slightest tang of musk.

Anya pulled a wavy curl loose from her braid and swished her skirts in the mirror. She opened her mouth in a cantrip:

"Fair as golden apples,

Light as the breaking dawn,

Give me the subtle radiance

Of a dun sun-dappled fawn."

Witch-fire flared under her skin until she was healthily lit by a supple golden glow. Anya laughed and twirled around, around, until she fell onto the bed in a pile of laughter, blouse askew.

"Finally, I am as beautiful as an enchantress."

There was a hesitant knocking at the door.

"Yes?" Anya called, quickly rising and smoothing her bed-ruffled clothes.

"Hurry up, mooncalf, or you will miss the bus again and I will have to drive you!" came Morozko's morning scratchy voice. He cleared his throat. "Breakfast is getting cold. I made eggs sunny side up the American way and thick simmering bacon dripping with grease – it looks like a smiling face, your favorite, or perhaps a heart attack on a plate."

Anya smiled. "Coming!" She opened the door wide and darted out like a radiant comet.

Anya raced past Morozko down the circling stairs, through the library where Dmitri was still asleep under a newspaper speared through his antlers, and to the breakfast table where she ate, careful not to disturb her red lipstick. Morozko petered in after her, appraising her.

"Since when have you made yourself fancy with perfumery and women's trappings? Where is the dirt that usually clings to your cheeks, replaced by some kind of blush that smells like a baby's powdered butt?" Morozko laughed, eating rye bread with slices of sausage and homemade cheese.

Anya looked down at her plate. "I am just trying something new. Kolya, do you think high school will be different from middle school? Can I be a – a, well, a cheerleader?"

Morozko nearly spit out his tea. "Why in thrice nine kingdoms would you want to be a cheerleader?"

Anya shuffled her feet and neurotically smoothed back her bags. "My best friends are all trying out for the team, Sully is on the varsity football team as a second-string linebacker, and well – I guess it just looks like fun? I do not know, ugh. I absolutely love their cheerleading uniforms, and Liliya has already trained me to move like a gymnast on the battlefield. I am flexible, loud, energetic and strong enough to lift one of my friends. You always call me obnoxious, even. I suppose it would be nice to have something to do after school instead of just Baba Yaga's endless lessons and the drudgery of homework."

Morozko smiled. "Then I suppose you will be the first cheerleader that was ever a witch."

"Kolya, do I look different? I mean – I feel like I almost do not fit in my skin. I keep getting taller, my hair is getting longer, and new freckles and pimples keep popping up on my face like turnips in the field... I just, I do not know, I suppose I feel quite strange."

Morozko laughed softly. "I remember puberty, Anya. Nechist go through it too, you know. It is an awkward time – your heart awakens to how beautiful a young maiden is, or in your case, a strapping young man like that football player you mentioned. You test yourself – against your family, against yourself. I think that, when you are twirling your pom-poms or dancing the khorovod in the fields with the villagers, you will find yourself in time with the rhythm. Growing is like dancing, like music. Just, please – do not grow up too fast. Elizaveta will not be able to snap photos fast enough."

Anya giggled. "Okay, Kolya. I have to go now – or I will be late."

Morozko finished his tea in one definitive gulp, then held the door for her. "Goodbye, dumpling."

"Better than mooncalf. I will take it."

Anya and he both smiled.

She shut the door and walked out into the rising sun.

"I am on the cheering team now, Greyback, and now I do backflips like Wonder Woman!" Anya said as she raced on the back of the great silver vucari. The looming gray wolf with golden eyes barked with laughter. They came to a witches' hollow where warmth never fled the land despite the harsh winter cold and fern flowers always grew fever-bright and splendid.

Anya picked some and made a flower crown for the vucari. He lay beside her, and with her witch-light and pine kindling and birch branches, she started a bonfire.

"As you grow, so does your magic, and as your magic grows, he grows hungrier in the darkness, waiting to catch you like a moth to a blinding light. Never go to the deathless lands, dear Anya," Greyback growled, twitching his ear.

Anya leaned against him. "You always speak of awaiting danger. Baba Yaga says that you are the woods come to life, dear Greyback. I think you are much more than that, and your master keeps sending you to me, but you never even once have taken me to him. I do wonder why."

"My master is not very good with women – all he does is lose them – and as for the woods, they have many voices. Few are as dashing as me."

Anya giggled and stroked his fur. "I will still go to the deathless lands, when I am grown. I need to see them. The wanderlust is in my marrow, in my blood. It has been since I first heard of them in Kolya's lullabies, nothing more than a cradle bound babe."

Greyback's pupils dilated and his nostrils flared, exhaling steam. He trapped her hand with his paw. "Do it and you will perish. Do it and you will die. Do it, and two princes will not be enough to save you. All that waits there are demons and broken girls."

"Why does everyone say that the deathless lands are so dangerous! King Kashchei the Deathless is weak – he has not stolen a girl in decades, and I hear that he is afraid of his own shadow now, counting out the days to his death like pearls falling from a broken chain. Perhaps I will kill him and become queen of his lands, hah! That would surely make me a hero, Greyback, and I want nothing more than to be the hero of my own story, not just some girl left out to freeze until Ded Moroz saves her or a sheltered princess waiting on Ivan Tsarevich to save her in a tower where she does nothing but waste away. I do not need to kill King Kashchei, even, just go on adventures and defeat villains. I would also settle for taking out my pig of an uncle, Tsar Vladimir the Bent in the Great North that borders the deathless lands."

Greyback rolled onto his side and basked in the firelight. "Not even the gods can stop a witch's wanderings, I suppose. But if you do not heed my words, you will surely change. And that transformation? You may well hate it, my pup."

Anya looked down at her lengthening limbs and the wine blossom bruises from training with Liliya and cheerleading. "I am already changing beyond recognition, dear Greyback. I look in the mirror, and I do not know who I am – all rough edges and sharp like a spear."

Greyback closed his eyes and sighed. "Who you are is in your heart. You will take many hearts in your lifetime, my pup. Be careful to know which one is yours."

"How could I not know my own heart, Greyback?" Anya asked as she leaned against him, staring up at the throne of the Zoryas.

Greyback gave a growling sigh. "My master lost his heart, and it broke him. It can happen to the best of us. And when you get it back, if you ever do? Sometimes your heart is no longer happy in the cage of your ribs, and it becomes that of a wanderer, never content no matter how welcoming the new hearth or home."

"Then I will lock mine safely away – no man or nechist will take it. No god, even. It is mine, and mine alone."

Dmitri woke Anya in the hidden away bedroom in the banya bright and early one Saturday morning come spring.

"Da? Ugh. I was out late last night cheering on the Friday night game. Please let me sleep just five more minutes."

"Anya, you are spending so much time with your friends and young men, I fear that you are forgetting your family. That is why today, I am taking you out hunting, just like old times!"

"But daaaa, it is nighttime-

Dmitri chuckled, a quiver of arrows over his shoulder, handmade bow in his broad blue hands. "No, my dear, it is eleven in the morning, one of the best times to catch game, when prey are lazing. Let your old man take you on a hunting trip like we used to before you grew too busy with high school and football games and homework."

Anya groaned, burying her face in her pillow. "Five more minutes?"

"Alright, my dear raskovnik, precious key to my heart."

They met at the breakfast table, both dressed in ushankas and hunting gear, for Russian springs – even in mythical Buyan - were cold. They set out into the late morning light, bows at hand and quiversful of arrows at their backs.

They came to a clearing where a doe and her children munched on forbs. The doe had eyes as deep as quarry pools and the fawns dappled white and brown coats. The fawns flicked their snowy white tails and stayed close in the shade of their mother's shadow.

Dmitri smiled quietly. "I cannot take a new mother's life. Perhaps there is a lone stag somewhere farther in?"

Anya looked at the fawns, now suckling at their mother's teats. "Da, do I have a mother?"

Dmitri rubbed his chin and sighed. "Anya, you know you do. Your mother is my beautiful woods! My whole kingdom is yours – someday, you will be the tsarista, and she will provide for you as she has provided for me since the time of Saint Vladimir's ancient rule."

They trekked on a deer path farther into the forest, the trees weaving dark ribbons around them, blocking out the pale midday light.

"Da, I mean, well, a human mother. I am a witch, but I am also human. I grow and grow and unlike nechist, do not stop growing. I feel like an outsider here, always changing, while my family? They stay the same..."

Dmitri shouldered his bow and took Anya's hands into his. "I am not quite sure you are a human witch, Anya. There are, well, I suppose I have had my suspicions, and Baba Yaga would not foster an ordinary human witch. It used to be that, before the borders to Earth closed, the gods sired children on mortal women and men – creating demigods, or keremets as we call them, like the famous knight Ilya Muromets, or monsters like Nightingale the Robber. You are more immortal than not – look how strong your magic is, how quick your bruises and cuts heal. I have never met a witch that could hold a candle to Baba Yaga, but you? You cast shadows on her with a torch. And I fear for you, because with your golden witch-light, comes darkness attracted to you like a rot. That is why I am so protective of you. Because you are the most valuable thing in my kingdom, the dearest daughter of my heart, and I believe that you are more than human, more than nechist, somewhere strung like a star between the spirits and the gods. But those are just my late evening fireside musings, I suppose – that you are something like Ivan Tsarevich."

They came to a shadowed clearing where a single buck foraged, distracted by spring shoots. Anya notched her bow and let it spear through the buck's heart, gritting her teeth.

"Who exactly is Ivan Tsarevich?" she asked. "And however could I be like him?"

Dmitri clapped her on the back in congratulations, then threw the buck over his shoulders. "He is Ivan the Prince, Ivan the Fool, a headstrong immortal that was once a man, the eternal enemy of King Kashchei the Deathless, chaser of firebirds and lost princesses, dead but alive, and always, always lost, with an ever wandering heart. There are many stories about him – just as there will be many stories about you one day."

Anya petted the head of the fallen buck, and they prayed for its passage into Veles' leafy rich underworld.

Prayers finished, Anya asked a question: "You think so? That I could be more than just a human witch?"

Dmitri looked up through the thicket of the canopy at the setting sun. A firebird flitted past, its cry like bells. "I feel it, my daughter, in my wooden sap-laden bones."

Winter turned to spring, spring to winter, and round again like a carousel until Anya entered her sixteenth year. She ripened like an apple, rosy-cheeked and freckled with curves that her sarafan clung to. Her hair reached her waist, a thick black rope perfect for braiding, or perhaps for hanging a man by his own liar's throat.

Baba Yaga glanced up from her simmering chicken kiev, surveyed Anya, and clucked: "Annushka, you are not so little anymore, no longer a dumpling, more like a choice cut of elk. Like a sprouting white birch, you have grown too fast. Soon cherti will come seeking your magic rich blood."

"Whatever do you mean?" Anya asked, pausing from stirring a bubbling potion of rosemary and rue. "I have never met a cherti that was not bound to you or another witch. I have yet to attract a wild one. Why would my familiar come now?"

"They are the denizens of Hell, blacker than Chernobog's rotting heart. Cherti have a predilection for witches. Witches and cherti have a bruised history between us: we enchant cherti to serve as our familiars - why, I have legions of them. Just look my fine steeds of manservants: Den', Noch, and Solntse. They are forced to work for us. And they despise us for it. Soon, we begin summoning cherti – you are skilled enough now to command them. But sometimes familiars rebel. You must learn to defend yourself well beyond simple magic."

"That will be quite easy," Anya said, plopping lavender and witch hazel into her concoction. They perfumed Baba Yaga's hut and the potion bubbled purple and green. "Warding rituals, exorcisms, containment circles, ceremonial magic, binding spells – I am a walking dictionary for mastering spirits thanks to your hard-taught cantrips and magics."

"No, Anya, it is not magic I want you to learn," Baba Yaga said. "Magic is never enough by itself. You must be quick on your feet, good with a weapon. I have my mortar and pestle to beat cherti black and blue with. And what do you have? Your wits? Tscha. Wits are not enough to save a headstrong impulsive girl like you. You need skills as sharp as dear Liliya's sword." Baba Yaga tended her chicken kiev. It smelled of delectable herbs, freshly mashed potatoes, and fragrant mushroom sauce.

"Skill?" Anya said. She stirred the cauldron thoughtfully. "Well, Liliya taught me to whittle forever ago." She pointed to the carved wooden animals lining the walls, all presents she had given Baba Yaga each New Years. "I have always fancied knives, I suppose."

Baba Yaga grinned with her iron teeth, craggy lines forming in her face. "Yes, little bird. Now you are speaking my language!"

Anya brought the subject up over the dinner table that night.

Iosif's beady eyes shot open from his dreamy reverie. "My Annushka? Handling weapons?" His spoon trembled in his hand. "My dear raskovnik, key to my heart, I pray against the very thought of it."

"Oh, it is fine. I have always wanted to learn how to fight, more than just the defensive moves and acrobatics Liliya has taught me and bow and arrow marksmanship with da." Anya said, enthusiastic. "And it is not so different from hunting with my family. You did not mind when da taught me how to use a bow and arrow."

Morozko scoffed. "You? Wield a knife against cherti? It would be turned against you in a second."

Anya's cheeks flared red. "Shut up. I know I need training, but I am far more capable than you think. I am not a child anymore!"

Morozko bristled. "'Shut up,' she says." He stirred his still simmering lapsha soup. The noodles floated to the soup's surface, taunting him with bits of chicken. "Dima, is this not an idiotic plan? Anya is just an overconfident girl, not a warrior."

"A girl?" Anya looked to her father. "I am almost seventeen! Some girls on Earth are married at my age, you idiot."

"To what, brides to their precious broomsticks? Do they fly them around at all hours like you do and then nag them if the wind blows the wrong direction on their way to a Witches Sabbath, hurling them into a tailspin? Hmph. As if anyone would marry a girl who snores as loudly as you do, even if he was just an old broom," Morozko interjected.

Anya threw her fork at him.

Dmitri cleared his throat, smoothing the ribbons twined round his antlers.

Morozko and Anya froze. The fork hit Morozko square in the face.

"I think Baba Yaga is right in wanting Anya to know self-defense," Dmitri said slowly. "We cannot watch over her all her life."

"Like hell we cannot," Morozko said. "We are virtually immortal, save being mortally wounded or crippled by disease, which is rare for a nechist to succumb to anyways. Our family has all the time in the world. And I am her sworn guardian. It is my duty to protect Anya – she has no need to fight!"

Liliya sipped her tea, watching Morozko. "Every woman should learn to wield a weapon," she said. "My mother began me on knife-fighting when I was but one, still at the breast in cloth diapers and quivering on my feet as new rain."

"Yes, well, just suppose we are not all vila," Morozko said. "Anya is flesh and blood, not rain and mist. She could get hurt, badly! I will not allow her to use weapons, never, it is far too dangerous for someone as wild as her."

Liliya shrugged. "I am just saying. I would not be averse to instructing you, Anya."

Anya grinned, rushing over to hug Liliya. "This is perfect!"

Liliya awkwardly patted Anya on the back. "Well, right then. Good. We will begin tomorrow afternoon."

"Wait," Morozko said. "Who said Anya working with cherti was a good idea to begin with in the first place?"

Anya pursed her lips. "It is what witches do, Kolya! Really, what witch does not have a familiar? They are the perfect complement to our powers."

Morozko crossed his arms. "Well, why do you need to be a witch? Why can you not just be the obnoxious cheerleader that you are at school, waving stupid pom poms around like a ditz and flipping your skirt at the human boys?"

Anya's blood boiled. "I am not a flirt! I have never even kissed a boy, you noodle-slurping pig. And to not be a witch? Are you serious? Da, is Kolya for real?" Dmitri was about to speak, but Anya spoke over him: "No, never mind. Kolya is too thick-skulled to get it." She looked scathingly at Morozko. "You are the reason that I am a witch. If you had never fed me your fern flower mixer to begin with, I would not even have these abilities! The fern flower bond with a nechist like you blessed my blood with witchy magic."

"Bullcrap," Morozko said, sharp. "You were unnatural to begin with. You were born a witch, Anya. That is how you can see nechist, and it is how you knew all our names, even when you could barely speak. Baba Yaga would have devoured you if you were normal. The only reason babushka did not simmer you up with her midnight stew was because witches do not eat their own kith and kin."

"It is true," Dmitri said. "You were a wonder when we found you. Veritably preternatural. And a natural born enchantress. You cannot blame Kolya for your heritage, however misguided about the proper usage of your powers he may be."

Morozko scowled.

Anya resumed her place at the table, meanwhile glaring daggers at Morozko. "I will prove you wrong, you boorish idiot. I will master knives and par the flesh from your steaming skeleton like the choicest cuts of pork."

Morozko snorted, narrowing his icy eyes. "Highly unlikely, mooncalf."

"Stop calling me that, pig brain!"

"Never. Mooncalf. Mooncalf. Mooncalf!"

"I hate you!"

"Enough!" Dmitri bellowed.

They fell silent, twin scowls like blades.

Anya and Morozko begrudgingly finished dinner, and Anya retired to the kitchen to finish her homework, anger forgotten thanks to a scrumptious meal. Morozko busied himself, sweeping the kitchen and whistling a bawdy drinking song about a drunk rusalka and loose-handed vodyanoi, while Elizaveta and Liliya worked in the inn, serving night owls food and drink. Iosif retired early after making all the beds not once, but thrice for good luck, and Dmitri thumbed through a worn copy of Gogol's Dead Souls. In all, it was a peaceful scene, typical of weeknights at the sprawling inn.

Finished with her work, Anya widened her eyes in an attempt to look charming and scurried over to Dmitri's side. She batted her eyelashes at her father.

Dmitri lowered his book below his nose and smiled like sunlight on oak bark. "Yes, my little firebird?"

Anya clasped her palms together, as if in prayer. "Da, the homecoming dance at school is in two weeks, and well, I usually think those kind of things are silly human affairs, but a boy asked me to go with him, one I truly like, and I would love to accompany him. He is one of my best friends that I have known since childhood and he is on the football team. He is the one that encouraged me to be a cheerleader," Anya said breathlessly, all at once, words tumbling from her mouth. "I – well, I was wondering if I could go dress shopping this weekend?"

"Dress shopping? A dance? A boy?" Dmitri echoed, amused. "But whatever is wrong with one of your lovely sarafans sewn with care by Elizaveta?"

Anya squirmed. "Well, American girls do not exactly wear them to high school."

Dmitri chuckled. "Of course not. Yes, of course, you can buy a dress, but I have just one stipulation."

"What?"

"You need to wear this." Dmitri smiled, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a necklace with a ruby and gold filigree firebird pendant that shone against his palm.

Anya gasped. "Oh da! It is so beautiful, as intricate as a Faberge egg. I could never!"

"Oh, my sweet daughter, yes you could. It is my gift to you for your seventeenth birthday."

"Wherever did you get something so wonderful!"

"The karzelek dwarfs of the far mines to the South, of course. Cost me an arm and an antler." Dmitri laughed heartily. "Here. Try it on, my dear." He draped the chain around Anya's neck and closed the clasp.

Anya glowed. "It is so wonderful, my favorite creature around my neck!" she exclaimed, bear-hugging her father. Dmitri lifted her off the floor and spun her around, sending her skirt belling out and billowing.

"But I picked it out," Morozko muttered, forgotten. He emptied a dustpan dejectedly into the trash. Morozko spat sparks onto the wood stove to keep the room warm. "Leshys have no taste in jewelry. They think that leaves and pine cones are earrings and that dead vines are fit for a bridal veil."

"So tell me, my dear heart, whoever is this strapping young man that asked you to the dance?" Dmitri asked.

"A man?" Morozko echoed. "Why would a witch go on a date with a man? Witches eat men! At least, that is what Baba Yaga does."

Dmitri and Anya looked at him in surprise, realizing that Morozko had been listening in the background.

"It is just Sully, Kolya!" Anya said. "He is one of my best friends. Do you not remember? We are in a few classes together this semester, and we went to the same elementary school."

"I have never heard of him."

"I have definitely mentioned him before." Anya rolled her eyes. "He is who I hang out with on the weekends."

Morozko crossed his arms. "Since when do you like boys? I thought you just flew your broom every which way on the weekend until you stumbled around like a drunk duck from wind dizziness."

"Are you serious?" Anya narrowed her forest green eyes.

"It is just, you have never even shown the slightest interest in any of the villagers here," Morozko said, perplexed. "There is that nice wizard boy I tried to introduce you to, and you completely blew him off."

"Here? They are all nechist! Who am I supposed to date, a lecherous vodyanoi from the mill pond that constantly harasses Liza?" Anya laughed. "Anyways, you have horrible taste in men, Kolya. That boy had crooked teeth along with a crooked brain and his magical prowess was punier than, well, never mind. It is impolite tosay."

"Fine, whatever. You are not supposed to date anyone, anyways. You are far too young. Wait a few centuries like I did, why don't you."

"Too young? You are delusional." Anya scoffed. "All of my friends are dating. I am a junior in high school, for crying out loud, not a stupid little kindergartener." Anya fingered her necklace self-consciously. "And I am not dating Sully, we are just going to a dance together. That is all! Dear Mother Mokosh, stop the overprotective older brother act. It is far too annoying and makes me want to stab you with my whittling knife."

"I am not overprotective," Morozko grumbled, his fair cheeks burning red. "I just worry. If a boy tries to take advantage of you, I will strip his skin and feed his carcass to Dima's hungry wolves."

"Anya has good judgment," Dmitri said, his smile warm. "I am sure any boy she chooses will be a gentleman."

"You are right, Sully is quite wonderful," Anya said. "Ooo, we have to get him a boutonnière that matches my dress and corsage."

"Kolya can take you shopping for the appropriate things this weekend, will you not?" Dmitri asked.

Morozko gawked. "Me? Dress shopping? But Liza is the one that takes Anya shopping! I am just the lowly grocery boy."

"I need Liza at hand this weekend to staff the kitchen for my annual nobleman council," Dmitri said, referring to the boyar leshys under him, all his cousins, that helped Tsar Dmitri run his kingdom.

"So I am expendable?" Morozko frowned. "What about the bathhouse?"

"Osya can attend to the banya."

Morozko's eyes shot open. "A domovoi in the banya? That is ridiculous!"

"I do not want Morozko to take me dress shopping either," Anya said. "That is embarrassing. I do not want a child of a man supervising me on a shopping trip."

Dmitri sighed, kneading his temple. "You two are something else. Like sparks combusting. I never hear the end of quarrels when you are in each other's presence."

Anya looked down at her feet. "Sorry, da. It is okay. I do not mind, as long as Kolya stays out of the dressing room."

"Why would I go in the dressing room!" Morozko burst.

Anya gave him a burning look. "You go in the banya with me."

"I belong in the banya, I am the goddamn bannik. Who else will beat you with venik and make sure you actually bathe instead of running around like a grubby pig, caked in dirt?"

"I always bathe!"

"Not when you were little. You hated baths."

Anya made an exasperated sound. "Stop treating me like I am two, you idiot."

"You will always be a child to me, mooncalf."

"Enough, the both of you," Dmitri said. "You will take her shopping, Morozko. That is the end of this discussion. Now go, I want sorely needed peace."

Anya settled under the covers that night in her small makeshift bed at the foot of Morozko's. She stared at the ceiling, her firebird feather hung from the rafters to light the room as if by slow-burning moonlight. Morozko's breathing was measured, the bannik asleep.

"Kolya?" Anya said.

"Mmm?" he stirred.

"Kolya."

"What is it?" he said, groggy.

"How do you know if you really like someone?"

Morozko rolled over under wolfskin blankets and yawned. "I do not know. I suppose there is a certain ache in your chest. A feeling of moths in the stomach: night things roused in your gut. It is a simple thing, really."

"I do not think it is as easy as you make it out to be." Anya sighed. She fluffed her pillow, seeking a comfortable position. "Have you ever liked anybody?"

Morozko exhaled heavily. "Once. I used to travel Buyan, to other kingdoms with other tsars, working at different banyas when I could, back when I had a restless heart. There was a vampir who I took a fancy too. Alina." He sighed. "I courted her at balls, we dined on roasted dove and virgin's blood, toured Moscow in all its opulence by horseback. It was perfect, for quite a while."

"What happened?"

Morozko's gaze grew distant. "I wanted to marry her. Foolish, I know. Never give your heart to a vampir. They will drain it dry and leave you wanting forevermore. Nevertheless, I proposed."

"Wow. You, tamed by a woman?"

"Well, I suppose so, but I do not quite know. Not bound enough to hold onto her, anyways. We were engaged for a while. But then - then he came. Like something from a nightmare."

"Huh? Who?"

Morozko's voice grew steely. "Kashchei the Deathless seduced her with his magic and spirited her away to his harem. I tried to win her back, but she fell under that damn koldun's spell. He promised her power, riches, her dreams incarnate, and by Mokosh, was sweet Alina always a dreamer."

Tears dotted Morozko's eyes. "I think she wanted to see his glassy palace and forests of jade, his gardens of blooming ice, where firebirds roost in jewel trees. All that matters is that I lost her, to Kashchei of the sharp teeth and frosted beauty, to the Deathless and his land of wonders." Morozko laughed bitterly. "How could a lowly bannik compete with that in a million slowly burning years?"

"That stinks," Anya said, thinking of her dear Greyback's warnings: "Never go to the deathless lands, witch girl, or it will be the end of everything you know."

Anya understood in her deepest of hearts why Morozko's fiancée had gone to the deathless lands. She also knew, too, that she would go there as well, just like Alina, but herself without Kashchei's invitation, and see the birthplace of firebirds and eat the jewel fresh fruit, if only for a few moments.

"Alina is my deepest regret. But that is a centuries old matter, deeply buried in the past. She is a shade now, if she is even alive at all, held captive in Kashchei's realm of beautiful death, dancing twisting ankle break tunes for him under swollen winter moons."

"So is Kashchei as powerful as Baba Yaga?"

"Yes. Baba Yaga and Kashchei are somewhere between the gods and the nechist."

Anya shivered. "He sounds terrible." Terrible, but somehow, alluring, to create a kingdom of such beauty...

"He is." Morozko paused, gazing up at the souls in the rafters. "I do not know how Alina met him, only that she was in my arms one night and gone come morning. I heard from the villagers that someone had seen Kashchei riding away in his caravan, carrying a girl with fiery hair. I knew that it was Alina, so I went through her things and found detailed, haunting letters from Kashchei to her, with all his wicked promises and seductions." Morozko's hands balled into fists. "But I do not want to dwell on a two hundred year old pain. You should sleep. You have school bright and early tomorrow, as always."

"Alright," Anya said, voice gentle. "But I am always here if you need to talk about it. I mean, if you ever want to. I would like to hear more about Kashchei – um, I mean, about how wicked he is, and how I should never go to his deathless lands. Not that I ever would!"

Morozko grunted, but said nothing. He settled back into bed and fell promptly asleep.

"I guess you are the strong, silent type, then?" Anya murmured, wondering at the fact that, long ago, Morozko had lost his heart to a girl, but more importantly, that Morozko's vampir lover had visited the lands Anya had always longed to see.

Sun shone through thick trees, dappling the fall leaves in light and shadow on the field outside the inn. Two women sparred: one with hair the color of rain to her ankles, the other with black hair braided to her waist. A cruel wind blew as they circled each other, their orange rubber practice knives at hand.

Liliya darted forward. Anya leaped to avoid the swift vila's blade.

"Good instincts," Liliya said. "You are holding your knife all wrong, though. You want a forward grip, with the knife handle rotated along the axis of your forearm, so that the edge faces up, not down."

Anya modified her hold on the practice knife as per Liliya's instructions. "Like this?"

Liliya smiled the tiniest bit with translucent silver lips and gave a stern nod. "Exactly."

They engaged in blows and recoils again, trading strike for strike, each dodging like a hart avoiding an arrow, trying to find the others' weakness. Anya feigned an attack and Liliya went on the defensive. Anya took advantage of Liliya's reaction, thrust her rubber blade into Liliya's silver breast, and twisted. The practice knife's tip wedged between two storm dust ribs.

Liliya's cerulean eyes widened. "You bested me? But how? I was not expecting you to learn so fast.""

Anya laughed. "Only because you taught me so well. Thanks so much for your lessons, Lilyka."

Liliya chuckled, brushing off her quick defeat. "I suppose knife play is my weak point. I am much better at archery and swordplay, one would suppose. It is not often a vila does something as closely combative as knife fighting."

"Of course. No one is as good at fencing as you, except perhaps Triglav the triple-headed warrior god himself."

The vila's wounded pride recovered at the praise. "It is due to my stern mother's years of steadfast instruction. I owe all my expertise and martial achievements to her." Liliya pocketed her practice knife and tucked her ethereal hair behind her ears. She scrutinized Anya. "I have half a mind to recruit you to my ranks now. What better way to spend your time than in your father's eternal service, protecting our – and one day far away, your own kingdom's - forest from invaders? Perhaps when you are older. It would be good to have a witch on our side. Baba Yaga does not so much pick sides as she does feast on the leftover corpses."

Anya's interest was piqued. "What kind of enemies do you usually fight, besides vila? You never talk about it at dinner."

"That is because the dinner table is no place for talk of war. Mainly, I fight vila: they are the mercenaries of Buyan, mixed in with kolduny, witches, and the occasional cherti familiar. Bears, wolves, elk, firebirds, and other denizens of warring leshys also participate in battle. On rare occasions, the leshys themselves go to war. They are, in a word, formidable, able to spy on us the size of toadstools or wage battle as tall as a fir tree."

Anya exhaled sharply. "But da is so peaceful, I cannot imagine a leshy turning his powers on the inhabitants of Buyan for warmongering."

Liliya shivered. "I nearly lost my life to a leshy tsar. You are too young to remember our seven-century long war with Dmitri's bitter brother and your unfortunate uncle, Tsar Vladimir the Bent, King of the North. He has an old rivalry with Dima, has ever since they were boys. Tsar Vladimir's cudgel buried deep in my breast, and I thought it was my end. But Dima saved me just in time before my rain blood fled me, and Baba Yaga healed me." She glanced up, pensive, at the sky. "I do not know how I lived."

Anya inhaled deeply. "That is amazing, that you survived. Thank sweet Mokosh you did."

"Yes, thank Mother Mokosh..." Liliya echoed. She touched her chest, as if remembering the wound. "But that is not the worst I have seen. I saw Kashchei war against Ivan Tsarevich, long ago, on accident. I was searching for a peasant to share my bed with, back before Moscow was little more than a muddy village, when I heard shouts from a hollow in the woods. I stumbled across King Kashchei the Deathless, fighting tooth and nail against Russia's immortal prince and official fool of all the fairytales, chaser of wish-granting firebirds and dancing princesses, Ivan Tsarevich and his gray rugged vucari of a werewolf. I had to stifle a gasp – I was so surprised to see the ruler of the deathless lands and Russia's eternal prince fighting for their lives. It is said they battle endlessly, always at each other's throats. Ivan kills Kashchei, splits the egg with his death open on the ground, and lets the golden yolk of his soul dribble out, only to have Kashchei rise again, for no one can kill the Deathless. Kashchei always lives on, in a way."

"Kashchei?" Anya echoed. She toyed with the cuff of her jacket, thinking of the deathless lands she had promised herself long ago she would visit. "He sounds like an angel of death. The Grim Reaper."

"Kashchei is death. Death with all its finality. He is the cold of the taiga, the blue of the winter sky. White as bone, with frosted skin. He can make himself beautiful to lure women into his trap, to his icy kingdom of translucent walls, jeweled fruit, and dancing princesses dressed in pale gold." Liliya led Anya inside to the kitchen and busied herself preparing lunch. "Many girls lose their heart to him, not knowing who he is. And when he reveals his identity, well, they are too far gone to let him go."

"Why does Ivan kill him, over and over again?" Anya asked, helping Liliya prepare the food – baked salmon and mashed potatoes with leeks. "I mean, what's the point?"

"Because each death is painful, and Ivan Tsarevich wants Kashchei to suffer."

Liliya made blini for an appetizer, smoothing the dough.

"Long ago, Kashchei stole Ivan's wife, Queen Maria Morevna. Ivan was mortal then, and even more foolish than he is now. Ivan the Prince, Ivan the Fool – the fairytales do not say it, but in Buyan, they are both the same, just like Jack in the English and Appalachian fairytales you used to delight in in middle school. Anyhow, back to the story – Ivan Tsarevich searched the world for his queen, traveled through thrice nine kingdoms, and finally ventured into Buyan. With Baba Yaga's help, he rescued Maria from the kingdom of the deathless, only to find she was a shade of herself. Still, he loved her as best he could, like Orpheus his dead Eurydice, but when she set foot in the mortal world, his queen turned to dust and became one of the shades of women that haunts the outskirts of the deathless lands, feasting on flesh and never ever satisfied with blood, however much is pouring down her throat."

"That is horrible," Anya said, feeling sick. Would she have to see that when she went to the deathless lands? If Greyback took her, perhaps not – he was a fearsome guardian and even fearsome hunter, with a master that seemed to know every trapping of Buyan, perhaps some kind of mystical trapper himself.

"It gets much worse," Liliya said, putting the blini pancakes onto the wood stove. "Kashchei, furious at his prized Maria's death, cursed Ivan Tsarevich with immortality, so that he would always mourn his queen's demise. He came to the prince and stole his soul, hiding it with his own inside a needle in an egg in an enchanted oak tree. Each time Ivan kills Kashchei, he also dies, only to be reborn. Each time Ivan is reborn, the memory of his queen, dearly departed Maria Morevna, fades. Ivan Tsarevich is left emptier, with the aching pain of a lost love, one whose face he cannot even place. Each time Ivan dies, he becomes more of a shade himself."

"They why does he fight, if he knows that he will continue to fade?"

"Because Ivan is stubborn, and I never said he was wise. Ivan the Fool, remember?"

Anya contemplated that, reminded of Morozko and his lost fiancé. "What do others do, when Kashchei steals their girls?"

Liliya's eyes sparked. "Did Kolya tell you about Alina? Is that why you are so curious?"

Anya blushed, looking away. "Maybe."

Liliya sighed. "Kolya still mourns Alina to this very day. But he does what we all do when we lose something to death: go on living, even though meals are bitter and their absence is like a rot. A bannik like him would never stand a chance against Kashchei, even if he is half... never mind. Anyhow, he may seem clever, but no one is clever enough to steal one of King Kaschei's girls."

Anya nodded. "So no one ever escapes from Kashchei's realm?"

Liliya side-eyed Anya. "Why would they want to? It is a place of miracles."

Her tone was a warning. An invitation to dine with danger, suck diamond pears, and dance with bloody feet under burning firebird moons.

Anya did not dare press further, though the door to her future creeped just the slightest bit wider.

Anya's haphazard family ate lunch late that Saturday, the inn beyond the world bustling in preparation for Dmitri's annual noblemen council. Leshys of all types, stout and slender, with ram's horns and boar tusks, bear teeth and wolf skins, laughed heartily over vodka and a roaring fire. Their attendants talked rowdily. The harvest was drawing close, and it was a time for celebration.

Anya's nerves were on edge: her shopping excursion with Morozko was in an hour. It could either go uneventfully or horribly, terribly wrong. She hoped for the former but anticipated the latter.

Morozko gave her a hard look across the oak-hewn dining room table but said nothing. The others finished eating, the table cleared, and it was just the two of them left. Morozko picked at the remnants of his fish while Anya slowly sipped her water.

She cleared her throat: "So. Ahem. Well... I guess we can go now."

Morozko's eyes bore into her. "Go where?"

Anya shifted in her seat. "You know. Shopping. I was thinking we could go to Paris, just for a change of scenery. My French is passable now, thanks to all my stupid language classes, and there are these adorable boutiques Liza and I go to all the time. The staff know me by name and my exact measurements. Baba Yaga is never shy, but she especially is not bashful about lending us endless cash."

Morozko sighed. "I was hoping you would forget about the dress. Forget about the dance. Forget everything having to do this this human boy."

Anya's anger flared. She touched the firebird pendant at her throat, trying to calm herself. "Why?"

Morozko's gaze was steel. "Because this boy is nothing like you. He knows nothing of who you are. If you began a relationship with him, you would have to keep this world and all you do in it an absolute secret. You would be much better off fooling around with one of the village youths and not taking a serious lover until you are older and more experienced and snore much less. You are too young for commitment to someone you can only reveal parts of yourself to."

"Kolya, Jesus! I am not going to marry Sully. Just dance with him and maybe drink some punch. What is it with the gigantic chip on your shoulder? And like hell am I fooling around with a nechist." She looked at the floor. "I do no even want to talk about that kind of stuff with you. It is far too embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Changing your diapers was embarrassing. Teaching you how to use the toilet was embarrassing. Do you think I give a damn who you like or what you do with them?" Morozko cut his sturgeon, stabbed it with his fork, and brought it to his mouth in a stubborn bite. "This boy is a stupid idea, just you wait and see," he grumbled, mouth full. Bits of white fish flesh caught on his fangs and dripped into his lap. Morozko cursed.

"No he is not! A stupid idea, I mean. Sully is just a friend, nothing more."

"Hah! You told Dmitri you liked him. That you practically became a cheerleader for him. And guess who will have to sweep up the slivers of your heart into an ashtray once this blows over, morsel? Yours truly."

"Why are you so dead-set on this date ending badly?" Anya said. "Why do you always have a death wish for my love life!" She slammed her cup onto the table.

"Because I am trying to spare you the pain and misery of love never gained, just lost."

Anya glared. "Just because you have oversized emotional baggage that would never fit through an airport terminal does not mean you can dictate my romantic life. This is none of your business, Kolya, straightly put. I do not need your stupid protection, and I definitely do not need your overkill advice."

"I do not have emotional baggage." Morozko's lips drew thin. "And do you not think my age and experience merit at least the little tiniest bit of wisdom that a teenager such as yourself could heed?"

"Oh yes, you do – duffel bag sized emotional baggage." Anya scoffed, tying her long black hair back out of her face. "And 'wise' is not a word I wouldd ever use to describe you. 'Stuck up,' yes, 'know it all' too. But never 'wise.'"

Morozko let his fork clatter to his plate. He shoved the table away from him and rose. "Insult me all you want, but this will end badly for the both of us." His temple throbbed.

"This has nothing to do with you!" Anya said. "Just because you are obsessed with me and every single little thing I do does not mean you have a say in every aspect of my life."

"Obsessed? Please. You are about as interesting as a flea. The only reason I am remotely concerned is because I have to deal with the fallout. Not dear Dmitri, me. Whose the one that has experienced affairs of the heart outside the realm of Tolstoy, anyways!"

"You are too obsessed!" Anya crossed her arms, biting her lower lip as she fumed. "You are always trying to dictate my choices. I bet you will not even let me pick out the dress myself. You will make me wear some ugly atrocious bag with ruffles that barely shows any skin at all and makes me look like a lumpy bag of salt."

"Ruffles? Why do you always talk out of your ass? You are like the village idiot's backside that was suddenly given the gift of speech." Morozko slammed his chair into the table. The sturgeon, knocked by the collision, fell to the floor in a sturgeony smelling mess. "I do not at all care what you wear to the accursed demon dance. You can go in a thong and bustier. That would suit your crudeness."

"A talking ass?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Screw you!" Anya threw her plate at him. He caught it easily. "You are cruel, and all you care about is your own steaming skeleton. I am going shopping by myself. I do not want anything to do with you!"

"You cannot even drive, mooncalf."

"Baba Yaga's cars do not even need a driver! They are eldritch familiars."

"And what if you get pulled over? I do not very well think the cops would be pleased with a license-less teen behind the wheel."

Anya stomped out of the kitchen, into the harsh fall weather to her room in the banya.

"Anya?" Morozko called, muttering darkly.

She did not respond.

"Son of Chernobog."

He found her on her small rickety bed, angry tears flowing down her cheeks as she stubbornly stared at the wall, her bed rocking on its stubby uneven legs in time with her quiet heaving.

"Go away," Anya choked. "I hate you!"

The sight of her in tears was like a blunt sword edge blow to Morozko's chest. The steam in his rib cage roiled. "Annushka, I did not mean what I said. I rarely do. You know that. You have to know that." He sank onto the bed beside her, unsure. "Anya, are you even listening? I am trying to say that I am sorry-"

"Then why do you say such mean things? Why do you mock and belittle me?"

Morozko put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. The banya heat his body gave off made her instinctively relax. "Because you make me feel vulnerable," he said, running his fingers through her ponytail.

Anya bit back tears. "You are bitter. I know that." She brushed his hand away from her hair. "You think that because you were hurt by your relationship, we will all suffer the same fate. But that is just not true, Kolya. Sometimes love is sweet, kind, even, and I would very much like to know what it is like."

Morozko dabbed at her tears with his sleeve. "Can you forgive me, then, for my mulish stubbornness?"

"Of course. I always do." Anya exhaled as she leaned against the soft fur lining of his kaftan. She traced the kaftan's clasps. "I just wish you were not always so harsh. I know you, and I know that under your prickly exterior, you are quite kind. But you hide that kindness, afraid that others will abuse it. You have a bitter family past, and though you will not tell me about it, I suspect you did not get along so well with your paternal figure, just as you clash with da."

Morozko's mouth set into a hard line. He squeezed her close. "Your insight will get you into trouble someday."

Anya laughed. "Ouch! You are crushing me, Kolya!"

Morozko loosened his grip. "So what? I will never ever let you go. You are my charge from this day until eternity."

"What does that even mean?" The room was toasty, lit by autumn light, with the firebird feather suspended in the rafters and Kolya's trespassing ancient human souls strung from the ceiling like round paper lanterns.

"It means that I carried you through the blizzard. It means that I am irrevocably bound to you. Did you know that I carry the Alkonost mirror that shows your face in my pocket and watch you, every day, at school? That you are the first thing I think of upon waking and last thing I dwell on at night? 'Is Anya doing well?' I wonder. 'Is she safe?' 'What will become of her?'" Morozko smiled. "When I held you, I saw crimson on snow. That is why I am always hesitant. Because you have blood in your future, a difficult path to walk, tricky as the shadow of Kaschei's death. And we are all inevitably tied up in it – Osya, Dima, Lilya, Liza, even me. We are family. In the end, you will always be ours."

"Oh Kolya. Of course there is blood in my future. I am a witch. Our paths are paved in struggle." Anya's eyes shone with excitement. "You think I have not dreamed about it for, well, forever?" she asked. The deathless lands were a glow on the horizon of her mind, but that she kept quiet, choosing something more palatable: "Dreamed of going on adventures with my familiars and traveling the world like you did? All I have known, all my life, has just been a sliver of Buyan - da's forest, Baba Yaga's hut, nothing more. I do not care if the path I walk has pain, because I know its excitement will outweigh that pain by a million diamond shards."

She rose from the bed, pulling Morozko hastily after her.

Morozko looked at her skeptically. "Have you not any care for caution? For consequences? There are monsters out there, cherti familiars and vucari and nechist waiting to devour you. Do not romanticize travel. It is a dangerous undertaking – getting lost, having your horse broken, your money stolen – everything about it, why, it is treacherous." Morozko changed out of his kaftan into red jeans and a white cashmere sweater with embroidery of horse-backed Perun and Veles, flanking Mother Mokosh. He turned from Anya to give them privacy.

Anya laced her combat boots over her leggings. "Oh please. You said you had a restless heart. Well, your fern flower juice infected me with wanderlust." Anya zipped her leather jacket. "If you are really so worried, you can be my sidekick. I will promote you to second in command."

"Sidekick? Really?" he said. "Pfft!"

"Yes! You can do the boring things, like finding hostels, planning meals, and above all getting directions."

Morozko buttoned his black messenger jacket. "And I imagine you'll do the heroic things, like rescue tsarevnas from Zmei Gorynych the three-headed dragon of Russian fairytales and slay Nightingale the Robber, famous bandit of the wild woods whose whistling can kill a whole flock of geese?"

"Nightingale is still around? I thought my favorite boyar knight Ilya Muromets killed him centuries ago!"

Morozko smiled, smoothing his sweater. "There are many Robbers. The original Nightingale had a whole brood of them. They still terrorize the depths of the woods, which is another reason why I am rather reluctant to let you travel. There is no telling who you will find on winding forest paths, whether man, god, monster, or something in between..."

"You worry too much. Adventures are all about having fun. And I am only going to go on them when I am a much better witch. Nightingales and dragons will be no match for me then." Anya grabbed her purse and made for the door. "But enough about the future. Come on, let us go! I have a killer dress to find."

Morozko sighed. "Alright, alright, I am coming, bunny queen. Hop to it, I suppose."

They made their way to the winding forest road edged by ferns and herbs. It smelt of last night's rain.

Morozko whistled. The gallop of hooves approached. Baba Yaga's mare familiar, the horse cherti Solntse, whose coat was reddish-brown like the sun, arrived. She neighed.

"Good girl," Anya said, running her hands down the horse's thick blonde mane.

"Baba Yaga's familiars always arrive like clockwork," Morozko said, mounting Solntse. Anya followed, her arms twined tight round Morozko's waist. They set off at a canter.

"Babushka's familiars are so beautiful," Anya sighed. "I hope mine is just as impressive. Something powerful, beautiful, even."

They rode through thick, dark woods, the north wind blowing cruelly down on them. Morozko thought for a second of his grandfather, Father Frost, but only a second – no more.

"The amount of crap they produce isn't," Morozko said. "Once, I had to muck their stables all night."

Anya laughed. "Baba Yaga told me. You were screwing around with a girl and came back late to babushka's house. She offered you a kiss of forgiveness, but you refused. So she made you clean the stables of her familiars."

"It was, in a word, disgusting," Morozko said, lips curling. "I have never seen such a filthy place in all my days, except of course for your play pen. Thank god you got over your all-consuming obsession with rapidly multiplying rabbits."

Anya looked at the ground. "My poor bunnies. They did not last long, did they...."

"Do not remind me, please. Winter came and they all croaked. We had to have a separate funeral for each one. You had me give a sermon for each rabbit. It was hell. A brutal hell."

A light snow began to fall, flakes catching in their jackets. They arrived at Baba Yaga's hut. It rose, imposing, over the woods. Anya and Morozko dismounted. Morozko patted Solntse on the rump.

"Hut, hut, turn your back to the forest and your face to me," Anya called. The hut creaked, knobby-kneed legs pivoting so the porch faced them. Baba Yaga sat in a rocking chair, smoking her usual pipe.

"And what have we here? A girl and a bannik come to visit their babushka. What is it you seek?" Baba Yaga watched the falling white coat her skeleton fence. "The snow is good for my bones." She wrapped her shawl tight round her shoulders. "It freezes my marrow and makes me feel young again, hah!"

"Were you ever young, babushka?" Anya asked.

"Of course I was!" Baba Yaga inhaled the rich smoke of her pipe, then blew it out in rings. The crags on her face told stories. "When Buyan was formed, I was but a child. My mother was the mountains and my father was the sky. I was the outcome of an impossible love, born between the air and the earth, a pink new thing swaddled in clouds. My mother wept rivers at my birth and my father rained oceans. They shaped Russia with their joy at my arrival, carving forests into the land to give me safe harbor. I grew up in the wild woods, back when everything was untamed and the gods still walked the Earth."

Anya listened, rapt, while Morozko glanced at his watch.

"But that is a story for another time." Baba Yaga chuckled. "Tell me, witch-daughter, why have you come to my hut?"

"Oh, right." Anya perked up. "Well, I was hoping we could go shopping."

"Are the clothes I have given you not enough, little bird?"

"It is not that," Anya said. "It is just that there is a formal dance at my school, and I have nothing to wear but sarafans."

"Hah! You are growing up, I suppose. Little hut, little hut, lean down and receive these guests."

The rickety hut bent down, accepting Morozko and Anya.

"Little hut, little hut, turn your back to this world and your face to the realm of man."

The hut obliged, transforming into a nondescript white-picket fenced two-story tucked into deciduous Virginian woods. Autumn lit the forest, the spice of the ground quite different from the crispness of Buyan.

Baba Yaga, too, had changed into a kindly grandmother with spectacles and a silver and birch cane. She scrutinized Morozko, who had his hands tucked into his pockets and his face turned away. "Soap shavings, smile," Baba Yaga said. "You look like you have swallowed the plague, Kolya. What dampens your fiery gullet?"

"What?" Morozko asked suddenly, quickly snapping out of his reverie.

Anya laughed. "You are out of it, Kolya!"

"Oh. Well, I was just thinking," Morozko said. "About the gods you mentioned. In all my travels, I have never met them, and I have met King Kashchei the Deathless, who is elusive as the beard of a woman. Where are they, and why have you, Baba Yaga, and King Kaschei stuck around when they have abandoned Buyan? Does Mokosh truly sleep at the base of the Tree of Life, waiting to be awakened by a brave hero? Does Veles really have a biker bar in Siberia? My mother always used to joke that was how he made his second living-"

Baba Yaga clicked her teeth. "Do not question the gods. That is the mightiest bit of wisdom a resident of Buyan can have." She wiggled her bare toes. "As for me, I like entertainment, and I find you lot highly entertaining, capital comedy indeed. Nechist amuse me, especially leshys that make love to books instead of wood wives and banniks that do not know their place. Now, off with the both of you. I have business to attend to on Capitol Hill in the nation that is the Soviet's greatest enemy. Perhaps I will assassinate the President while I am there and do old Mother Russia a favor, hah!"

"Try to stay out of trouble, babushka," Anya laughed.

Morozko and Anya bid Baba Yaga farewell and climbed inside Solntse, who had transformed into an antique red Firebird. The engine revved up and the car took off down the gravel driveway.

"Where are we going?" Morozko asked.

"I was thinking we could go to Georgetown's shops. It is right inside D.C.. Hear that, Solntse?" The engine purred.

"Sounds good," Morozko said, relaxing in the driver's seat. He popped open the glovebox and withdrew the perpetual supply of cash that was stashed there, tucking some into his pocket. The car thundered through the wooded suburbs, past strip malls and parks, and wound up on Interstate 66. The road was heavy with traffic, and the red Firebird stood out like a sore thumb.

Solntse wove in and out of the cars, engine nearly neighing as the car exulted in the feel of wind on its hood. Anya thumbed through a fashion magazine she had found on the floor while Morozko listened to NPR. Soon, they were on the Beltway that circled America's Capitol, crowded by trucks and commuters in a frenzy of cars. It was a great ouroboros, never-ending as the lanes swallowed one another and looped back on themselves.

They arrived at Georgetown's line of resplendent shops. Solnste parked in a private garage and the doors opened of their own accord. Anya hopped out, her footsteps light. Morozko carried himself with hesitance.

"Cheer up," Anya said, stepping onto the sidewalk. "This will be fun. We can get those hot pretzels you love from a stand."

Morozko shrugged.

"I am sure it will not take long to find something."

Morozko held open the glass door for Anya.

"Should we try that store first?" Anya asked.

"We can go wherever you like."

"Okay," Anya said. They entered the airy street of commerce. Shops in brilliant colors spilled like jewels before them. "Sweet Mother Mokosh, there are so many places," Anya said. She closed her eyes, spun around, and pointed her finger at random at one. "Okay. Let us go in there, it looks the most promising."

"Alright then," Morozko said, following her like a shadow. They wound through the dense crowd to the store. It was pricy, with designer labels like Chanel, Gucci, Versace and Alexander McQueen, but money was no problem when you could enchant it out of twigs and leaves.

Anya buried herself in the aisles, darting to and fro between the dresses. "Kolya, look. Is this amazing or what?" she asked, holding an ivory silk dress with lace-like needlepoint blue accents in patterns like dripping icicles.

Morozko fingered the soft fabric. "It is poetic, like a Pushkin poem," he said. "Like shadows on snow." Morozko smiled, holding the hanger. His face was bemused. "You should try it on."

Anya made her way to the dressing room. Morozko waited outside, his eyes lingering on a mannequin in a silk kimono.

Anya soon emerged, cheeks flushed in embarrassment as she held the unzipped back of the dress together. "Can you zip me up?" she said, suppressing excitement but still unsure.

Morozko obliged, snickering. "Perhaps you are getting too well-fed like one of Baba Yaga's stock chickens."

"Shut up Kolya, you louse! You are the one that eats like a pig, not me, I eat like a bird. A firebird."

Anya stepped away from him. She tucked black hair tangles behind her ear. It fell in long locks to her slim waist, framing her heart-shaped face. "Well then, what do you think?"

The dress fit Anya like a siren song, alluring and deadly. The neckline framed her small breasts, only to end in flowing elegance below her shapely hips.

A fire stirred in the pit of Morozko's stomach, and he felt his throat grow hot, sparks on his tongue. "It \- it suits you," he said, breath steaming. What in the hell was wrong with him? Was he having an allergic reaction to high fashion? Was Anya annoying him so much he was going to boil over like a volcano?

Anya tilted her head to the side. "That is it? It is not too much? You do not think the blue lace and freshwater pearl snowdrops are overkill, do you?"

Oh shit. Morozko thought. Am I attracted to her? Impossible!

He cursed the day he was born in the snowy wastes of Ded Moroz's kingdom, quite uncomfortable, and appraised her.

Morozko wanted to tell her that the dress made her look deadly. She was a witch, he realized, enchanting and terribly beautiful, so far from the girl he knew. He had the strangest attraction and repulsion at the exact same time and felt quite ill, like a vicious hangover from a night spent flirting at a bar.

Morozko was, in a word, lost.

"Well, Kolya?" Anya looked at her feet, embarrassed.

"This boy will lose his heart to you," Morozko finally said. "And you will swallow him whole."

Anya laughed uneasily. "I will take that as a compliment, I suppose." She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled hesitantly. "I think I am quite in love with this beautiful dress – I have never owned anything so fine, save my firebird necklace," she whispered, touching the mercury of the mirror's surface.

Morozko reached out with long fingers, placing his hand on her shoulder. He cursed inwardly.

Anya quirked her head to see him. "Are you okay? You look like you have seen the ghost of Maria Morevna."

"I have – I mean, no! I have not. Absolutely no ghosts, I am fine," he muttered all at once, brushing his shoulder of imaginary dirt. "It is just... that well, uh, you look, um, lovely." He coughed, pulling his collar loose as his throat steamed, nearly whistling like a boiling tea kettle. What in thrice nine kingdoms was happening!

"Aww, thank you, Kolya," Anya said, hugging him. She stood on her tip-toes to reach his face and planted a kiss on his cheek. "See, you can be sweet."

Morozko gaped. "You kissed me?" He touched the spot where her lips had grazed him as if touching a new wound.

Anya laughed. "I kiss da all the time. Why is this any different?"

"But you never kiss me, just slap me or throw forks at my head!"

"Because you are as prickly as a cactus. I am quite afraid that I will get poked!" Anya laughed, letting Morozko go. She twirled once, twice, then three times, admiring herself in the mirror all the while as the skirt of her dress belled out. "I will be out in a second," Anya called in a sing song voice. She darted into the dressing room like a sparrow hawk diving for prey.

"Morena's frost, whatever is wrong with me? Did I drink bad vodka last night?" Morozko said through gritted teeth. He looked at himself in the mirror: he was frazzled, his platinum hair mussed, eyes like lakes on the verge of freezing. He smoothed his hair, collecting himself. "It is just little idiot Anya," he muttered. "Just the mooncalf. So what if she is beautiful? It does not change a thing. She is still incorrigible, stubborn, and a pain in my immortal ass! I should hate her for becoming pretty just to spite me!"

"Kolya, are you talking to yourself again? You know it annoys me when you do that." Anya emerged from the dressing room, bright-eyed and chipper. "Can you believe I found a dress on my very first try? What kind of luck is that? A witch's luck, I tell you. Maybe this whole store is enchanted by Coco Chanel."

Morozko fought down the churning fire in his stomach. He looked at her, wondering if the dress was the culprit for such a reaction. Was it maybe allergies? Perhaps alcohol? Could he be hallucinating maybe?

But no, even dressed down, Anya was still gorgeous, albeit in a sharp, unconventional way, like a sword that had been turned into a woman.

How had he never noticed? He remembered the stunning girl he had seen in his vision, sixteen years ago. Of course it was her. He had known Anya would blossom into beauty - the slivers of the future had told him so. Then why had it taken him by surprise? He should have paid less attention to beer bottles and vodka shot glasses and more attention to the cheerleading hellion he had raised.

"Kolya? Kolya. Morozko! You are completely zoning out." Anya waved her hand in front of his face. She frowned, brows knitting together.

More importantly, what was he going to do? He lived with Anya, this witch (and sometimes another word that started with a b and rhymed), shared quarters with her, quarreled with her on a daily basis only to have their constant fights broken up by Dima. He knew Anya's every intricacy, all her flaws, how she snored like a foghorn and drooled on the pillow like Niagara Falls. He was pretty sure Anya had sleep Anya He loved her like she was his dancing monkey that cut purses. An ugly canary that sang quite beautifully. A penguin in a bellboy outfit that juggled luggage. Quite a silly pet, but useful for lightening the mood, with hidden potential and utility.

So why was her smile like a trap? And could he ever even begin to take her, the mooncalf, seriously?

"You look sick," Anya said. "Just stay here, okay? I will go pay for the dress. Then we can take you to Baba Yaga's and figure out whatever is wrong with you."

Morozko said nothing. He just stood still, currently neck-deep in confusion and drowning slowly but surely into disarray. Anya reached into his pocket and withdrew the wad of cash. He drew back at her touch, craning his neck to watch her go.

"Damn it," the bannik said, kneading his brow. "Pull yourself together, comrade. It is just the brat. Just... Anya... right?" He wandered in a coughing fit through the aisles, finally stumbling upon the cash register. His throat was steaming, burning, his insides a sauna, and he felt like his whole body had a fever. Anya flitted over, bag at hand.

"I will carry that." Morozko choked and grabbed the bag from Anya.

Anya's smile faltered. "Okay then, it is all yours, jerk. I knew you would be a pill if I took you shopping!"

Morozko grunted and walked quickly out of the boutique without looking to see if she followed.

Anya ran to catch up. "What is your problem? Are you really that upset that I am going to this stupid dance, or are you just extremely sick?"

"No, and maybe. I do not even know, not really."

"Then why are you acting like a prick? You always get moody when you are sick, I suppose I must remember that and not be harsh in turn. That must be it. I am sorry for getting mad. We will be at babushka's soon. One of her potions ought to do the trick! I could even brew it for you. My magic is getting stronger."

"I certainly do not need one of her disgusting potions. They are all bitter as winter and smell like feet."

They entered the private garage, searching for where they had parked. Anya and Morozko found the car waiting for them in a closer spot. The locks clicked open and they climbed inside.

"Well, if you are not sick, and it is not about the dance, then why are you acting so weird?"

Dear gods, have mercy on me, Morozko thought. I know! I will tell her the truth, or at least part of it. That should get her to shut up.

"Because, Anya," Morozko said, pained. "You are almost a woman, and I do not know how I feel about that."

He looked at her with cut-glass eyes.

Whoops, Morozko thought.

She flinched.

"Jesus Christ, I am just turning seventeen, not ending the Cold War with a strategically placed atom bomb." She shifted, uncomfortable. "Does it feel like you cannot breathe in here?" Anya pulled at the collar of her jacket. "I am opening up the window, that should do it!" she declared.

Bitter air slipped through the crack in the glass. She touched the firebird pendant at her neck for reassurance. "Anyways, it is not like I will forget you when I am older. You are my family. My first mate aboard my witch ship. My sidekick. Remember?"

"I remember everything you have ever said, now please, shut up, and let me sleep this sickness off," Morozko said. Instead of closing his eyes, he stared straight ahead, unyielding.

Anya hesitated, hurt, but not quite sure what to do. "I would kill for a memory like that," Anya finally said.

She felt trapped inside the car like it was a steel and glass cage. Anya fished the fashion magazine from the ground to distract herself, sneaking glances at Morozko every few moments.

He continued staring out the window until finally, he fell asleep. Unlike Anya, he did not snore, just breathed out steam in his sleep.

Anya's birthday dawned with much celebration, the entire kingdom coming out into the streets. Dmitri threw a festival in her honor, replete with the finest caviar and buttery champagne and parades through the streets. The only one who seemed to not enjoy it was Morozko, who insisted he was sick and skipped out on the festivities. Anya was quite irritated that her guardian had skipped out on the grand festivities.

Their family gathered that morning in the rose garden outside the ramshackle library's bay window to bless Anya. They passed around a horn of vodka and poured it onto the ground, praising the gods one by one and asking for their gifts to be bestowed upon Dmitri's precious Anya. The carved hollow ram horn came to Anya at last.

She looked to the rising sun, held the horn high, and said a prayer.

"Mother Mokosh, Father Perun, Uncle Veles, let my dreams know fruition. Let my wanderings be true. Let me find the strength to go beyond the sunset, past thrice nine kingdoms, to the place where my heart belongs. Hail!"

She emptied the last of the vodka onto the ground, not daring tell anyone that she was speaking of the deathless lands.

They broke bread later that night at the end of Anya's birthday with Tsar Vladimir the Bent, Dmitri's ornery brother, and his rail thin wood wives and their crying dirty children. It had been a dutiful invitation to her uncle, and to the family's surprise, Tsar Vladimir had actually come.

The leshonky begged Anya for scraps. "Please, feed us more! The bread is like manna from heaven, or at least, what we imagine manna to be. Our mothers do not cook, just give us rotting mushrooms and wilted leaves for dinner. It has been years since we last visited and had a proper meal."

Anya felt sorry for the neglected children, so unlike her upbringing with her attentive da and doting Elizaveta and Osya, and later that night, before she went to sleep, she wandered to Dmitri's favorite reading corner in the library, only to find Tsar Vladimir's wood wives scouring the pages of novels and licking the books spines, eating the beetles and bookworms only to cough up the crushed bugs as their throats were stuffed with nightingale down, sticks, and river pebbles.

They set down the books in tandem and turned on creaking limbs to Anya, their blind gray eyes somehow fixing on her in the library's darkness.

Anya's heart dropped to the bottom of her groin. "Hello, aunts?"

Their tongues lolled, and they began to dance on broken ankles.

"Au- aunts, are you alright?"

They sang:

"You speak to the woods, child. You speak to the dead. In a few months' time you will die, too, and join us rank and file in a coffin of eggshell. In a few months' time you will trade your witch-fire for a crown of corpses. In a few months' time you will be so far gone from here, so changed beyond recognition, that your name will no longer belong to you. Tread carefully on the forest paths. Do not trust the woman you are closest too. We are the woods, and we warn you."

With that the wood wives curled up on the ground, rooted into the floor, and slept like stones.

Anya rushed back to her room in the banya, stifling a scream. Morozko was fast asleep.

In the morning she awoke with little memory of what had transpired, and if it had even happened – a prophecy from her uncle's living trees of women, carrion kept alive by wood beetles and mossy fog in their brains – it must have been a dream.

Birthday over, the night of Anya's dance soon loomed over the inn. During the week leading up to it, Morozko was distant, keeping Anya at arm's length and only addressing her when necessary. He was brusque in manner, his sentences short and blunt, and a weighty silence hung between them as they lay down to sleep each night.

Anya tossed and turned the night before Homecoming, the calls of Dmitri's wolves keeping her up. She stuffed a pillow over her head. The howls still echoed, like mourners bewailing the moon.

Her bed springs groaned as she rolled over and over again, restless. Morozko stared bleary-eyed at the rafters.

"Quit moving. I am trying to sleep, damn it, not listen to a symphony of an insomniac," he finally grunted.

"Sorry. It is just da's wolves. Why are they so active tonight?"

"It is the full moon tonight. Perhaps that is what drove you to restlessness, too. You are far too sensitive. Like the princess with the pea, kept awake by the slightest thing, even if it is just a full glass of moonlight." Morozko groaned as Anya's bed springs squeaked. "Please, for the love of Mother Mokosh, sleep mooncalf. I will sing a lullabye to you if you need it."

"I am trying, Kolya! You have been nothing but short with me lately, shorter than usual, and that is saying something."

"I know... there is a reason for it – never mind." Morozko sighed. "Perhaps your discomfort is not the moonlight. Are you nervous about Homecoming tomorrow? That would make sense. I forgot that damnable dance was happening."

"Yes. I just do not know where I stand with my date. Sully, I mean – he had a name you know." Anya gazed out the window onto snowy firs. "For example, does this make us official sweethearts? Is he interested in me beyond the dance? Beyond a curious kiss, perhaps a glass of shared champagne snuck under the bleachers? It is all so strange to me, this feeling of – of wanting something. Specifically, someone, so much you burn."

Hah, Morozko thought. Anya, you know nothing of burning with want. He saw the curve of her neck and trembled, wondering how it would feel cupped in his hands, against his lips – no, never, never. He had to stop.

Morozko cleared his throat. "My advice is not to worry. Enjoy yourself. You are only seventeen - revel in it. Youth is fleeting. You will only be this age once, Annushka." Morozko sat up and stretched, dressed in loose-fitting pants. The covers fell from his body, exposing his chest. He yawned, white hair spilling over his shoulders. "Anyways, even if the worst case scenario happens, I will always be here for you."

"Not the overprotective brother act again. It is so sweet it is saccharine, and a time worn cliché."

Morozko did not meet her eyes. "If anyone hurts you," he said softly, "they will have hell to pay. Especially a boy you have taken a liking to. I should have locked you in a cage as a baby on my dresser and used you as a coat hanger all along."

Anya laughed wildly, appalled. "God, you are ridiculous!"

"I mean it," Morozko said quietly. "Everything but the coat hanger. Anya, I – I - I would go to the ends of Buyan for you." Morozko looked up at the firebird feather lighting the room. "You once said that I was heartless-"

"I did not mean that, Kolya. You really do remember every word I have said. I was young and rash and stupid."

"No, listen. I have a point to make. You said I was heartless. You were right, but you were also wrong. There is no heart in my chest – I am all fire and steam. But I found my heart, seventeen years ago. It is, however much I hate to admit it, you." Morozko touched his breast. He dared not look at Anya, but it felt like a load that had been placed on his shoulders – since the very moment he realized she was a woman – had been lifted. "You are my softness. My moral compass, always pointing North to the deathless lands and firebird jewel roosts. But I do not know what it means to have a witch for a heart. I am afraid you will crush me, Annushka. That - that I will, well I will turn into steam in your hands."

Anya startled. "You do not mean that, any of this, Kolya," Anya whispered, set off-kilter by the gravity of his words. She clenched her sheets. "You cannot."

"I know, but I do. Mean it, I – ugh, never mind."

"I would never hurt you!" Her eyes were round globes in the darkness.

Morozko sat at the foot of his bed, so close to her. He could feel her strained breathing hot on his cheeks. He laughed, a strained sound, like meat through a grinder. "You already have hurt me beyond repair. Damaged me so much I do not recognize myself in the mirror without seeing your form in my eyes. Is this what enchantment is like? What curse did you cast on me, Anya?"

"No, I never – what are you talking about?"

A low sound escaped Morozko's throat. He wanted to sing and scream all at once, boil over and whistle like a tea kettle. To escape into – into?

"Kolya?"

He felt like he was being hunted. So this was what his playthings felt like in his arms.

"Kolya? Answer me. Stop being so overdramatic and- and- you are scaring me!"

Morozko pressed his lips to hers.

"Mmm?"

She, thoughtless, returned the kiss. Their lips danced against each other, shy, light flutterings.

What am I doing? Anya thought. The spice of Morozko's aftershave mixed with the fiery scent of the bannik, and the smells rushed like a tide against her. He tasted hot, like cinnamon gum or peppers in a curry sauce at Liliya's favorite Thai restaurant, and she could feel the sparks build in his throat. A bathhouse spirit indeed.

Morozko wrapped his arms round her. He ran his hands through her hair. "Annushka," he murmured. He trailed his lips down her cheek to the nook under her jawbone. Anya dug her hands into Morozko's shoulder blades.

He worked her neck with his mouth, moving down to the hollow under her throat, out along her collarbone, tracing his fangs across her. Her breaths became shallow as Morozko guided her onto her back.

"Anya?" he said.

"What?" she exhaled. "What are we doing? What do you want? I do not think I can give you back your heart if I have become it."

"I have no idea what I am doing. I never, ever thought, not in all my year," he said, "that I would lose my heart to a witch. I can taste the magic in your blood. It flows through your soul like wine. But for some reason, you are stronger than a witch. More potent. I think Baba Yaga has kept what you are from us. But I do not really want to know what you have been, or will be. All I care about is who you are now. And who you are scares me beyond belief, more than Baba Yaga's hut, more than Alina in King Kashchei's arms, more than Chernobog's black rotting heart. You scare me so much I am in love."

"Mother Mokosh, It's just me."

"When I saw you in that dress of snow and pearls, I remembered Baba Yaga's warning: that you would bring me pain. I have been scared of you your whole life, running you're your witch fire's shadow, frightened by what you could do and who you would become. But I cannot keep running away whenever you – whenever you try to get close. I would rather be slain by the sword of your wit and magic than keep holding you at arm's length, never fully knowing you."

"What a speech, gosh." Anya drew back from Morozko. She sat atop her pillows, a deer in the headlights – one running straight towards a truck to die with intention. "You were scared of me? That is beyond stupid." A tricky glint flashed in her eyes. "How dare you steal my first kiss," Anya said, pulling his ear.

He batted her hand away. "What the hell are you doing? I just poured out my deepest secrets to you and you mock me!"

"You are greedy, you deserve it."

She tackled him. Surprised, he fell onto his back.

Anya continued: "You eat my blini when I am not looking, you suck down souls and blood like they are ambrosia, and you take what you want from the world," she carried on. "The minute I show interest in someone else, you start acting out, then decide you want me for your own!"

"Annushka?"

Anya smirked. She pressed her mouth to his and nibbled his bottom lip.

Morozko groaned, hips thrusting upward instinctively. She just laughed.

Anya's eyes blazed. "You are greedy. But I will never be yours. I am no firebird, and you are no Ivan Tsarevich. I belong to the woods."

Morozko shuddered - steam rose from his mouth. "I know that," he said. "Witches belong to no one but Mother Mokosh's dewy breast. You will never be all mine."

"Yet still, you want me?" she teased.

He coughed down sparks. "I would – I would die for you. I think I may already have"

"Those are mighty words for a grumpy bannik." Steam swirled around her. "Mokosh, you have made this room so hot. Baba Yaga taught me that men are for devouring. I could consume you," she joked.

"You already have. I am a samovar, set out just for you. Pour me out and I will be nothing," Morozko said. He slid his hands down her back. "When did you become so beautiful?"

Anya curled against him. "Mmm, I dunno? When you stopped being so stupid. Gosh, your skin is so warm. It is quite nice, actually. You are like summer in winter."

Morozko pulled the covers over them, cradling her. She twined her fingers through his hair.

"What will I tell Sully? That you stole me?"

Morozko bared his fangs at the mere mention of the boy. "That Baba Yaga can eat him."

"Umm, how about no. I will dial him up and sorrowfully tell him that I have fallen sick."

"Good. Because you are not going to school tomorrow. I am taking you someplace much more exciting than high school."

Anya rolled over, facing him. "Oh really?"

"Yes." Morozko grinned. "As to where – that is a secret best left for sunrise."

Anya's alarm sounded bright and early. She awoke, groggy, and yawned, wiping away the sleep-sand that had accumulated in her eyes.

"Wha?" she said, feeling a body against her. She looked down to see Morozko asleep beside her, his arms wrapped round her waist. "Huh? What in thrice nine kingdoms?"

Morozko stirred. "Go back to sleep." He grunted.

"Why are you in my bed?"

Morozko looked at her with cut-glass eyes. "Don't you remember last night?" he said.

"Of course I do. We argued over the dance and... oh. Right." Anya blushed. "You kissed me?"

"Absolutely." Morozko grinned like the Devil. "And I will do it again, to remind you that you liked it."

"No! Do not even lay a finger on me. Kolya, please, just give me a minute. I need space, and you are squishing me." She pulled away from him, her back against the wall. "This is all too fast."

Morozko faltered. "You are right. I do not want to pressure you." He smoothed his pants of imaginary dust.

"You did not pressure me - I just - I was impulsive, last night. Teenage hormones, you know? But it is very strange to – to kiss you, and definitely forbidden by da. You raised me, I mean." Anya reached out and took his hand. "I like you a lot. I just do not know how."

"That is fine, Anya," Morozko said, too quickly. He grinded his teeth. "If you would just - consider me. In a different light, I suppose. Ugh, I do not know what I am saying! This was all a curse, a celestial mistake-"

"Kiss me again."

"Wha- What?"

"Kiss me."

Morozko obliged.

"Oh-kay," she said, breathless. "I definitely do not like you like a brother."

"Really?"

"Yes. But we absolutely cannot tell the family. Whatever would they think?"

Morozko laughed roughly. "They would not approve, that is for sure. This is a matter best kept between you and me. Dima would be furious at me being in love with his daughter."

"Love?..." Anya's eyes widened like a frog caught in an owl's beak. "You are right. Whatever have we done?"

"It was inevitable," Morozko said, stroking her coal black hair. "I saw it when I held you, sixteen years ago - that I would lose my heart to you. I have just spent a decade and a half denying it. But Baba Yaga will understand. She was the one who warned me about losing my heart to a witch." Morozko smiled. "Do not break me too quickly, Annushka."

"I would never do that," Anya said. She lounged beside Morozko. He finger-combed her hair and set to plaiting it. "Where do we go from here?"

"Do not move. I am braiding your hair, like I used to. It is always a rat's nest when you fix it yourself."

"Chernobog's black heart, thanks for nothing," she said. "Even when you admit to liking me you insult me."

"Some things never change. Now, we move slowly, like circles in water, after a stone has been tossed in." He took a red ribbon from her dresser and tied it at the base of her braid. "I will be whatever you need me to be. Whatever you want from me – my bones, my skin, my brains – they are all yours."

Anya caught Morozko's hand behind her back. "Good, because I am not sure if I am ready for a relationship yet. I have never really dated anyone, now that I think of it, just that silly wizard you set me up with."

"And I am not sure you are ready for a relationship, either."

Her cheeks flared red. "I can decide that for myself! I am seventeen, after all."

"I am just saying, do not get angry. You are at an impressionable age. I do not want to spoil you." He hugged her. "Last night was too fast. Too much. We need to let this unfold slowly." He let smoke bloom from his fingertips, shaping it into a blossom. Anya brushed her fingers through it.

"That is so beautiful. Teach me to do that!"

"It is bannik magic, not something a witch can perform," he said. "Your magic is of the earth, mine of fire. I can teach you other things, though."

"Like what?"

"Like this. Calm your mind. Imagine yourself encased in a warm ring of energy."

Anya did. She reached into the deep well of magic in her core, letting it flow up to her conscious as Baba Yaga had taught her. Anya spun it with her mind into a thick golden circle, the color of her aura. It pressed against Morozko's ice blue signature.

Baba Yaga's lessons echoed in her mind:

"We all have a color, witch-daughter. Some growl red, others spark yellow. I am a deep, dark green, like the bowels of the earth. But you, you shine like a lion's pelt. It is a treacherous magic you possess. You must master it, or it will betray you."

She shivered, and her concentration broke. Her magic pulsed like a tide, bearing down on her mind. Anya's brain stretched, trying to accommodate the pressure.

"You are channeling too much. Cut it off!" Morozko shouted. His shield dissipated, and all that was left was a pulsing orb of gold.

"What is this?" Anya yelled over the sucking sound her energy was making.

"A scrying circle. Quick, imagine a drain, drawing your magic down into your core."

Morozko steadied her shaking waist. She focused on his firm hands, picturing a whirlpool in her gut. The scrying circle shattered like pond ice, fragmenting as it was sucked downwards.

The room cleared of her energy. Anya dry heaved, dizzy.

"Good," Morozko said, breathless. He smoothed her back.

She calmed. Her skin prickled at his touch.

What was I thinking last night? she thought. Acting like Liliya with her disposable human lovers. Morozko is not something I can just erase.
"You are far too powerful for a mere witch," Morozko said, reminding Anya of when her father had called her a demigod. Could she be?...

Morozko continued: "But your talents are raw. They need refinement. Maybe I should teach you magic to supplement babushka's teaching."

"More lessons?" Anya groaned. "I do not need divination. Baba Yaga does not waste my time on that. The future is always mutable."

"Divination goes beyond the future. It lets you see into others' intentions and know whether they mean you harm. The scrying circle you just made could identify what entity you were dealing with and what power level they were at. You saw how you were able to perceive my energy?"

Anya nodded. "Your signature was quick-tempered, like an offensive magic user. You have fought before? "

"Yes, I suppose I have," Morozko said, tucking Anya's braid over her shoulder. He gazed out the window at the falling leaves.

Silence stretched between them.

Anya cleared her throat. "Um, what now?"

Morozko grinned, not meeting her eyes. He seemed almost... shy? "Feel up for travel?"

Anya brightened. "Really?"

His smile did not disappear. Instead, he rose from the bed and stretched, his long pale limbs shining in the morning light. Anya admired the white gold of his hair and vicious point of his ears, a signature of nechist. He turned to meet her gaze.

"Would I break my promise to you?" Morozko leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Remember? I am your sidekick. The one that asks for directions." And with that, he pounced on her, tickling her mercilessly.

Anya laughed. "Kolya, what the heck!"

"This is your punishment. For all the bags and dresses I will carry, and all the work I will do to see that you are properly cared for."

"Mercy!" Anya squealed.

Morozko relented, crushing her under him in another embrace.

"Fine." He devoured her neck with kisses. "Mokosh, I want to taste your soul," he said, voice suddenly hot and husky.

Anya squirmed beneath him, uncomfortable. "I am not your breakfast. Do I look like kasha?" Her eyes were wide, like mossy moons.

Morozko realized he had gone too far.

Anya's stomach flopped into her lap as she scooted away from him, self-conscious. "I - I think we should get going. Breakfast is soon."

Sure enough, the rooster in the chicken yard crowed, heralding morning.

"Right." He cleared his throat. "Breakfast. Change into something durable."

"What?"

Morozko looked away from her, blushing. "Just wear something warm," he muttered.

"Uh, okay."

They changed in silence, suddenly extremely conscious of each other. They dared not peer at the others' nakedness, as they did in the banya. Anya donned jeans, combat boots, and a leather riding jacket. Morozko wore his ushanka, an embroidered sweater, and dark green pants. He zipped his dublyonka and they made their way out into the swirling leaves to the inn.

Liliya had kasha, rye bread, and sausage waiting on the oak dining table. The rest of the nechist had already set to eating. Liliya fixed Morozko with a questioning stare. "So, soap shavings, what kept you?"

"Nothing." Morozko stuffed his mouth so he did not have to talk. Liliya's gaze settled on Anya.

"Well?" Liliya pressed. "Why are you two so late?"

"Umm, well, my alarm did not go off," Anya said, too quickly.

Dmitri looked up from his morning paper. "You look flushed, dear. Do you have a fever?"

"No," Anya and Morozko said. They looked at each other, twin gazes clashing.

Liliya narrowed her eyes. "Right then."

Iosif stirred his kasha, his fur bristling. "...and little Anya must pose for pictures tonight for the dance! Why, I cannot wait to take them with the new camera we have bought." He blotted his eye with his napkin to catch a falling tear. "My darling Annushka, all grown up. Why, how can I ever fathom it? Just yesterday she was but a babe on my shoulders, a darling little girl in my arms." His voice was choked. "To think, just sixteen years ago, you came to us a little babe. Now it feels like I am giving you away, my sweet mistress." Iosif reached for Anya's hands and held them, his own shaking. "Promise you will return tonight and not become stranded in the mortal realm in this handsome stranger's arms!"

"Actually, about that," Anya said. "Now that you mention a fever, da, I am feeling kind of sick. I was thinking of skipping the dance tonight." She looked at Morozko. He nodded the slightest bit, secretly encouraging her.

"Oh," Elizaveta said. "But where will you wear that lovely dress?"

"I know," Dmitri said. "We'll have a ball here. Won't that be festive, Lilyka? You can invite all your sisters. I will invite my boyars and even my brother Vladimir and his... uh... his distinguished wives and, well, their children. It will surely lighten my army's spirits, and certainly my brother's mood."

Liliya nodded, her smile still conservative. "Yes. I think that is a good idea. Morale is always boosted by balls, and nechist love nothing more than a good dance."

Iosif's beady eyes shone. "Oh, a ball here. Why, such a grand idea. So many guests. And we could clear out the dining hall to serve as the dancing room."

"Then it is settled!" Dmitri drank his tea in one gulp and wiped the liquid from his lips. "We will have it a month from now, in November, when the season has fully turned. Do you feel well enough to go to school, my sweetheart?"

"Yes!" Anya smoothed her pants legs. "Umm, yes. I do."

"I can drive her to school today - she does not need to take the bus or ride her broom to Baba Yaga's. I have errands to run anyways," Morozko said a bit too quickly.

"Good. Then you can keep an eye on our Annushka and make sure she does not feel too queasy," Dmitri said between bites of mushroom soup.

After a hurried breakfast, Morozko and Anya were out of the inn and into the cold fall air. The path to Baba Yaga's hut was of pounded dirt, edged with ferns that bloomed on Ivan Kupalo or whenever witches shed blood. Anya picked some fronds and tucked the dewy leaves behind her ear. They bloomed fragrant as meadowsweet over her blue green eyes. Morozko projected his heat to warm her.

"That was smooth, back in the inn," Anya said, smiling a tad unsurely.

Morozko grinned despite the tension that gripped his core. He felt like he was walking on thin ice in her presence. "Thanks, I suppose."

"Why won't you look at me?"

"What?" Morozko turned. "I am looking at you now."

"No, you are not, not by a long shot." Feelings warred in Anya's gut, attraction duking it out with nerves. She grabbed his hand and pulled him close.

He tripped, falling into her arms, and they toppled to the ground.

"Good going, mooncalf!" he snapped, returning to old ways – ways of yesterday, to be precise, he thought. He had to be kinder to Anya now that – that – oh dear Mokosh, what had he done?

"Sorry, I should not have said that." Morozko wiped dirt from his pants. He helped Anya up. She noticed the brilliant red of his cheeks.

"Look me in the eye and tell me that things are not weird between us," Anya said. Morozko met her gaze.

"There. I am looking you in your leshy moss and blue sky eyes. Happy?" he said, gruff.

"No." Anya sniffed. She gripped his arms. "I will never be happy again. You have ruined me. Making me play hooky? Stealing me from Sully? You are a terrible influence!"

Morozko smirked. "Deal with it."

Anya laughed.

Morozko whistled, summoning Solntse. They mounted the horse and rode to Baba Yaga's hut, clouds knitting into a second skin in the sky above. Baba Yaga's gardens bristled with herbs and poisonous plants, twined round femurs and skulls. Snakes peered from eye sockets. Morozko paid no attention to the macabre air surrounding the hut, having become used to it over the centuries. And to Anya, why, it was her second home.

"Hut, hut, turn your back to the forest and your face to me," Anya called happily, at home in her witch mother's element. She fluffed the collar of her jacket. Baba Yaga was on the porch, shaking out her rugs. Snow fell in place of dirt, as if she were kindly Frau Holda of Germanic lore, not a witch that ate children instead of giving them jewels. She was Frau Holda's cousin, after all – all witch queens were, in the end, related.

"Tscha, it is soap shavings and the prodigal daughter. Are you eating Kolya for lunch, little bird? Bleeding him out for your stew as I told you to with men that got too close to my witch daughter?" Baba Yaga called. She paused, her nostrils flaring like a wolf as the two stepped onto the porch. "But no - it seems someone has already feasted, and Anya, why, it is not you." The crone pointed a bony finger in accusation at Morozko.

Morozko swallowed hard. "What, me?"

"Do not play thick as a toad wart, soap shavings," Baba Yaga snapped. "You have tasted my Anya's lips, her skin. So the time has come where you melt to steam in a witch's hands. I cannot say I approve. But then, there is no stopping the young, and you are barely out of boyhood in nechist years, more a rambunctious teenager."

Anya blushed. "It was only a kiss, babushka. Nothing really."

Baba Yaga clucked. "Blood for spit, then. You have dined on his ichor, his fern flower bond, and now he feasts on you. It is a vulture's circle in a ruddy sky, is it not? Be careful, bannik. You taste a witch's soul, and you will always be left wanting. You could waste away, like a candle melting, until your flame dies out and you sputter and die!" Baba Yaga laughed, shepherding the two inside to her toasty main room. Before they could protest, she shoved hearty stews at them.

Anya examined the stew. Cabbage bubbled to the top. "Does this have children in it?"

Baba Yaga chuckled, handing them spoons.

Morozko sampled it. "It's shchi."

"Oh," Anya said, recognizing the traditional dish. "Right. Thank you"

"Tscha, no need to thank me," Baba Yaga said. "I am letting you two to get yourselves into a right mess, I am. Canoodling with each other - why, it is practically incestuous."

Morozko coughed on his soup. Anya paled.

Baba Yaga continued: "But no matter. Hearts cannot be denied, especially a witch's. Just as long as this dalliance does not interfere with your studies, my little bird."

"It certainly will not, or her homework, for that matter," Morozko said firmly. He caught Anya's questioning eye. "Her education comes first. I am purely secondary. And please, do not breathe a word of this to Dima."

Baba Yaga tsked. "You think I want to be caught up in the middle of this manure? I care not who my Anya takes as a lover, as long as she is a disciplined student. Is that not right, Anya? You will not let your heart interfere with your studies?"

Anya nodded yes. "Of course, babushka. Whatever Kolya and I have, it is not as important as my dreams."

"Right," Morozko said quietly.

"So? Where are you lovebirds off to?" Baba Yaga chuckled. She stirred her bubbling cauldron.

"Moscow," Morozko said.

"Really?" Anya could barely contain her excitement. "We have not been there in months."

Morozko nodded.

"So you are paying the First Throne a visit, eh?" Baba Yaga clucked. She took a jar of poison dart frog legs swirling in preservative and plopped them into her stew. The hag sampled the concoction and smiled in approval.

"That is the idea, yes." Morozko helped himself to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of vodka. He popped the cork off with his fangs and poured himself a glass.

"Can we go to Sparrow Hills?" Anya referenced the steep hill above the Moskava River immortalized by so many Russian poets.

"Of course, mooncalf." Morozko tossed back a shot. The vodka warmed his belly as the liquid found its way to the furnace of his stomach.

"Well then, get a move on." Baba Yaga chuckled, making a dismissive gesture. "Do not keep my witch daughter waiting, soap brains." She ushered them out onto the porch. "Little hut, little hut, turn your back to Buyan and your face to the motherland."

The hut spun on its spindly legs. Anya and Morozko braced themselves against the bone railing. Solntse, tied to a support beam, whinnied. Their surroundings blurred, and Solntse disappeared. The forest and hut were replaced by a luxe flat overlooking the Moskava River that ran through the heart of Moscow. The waters glimmered in the morning light.

Baba Yaga was transformed into a kindly babushka, clutching a cane carved with a bear. She tsked at the bannik and young witch. "Go, seek your fortunes in the city. Solntse is downstairs in the parking garage under the apartment complex."

Anya and Morozko thanked Baba Yaga and made their way to the elevator. Morozko was disguised as a human. Still, there was an elvish slant to his eyes, and he did not look quite mortal. They arrived at the parking garage, Anya gushing about her favorite places in Russia's capital.

"... and then we can go to St. Basil's Cathedral and have lunch, then we can check out the Tretyakov Gallery and see if they have any new collections from the far workshops or artists: I know you love art, Kolya."

"Whoa there. I thought that the sidekick was supposed to make plans," Morozko said. "You are dragging me like a dog across the entire city!"

Anya deflated. "I thought we were here to have fun, not skulk around the shadows avoiding Stalin and the KGB."

"We are," Morozko said, giving her a grin. He took out the keys to Solntse and led Anya to the parking spot where Baba Yaga had said the horse-turned-vehicle would be. They found a cherry-red Harley motorcycle.

"So that is why Baba Yaga gave us helmets," Anya said. She had never ridden a motorcycle before. "Do you know how to drive this old thing?"

Morozko laughed. "Of course. I used to travel cross-country on motorcycles, before I was saddled with you." He fixed his helmet atop his head and lowered the visor. "Let us hope you like speeding."

Morozko and Anya rode past new Soviet apartments and Moscow attractions, on a joyride. They passed factories, restaurants, and the Kremlin, then rode through Red Square, taking the sights in. The crisp fall air burned trees crimson and orange. Traffic was sparse in the late morning. Anya leaned close to Morozko, basking in the heat he radiated. They rounded a corner and entered a parking lot bordering Gorky Park, the green heart of Moscow.

"What are we doing here?" Anya asked, excited.

"Ice skating."

"No way!"

"Yes way, Annushka."

They dismounted Solntse and made their way to the park entrance. Once inside, they passed through avant-garde architecture and public art projects. Anya took it all in, while Morozko eyed the quaint cafes. They arrived at Fountain Square, the largest ice rink in Europe, and Anya marveled at its size. The brisk fall air promised slick skating and they rented skates. Anya laced hers up to the heel and made her way out onto the ice, sailing like a ship. She laughed, calling for Morozko.

Morozko skated towards her, elegant in his precision. His skates were like blades against the ice. He caught Anya's offered hand and pulled her along with his momentum. Moving in tandem, they navigated past other skaters, entering a clearing. Morozko led Anya into a turn: she spun like a dancer, hands tucked at her waist. Morozko caught her, and they continued an intricate interplay, weaving a story with their moves.

Other skaters cheered them on. Anya grasped Morozko's hands, and they spiraled in a circle, laughing. Finally, they released each other, skating away wildly.

"Remember when you taught me how to skate?" Anya called.

"How could I forget? You wobbled like a newborn foal, then threw a fit, then threw up from the sheer dizziness of it all."

Anya and he both laughed.

They showed off for each other, executing intricate moves.

"Nice competition," Anya said, on cloud nine from the exercise.

"I taught you well, eh?"

"Like the Ballet Russe on ice, hah!"

The crowd stared at them, thinking they were in the presence of professional skaters, perhaps even Olympians. Anya had been singing little cantrips under her breath to make her moves fluid and beautiful, imagining herself as a firebird's wings. Anya and Morozko went to the changing station and reclaimed their shoes, then made their way to a cafe that bordered the rink. Anya ordered hot cocoa and Morozko got black cherry-sweetened tea. They sipped their drinks beside the window, warm and toasty from the café's fireplace.

A light snow began to fall, dusting everything in pearly white. Anya watched Soviet skaters glide by, trailing scarves. Anya smoothed her riding jacket and faced Morozko: "So what next, comrade?"

"Well, you said you wanted to go to the Tretyakov Gallery, right?"

Anya smiled.

They made their way to the museum, marveling at an exhibition of Natalia Goncharova's avant-garde work. Anya stopped to appreciate the Futurist 'The Cyclist' while Morozko was fascinated by the artist's Rayonist works. Bold strokes of color illuminated the canvases, and Anya felt lost in the contours of 'The Cyclist,' its bold blues and off-yellows like sunlight on the sea. They made their way through different collections, but Anya's mind was still fixated on her favorite painting. It reminded her of broom flight.

"I just love her works," Anya said as they mounted Solntse and rode to Sparrow Hills. It was early afternoon when they emerged from the Tretyakov Gallery. The Moskva River was like a song painted across the land. They reached the highest point in Moscow and made their way to the observation platform. Vendors thronged behind them. The baroque Moscow State University rose posterior to Anya and Morozko while Luzhniki stadium and Trinity Church faced them. Anya took in the view.

"I never get tired of this, even though we have been here a million times," she said, watching mist rise from the river. She leaned against Morozko, tentatively taking his hand. He responded by lacing his arms around Anya's waist. She tucked her head under his chin and the two stared out at the river, silent in shared peace. Anya heard steam churn in Morozko's chest, a sign he was nervous. His breath was sparks-hot on her brow. She traced his fingers to calm him. He leaned into her and sighed, then kissed the top of her head.

"The view is gorgeous today, not a cloud in sight," she finally said, breaking the stillness of the blossoming secret between them.

"Not as beautiful as you."

"Oh, stop it. You cannot compare me to a landscape."

"I'll compare you to what I damn well please."

"You make no sense, Kolya, even less sense sober then you are drunk."

He planted a kiss on her head. "Mmm hmm," he murmured. "Whatever you say. Nothing makes sense when you are around, anyways."

Anya did not know what to say to that, so she just hummed one of Morozko's winter lullabies to herself and absorbed the scenic view.

They made their way to the vendors at the foot of Sparrow Hills.

"Look. Wooden nesting dolls! Like the matroyshka I used to have," Anya said.

Morozko nodded, his gaze stolen by something else.

"What are you looking at?" Anya asked, distracted.

Morozko blushed, taking the object into his hand.

"What is it?" Anya pressed against him, struggling to see. It was a tortoiseshell comb with mother-of-pearl inlay in the shape of a fruiting tree.

Morozko smiled shyly. "Do you like it?"

"Oh Kolya," Anya said, "it is so very gorgeous."

The vendor smiled at Anya. "Try it on, nah?" he asked, gesticulating. He looked Siberian, just like Dmitri's human form. Anya idly wondered if long ago, his great-great grandmother had romanced a leshy after a night of drinking on Ivan Kupalo, her clothes on backwards and inside out as she riddled him into seduction so she did not fall under the leshy's spell, but instead took advantage of him.

"Here." Morozko fixed it in Anya's hair and twisted her dark locks into a loose chignon. He took a hand mirror from the vendor's stall and showed Anya her updo.

"Mother Mokosh. Wow. It was always weird that you are so good with hair."

"I had years of practice on your tangles and rat's nests, mooncalf. Here, I am buying it for you," Morozko said quietly.

"Oh no, you cannot. You do not have to, I like just being here with you-"

"Money is nothing to nechist. Let me spoil you."

Anya's cheeks reddened. "Okay then, I guess it is alright." She looked at her combat boots.

"Good taste, eh?" The vendor beamed.

Morozko bought the hair comb and insisted on putting it in Anya's hair. "There," Morozko said. "A kokoshnik has nothing on you." They walked hand in hand back to the motorcycle.

Anya touched her loose chignon, self-conscious. "It is not too much, you think?"

"No." Morozko started the motorcycle. They wove their way through cars and falling snow. They whiled away the rest of the day, visiting St. Basil's Cathedral as Anya had asked. Soon, evening came, and rosy dusk penetrated the snow-laden clouds.

"We should be getting back," Anya said as they rode past a strip of nightclubs.

Morozko nodded. They headed back to Baba Yaga's flat, stowed Solntse in the parking garage and made their way up to the crone's apartment.

Anya knocked. The lock clicked, and Baba Yaga opened the door, wild-eyed. She bared iron teeth in a grimace. "Where have you been?"

"Out, like we told you," Morozko said.

Baba Yaga ushered them into the room. "Quick, quick. Inside," Baba Yaga said in hushed tones. "Something foul has happened."

Morozko stopped in his tracks. "What?" He held Anya protectively.

"An assassin from a rival tsar has attacked Dima while he was reading by the river."

"No!" Anya cried. "Is he hurt? Was it my awful uncle Vlad?"

Baba Yaga nodded. Anya sucked in air, tears beading in her eyes.

Morozko's face was stricken. "Have you healed him?"

"I patched him up to the best of my ability. But his wound is deep – I fear he will not last the night."

"No," Anya said. "Kolya, we have to see da!"

They hurried back to the inn. Iosif was crying on the front porch, his furred head buried in his hands.

"Oh, dear Annushka," Iosif choked. "You must hurry to Dima's side. He waits for you, his only daughter."

"Where is da, Osya?" Anya fought back sobs.

"Upstairs in his quarters." Iosif began to cry anew.

Anya rushed up the rickety staircase to her father's room, Morozko following close behind.

Elizaveta and Liliya tended to Dmitri, who lay in his bed of leaves, his breaths coming halted and shallow. The leshy's skin was a sickly pale blue, not the cerulean of the sky. The moss that lined the walls withered in response to his failing health.

"Da? Oh da, can you hear me?" Anya took Dmitri's hand into hers, her arms shaking.

Dmitri was shirtless: blood was drying on his abdomen where a deep gash lay. Elizaveta was changing the bandages that covered his midriff. She cried salty tears while Liliya remained silent, the general's face stony. The vila stood at the head of the bed, holding a compress to Dmitri's brow.

"Annushka, is that you?" Dmitri rasped. He coughed up blood onto the bed of leaves. His eyes fluttered open, drinking in the sight of his daughter.

"Oh, da, this is horrible!" Anya's hands shook round Dmitri's. "Who did this to you? One of my horrible cousins? Vladimir's vilas?"

"He should not speak now, Anya," Liliya said, as gentle as a vila could be. "He needs to rest."

"Alright." Anya's voice was hollow. She felt weighed down by a guillotine slicing her neck.

"A vila assassin in Tsar Vladimir's service attempted to take Dmitri's life," Liliya said. "I killed the vila, but Tsar Vladimir is still at large. I am afraid this means war with your family, Anya."

"That bastard that was always jealous of you?" Morozko asked, never having liked Vladimir.

"Yes." Dmitri struggled to speak. He choked up more blood. "Vladimir does not approve of me raising a human, nonetheless a witch. He suspects me of amassing an army of enchantresses headed by Baba Yaga."

Anya's cheeks flushed. "But that is ridiculous nonsense! I am your daughter, and he has a dozen human wives!"

"Vladimir and I have always had a bitter rivalry, ever since we were green shoot saplings." Dmitri rolled over onto his side, grimacing. "He has grown delusional over the years, with a failing kingdom, and covets the riches of my woods. He is taking any excuse to make an attempt on my life and seize my lands for his own. I was too trusting of him. I thought, finally, that we had come to know peace, a lasting truce. I thought wrong."

"So this means war." Morozko's tone was somber.

"I am afraid so, my son."

"You must summon a cherti to defend yourself. These are dangerous times." Baba Yaga finished chalking a summoning circle onto the floor of her hut. "They are tricksy creatures. Worse than the Devil himself. Your will must be iron. It is much like fishing: you cast your will out into Hell like a lure, and the cherti are drawn to your witch fire. Then you reel your will in and catch them in your own skin as a net. Can you do that, little bird?"

Anya nodded. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the pentagram Baba Yaga had chalked on the floor, her hair fishtail-braided over one shoulder. "I think so, babushka."

Baba Yaga lit four tapers for the four directions and set them at the corners of the summoning circle. She handed Anya a bundle of raskovnik plants, rare greens shaped like four leaf clovers - the keys to unlocking the spiritual world. "Now, calm your mind. That is it, Anya. Breath."

Anya reached into the deep well of magic in her core. It flowed forth, a tingling rush through her limbs. The air around her warmed, glowing gold, and she sank into a trance. Anya began chanting a summoning spell.

Baba Yaga looked on in approval. "Good, witch daughter," the crone murmured.

Suddenly, Anya screamed. Her eyes rolled back into her head. She rocked back and forth, in the grips of possession, her hands closed as if she was holding a smoldering brand. A red burn blossomed on her forearms, spiraling down to her scalded palms. Anya dropped the raskovnik bundle as the gateway to the spirit world opened. She tugged as if on an invisible rope, pulling whatever demon she had caught out into Buyan.

Anya spoke binding words, cementing the cherti to the physical plane. The tapers blew out as a wind picked up inside the hut. Anya's mossy eyes refocused. She shook, staring at her hands. Her burns disappeared, evaporating into smoke that swirled round the summoning circle. The smoke condensed into the form of a fluffy orange tabby cat, held fast in Anya's grip as she expelled the cherti from her body. Anya looked at the cat in surprise.

"What?" Anya asked. "This is a cherti? It looks too cute to be evil!"

Baba Yaga appraised the demonic feline. "Yes, my dear one. Ah, I am so proud of you: you have summoned your first familiar."

The cat hissed and bit Anya's hand. Anya let it go and winced. It leapt against the summoning circle, only to bounce off the circle's invisible walls, trapped inside.

The tabby composed itself. It rubbed its nose with its paw and glared at Anya with Granny Smith apple green eyes. Anya backed away, unsure.

The cat advanced. "What've you summoned me for, damselfly?" it mewed.

"I – um?"

"Stuttering 'cause of my handsomeness, eh?" The cat's chest puffed out. "I'll admit, I'm a dapper gent, slick as oil, with charm and wit. But perhaps you're paralyzed because of that little burn I gave you. Sorry 'bout that – it's business as usual. I needed to test your mettle as a witch, to see if I could escape you. But Beelzebub's balls, did you hold on. Color me impressed, mistress."

Anya looked at Baba Yaga. "It talks?"

The cherti answered with bravado: "It talks, it walks, it does the Charleston!" The cat stood on its hind legs and performed said dance.

Anya stared on in confusion.

Finished, it bowed. "What did you take me for, a house cat?" asked the cherti, offended. "Psh. You're thick, with brains like molasses. You summoned a demon lord, not Fluffy the Persian."

Anya regained her composure and followed the protocol Baba Yaga had taught her: "Cherti! I demand you tell me your name."

"Boniface's butt, there's no need to yell." The cat scratched its ears in pain. "The name's Aym, Flamin' Aym: duke of hazard, firebrand of Hell. I'm a Goetic demon. 26 legions are mine to command. I enjoy burning things, feline fatales, and bowls of cream. Some call me a pyromaniac. I prefer to think of myself as a cigarette: addictive, flammable, and occasionally deadly. Now, what does a gent have to do around here to get some cream?" Aym flicked his tail and set to grooming himself.

Anya paled. "A Goetic lord? From the Lesser Key of Solomon?" She looked to Baba Yaga for help. "But I was supposed to summon a lesser demon, an imp. Not something powerful! How did I land a duke of Hell?"

Baba Yaga shrugged, an arcane smile on her chapped hairy lips. "You are more powerful than I thought. Aym! What in Chernobog's name are you doing in my hut? In the form of a cat, no less?"

"Ah, Baba Yaga. The pleasure's all mine. It's been enough time to turn water into wine." Aym bowed, a front leg folded under his fluffy chest. He winked.

Baba Yaga tsked. "You think you can turn your charms on me, rake? I will skin you alive and feed your bones to my hounds. Now explain what you are doing, binding yourself to my witch daughter."

The cat lazed in the center of the summoning circle, watching the ticking of the grandfather clock. "Well, I was drinking an exceptionally good bowl of cream under the stars of Hell," he drawled, "gazing up at the sky, when I saw the most beautiful witch fire in the heavens. Like a cat to its toy, I knew it just had to be mine. I wanted to devour your power and eat you up, little mistress. No offense meant. It is the nature of us cherti: we prey upon witchkind."

Aym winked again, almost frightening Anya, who felt the overwhelming infernal power radiating from the little beast. "Oh, how I struggled against my brethren to claim your witch light! I won in the end, only to find myself trapped within the witch who I thought I could take down easily. And here I am, bested by a girl, bound to her service." Aym shrugged. "Luck of the draw, I suppose. Now where's the cream, little lady?"

"You wanted to eat me?" Anya, though expecting no less from a cherti, was slightly offended.

Aym rolled his eyes. "Don't take it personally. It's what we demons do. We see a witch light, we pursue it. Cat to mouse. You see?"

"You burned me."

"Well what did you expect, flowers? You bound me as your familiar. I wasn't going down without a fight."

"How many witches have you eaten?" Anya was wary.

Aym grinned like the Cheshire cat. "Too many to count. But I promise to savor you."

"There will be no devouring my students," Baba Yaga snapped. She took her pestle and whacked him. Aym went flying, rebounding off the summoning circle's wall and landing in Anya's lap.

Anya grimaced.

"He cannot eat you, Anya. He is sworn to your service from now on," Baba Yaga explained. "Up, girl. Show this cherti who is master!" A malicious grin spread on Baba Yaga's face.

Steel sparked in Anya's eye. She picked Aym up and deposited him on the ground. Standing, she fixed her gaze on the cat. "Sit."

Aym hissed. His body seized, and his fur caught golden flame, taken by Anya's magic. It forced him to kneel. Aym finally gave in, sinking to the ground. "Your will is powerful," Aym said. "I'm almost impressed."

Anya half-smiled. "Rise."

Aym did.

"Now dance."

Aym grimaced, but did a jig. "Happy?" He collected himself. He licked a paw in an exasperated fashion.

Anya laughed. "You never told me having a familiar would be fun, babushka."

"They are funny creatures, witch daughter." Baba Yaga set to churning butter. "Go, fetch him some cream from the fridge. He deserves it, after all, his trip to Buyan has been long!"

Anya did, setting the cream outside the summoning circle. She smudged the chalk so that Aym could leave.

"Oh, you are a generous mistress indeed!" Aym mewed, pouncing on the bowl. He lapped up the cream greedily, pausing to reveal a white, drenched muzzle. Anya almost thought it cute.

Aym purred, rolling onto his back. He looked up expectantly at Anya. "Now, damselfly, you must pet me," he said, seemingly drunk. He wound his tail round Anya's ankle.

"You will bite me again, won't you?"

"No, I swear on the reddy River Styx, I won't. Please?" Aym begged.

"Alright then." Anya obliged.

Aym purred loudly, wiggling under Anya's fingers.

"Oh, oh, you have the magic touch!" Aym said, on cloud nine. He yawned, the combination of heavy cream and petting wearing him out. The cat closed his eyes and began to snore.

Baba Yaga rolled her eyes. "You are embarrassing yourself, Aym. To think, I once thought you handsome, until you decided to take your furred form to endear yourself to your new witch! Up. Serve your mistress, lest my pestle hit you again."

Aym shot up. "Oh, how could I forget myself? Of course I will serve you. You have only to ask."

"Good," Anya said. "From now on, you will be my guard and defend me from danger. My kingdom is at war. You will guarantee my safety, wherever I go."

Aym bowed. "Of course, sweet mistress. I will not let a hair on your pretty little head be harmed, much less catch on fire. I will keep my matches to myself."

"I absolutely will not tolerate Chort's hairball in my banya." Morozko uttered a string of curses, peeling his shirt off as he changed into pajama pants. Anya sat on her bed, petting Aym, her eyebrows raised.

"He is my familiar, and his name is Aym," Anya said. "And it is not just your banya, I live here too. And now, so does Aym. Is that right, little beast?" Anya scritched Aym's pert ears.

Aym purred with laughter. "Bannik, surely there is room in your dive for a dapper cat like me?"

Morozko narrowed his eyes. "The schmoozing cat sleeps outside the door. I will not have a cherti spying on us in our sleep, waiting to eat you," he said through gritted teeth.

Aym grinned. "Let's put my bruised past behind us, eh? I'm now the faithful servant of my witch mistress. And I'm sure we can agree that her soul would be delectable, were either of us given the opportunity to taste it."

"Do not talk about Anya like that, pus in boots," Morozko growled.

"Pus in boots?" Anya took Aym into her lap. "Don't you mean puss in boots, like in the stories you used to read me?"

"No, I mean the stuff that oozes from wounds. Because that is what your familiar is: a sore sight."

"Never been called that before." Aym shrugged. He looked at Anya. "It's up to you, my damselfly. Should I sleep outside the door?"

Anya scratched behind Aym's little bum. Already he was getting fat off treats and cream. "If you do not mind. Kolya is uncomfortable with you in the room."

"Ah, so the bannik's preferences take priority. No matter, as long as there are blankets and a bowl of cream, I'll be happy to stand my watch." The cat leapt from the bed and sauntered out the door, settling onto the bunched blankets at the threshold to begin his evening vigil. Morozko shut the door.

He looked at Anya expectantly. "You were really going to let that demonic furball keep us company?"

"Give him a chance. He has already protected me from two assassins, plus he fetches me things for spells. Aym is useful. You do not have to like him - just tolerate him, for my sake. Please?"

Morozko sighed. "Fine," he said, gruff. He flopped onto Anya's bed and reached out to lazily stroke her back. "I just do not want to share you, even if it is with a fast-talking caricature of a cat. What is he from, 1920's New York City? How does he know how to Charleston?"

"No idea. And share me with my familiar? Please. You are not sharing me with anyone." She relaxed in Morozko's embrace. Anya turned her head to plant a kiss on his cheek. "I am all yours at night. You know that. You have to. No one else is as handsome as you, not even tap dancing Aym!"

"Ugh."

They kissed leisurely, time inconsequential, and sunk into sleep in the others' arms. Day came too soon. Aym mewled at the door, scratching it, as Anya's alarm blared.

"Damn cat." Morozko groaned.

Anya clutched at Morozko's chest, groggy. "Ugh, I do not want to go to school."

"Neither do I. Oh, wait - I do not have to. Nechist have no need for Calculus, or arithmetic, for that matter." Morozko smirked.

Anya mock-punched him. "Do not rub it in!" She rose and stretched, then pulled out stockings and a flouncy red dress from the closet. Morozko turned his head to give her privacy, choosing jeans and a sweater for himself. They trod the line of familiarity and intimacy, newfound closeness like a tightrope.

Anya opened the door to let Aym in.

The cat sauntered over the threshold and leapt up onto Anya's unmade bed. Aym stretched languorously. "Well, well, the morning beauty and the beast have awoken," he purred. "I didn't get a wink of sleep. But then again, I don't need it."

Morozko bared his fangs. "The only beastly thing in this room is the flea-ridden fluffball in front of me."

The two engaged in a glaring match.

Anya sighed. "Stop baiting Aym."

"Satan's hairball started it." Morozko exited the room without another word, leaving Anya to gather Aym into her arms.

"Ignore him," Anya stroked Aym behind the ear.

Aym crooked his tail, blinking slow. "Of course, mistress. Whatever you say."

They entered the inn, joining Anya's family for breakfast. Aym jumped up onto the windowsill and stared curiously at the blazing autumn beyond.

Dmitri looked up from his paper and smiled wide. "Anya, you look especially beautiful today."

Anya's face softened. "Are you feeling okay?" She glanced at the bandages round his waist. She walked to his side and put a hand on his shoulder.

Dmitri grinned in reassurance. "I am fine, my sweetheart. Do not worry. I do not feel a thing!"

Anya forced a smile. She left that morning concerned about her father. Walking a ways down the wooded path to Baba Yaga's hut as she did each morning for school, Anya whistled for yellow Den'. The mare came galloping through the forest to Anya's side. Anya mounted Den's broad back, her riding boots skimming the saddle. She ran her hands through the mare's silky mane and set off at a canter.

Birch yielded to fir as she rode to Baba Yaga's hut, the sun darting behind thick, striated clouds. She crossed the stream. Den's hooves clip-clopped over the bridge. Anya reveled in the sensation of the brisk wind in her hair, trying to forget Dmitri's injury. She rounded a boulder, the path muddy from last night's rain. The ground yielded greenery in the windswept forest. The path was deserted, neither beast nor spirit present to bid her good day. It was beautiful in the silence, the jeweled moss beaded with dew. The woods seemed like a dragonfly suspended in amber, gorgeous and unchanging. Mist seeped from the ground, and a deadness set upon it. Anya slowed Den', and the mare whickered as she drew back the reins.

"Quiet, darling," Anya said, stroking Den's neck. She could feel the horse shivering.

A chill swept over Anya. Den' bared her teeth in a nervous smile. They paused in the bend of the path. A cloud blotted out the sun, and the towering firs began to spin round Anya. She felt light-headed, like her oxygen supply was cut off. She led Den' off the path and tied her to a tree.

"There there, Den'," Anya soothed, petting the horse's flank. The mare bowed her head, her breaths short. Anya attempted to calm the spooked horse, but Den' was in no state to ride. Anya offered Den' water from her flask.

She paused mid-pour as the ghostly strain of a violin echoing through the trees. The water streamed onto the ground.

"What in Mokosh's name?" Anya murmured.

The violin's song grew louder. Anya guarded herself, knowing full well that beautiful things were often a trap. She calmed her mind as Morozko had taught her and reached into the deep well of magic in her core. She shaped it further with a quickly invented cantrip:

Shield bright, shield flame

Take the wild, make it tame

through my blood, in my veins,

reveal unseen, make magic plain.

It sprung up, and warmth rushed through her veins. Anya centered her mind, erecting a shield of energy. The violin's song slipped through, indicating the music was just that: music, nothing more.

She listened close, recognizing the tune. "Stravinsky?" she wondered. It had a pounding rhythm. Anya let her barrier down and walked cautiously towards the source of the sound, Liliya's knife at her side, Anya's gift at completing her training. Her biting curiosity would damn her one day, that she knew, as would her yearning for the deathless lands, but Anya could never resist music. Perhaps that came from being raised on Morozko's lullabies. She doubled back to the stream.

"Never stray off the path, Annushka," Dmitri had told her since she was young, since she could first understand her mother tongue. Her feet stayed firmly rooted to the beaten dirt, remembering her father's warning. Those woods, you could get lost in them. She usually ignored his warnings and went wandering, but now, she knew to heed them.

She peered through the trunks. Something flashed, deep in the woods. The music grew louder. She recognized the tune from Stravinsky's Firebird suite, but could not place the name. Anya drew her knife, holding it at the ready. She could throw it with deadly precision if need be. Den' reared on her hind legs, frightened.

"Who is there?" Anya called. Her voice echoed in the wind.

The music stopped. "A wanderer," came a voice like a waterfall.

Anya squared her shoulders. "That is not a name."

"You may call me Kosti," he replied. "I see that you are armed. What a pity. Fair things like you should not live in fear."

"I am not afraid."

"That, my girl, is a lie. My music tends to stir up... rather unsettling emotions. But I beg you relax. You are safe."

"Am I?" Anya said. "The anglerfish's lure gives comfort before its bite."

Kosti laughed. He stepped from the pine's shadow. "I am far from a fish."

Anya caught sight of him in the morning light. He was slender and tall, dressed in furs and a white kaftan, a violin at hand. His skin was pale and hair silver gray. The stranger had a wicked smile and eyes like peacock feathers. Anya could not begin to guess his age – old eyes or young eyes, wrinkles or simply dimples, teeth sharp or dull. He kept changing. Kosti bowed rakishly low, his fur cloak fluttering open.

"If not a fish, what are you?"

Kosti's eyes gleamed. "Many things. A traveler. A music maker. I am what you make of me."

"I make that you are dangerous," Anya said. She readied her knife. "No one plays Stravinsky that beautifully without being lethal. I know music, and enchantments, and how to hide malintent well."

"I am also that," Kosti admitted, putting his violin away in the case at his back. "But then, so are you, girl of many magics. I can smell the power on you. You must be Anya, the witch raised by Baba Yaga. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"You have heard of me?" Anya wished she had Aym by her side and cursed herself for sending her familiar on an errand that morning.

"Of course. Everyone in thrice nine kingdoms knows of you. Baba Yaga's apprentice, child of a leshy - why, you are practically a legend, where I come from."

"And where, may I ask, Sir Kosti, is that?"

Kosti shrugged, sly. "North. Far to the North. Where all important things come from. All things true. But you knew that already."

"I did, did I?"

"You are smart, Anya. Never the fool. That is what Ivans are for."

Kosti stepped onto the path. Anya drew back, flashing her knife.

He whistled. A bony blue roan appeared from behind the trees, trailing after him. Anya looked at the intimidating horse and saw how its eyes shone like smoldering coals, how its ribs poked from its hide – so sharp, they could cut diamond. The blue roan whickered, nuzzling Kosti's outstretched hand.

Kosti smiled lazily. "Now tell me, does your father not run an inn where one might spend the night?"

Anya stiffened. "Yes, da does. It is that way." She pointed back in the direction she had come, motioning with her knife. She hoped it looked threatening. "So what brings you to Tsar Dmitri the Bountiful's – my father's - kingdom?"

"News of a November ball, put on in your honor, if I am not mistaken." Kosti leaned on his roan, his smile easy. "I was hoping to find work as a musician for your father. Polonaises, mazurkas, quadrilles: I play them all. I find the life of a traveling musician suits me. It allows me to entertain beauties like you and make a living off of watching girls dance."

Anya raised her brow. "It seems you have a fascination for dancing girls?"

"That was a joke, dear Anya." Kosti laughed, a sharp sound, though not unpleasant. "You could say that," he said quietly. "There is nothing more elegant than a woman dancing with passion, like her heels are knives and her smile a sword. I would give my soul to see you dance."

Anya hesitated. "You would?"

Kosti mounted his bony steed. "Oh yes. I have taken note of you. I would like to dance with you one day."

Anya snorted. "And I have taken note of you, Kosti. Really, a name that means 'bones'? What kind of mother gives that to her child?"

Kosti laughed. "I never said my mother gave me it." With that, he roused his horse, setting off at a canter down the path. "It was good meeting you!"

"I do not know if I can say the same, Kosti," Anya said under her breath, strangely drawn to the mysterious musician. He disappeared round a bend, sending leaves fluttering in his wake, and her heart aflutter with fear and something else. Something immortal but dying all the same. Anya tucked her knife back into its holder and lingered, waiting until his horse's hoof-stamps faded. "Kosti, eh?"

She would have asked her Greyback if he knew of a Kosti from the deathless lands, but the woods had stopped speaking to Anya many moons ago. Baba Yaga said it was best to leave the woods be, unless one was so desperate they were willing to call upon its voice with their own blood and marrow.

Ivan Tsarevich mounted Greyback, who padded on swift feet across the hard-packed snow. The wolf's black nostrils flared as he sniffed the air.

"We draw close, tsarevich," Greyback growled.

"It is time," Ivan said, lowering the ear flaps of his ushanka, his dark hair mussed beneath the cap. He straightened the pack of arrows at his back and surveyed the forests through which they traveled, hot on the scent of his enemy.

"Kashchei with your frosted hands. Kashchei with your sharp teeth. Kashchei, with your kingdom of glass, and a thousand girls kept under lock and key. I have come for you," Ivan Tsarevich said.

The prince's golden armor and leather chest-plate shone in the midday sun, whose light streamed in halos through the clouds. Greyback's eyes glowed in stark illumination against his silvery fur. The wolf padded across the taiga with the fury of a storm, Ivan Tsarevich clutching his mane like Apollo guiding his chariot.

The wolf and prince roused beasts from their slumber. Birds startled before them, flying in a great flock east. They stretched across the sky like a warning.

"We ride west. To Tsar Dmitri's realm," Ivan said.

"War looms. Is it wise?" the wolf growled. "We may agitate it."

"Nothing I do is wise. I am Ivan the Fool. But I must know what Kashchei is plotting. If we ride into war or peace, then so be it. When you wander, you never know what you may find."

Anya arrived home that night to the strains of a violin coming from the inn. It was a polonaise from Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin. She marched through the doors and looked at the far corner where a couch sat adjacent to the hearth. Kosti was there, bowing away at his instrument. A smile lightened his face. Other wayfarers danced to his music. Vodyanoi and kolduny walked hand in hand with rusalka and vila, improvising with the crowded space as they danced the polonaise, maneuvering around furniture and tables. Laughter poured into the room, filling it like a wineskin.

Kosti's music was mad with passion. Mad with joy. Mad with danger. Anya felt excitement bubble in her chest, tempting her to join the revelry like one of the twelve dancing princesses betrothed to a demon below the palace gardens.

Like a child drawn to the Pied Piper, she followed the music's orders, joining the dance. Anya kicked the air and took dainty steps, the skirt of her poppy red dress belling out. A vodyanoi handed her off to a leshy lord, who twirled her round and round as the polonaise shifted into a waltz.

Someone beside Anya cleared their throat. She looked to see Morozko waiting, a grin on his face. The leshy handed Anya off to Morozko who held her close in frame, gently guiding her in a box step and out into a princess turn.

Morozko traced her waist. "I was wondering when you would grant me a dance."

"Sorry – I did not realize that you were here."

"I am always here, in your shadow, watching you," he teased. "The world revolves around you, does it not?"

"Well, you do not need to do that anymore. I have Aym to guard me now, hah!"

Morozko's temple throbbed. "Pus in boots is an ill-suited companion. You can only trust a cherti with one thing: to bite you on the heel when you are not looking."

Anya folded her arms. "Would you stop being so possessive? Just because you do not like him does not mean that he is not useful."

"I was not debating his utility." Morozko's grip on her hand firmed. "I was telling you to be wary."

"As wary as I am around you? Aym was right: you both want to steal my soul. Why should I not be as afraid of you as I am of my familiar?" Anya sniffed.

Morozko's eyes widened. "I – what, are you insinuating that I am dangerous? Well I never."

Anya pulled closer to him, whispering into his ear. "'Mokosh, I want to taste you. To feel your soul on my tongue,'" she quoted him from their morning passions the week before.

Morozko's skin turned paper-white. "I did not mean that, dear Mother Mokosh," he muttered. He reached for Anya, but she drew away, her smile wicked.

"Did you now?"

"Anya, it hurts my empty heart when you accuse me of wanting to harm you."

"Oh Kolya, I am only trying to prove a point." Anya sighed. She rolled her eyes and walked away.

The music ceased. Anya, not expecting to discover a person behind her, tripped into Kosti. "Oh?" she breathed as he caught her with grace.

Kosti's smile revealed mother-of-pearl teeth. Or were they more like diamonds? Perhaps opals? "What luck I possess. To have such a lovely girl in my arms."

Anya's cheek rested against the silky fabric of Kosti's white kaftan. She quickly pulled away. "I am quite sorry," she said, the small hairs raising on the back of her neck.

Morozko took one look at Kosti's pale skin and narrowed his eyes. He put a protective arm around Anya. "Do not apologize," Morozko said. "He walked into you, not the other way around. Watch where you are going before you bulldoze over the domovoi and kill the inn itself."

"Kolya! Stop being rude." Anya drove the heel of her foot onto his toes.

"Ow? Do not step on my foot, you brat."

"Do not be so mannerless."

Kosti cleared his throat. "No, my apologies. It appears that I have perhaps interrupted something."

"No," Anya said, pulling away from Morozko. "You interrupted absolutely nothing." She shot a quick glare at Morozko.

Morozko's face reddened.

"Oh. Good." Kosti smoothed his kaftan. "Because I was hoping to ask for a dance"

Anya was taken aback. "But who will play the violin?"

"I will," Dmitri said, his smile grand. He thumped Kosti on the back. "This fellow has brought such joy to our inn, surely I can do him a good turn. I have hired him to play music for our winter ball. Fancy that: our own personal musician! I was going to play, but no, now we have a professional." Dmitri laughed heartily. He winced, clutching his bandaged side. "Ouch. Should not have done that. Still sore, you see."

"Oh da," Anya said, "you do not have to. I am perfectly fine not dancing-"

"It would be my honor," Kosti insisted. His eyes caught Anya's like a spider web, or a lasso made of gold. Pale, pale gold. Like a waxing moon.

Kosti handed his violin to Dmitri, who rosined the bow. "Ready when you are," Dmitri said.

"My thanks." Kosti offered his hand to Anya.

Anya took it with caution. She spared a glance at Morozko, who was biting his lip, irritated. Morozko's eyes were stormy as he watched Kosti.

Dmitri began a mazurka and Kosti led her in the lively dance. She twirled round and round the mysterious musician, her dress like a slashed throat. Kosti's touch was refined, his frame perfect – he was the very epitome of a lead.

"I do not believe that you are just a musician," Anya whispered to him as he pulled her in.

"Oh? And what do you take me for?" Kosti said, amused.

"A koldun. Some kind of sorcerer. The music you play is enchanted, I am sure of it. Why are you here, Kosti?"

Kosti laughed. "Because I covet things, dear Anya. My kind crave experiences. And your little kingdom is the perfect taste to add to my palate. I wanted to sample life in Tsar Dmitri the Bountiful's realm, famed in Buyan for its rustic peace. I may be a koldun of some talent, true, but my honest passion is music. I am hiding nothing. That is why I am called Kosti: because I am honest as bones. My music sheds light on the darkest parts of the heart. Tell me, what are your secrets? I know you have one, one that burns like the bannik's inner flames."

Anya drew back. "Are you implying something?" she said.

Kosti chuckled. "I can tell love when I see it. Do not worry. Your secret is safe with me."

"I feel quite unwell," Anya said stiffly. She broke away from Kosti and curtsied woodenly. "Thank you for the dance." Her voice was overly loud.

The mazurka ended, followed by Dmitri's deep laugh.

"Splendid, Kosti. You truly can dance, with my dear Anya looking like a ruby in your hands all the while. What talent!" Dmitri clapped.

Kosti bowed. "The pleasure is all mine. Your daughter is quite the treasure. Like the palest of gold."

Pale gold, pale gold – what did that remind Anya of? It was like a fog in her head, stealing her very words. No matter, she would rather not dwell on it.

Morozko's brows shot into the air. "That sounds like something the deathless would say."

Oh. How queer, Anya thought. Perhaps Kosti really was from the deathless lands, then. But how?

Kosti looked at Morozko with confusion. "Excuse me? I am afraid I don't understand."

"Nothing," Morozko muttered, sulking away. Anya was quick at his heels.

"Did I offend him?" Kosti's voice echoed after Anya.

"I think he woke up on the wrong side of the banya," Dmitri said as Morozko slammed the door.

"I do not trust Kosti," Morozko hissed, looking at Anya. "I do not like how he danced with you. I do not like how that blasted koldun even looked at you."

"You know that he is a koldun too?" Anya asked.

"Of course he is." Morozko wiped dust from his jacket. "A powerful one."

Anya shivered. "He creeps me out." Anya did not want to admit that she was also intrigued by Kosti, albeit in a sickening way.

Later that night, as Anya slaved over homework at her rickety desk in the kitchen, Iosif came in, his fur bristling as he swept. He moved about frantically.

"Whatever is wrong, Osya?" Anya asked.

Iosif let out a low moan. "Something is amiss. I have seen something horrible in my kasha. There is a dark presence in this inn, only I cannot place the face. I fear it is your cherti."

"Little Aym?" Anya paused from erasing an equation. "That would make sense, only..."

"What, dear Annushka?" Iosif asked, coming over to play with Anya's braid. Domovois were drawn to hair like flies to honey, and Iosif was no exception.

"What do you think of Kosti?"

"Ah, the musician?" Iosif's frightened expression softened. "He is a gentleman, quite kind - especially to play at our November Ball. Beyond that, I do not think of him."

"But what if he is the dark presence?"

Iosif's beady eyes opened wide. "I – I had not considered... such a gentleman? Him a threat? He is a stranger. Why would he want to do our family harm?"

Anya shrugged. "I just do not trust him. The way he talks... he told me that he was a koldun."

Iosif chewed his bottom lip nervously. "Well, many of our guests are kolduny. I do not see why he would be any different? No, I am certain that it is your cherti."

Anya sighed. "Why does everyone think Aym is such a threat?"

"Because cherti are never to be trusted. You may be his mistress, but he owes no allegiance to the rest of us," Iosif said, chest puffed out.

"True, true," purred Aym as he rounded the corner. His apple green eyes sparked in the woodstove's light. "But I would never do anything to harm my mistress's relatives. I'm a mannered gent, after all." The demonic feline pounced on a cat toy Anya had bought.

The domovoi shied away from the cherti. "I... have a room to sweep." Iosif hastily scurried out of the kitchen.

Liliya brushed past Iosif as he exited. She looked at the domovoi with detached interest. "What's got Osya frightened?"

"Moi." Aym mewed, rolling onto his back to expose his flame-colored belly.

"Oh, you? Pfft, Osya is a bundle of nerves. I know you are nothing but a pretty kitty with attitude," Liliya crooned, leaning down to pet him. "Cherti or no, you cannot be any worse than the bannik. You have been a blessing to have in the kitchen, helping me fetch supplies. You chose a good familiar, Anya."

"Thanks," Anya said, half paying attention as she puzzled over a calculus problem. Liliya busied herself making meals for the patrons.

Finally finished with her homework, Anya went to her room in the banya and readied for bed.

Morozko came in later, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol.

Anya raised her brow at him. "You smell like a bar."

"I was at one," he said, voice rough. "Does it matter?"

"No, I am not judging you, just curious. You rarely go out drinking anymore, not since I stopped driving you insane by having my rabbits ambush you. I hope this is not one of your fabled benders."

Morozko shrugged. "St. Petersburg called. I had to get out of the house. That Kosti ticks me off. I could not stand being under the same roof with him another minute."

"Huh. What bothers you about him?"

"The way he danced with you. Like he owned you. I wanted to cut his hands off his wrists and tell him that you were mine."

"He really annoyed you that much?"

"Yes, he surely did."

Anya buried herself in blankets. "He, well, he said something. About us."

Morozko bristled. "What?"

"That he knew love when he saw it. But he promised not to tell anyone." Anya was unsure.

"If he says a thing I will slit his throat with my own claws," Morozko snarled, sitting like a hawk at the edge of Anya's bed.

She took Morozko's hand in hers. "Hopefully it does not come to that."

Anya woke early the next morning, restless. She dressed in jeans and a pale sweater, then went to fix herself a bowl of Cheerios. Morozko slept all the while. Pouring over the cereal, Anya stirred the milk idly. There was a scratch at the door.

"Mistress, you seem unhappy," purred Aym. He slinked in on jazzy feet, bending his ears as if tipping his hat to her.

"No. I am just tired. That is all. I cannot for the life of me sleep." Anya took a bite of cereal.

Aym leapt onto the table and settled beside her, his tail twitching. "And what has you blue, damselfly? Is it a man?"

"What?" Anya echoed.

"You look frazzled, that is all. Bags under your eyes, hair askew." Aym licked his paw. "Usually the signs of love troubles."

Anya was amused. "And what does a cherti know of love?"

"I wrote the book on it, that's what! For example, my love of cream is on par with none. I could give you advice, if you'd like."

"Oh? Like what?"

"That whatever you're worrying over isn't worth fretting about. Love should be easy, a breeze." Aym moved on to licking his rear.

"But what if no one can know?"

"What?" Aym laughed. "You mean you and the two brain cell bannik?"

Anya paled.

Aym smirked, fangs poking out over his lips. "I can hear you at night, mistress. I do guard the door, you know."

"Oh, right."

"But don't mind me. I'm a silent witness." The cat winked.

"Thanks."

Aym saluted her. "I'm here to do your bidding. I wouldn't want you angry with me." The cat tucked his head between his paws. "Now, if you want my opinion, the bannik has a stick up his ass. But he's honorable. You could do worse."

"Kolya is... complicated," Anya said. "He feels guilty for liking me, and he is so damn overprotective." Anya buried her face in her hands. "I do not know what to do!"

"Do you love him?"

"Maybe? He still annoys me. Oh so much. Like an itch on your back you cannot quite reach. But I could not imagine my life without him, without us."

"Then there's your answer."

Anya petted Aym behind his ears. "You are a good familiar, Aym."

Aym purred, smug. "I know."

Dmitri ambled into the room, his antlers hung with ribbons. He yawned. "What are you two doing up so early?"

"Nothing," Anya said quickly. "I, um, could not sleep."

Dmitri laughed, settling at the table with a volume of Pushkin's poems. "Perhaps you danced too much last night."

"Maybe..." Anya didn't know how to tell Dmitri about her mistrust of Kosti.

A great crack came from the window. The glass shattered as an arrow whizzed through, set for Anya's heart.

Dmitri bellowed as he tackled Anya: "Look out!"

The arrow speared into his side.

"Da!" she cried, hugging Dmitri to her as his blood pooled on the floor.

"Anya," Dmitri coughed. "Get out of here."

"Da!"

Another arrow flew through the broken window. Aym roared, growing to the size of a tiger, and snapped the arrow between his jaws. He landed in front of Anya and Dmitri, growling.

"I will not leave you here," Anya said.

Through the window flew a vila, armed like an Amazon.

Anya yelled: "Get back, you bitch," and drew her knife from her belt.

Anya lunged towards the vila as the assailant restrung her bow. Anya caught the vila off guard and drove her knife into the enemy's heart.

The vila crumpled to the floor. Anya kicked her in the stomach, and the vila vomited silvery blood.

Anya looked up to the sky through the broken window and caught sight of a host of vila battling against Liliya and her sisters.

Dmitri pulled the arrow from his side and roared.

"You dare hurt my daughter!" he said, berserk. He quickly bound his wounds with torn cloth and raged outside. "Anya, wake the building," Dmitri ordered.

Anya nodded. She watched for only a moment as Dmitri rushed to the front lawn and grew tall as the trees. Enemy leshy were towering towards them on the horizon, and he ran to face them, crushing the forest beneath his feet.

"Aym, come!" Anya yelled. The tiger-sized cat followed. Anya ran upstairs to the guest's quarters. She banged on the doors, rousing the inn's occupants. "We are under attack!"

Iosif seeped up from the cracks between the floorboards. "Oh, oh?" he said, frantic. He grabbed a broom to defend himself. "Anya, you must hide. I will protect you, sweet mistress!"

"No, Osya. I need to fight."

"Brave words for a young witch," said Kosti, appearing from around a corner. "To the death, then."

"Follow me," Anya said. Kosti and Aym were hot on her heels. She made her way to the banya. "Kolya? Wake up!"

Morozko opened his eyes to see the knife Anya brandished. "What?" he said, groggy, then narrowed his eyes at the sight of Kosti behind Anya. "What is that prick of a koldun doing in my banya?"

Kosti laughed. "Good morning to you too, my friend. We are under siege."

Morozko bolted from his bed. "Ass of a dog." He spat sparks in rage. "I will slice the skin off every damn vila and hang their souls from my ceiling."

"Save the anger for the battlefield. Come on," Anya urged.

Morozko's eyes widened. "Oh no. You are not fighting."

"It is a bit too late for that," Kosti said quietly. "She is a witch, and lethal at that."

"I will be okay, Kolya. Now is not the time to be protective." Anya rushed to the front lawn, not caring if the others followed. She summoned her magic and shaped it into golden flames.

Outside was madness. A fire had been set, and enemies ran mad-dash between the tongues of flame. The inn's guests fought for their lives. Cherti and witches swarmed the field. Guts spilled onto the snowy ground; vampir went for necks and vodyanoi summoned water from the mill pond to drown opponents. Vila and leshy battled above.

The kolduny and witches that had been staying at the inn formed a circle, casting spells to turn the tide of the battle. They summoned a storm, directing lightning to strike the swarms of vila above. The vila's lightning-charred bodies fell from the sky.

As the sky darkened and storm winds picked up, the flames grew higher, setting fire to the inn. Aym ravaged the enemy, ripping out their throats, his iron hide impenetrable to arrow and sword. Anya punched bolts of golden flame at her opponents, letting her rage manifest as magic. Morozko struggled to defend her, getting in her trajectory as he breathed fire onto the enemy from the furnace of his stomach. He lashed out with razor nails, skinning nechist alive.

"Get out of my way!" Anya yelled.

"No, mooncalf. Go back to the banya and hide." Morozko throttled a cherti.

"The banya is on fire. I have nowhere to go but here."

"I will protect her," Kosti offered.

Morozko sneered. "I do not need your help!"

"I think you do."

Kosti spoke in a jarring language, weaving spells that strangled opponents with their own entrails. He invaded the attackers' minds and made them move like puppets, manipulating them so that they turned on themselves.

As if to one up Kosti, Morozko stripped of his skin, dissipating into a burning mist that scalded the flesh of all he touched. Morozko formed a protective fog around Anya, making sure not to touch her.

"I cannot see a damn thing," Anya snapped.

"Yes, but you are safe." Morozko's disembodied voice echoed around her.

"Not from arrows."

"Oh really?"

As if to prove his point, a vila-shot arrow speared into Morozko's fog and incinerated when it touched the white mist.

Anya cursed. "You always have to be right."

"Now is not the time to argue."

"I can fight on my own. I do not need you babysitting me. They hurt da. I want revenge!"

"And you will have it. Your familiar is ravaging the battlefield."

"You do not get it, do you? I have trained my whole life for this. Let me go!"

"No," Morozko growled.

Anya tried to run, but he formed a thick haze around her, refusing to budge. Anya screamed in anger.

"You little bliatz," Morozko said. "Stay where you are and do not move a single muscle."

"Do not you call me that, you jerk!"

Morozko swirled around her in a fury. "Not now. Shut up and listen. I am going to take you to Baba Yaga's. You need to get out of here, and your broom is in the banya, so you have no way to fly there. Plus, flying is difficult with leshys the size of trees."

"What – how?"

Morozko swirled in a circle, forming a vortex that sucked Anya up like a hurricane. She struggled, but he bore her aloft in a funnel over the trees.

"Put me down," Anya demanded.

"No. Just stay still. Mokosh, how much do you weigh?"

"Are you calling me fat?"

"No. I - just shut up!"

Anya flew over the thick pines, in between the towering leshy, avoiding their cudgels and the clouds of vila. They screamed as Morozko burned their flesh. His heat was nearly unbearable. Anya sweated for what seemed like unending minutes, until Morozko finally deposited her in front of Baba Yaga's hut.

"Quick, get inside," Morozko said.

"You do not need to yell at me, you bastard."

"Yes I do, you stubborn idiot."

Anya stumbled up the porch and slammed the door behind her. "Whatever we had, Morozko, it is over!"

Morozko condensed and donned his skin. "Like I care," he breathed. "Let me in. I am trying to save you."

"I can save myself!" Anya let out a sob. "Mother Mokosh, everything is burning. What if somebody dies? Iosif only had a broom – he does not even know how to fight."

"I do not care about the domovoi or the inn. Your safety is my only priority. Now let me in."

Anya unlocked the door. Morozko slumped against it, wet in the eyes. He collapsed in Anya's arms. Anya stumbled to the floor under his weight.

"Little hut, little hut," Morozko choked. "Turn your back from this world and your face towards the realm of man."

The hut spun, depositing them in the mortal world. Anya felt something warm on her hands. She looked down to see Morozko bleeding out onto her. "You are... hurt? But how?"

"Obviously," he said, voice weak.

"But you were steam!"

"You think taking that arrow for you was easy?" he rasped.

"I did not know." Anya dragged him to the couch. "Bandages. The bandages are over here!" She scurried to get them.

Morozko was bleeding out at an alarming rate. She did her best to stop the flow, pressing healing herbs into the wound and using the most potent healing spell she knew.

"I cannot see." Morozko choked up ichor.

"No. Don't you dare close your eyes!"

Morozko half-smiled. "All that matters is that you are safe."

His lids fluttered closed.

"The hospital," she said breathlessly, "I have to get you there. Baba Yaga is not here, and my spells are not strong enough yet." Somehow, she managed to carry Morozko outside to the gravel path to where Den', currently a yellow Camaro, was parked. There was no sign of Baba Yaga, but Anya had little time to dwell on that. Struggling to fit Morozko in the back seat, she coaxed Den' on. Not dwelling on whether Morozko's alien anatomy would be detected by the doctors, and not thinking straight in her panic, Anya rushed him to the ICU.

They admitted Morozko on a stretcher. Blood streamed like ribbons from the gash on his side, and the doctors' faces were grim.

"I will be honest," one said, face stony as she handed Anya paperwork. "This looks bad."

Anya nodded, stifling a sob. "I know. Please – just fix him."

Anya sat in the waiting room, her eyes following the second hand of the clock. Minutes turned to hours, and still there was no news of Morozko's health. No matter how often she asked the doctors, they refused to answer her, saying she couldn't enter the operating room. So she waited, desperate, her thoughts turned to the burning inn and gory battlefield. How many members of her family were dead? How had they broken through Liliya's encampments to the north? Was Morozko going to survive? A myriad questions rattled her mind.

"Anya?" a nurse asked.

Anya looked up. "Yes?" she said quietly.

The nurse smiled softly. "Your friend is stable."

Anya clasped her hands together. "Sweet Mokosh, thank you. Can I see him?"

The nurse nodded.

Anya rushed to Morozko's room. Morozko lay asleep, an IV attached to his arm. His heart rate was steady on the monitor. Anya thanked her lucky stars that he'd had enough willpower left to glamour himself so he looked human. His side had been sewn shut with stitches and he was held together with surgical bandages.

The doctor looked up from Morozko's bedside. "What happened to him?" the doctor asked, shaking her head.

"He was, um, mugged."

"Okay," the doctor said, looking at her with skepticism. "Well, he is lucky you found him. I cannot promise a quick recovery, but he should be alright. We did the best we could." The doctor left the room to give Anya space.

"Oh Kolya," Anya said, stroking Morozko's clammy brow. She leaned down to kiss his pale forehead. "Thank god you escaped Morena's embrace. You are going to be alright, I promise."

His heart rate spiked, and his eyes fluttered open.

"Anya?" he murmured, trying to sit up. He winced and fell back onto the bed. "Damn it."

"Shh. You need to rest."

"No," he said. "We need to get out of here. I am too weak to hold my human form for much longer."

Anya paled. "But how are we going to get out without people thinking that I have abducted a patient?"

"Baba Yaga has taught you a cloaking spell, I assume."

"I – yes? But I am horrible at it."

"Well we will just have to hope for the best." He tore the IV from his arm and struggled to rise.

"Here," Anya said, helping Morozko up. He leaned on her. "Okay, um, cloaking spell – here goes nothing."

She wrapped shadows around them, making them undetectable to mortal eyes. Morozko leaned on her and limped out of the room, the both of them quiet so as not to attract attention.

Morozko grunted, clutching his side as it started to bleed again. "Damn it, my stitches are not holding up."

Fear laced Anya's veins. They struggled down the hallway and into the parking lot. Morozko groaned as he mustered his way into the passenger seat. He said nothing, wrapped in his own pain. Anya cried as Den' drove back to Baba Yaga's house.

They found Baba Yaga sitting on the porch, her face grim. Baba Yaga's fingers were steepled under her hairy chin as she watched Morozko limp, supported by Anya, up the steps. Baba Yaga rose from her rocking chair. "Quick, inside. Soap shavings will die if I don't minister to him immediately."

Anya helped Morozko onto a table. Baba Yaga examined him, muttering to herself as she applied a green, foul-smelling poultice to his stitched-up wound.

Morozko groaned as the wet mass met his skin. "It stings," he grunted, squeezing Anya's hand.

Anya stroked his brow.

Baba Yaga bound his wound with handspun bandages. Anya held a cold compress to Morozko's brow, fighting back his fever. He tossed and turned, sinking into a sick sleep.

Baba Yaga's face was grim. "Vila arrows are almost always deadly," she said. "I do not know if he will last the night."

"No," Anya said. "I will not let him die!"

"You have no say in the matter, witch-daughter." Baba Yaga shook her head. She handed poultice to Anya. He sighed in his sleep.

"Is the battle over?" Anya asked.

Baba Yaga nodded. "Your friends Elizaveta and Iosif are dead," she said gently.

Anya sucked in air, sorrow bludgeoning her. "Not Liza and Osya. They could not defend themselves, could they? Iosif had a – sniff – broom as a weapon, for Mokosh's sake. It is all my fault. I should have been there to protect them!"

Baba Yaga comforted Anya. "Dear child, it is no one's fault, save Tsar Vladimir's and his army. Dmitri won, but at a cost. The inn is in ruins, burned to the ground. I have seen countless kingdoms rise and fall in my long life. The wheel turns, and life will move on."

"How can you say that? No one can replace my family. And what if something happens to Kolya?" Anya sobbed. "I could not ever live with myself. It is all my fault he was hurt. He might die because of me."

"Then he will have died an honorable death." Baba Yaga rose to stir her cauldron.

"No," Anya said. "He would have died for nothing."

"He loves you. That is enough for any man to give his life for."

The night passed in a feverish haze. Anya stayed beside Morozko, changing his bandages and poultice on the clock. He stirred come morning, his smile soft as he awoke to find Anya tending him.

"The pain is gone," Morozko whispered. "What miracle have you worked?"

"Kolya," she cried, kissing him. He reached up with a trembling hand to stroke her hair. "You are going to be okay, I promise"

"Better than fine." Baba Yaga smiled. "He will be walking in no time."

Morozko had survived, but the same could not be said for Elizaveta or Iosif. Anya's splintered family buried them in the backyard, Iosif close to the ashes of his beloved inn and Elizaveta near the mill pond. Iosif had perished when the inn burned down, the spirit of the house dying in time with his home. Elizaveta had been crushed by an enemy leshy. Dmitri's face was stony as he prayed to the old gods for their souls' safe passage into Veles' green underworld under the death goddess Morena's gentle guidance. Sorrow clouded Dmitri's eyes. The four held hands and said their goodbyes to the gravestones that rose over Iosif and Elizaveta's remains.

Anya felt a burgeoning emptiness inside her. It grew each day, a dark blossom rooted in her heart. The family stayed in Dmitri's hunting cabin, his wolves keeping guard over their cramped quarters. The guests of the inn had returned home, save Kosti. He lingered in the woods, on the edges of Dmitri's kingdom, playing his violin and rousing the animals into wild dances.

Anya could barely focus in school, and her grades slipped. The constant howl of wolves and lack of breathing space in the cabin made it nearly impossible to do her homework, compounded by her grief. Calculus blurred together, her English reading assignments might as well have been written in Esperanto, and her history textbooks seemed meaningless.

She slammed shut a textbook one night in frustration. Aym, perched on her desk, startled.

"What is wrong, mistress?"

Tears blurred Anya's eyes. "I cannot focus anymore," she said, stroking the cat's fur. "I am going to bed."

There was one room with two beds in the cabin, given to Anya and Liliya. Morozko and Dmitri slept on the floor by the woodstove, building a new inn by day and catching restless sleep by night. Liliya was busy training Dmitri's troops, now battle-hardened. The leshy's forest subjects had risen to arms, craving vengeance against Tsar Vladimir, and everyone was busy, leaving little time for the family to spend with Anya. She was alone most days, and tonight was no different, as she settled under the covers into dreamless sleep. Aym curled up at the foot of her bed, his breaths soft.

Kosti watched her through the window, his skin gleaming in the moonlight. "In time, dear witch, in time," he murmured.

Kosti saw lantern-light as Morozko and Dmitri returned home.

Anya stirred, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, but when she looked to the window, Kosti was gone.

The days slipped into weeks, and Anya's pain softened. Her grades returned to their former glory, and her lessons with Baba Yaga picked up. Morozko and Dmitri had laid the foundations for a new inn, working through the winter snow, and with the help of Dmitri's subjects soon built a new home. Anya returned to the upgraded inn with bittersweet longing. The banya was bigger this time, with separate rooms for her and Morozko, now they had actually planned to have Dmitri's daughter live there. It was so different, having a room of her own, with her firebird feather hung from the rafters to make it cheery. Almost empty, with Morozko absent and no souls to light the rafters. She sneaked into his room late at night when everyone else was asleep and slept by his side.

"I am afraid this war is ruining us," Anya said one evening, tucked into Morozko's bed.

He smoothed her hair. "It is war. We have fought in Dima's service before, and we will fight again."

There was a knock at the door.

Anya startled, breaking free of Morozko's arms.

"Bannik!" came Dmitri's furious voice.

Morozko, shirtless, turned sheet white. Anya covered her mouth. She pulled the wolfskin blankets up to cover herself.

Dmitri stormed in, his face flushed with rage. Liliya was hot on his heels, eyes iced with disapproval.

"So it is true?" Dmitri roared. "You are sleeping with my daughter. Our Anya!" Dmitri ground his fist into his palm. "Do you have no shame?"

Morozko jumped from the bed. "Chernobog's rot, it is not what you think!"

"It is incestuous, that is what it is." Liliya said. Her nostrils flared as she crossed her arms.

Morozko protested: "I have barely touched her."

"You are lying. I can smell you all over her. And I thought feeding her witch's brew was enough!" Dmitri said, distraught.

"Alright, I touched her, but we just kissed. I swear it. I could not help it. I am in love with Anya, Dmitri, and I have been for a while."

Anya sat, stoic, on the bed. "Who told you, da?" she said quietly.

Dmitri bit his lower lip. "Kosti heard you two going at it. He told me because he was worried about Anya's innocence. Like a trustworthy subject would be. I am your tsar, Kolya. You are in my service. And this – this? Not only is it unnatural, but it goes against the number one unspoken rule of this house: doing what is best for Anya. You are hundreds of years old. You are corrupting her."

"He is my age in nechist years! And it was my choice!" Anya said.

"What the hell was that koldun doing around my banya?" Morozko said through gritted teeth. "I will strip his skin and eat him alive."

"He has been watching the perimeter, at my request." Dmitri sighed. "I am ashamed of you, Kolya – ashamed to call you family. I henceforth banish you from my kingdom."

"What?" Morozko and Anya said.

"Get out of my sight." Before Anya could blink, Dmitri hurled Morozko from the room.

Morozko rose, hands balled into fists. "I've served you for hundreds of years, and this is how you repay me?"

Dmitri's face could break glass. "You touched my daughter. Your charge. Out!"

Morozko fumed. Liliya, with a vila's grace, stood guard over Dmitri, lest Morozko retaliate.

"This is extreme," Anya said.

Dmitri gave Anya a cutting glance. "You, young woman. You I will have a long talk with."

"I am seventeen! I can make my own choices."

"No." Dmitri shook his head, laughing wildly.

Anya looked to Morozko. "Are you going to fight for us?"

Morozko hung his head. "However much I want to, I will not go against my tsar. Anya." He looked up, longing in his eyes. He reached out for her, grasping only air. "I love you." With that, Morozko dissolved into steam, sweeping out of the banya and into the unforgiving night.

Anya screamed his name.

"It is for the best," Liliya said. "What a horrible mistake."

"What were you thinking, Anya?" Dmitri said.

"I – I think that I am in love him," was all Anya could say. She pulled the blankets up to her neck, rocking back and forth. "I cannot believe this. Kolya is gone? Truly gone?"

"Yes." Dmitri sighed. "He broke this inn's cardinal rule: that family comes first. He went against us all by courting you."

"Half of our family is dead!" Anya cried out. "Liza and Osya lay cold in the ground. They are turning in their graves at the thought of you breaking our family apart any further."

Dmitri softened. "Anya, Morozko was a wanderer for many years. Him romancing you was just the start of him breaking his reform. He used to be a notorious lothario, wandering from town to town, seducing mortals, sometimes devouring their souls. I thought he had changed, once he fell in love with Alina, but no. He is no different from how he used to be." Dmitri reached out to Anya. "Do not cry, dear, do not cry-"

"No." Anya smacked the leshy's hand away. Dmitri flinched. "Get out of my room, both of you!"

"It is for the best," Liliya said, voice gentle.

"You bitch," Anya said. "You just stood there while da cast out his most loyal servant. You are both insane. Listening to that horrible Kosti when you will not even listen to me. Leave me alone!"

When they refused to budge, Anya rocketed up out of bed, chasing after where she thought Morozko had gone.

She ran out the banya door and straight into Kosti.

"You disgusting imp!"

Anya made to slap him, but Kosti caught her wrist, grinning to reveal pearly teeth. His skin was bitter cold against her hand.

"Dear, are you quite alright?"

Kosti's smile broke something in Anya's mind. It was as if some enchantment had lifted, one that had been cast since his arrival, since the first song his violin played. Anya remembered the ominous tune she had heard weeks ago, from Stravinsky's Firebird suite – The Infernal Dance of King Kashchei. That was the name of the song that had eluded her.

Kosti – Kashchei – saw realization bloom in Anya's eye. He laughed. "Ah. So you finally know. I must say, I have been watching you since you first came to Buyan, the dark night that blasted bannik sang to you, sixteen years ago." He gripped her to his chest with vise-like arms. "That lullaby haunted me. It was such a tender song. I just knew I had to have the object of that song's affection. And here we are, all these years later – Baba Yaga's witch-daughter and the Deathless. Do we not make quite the pair?"

Anya tried to scream, but the sound froze in her throat. She found herself helpless, her ribs crushed by his embrace, at the powerful koldun's mercy. Her eyes begged him to stop, but King Kashchei, heedless, merely smirked. He dabbed at her tears with his white, white sleeve. "Do not cry, dear. I have wonderful plans for you. I even wrote us a song."

A lone wolf howled in the distance. It sounded like Greyback crying out for his master.

When Liliya and Dmitri came to the front door, Anya was gone.

Who will bring me golden apples?

calls the firebird

from her silver tree

Who will sing me a golden song?

All day she waits

in the tsar's garden.

Who will set me free? Who?

If given a feather

bright as heaven,

would you?

-"Firebird" by Julie Larios

Winter dragged his chains of hoarfrost across the ground, and December came roaring into the world.

Morozko was in Father Frost's kingdom of eternal snow, in the northern-most corner of Buyan, where the spirit of winter reigned supreme. Kind but capricious, Ded Moroz – or Father Frost in Anya's lilting English – was known for granting maiden's wishes and freezing the less fortunate. Morozko, thankfully, carried a furnace inside him from his wayward father's side, so he was impervious to the cold. He was temping as a bartender for the time being, working under his love-fickle mother Snegurochka: Ded Moroz's granddaughter and present-deliverer to a myriad excited Russian children.

Morozko had wandered far and wide over the past month, rushing as a cloud of steam across the harsh Russian winter-scape. He had settled himself in the darkest corner of Buyan, closest to the deathless lands, where the northern lights shone above and snow maidens wandered the streets, searching for lovers that would melt them come spring with kisses sweet and arms like warm blood.

Morning lagged on the horizon, and Morozko woke from a fitful sleep in the attic above the bar. He dragged himself downstairs and set to polishing glasses. The glasses trembled in his hands, and one slipped and shattered on the counter, slicing his palm. He cursed and tore fabric from his shirt to bind the cut.

"Brooding again, Kolasha?" Snegurochka said, gliding over on dainty feet, her blue robes trailing behind her. She brought him a cup of coffee from the kitchen. Snegurochka smiled at Morozko as he accepted the hot drink. He took a sip, wiped his lip of the liquid, and gave Snegurochka a half-smile.

"I suppose so, mother."

"Oh, do not call me that. You make me feel like an old hag," Snegurochka said, tart. The original Snow Maiden, eternally youthful, hated being reminded of her age, though her many daughters loved to remind her of it. Morozko was her only son, her first child, hence her heir, a miracle of a boy as snow maidens rarely bore males – his half-sisters hated him for his bannik heritage, and he could care less for their ill-fated spring fortunes. They had always made him the laughingstock of Ded Moroz's court, and so he hated them – all snow maidens save his mother herself.

"A hag?" Morozko narrowed his eyes. "You are hardly Baba Yaga. Damned I ever cast my lot with her lot."

"Oh, my son," Snegurochka said, smoothing Morozko's hair. "You were always bound to end up in trouble. That is what comes of being born a half-breed."

"I am almost full bannik, mother, like my useless deadbeat dad. I have his divinatory powers and fire: there is not a drop of ice in me."

"Nevertheless, you are the only male heir to Ded Moroz. However much you hate your birthright, it will catch up with you sooner or later. You will enter the family business eventually. We all do." There was a gleam in her icy eyes.

"As if I can summon a single snowflake! I am a family disgrace, always have been, and my great-grandfather wants nothing to do with me. I am a bannik – we are all heat, not ice. The only things I am good at are tending banyas and losing girls."

Morozko looked like he had an upset stomach, one of the hallmarks of love-sickness. Snegurochka tried to cheer him up. "Sweetheart, when was the course of love easy?" She sighed. "I lost your father come spring, and so it goes with snow maidens. We melt, and men cannot stand the sight of us in summer, all dripping and teary-eyed, translucent as glass and glaciers."

Snegurochka stood tall and proud. "But I do not pity myself, not even when I am melting from heart sickness. My love always results in a loss of some kind. It is always worth it: I refuse to mourn. You need to be strong, like me. If your love is true, it will find a way. Unlike mine, it will last past spring."

"That is all well and good, but to love the girl I want goes against the only family, despite you, I have ever known." Morozko gritted his teeth. "Anya is still a girl. Only seventeen. And Dima is like a parent to me. The father I never had. I could never go against him. And I hate myself for it: it is like losing Alina all over again."

"Hush, Kolasha," Snegurochka said, comforting him. "Anya is a witch, and witches are persuasive. There is still hope for you two. With her enchantress tongue, she could talk her father into walking off a cliff. I am sure she can convince her father to accept your relationship. And even if that does not work, Anya is almost a woman: Dmitri will have to accept her choice in men eventually."

Morozko finished his coffee. "You are always right, mother, I suppose," he said, grinding his teeth. "Damn stubborn Dima needs me anyways, especially now his war with Tsar Vladimir is over and won. Who else will run the banya? I built the new inn out of my own sweat and steam, and I have served him for many generations. He must see my value, and think me a worthy match for his daughter. Bastard or not, I am, after all, a prince. But I will have to court Anya the old-fashioned way this time, I would think, and ask for Dima's permission to woo her as a proper gentleman."

"Pah!" came a cry from the door as it slammed open. In flew Baba Yaga on her mortar, waving her pestle around. "Empty air is what you will be wooing, soap shavings. My witch daughter is gone."

"Gone?" Morozko echoed. "But where?"

Baba Yaga's face darkened. "She ran away the night you were banished. Vanished into the air, with not a trace of her smell left for Dima's wolves to follow. Either Anya is hiding her tracks well, or something much more insidious is afoot. For even I, daughter of the mountains, child of the forest, hag of the iron teeth, cannot find my little bird."

"Insidious?" Snegurochka stiffened, not liking the discord Baba Yaga brought to her kingdom. "Whatever are you suggesting?"

Baba Yaga hopped off the mortar and helped herself to unpaid-for vodka. "I am saying that someone is thwarting my plans for Anya, plans that are nearly two decades in the making."

Morozko hardened. "So someone has ruined the accursed plans you have had for her since you first gave her to me. Is that such a bad thing? Your lessons in magic put her in danger in the first place!"

"She was never yours, soap shavings. You would do well to remember that. Witches belong to no one save their coven and witch queens, and I'm the only witch mother she has." Baba Yaga bit into a peanut from the bar, chomping it with the shell still intact. "And yes, in fact, it is a bad thing if my plans are interrupted. That vision you had years ago, of blood on snow, will pale in comparison if her fate is thwarted."

Morozko shivered despite his bannik heat. Snegurochka rose to her full height – which was not much - and faced off against the hag. "And what can my son do about this?" Snegurochka said, her voice steel.

Baba Yaga eyed Morozko's mother as if assessing an ice cream cone – something delectable, and completely non-threatening. "Snegurochka, your son is the prince of frost – however lacking in family powers he is. It is in his legacy to be able to survive in the darkest, most bitter of places. I have my suspicions that a fate similar to your son's Alina has befallen Anya, and that only someone with Ded Moroz' ability to survive in the desolate ends of Buyan can find her."

Morozko's eyes grew wide as dinner plates. "What?" he breathed.

Baba Yaga sat in the shadows of the bar. Her teeth gleamed in the morning light. "The koldun that was slated to play for the November Ball, Kosti, has gone missing. He vanished the night Anya ran away. I believe he kidnapped her. Dmitri is in mourning, and I do not tell him this theory, as it would frighten him. But you, Kolya - you have the legacy of Ded Moroz, who withers all in his path. Ded Moroz, who can track a snow hare in a blizzard, has passed his ability to locate things onto you. How else does he find the households of millions and deliver presents to brats each New Years? It is you, and you alone, that can find Anya. A deep, dark enchantment surrounds her, one that all my scrying cannot penetrate. The koldun has her under his spell: her life is in danger. I looked into your precious Alkonost mirror, and it is shrouded in fog."

Morozko swallowed hard. Snegurochka held him close.

"Annushka?" Morozko said. He broke away from his mother. "It is true. I could track Anya, if I accepted my inheritance from Ded Moroz. But to be crowned, to accept my legacy, would change me. I would have to become – well, something else entirely."

There was fear on Morozko's face, but determination also.

Baba Yaga gave a razor smile, the corners of her mouth stretching to her ears. "You would become like the memories of gods. Like Ded Moroz, your mother, and I. We are not quite deities, but we are not mere spirits, either. Your powers would vastly outweigh a bannik's."

Morozko shuddered. "I was too afraid to make the change when I lost Alina. I did not think I could go up against Kashchei the Deathless. I am nothing like Ivan Tsarevich. Nothing like the frost prince you think me, babushka." Morozko pressed his thumb into the cut on his palm. He winced at the pain. "I am the bastard of a bannik and the Snow Maiden – not nobility, never nobility. Ded Moroz – dedushka - is not impressed with me, especially after I disowned my inheritance. To go to him now and beg for my crown back – will he even grant it to me?"

"It is worth a try," said Snegurochka, gentle. "That is enough wheedling, Baba Yaga. My son has been persuaded, just like you planned. Now please, leave. I do not want to see you for another hundred years."

Baba Yaga smoothed her tattered oxblood skirt. "Very well," she said. She mounted her mortar and pestle and, like the taiga wind, was off.

Snegurochka closed the door behind Baba Yaga. "That witch thinks we are all her pawns." Her voice was bitter.

Morozko spun his coffee cup on the edge of the bar. "Aren't we?" He looked out the window onto the blizzard beyond. "But I will find Anya. Even if it costs me my life."

Ded Moroz's eyes seemed to pick the meat clean from Morozko's bones. Father Frost stroked his hoary beard, glacial icicle spiked crown resting atop his brow. His courtiers thronged round his throne, whispering at the scandal of his scion, the bannik bastard born out of wedlock to Snegurochka.

"So," Ded Moroz boomed. "You wish to be reinstated to the family legacy and become my heir? A responsibility you have shirked since your birth, all to save some orphan witch?"

Morozko sweated, the furnace in his belly roaring. "Yes," he said, temple throbbing under the scrutiny of his forefather, a man he had never wanted please.

A thin smile graced Ded Moroz's lips. "I cannot say that I am glad that it has taken so long for you to accept your heritage. But for the love of a woman, you are willing. So be it. I will give you your crown, my grandson."

Morozko let out the breath he did not realize that he had been holding.

Snegurochka clasped Morozko's hands in hers. "Be brave," she encouraged.

Morozko squeezed her hands.

Ded Moroz rose, long snowflake robes trailing behind him. He motioned for a silver circlet to be brought out by his attendants. Taking the circlet, he placed it on Morozko's brow.

"Brace yourself," Ded Moroz thundered.

Frost shot through Morozko's veins as the circlet settled on his opaline hair. He cried out as a deep, old magic impaled him like an icicle.

Morozko sank to his knees and convulsed, his mother's legacy flowing through him, freezing his molten core. The furnace in his belly sputtered and died, and the steam of his bones froze as the frost magic stole what made him a bannik and replaced it with inexorable cold. He vomited smoke and sparks, relinquishing his heat.

Unyielding power consumed him, and he ground his fists into the floor, sending snowflake fractals out from under him. The courtiers slipped on the now-icy tiles, and Morozko rolled onto his side, heaving. His skin, once white, was now a pale blue, and his hair hung like icicles over his shoulders. Morozko curled in on himself, screaming out as burning light traced patterns on his biceps, carving lacy snowflake fractals in a ring around the muscle.

Transformation complete, Morozko rose on shaking legs. His eyes were wide in wonder.

Ded Moroz gave a thin smile with his bruise-blue lips. "My heir," the frost king said, opening his arms wide. The courtiers clapped and Snegurochka dabbed at the tears in her eyes.

"Kolasha. How you have changed," Snegurochka breathed.

"Mother?" Morozko rasped, hobbling to her side. She supported him. "I think I am alright."

Morozko glanced around. "I can see ice crystals in the air, like the scales of a fish. But I am cold, bitterly so. Is this what it is like to be a child of the north?"

He opened his pale blue fingers and examined them. "I feel like an ice sculpture, newly carved. I have lost my smoke tricks, but now, I can summon the heart of winter, or rush like a blizzard across the world. I can find Anya, and I am powerful enough to face off against that stupid koldun, wherever he may be. I never did like kolduny."

"Use your powers wisely, and welcome, Morozko, to the family business," Ded Moroz said, grin sharp. "I expect you to run delivery rounds next New Year's, after you have found your girl."

"Thank you, grandfather." Morozko bowed to Ded Moroz. He looked to Snegurochka, and smiled. "I love you. But I must leave you. There is someone that needs me even more than you."

Snegurochka nodded. "Go, my precious son. I have never been so proud."

Morozko shed his skin and turned into a flurry of snow. He rushed out of the palace and onto the taiga, bringing winter in his wake. Thus he traveled for days, back to Tsar Dmitri's kingdom, searching for traces of Anya.

It was like stretching a forgotten muscle, getting accustomed to his royal powers. What overwhelmed Morozko most was the biting cold. He frosted everything he touched. He had to restrain himself, keeping his powers capped, lest he spread a freezing blight across the land.

Finally, he came to the lonely inn. Morozko materialized and knocked on the front door. Liliya answered, a weary expression on her face.

"Kolya?" she yawned, examining his bruise-blue lips. "What the hell happened? Did you get head-to-toe frost bite?"

Morozko shook his head. "No. I was reinstated into the royal family so I could have the power to find Anya."

Liliya's eyes widened. She drew a sharp breath. "That is insane. You have always hated your inheritance!"

Morozko shrugged. "I am desperate. I need to find her. Find my Anya. That, or die trying."

"Well, Dima is out searching high and low, leaving me to run the inn. But there is not a single trace of her." Liliya shook her head. "Honestly, I have given up hope. I do not know if Anya ran away, or if she was taken. All I know is that my tsar might lose it if he cannot find his beloved daughter."

"I will not let that happen," said Morozko, fierce. "So you do not have any leads?"

"No. It is like Anya was erased from the world. Even her familiar is gone."

"You mean Aym is missing too?"

"Yes. Such a shame. That cat was such a help in the kitchen." Liliya rubbed her wrist. "Anyways, I am very sorry we kicked you out. Dmitri was furious – rightfully so – but Anya's disappearance has put everything into perspective. The war against Vladimir was not easy to win without you, and the search for Anya is not going swimmingly either. It is good to have you on our side again."

"I am glad that I can be of some help. Dima must be mad with grief." Morozko looked over his shoulder, as if paranoid of his shadow. "I spent too many days in my crotchety grandfather's kingdom, with its weak sun, melting half-sisters, and northern lights that keep you up past midnight. And look what has become of me. I am his heir now? Great. Mokosh knows what that means." Morozko turned his thoughts from himself. "I just wanted you and Dima to know that I am in the area. I have to go. Hopefully I will find something that Dima has not."

Liliya nodded and patted him on the back. "You are absolutely right. Perhaps your new frost-bright eyes will turn up a clue."

With a last goodbye, Morozko raged off, coalescing into a winter storm.

Anya smelled mint. Mint and jasmine. She woke with a start, tucked into thick silk sheets that rustled as she moved. Bleary-eyed, she rubbed her tear ducts as her vision focused. Her memory was hazy – flashes of a carriage through the sky, sweet meats fed to her with silver forks and peacock eyes. She found herself in a spacious room, with crystalline walls hung with tapestries, lit by a fiery hearth. She was in a luxurious bed of eiderdown, and the wonderful smells came from an open window that looked out onto an exotic palace courtyard, with trees of jade that bore fruits of silver and gold. A willow whose boughs were rubies bent in the breeze, its red leaves clinking out a melody. The realization of where she was suffocated her like a peach pit caught in her throat.

The deathless lands she had yearned since she was a child to see, but instead of being the hero who conquered them with banners and saved the dancing princesses, she herself was a trapped princess, just like Maria Morevna. It was all wrong, like a paperback mystery missing its last pages, and suddenly, she did not know how her story would end.

"So I am a hostage to the tsar of the deathless. Just my luck! Ugh!"

The door drew open. "Hostage? I would hardly call you that," Kashchei said. There he was in all his terrible glory, crowned with a white helm shaped like a skull, his skin the color of a corpse, decked in black furs and an ivory kaftan. He walked barefoot into the room. Ghostly fog rose where his toes met the ground.

His frosted skin scintillated like the crystal white walls. The Deathless smiled thinly, carrying a tray of tempting foods. He held them out to Anya like an offering.

She smacked the tray from his hands. The plates clattered to the floor.

"Then what am I? Your guest? This is not exactly a Hawaiian resort I paid to vacation to," Anya said, guarded.

Kashchei laughed, cleaning up the mess. "We can discuss that after you have had a proper meal. You must be starving."

Anya scoffed. "I would be a fool to eat the food of the deathless." Her skin prickled with gooseflesh. "If I did that, I would be trapped here. I am not Ivan the Fool, you know."

Kashchei shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, emptying the ruins of Anya's breakfast into a wastebasket beside an olive-green armoire. "I suppose you do not require food now, anyways. The land of the deathless is not conducive to metabolism, or so I am told by my girls." He traced the woodwork of the armoire with clawed nails, following the intricate patterns of fern flowers and raskovniks. Fingering the silver knob, he opened the armoire to reveal clothes fit for a princess: flowing ball gowns and slim evening dresses, billowing harem pants and sheer, scarf-like tops. His hand skimmed over a cerulean sarafan with a white blouse, and he took it off the hanger. "I had these made just for you," he murmured, glancing at Anya from the corner of his eye. "I think you would be particularly stunning in this."

"As if I would dress for your pleasure." Anya threw off the covers. She looked down to see she was dressed in a fresh white shift. "Did you change my clothes?" she demanded, covering herself with the silk blankets.

"I did not touch you. I had my servants change you."

"You mean the girls you've stolen."

Kashchei flinched. "'Stolen' is a harsh word. Did not Persephone come to love her captor?"

Anya's skin turned cold. "It is called 'The Rape of Persephone' for a reason," she said. "I hardly imagine that your servants love you. They are shades of themselves, cursed to dwell here for eternity. But do not think I will give in to your charms and the beauty of my prison. I once wanted to come here with all my heart, but now I am forcibly in your realm, I want nothing more than to watch your jewel trees burn. I will escape this hellish wasteland where things are not dead, not alive – nothing - if it is the last thing I do." Anya slammed her fists into the bed, shaking in rage. "How dare you take me against my will! I will kill you, and unlike Ivan Tsarevich, I will do it with finality."

Anya summoned her magic and punched the tawny flames towards him.

Kashchei lifted his hand and caught the witch fire as if it were a tennis ball. He crushed it to ash in his palms. Anya's eyes widened as her most powerful spell crumbled under the mere flex of Kashchei's hand. She rocketed out of the bed and lashed out, punching him with burning right and left hooks. Kashchei blocked each blow.

"Is this really a fruitful expenditure of your energy, daughter of Morena?" he asked between blows.

Anya froze. "What did you call me?"

Kashchei smile was crooked. "I think you heard me."

Anya sank onto the bed, head in her hands. "No," she whispered. "That is not right. You disgusting liar."

"Would I lie to the daughter of a goddess?"

"The gods are gone. They abandoned Buyan eons ago. You are delusional, you bastard."

"Which is perhaps why Baba Yaga found you on Earth, little demigod." Kashchei sat beside Anya and put his arm around her. She was too panicked to resist.

"No." Anya looked out the open window, at the treacherous beauty of the land of the deathless. Anya clutched the firebird pendant at her throat and inhaled sharply.

"And here Baba Yaga has raised you all this time, keeping you in the dark about your heritage so you could be her perfect little pawn." Kashchei tapped his shoeless feet on the ground. "Cruel, really. Keeping your true family from you."

"Baba Yaga knew?"

"Of course she did. We witches and kolduny know more than we let on, halfway between immortals and gods that we are. Your family has kept things from you too, like your dear bannik's true identity. Did you know that he is the bastard son of Snegurochka, heir to Ded Moroz?"

"What?" Anya said. "But Kolya is just a bannik."

"Perhaps he seems so, appearances-wise, but his bloodline speaks otherwise."

Anya's head swum. Memories of the old tales of the gods told round the hearth-fire by Dmitri surfaced in her mind. She recalled the thunder god Perun, king of storms, and his rival jovial Veles, lord of cattle and the leafy green underworld. She thought of the golden spring god Jarilo and his lover Morena, goddess of winter, death, and witchcraft, eternal enemy of Chernobog.

Morena's embrace. Morena's frost. They were common enough sayings in Buyan.

Morena – her supposed mother. But how? And how could Morozko possibly be related to Ded Moroz?

Nothing of what Kashchei spoke computed. She noticed she was shaking in Kashchei's arms and violently pulled away from him.

"You are lying," Anya said. "Baba Yaga would not hide my identity, and Morozko would not keep his family from me." She spat out the words as if they were dirt in her mouth.

A thin smile drew across Kashchei's lips. "If that is what you think, then you do not know Baba Yaga or Ded Moroz's heir at all." He rose from the bed and paced to the window, opening it to let in a fresh breeze. "Ah," he said, breathing deeply. "Fresh summer air. Just what these old bones need."

Anya froze. "Summer?"

Kashchei traced a talon across the window's shimmering glass. "Journeying to my realm is taxing on the body. You have rested for approximately half a year in enchanted sleep, dear Annushka."

"Do not call me that!" she snapped. Panic mounted in her chest. "I have been missing that long?" Anya tore at the sheets, frantic.

Kashchei shrugged noncommittally. "I suppose so. I do not pay much attention to time. It does not touch the Deathless." He produced a golden apple from his furs and bit into it, letting the juice bead on his lips like amber. With a forked tongue, he licked them clean. "Have you ever wondered why I attract so many girls to my kingdom?"

Anya snorted. "More like seduce, enchant, and kidnap. You are a predator, no better than a vulture. Do not think for a moment that you are appealing."

Kashchei smiled. "That is not what you thought when you first met me. No. You knew who I was, from the first moment I played Stravinsky's eponymous tune. You chose to ignore my nature in favor of the chance to be enchanted. To forget who I was and the danger I posed in order to lose yourself in my dance. That is what every woman wants: magic. Miracles. And those, I can give to you like drops of rain from an eternally swollen sky. You my firebird, I your tsar." He laughed. "When you looked at me, you let me into your life of your own accord. The Devil does not appear by one's window unless spoken of first. You have always longed to come to my realms, to come to me. The woods do not only whisper to witches, you know, and wishful hearts are obvious to those who do not have them."

Anya keened. "To hell with your miracles." She bolted for the door, only to find it locked. Anya banged on the wood until her fists were red. Kashchei waited for her to tire, finishing his apple with a crunch. He tossed the core out the window into the courtyard below. Jewel-toned birds flocked round where it landed, pecking at the diamond seeds at the apple's heart. He watched them with disinterest.

"I attract women to my realm because this is a haven. For dreamers and lost souls, and those who burn so wine-dark with passion that it immolates them. Some call this the realm of death, the place of cold miracles, but I am not Veles, no underworld god, and this is far from the afterlife, Hell, or any other place you can imagine. This is the realm where coal is pressured into diamonds. My kingdom is the kingdom of true life, and my subjects the claimants of a vitality so sweet it melts on the tongue like butter."

Anya spat at his feet. "All this opulence is a thin veneer over rot." Her voice could melt a glacier. "I know your true face, underneath that glamour you wear. You are a corpse: a desiccated, decaying king, cold as death and as hard as the diamond seeds of your stupid fruit."

Kashchei furrowed his brow, and his form shifted so that he was cloaked in nothing more than seething darkness, his eyes pus, rolling in his head, skin papery, barely clinging to bone. Maggots squirmed in deep holes in his skin, which wept clotted black blood. He laughed, a deep rattle, and his visage reshaped itself into that of the proud, fully fleshed sorcerer. "The only thing rotten is your mood," he chided. "But then, what to expect from the daughter of Morena but a firecracker attitude?"

Anya yelled: "I am not related to the goddess of winter and death in any shape or form!"

Kashchei chuckled. "Deny it all you want, but flesh does not lie. I ran a sample of your blood through a gamut of tests to divine your identity, and my spells are never wrong. There is a reason you are such a powerful witch. Why you summoned a Duke of Hell as your familiar. Why Baba Yaga has hoarded you all these years like the palest of gold. I want to offer you something more than Baba Yaga's selfish plans. Something far grander."

Anya went stiff with fear.

Kashchei bowed low, piercing eyes meeting hers. "I would make you my queen, and together, we would unite Buyan under our reign, like it was before, in the golden age of the gods, when dear Mokosh reigned supreme. You have seen the toll war has on our people. All these battling factions, split into fractured kingdoms by the pettiness of leshys and the warlike nature of the vila. Your own dear Tsar Dmitri the Bountiful's realm was recently devastated by war. You lost dear family members to it. Is it not all so pointless, the squabbling of fake kings? Imagine, for the first time in eons: peace."

"I would rather choke on my own crap." Anya laughed hysterically. "You are not just a predator, you are absolutely mad, a despot that craves absolute control. First you kidnap me, and then you have the gall to ask me to be your consort? In what twisted world does that plan work?"

"Think on it," Kashchei said with patience. "All I want is peace, and you are the closest Buyan has come to having a goddess in ages. You are already well-loved – you could be a symbol for all that is good and new. I am not asking you to marry me out of love. We do not know each other, not yet. I am asking out of practicality. But you could grow to love me, as I could learn to love you, and our union would be one of such prosperity as has never been seen since the reign of your mother and Jarilo." Kashchei's eyes took on a dreamy haze.

He smiled, a smile that was cut short when Anya threw a pillow in his face.

"Dear Anya," Kashchei sighed, catching the pillow and tossing it back onto the head of her bed. "Why are you so difficult? Think of the possibilities we could create, together."

"Are you going to ramble some more?" Anya said, frustration pulsing in her veins. She dared not strike him again, though she wanted to oh so desperately, especially in his twisted mouth.

Kashchei closed the window with delicacy. He tucked a strand of hair behind his frosted ear. "No, I suppose that I am done rambling. Consider my offer. I will fetch you in the evening for dinner. I do so hope you will grace me with your attendance."

With that, Kashchei exited the room, leaving Anya to pace her quarters like a caged animal, ever the starving lion.

Morozko was on the shadow-side of Saint Petersburg, in Buyan's reflection of the metropolis. He rode the train aimlessly, smoking cigarette after cigarette. All of his searching had turned up ash. Dirt. Nothing. There was no sign of where Kosti had disappeared to, and the fear of what had happened to Anya was a bird freezing in its cage in his snowy ribs, where his heart would have been, if Anya was in his arms. Instead, she had flown away, because he had been foolish enough to make his wish on a firebird girl.

Morozko caught his reflection in the dark window. There were his lips, a dark blue, and his cheeks sunken in like a junkie's. His hair was hardened with ice. He could barely smoke cigarettes now: the cold of his mouth put them out. He cursed his new form under his breath.

Morozko touched the window's glass and traced Anya's face in the oily smudge. Just her eyes, really, a nose, thick lips. Would he ever see his love, his charge, his witch of a heart, again? The vodka he had drunk earlier churned in his gut. For all his new powers, he could not even manage to find a single stubborn girl. A lost teenager, nearly eighteen – half a year gone by in an alcoholic, frenzied blur. Morozko sank into a chair that smelled of vodyanoi piss.

The conductor announced the end of the line. Morozko shuffled off the train, up the terminal stairs, out into the dim light of the city's outskirts. He stood at the city's edge, staring out into the wilderness.

The silence was interrupted by a wolf's plaintive howl. Morozko bit his lip, reminded of Dmitri's packs. Dmitri, who was a shell of himself, half-mad with grief. His kingdom had fallen into ruin, the land withering as their forest lord mourned.

Morozko could not take it – the endless, mocking howl. He stripped of his skin and unleashed a freezing blight, charging towards the wolf-song. Morozko's snowy form came to a clearing. There was the wolf, a great gray vucari, standing watch over a sleeping traveler. Morozko stopped in his tracks and materialized.

"Ivan Tsarevich?" Morozko breathed.

Ivan stirred. Greyback looked at Morozko with luminous yellow eyes.

"You call upon my master, Morozko?" Greyback growled.

"You know my name?"

Greyback gave a growling laugh. "It is etched on your skin."

Morozko remembered the ice fractal tattoos on his body. "Right. Well then, yes, I would like to speak with Ivan. I know that he is the master at tracking kolduny."

Ivan Tsarevich yawned. He cracked his knuckles and rose. "You have come to the right man, my friend Morozko. Wayward prince, lover of Alina, loser of two girls to Kashchei the Deathless."

Morozko bristled. "King Kashchei? You must have me confused. The koldun I am tracking is Kosti – oh." Morozko's bluish skin paled. "No!" Morozko sank to his knees and punched the permafrost. "It was so damn obvious. Hidden in fucking plain sight. That is why I cannot find her. Help me, you have to, please Ivan!"

Ivan Tsarevich gave a thin smile. "It would be my pleasure. I have been tracking Kashchei for some time now – for seventeen years the Deathless was elusive, until he showed up at your inn, disguised. I waited to see what he would do. As always, he stole a girl. But this one, your Anya, seems special. He has a particular interest in her, an obsessive fascination – an addiction even. Mokosh knows what he is plotting."

Morozko wilted. "I am a total idiot. All this time, I have left Anya alone – alone with the worst curse on Buyan. How do I get to Kashchei's kingdom? What do I have to do?"

Ivan Tsarevich surveyed the stars. "We wait. For the summer solstice, when the doors to the deathless kingdom will open."

"I cannot wait that long! Every moment we wait puts Anya in more danger."

Ivan reached into the sack at his back and set to fletching an arrow. "She will not turn into a shade as long as she does not eat the deathless food or drink the diamond clear water there."

Morozko pulled a lighter from his pocket and struggled to smoke a cigarette. "But Kashchei's tricks are endless. One misstep and Anya will be caught in his web."

"Then let us hope that she is strong enough to withstand him, Mother Mokosh willing"

Anya thought of throwing herself from the window, into the jeweled gardens below. But the fall would be from countless stories, and every bone in her body would break. There was no question of scaling down the wall: it was crystalline, iced glass and snow: slippery and treacherous. She resigned herself to changing into clothes more practical for rebellion.

There was a single pair of jeans in the armoire, brown boots, and a silk blouse. The clothes were her exact size, and she frowned, imagining Kashchei taking her measurements while she was asleep. She was more repulsed by him then scared, and she hated to think he knew her dress size. No man should know a woman's dress size, not even their husband, and certainly not their enemy.

There was a knock at the door. Anya braced herself. The lock clicked, and in walked a barefoot redhead, carrying a samovar and tea cups.

The redhead smiled, baring fangs. "Anya? A pleasure to meet you. My lord is waiting for you in the dining room. I have come to escort you downstairs, after your tea. Please, allow me to pour it for you. There is certainly no rush. I just brewed it from the dried emerald mint in the gardens. They have quite a pleasant taste, rich as jewels."

The redhead offered Anya a cup.

Anya let it slip through her fingers and shatter on the floor.

The redhead laughed. "He told me you were plucky. But everyone has to eat eventually."

"And become a shade like you?" Anya said, her strong freckled arms crossed against her chest.

The redhead's nostrils flared at the word shade. "We refer to ourselves as the blessed deathless. Never shade. That is rather cruel. I came here of my own will, if that makes you feel any better. Kashchei is many things, but he is not a monster. He would never force any of us into his kingdom unless it was absolutely necessary for the very good of the cosmos itself. Being immortal and as powerful as he is offers you a celestial perspective, I suppose."

"There is a thin line between enchantment and convincing." Anya sighed, then bent down to pick up the pieces of the broken tea cup and dump them into the wastebasket. "At least tell me your name."

The redhead set her tray down on the mother-of-pearl inlay vanity. She twisted a silver ring on her thumb. "It was Alina. But we trade our old names for new ones once we come to the deathless lands. I am Lana now, a guiding flame in the darkness, kindled from the light my lord lit in me."

Anya sucked in air. She noticed Lana's pointed canines and curled hair like autumn leaves. A treacherously beautiful vampir. "You are Morozko's fiancée!" she blurted.

Lana winced. "I do not think of my past much. I was reborn when I flew in Kashchei's caravan and hid my soul away. Alina was fickle. Lana is the name of a woman who is unyielding. Without my soul, I am strong. It is in my lord's hands and in return, Kashchei has given me the world."

Anya balled her hands into fists. "What kind of world is this, to be chained to the deathless lands, beyond which you would crumble to dust? You hurt Kolya beyond words. I do not care how curious you were to see the forests of jade or to learn Kashchei's secrets. It was a horrible thing you did, abandoning the man who loved you for a koldun known for his cruelty."

Lana poured herself a cup of tea and took a sip. "Chained to the deathless lands? Hardly. This realm is endless in its own ways. You will soon understand why I chose to live here with my lord. The deathless kingdom is the realm of true life, where each of our potentials are unlocked. I yearned since I was a child to come here, as many girls do."

Anya shivered, realizing she was just one in a long line of women enchanted by the deathless lands. Her heart hardened at her past foolishness, and Anya turned her cold gaze to the window. "Kashchei has brainwashed all of you."

"You will not believe me and in his beneficence until you see the wonders of this realm. Come, it is time to dine with my lord."

Anya pursed her lips. "And if I do not?"

Lana finished her tea with a definitive gulp. "You will stay here and be given more time to change your mind. We are nothing if not accommodating."

"I will be left to rot, you mean." Anya smoothed her jeans. "Fine. I will follow you, but remember that I am Baba Yaga's witch daughter, and that I will never be mastered so easily with false flattery and enchanted foods and trees."

Lana gave a thin smile. "You will soon learn that there is nothing to fight here save your own doubt in miracles."

Anya followed Lana out of the room into a wide golden hallway with barrel vaulted ceilings. Looming windows edged the walls, giving sumptuous views of towering mountains, rolling valleys, and the rest of the palace, all iced to diamond tones. Flying buttresses and towers made it seem almost cathedral-like.

They walked in silence, coming to a grand spiral staircase with a white marble bannister. Down countless stories they arrived at a dining hall, with an onyx table laden with blini, caviar, pirogis, plentiful zakuski, and countless soups. The ceiling was translucent, giving way to a clear blue sky. Kashchei sat at the head of the table, folding his linen napkin into the shape of a swan. He did not look up.

Lana curtsied. "My lord?"

"Ah, dear Lana, thank you for bringing our guest. That is all for now."

Lana nodded and left.

Anya bit her bottom lip.

Kashchei lifted the linen swan and guided it through the air. He smiled, then unfolded the napkin and set it on his lap. "I prepared the food myself. Nothing less for Morena's daughter."

"I am not hungry."

Kashchei forked steaming blini stuffed with fish onto his plate and set to cutting it. "You ate in my caravan. How you delighted in my cooking then."

Anya looked down at her brown boots. "That was the food of the living. And I was bespelled. I ate what you gave me: I had no choice. I was half-comatose, half-enchanted."

"We always have a choice, witch daughter."

Anya shivered at the name Baba Yaga called her. She felt cold despite the gentle summer heat that pervaded the palace. "You have brainwashed Alina. Dulled the mind of all your dancing princesses and peasant girls."

"I did nothing to Lana that she was not willing to do to herself. It is not so easy, making the mortal immortal."

Anya furrowed her brow. "You stole her soul."

"I am not the only one that collects souls that you know. Your bannik and I, we are not so different. At least Lana was willing."

Anya ignored his comparison to Morozko, sensing that Kashchei was trying to unsettle her. "And you? Do you even have a soul? Or is a shriveled mummified thing, broken so many times by Ivan Tsarevich?"

Kashchei bared his teeth like a dog raising its hackles. "The tsarevich is a fool. Each time I die, I grow stronger, having learned more of the secrets of death. And what does Ivan learn? Nothing. I do not know why he pursues me after all these years. He cannot win. But let us not darken dinner with such depressing conversation. Come, sit, dear Anya. Feast."

Anya touched the firebird pendant at her throat. "Tell me about my mother."

Kashchei took a pensive bite. "Only if you join me. You must be weary. We traveled far, and you slept for a very long time."

Anya sat stiffly, three chairs down from him. "All thanks to you."

Kashchei gave a deep laugh. "In the years to come, Annushka, we will look back on your spiriting away and smile. I did what was necessary for the peace of Buyan. Our marriage will bring bounty to the spirit realm."

Anya's veins iced at the diminutive of her name on his tongue. She took a knife and drove it into the table. "Enough talk of weddings. You will have to pry 'I do' from my tongueless mouth. Now tell me about Morena."

Kashchei chased a square of blini down with vodka. "I do not think our wedding vows will be so difficult. Now Morena. She danced like a sword. Perun's castle in the heavens, over the thunderbolt, was home to your mother for a time. She was his favorite child – they say Morena sprang from Perun's hammer the first time he struck it across the firmament, bringing down the primordial rains. Morena is the darkness of winter and storms, the death of a final blow, the first witch. But in her blackness is fertility, rebirth. They still burn her effigy in Poland, long after the rest of us have been forgotten. Her hair is as dark as yours, both of your bodies like birch, but you have someone else's eyes. Perhaps your mortal father's."

Anya skewered her knife deeper into the table. "The gods abandoned Buyan eons ago. How old are you, to have known her?"

Kashchei smiled cryptically. As he did, his cheeks sunk in, his bone helm looked like a skull, and his body looked like nothing less than a corpse cloaked in night. But it was only for a second – Anya blinked, and Kashchei had returned to his handsome, if frosted, form. "I have gone by many names."

"Chernobog's rot, just give me a straight answer!" Anya snapped.

Kashchei chuckled. "You answer your own questions."

Dread seized her. The feeling that Anya was powerless, in the clutches of a being far worse and more ancient than any imagining, was a bomb going off in her brain. She grabbed her knife and threw it at him without thinking, just reaction.

It pierced him through the heart, up to the hilt. Black blood leaked from his wound, staining his white kaftan. The scent of rot permeated the room.

Kashchei sat there, smiling like a madman. He took hold of the knife and delicately carved open his chest. His ribs cracked, and maggots fell out of his flesh. They squirmed in his lap. Kashchei peeled back his skin to reveal a rotting heart that slithered with worms.

"You ask how old I am: this is the only part of me that shows my age. All the rest is kept deathless, pristine," he said, and smeared his finger with blood. "I suppose it is why I was once called Chernobog the Black."

He licked the congealed blood, then carefully collected the fallen maggots and placed them back inside him. Kashchei patted his skin flap down, and his flesh and kaftan knitted themselves back together with arcane black magic.

Anya doubled over and retched, though her stomach was empty. The palace spun around her. She grabbed a glass of water and chugged it back, trying to cleanse her mouth of bile.

Kashchei gave a sharp smile. "I wondered how long it would take you to taste the water of the deathless lands."

Anya froze.

"It seems that you are now a permanent resident of my kingdom. How agreeable."

Ivan Tsarevich and Morozko trekked farther each day. Ivan told Morozko of the legions of cherti that guarded the deathless lands, of the women who had crumbled to dust upon trying to leave Kashchei's kingdom. Their spirits haunted the thick black forests bordering the area. So many maidens that had been spirited away over the centuries now lingered there. Bodiless, they roamed the wilderness, leading travelers astray to try and suck the life out of them. There were packs of vucari, Greyback's people, who would as likely help a traveler as eat them. Finally, there was Zmei Gorynych, the fearsome three-headed dragon who guarded the portal to the deathless lands.

"Zmei leaves his cave once a year, on the summer solstice," Ivan said as he turned hares over a spit for their dinner. "A being of fire, Zmei cannot resist the call of the sun. He flies as close as he can to her, fancying the star his lover, and woos her, only to be rejected year after year. We do not want to be in Zmei's lair when he returns, angered by his failure. I don't want to be roasted alive, and he may well melt you, ice prince."

Morozko chopped tubers he had dug up. "Please, just call me Kolya."

Ivan smiled. "Very well then."

They ate in silence, stripping the hares of their meat. Greyback gnawed on the bones, licking at the marrow.

They woke early the next day – two weeks before the summer solstice – packed up camp, and continued to head northward, stopping at clearings for Ivan to practice archery and for Morozko to ease into his powers.

Morozko had learned to shoot icicle daggers from his palms with deadly precision and to freeze something by simply looking at it. They stopped at the occasional village or abandoned house for shelter, but as they continued north, dwellings grew sparse, and even the nechist seemed to disappear.

Sometimes they would go hours without seeing a bird, with Ivan riding Greyback and Morozko traveling as a snowstorm. Morozko cleared the forest of vegetation and rained a perfect padding of snow down for Greyback's paws, forming an icy path through territory only Ivan had charted.

The moon swelled and ebbed, the sun sang her song, and soon the howls of vucari could be heard round the campfire at evening, where twilight played across the birch bark like a child.

"We are drawing close to the deathless lands," Ivan said before biting into the hind leg of an elk.

Morozko swallowed the gamy meat in his mouth. Now that he was constantly freezing, only food with an overwhelming taste registered on his tongue. Everything else tasted like dust. How could his mother live like that? Did she eat curries and Tabasco sauce every night?

Morozko looked at the snowflake fractals on his arms and frowned. How could Anya even touch him? His lips were the color of plums, and his skin was like permafrost. Kissing her would bring him warmth, but her just a mouthful of snow.

Morozko could not sleep in Ivan's tent that night, with anxiety coiled like a spring in his chest. His thoughts kept turning to Anya and how she would react to him, now that he had become like Ded Moroz.

Morozko stared up at Anya's firebird feather, which he had filched from Dmitri's inn before he had left. It was his only keepsake of her. Sometimes, Morozko imagined he could hear a woman talking late at night, outside the tent, in a voice not unlike Anya's.

Insomnia grated at him, and there came her voice again:

"Ivanushka. I am here. My tsarevich, come kiss me. I long for a taste of the living. Come untie my braid. I long for the touch of the living. Say my name. I long for the breath of the living. We will spar and I will win, as always; you will lay down and we will kiss, as always; we will talk and you will die, as always."

Morozko's eyes enlarged. This was not some dream of Anya. There was a woman outside the tent, a ghost who smelled of rusting iron and dirt.

Ivan stirred, running a hand through his mop of dark hair. "Maria?"

There was a hollow laugh.

Morozko stayed silent, observing.

A cool draft came from outside. "It is I, Maria Morevna, your warrior queen. It is I, your shade of a wife, who saved you so many times but could not be saved by you. It is I, whom you have forgotten. You betrayed me when you opened my door to Kashchei's prison and released him. Ivanushka, my love, you are ever the deathless fool."

Ivan shivered, opening bloodshot eyes. "Maria. Maria. I am so sorry, my love. I was young, weak and arrogant. I thought I could master the Deathless. But I could not master anything, not even my understanding of you, or why you kept Kashchei locked away in that cursed cellar prison. I should have heeded your warning."

"What is past is past, Ivanushka. Come to me, immortal wanderer. I long for a taste of your life."

Ivan sat up. "I do not want to die again," he murmured. "Though I will come back to life, it is painful."

"Husband, my existence is painful. You at least owe me this repentance."

Tears flashed in Ivan's eyes. "I do."

Morozko was transfixed. He watched Ivan walk out of the tent to meet the ghost of his stolen queen, Maria Morevna, whose likeness Morozko had only ever seen in the fairytale books Snegurochka had read to him when he was young and he had read to Anya in turn.

Maria was translucent like a vila, but where a vila was full of vim and vigor, Maria was a wisp of a thing, with a ghostly blue kokoshnik and pale hands. A sword rested at her side.

She and Ivan were silent. Their kiss was gentle, their touches light, but soon there was biting and clawing on Maria's part, a wrestling to the ground, with Ivan pinned underneath her. Their lips locked in the fog, with red welts raised on Ivan's skin. Maria suckled blood from his wrist, her see-through throat filling with red.

Soon, they talked, in voices too low for Morozko to hear. Their conversation lingered like susurrations of leaves. Maria reached for the sword at her side. They stood, embraced, and Maria impaled Ivan on her rapier.

He sank to the ground. Maria cradled him, singing a lullaby too old for words.

She rocked him as he broke open like a bloody egg. A new, fully-formed Ivan fell out of his wound like a crab shedding its exoskeleton.

He stood there as his wife licked the blood from his old skin, then tore her teeth into the carcass he had left behind. His remains were soon gone, even the bones – for ghosts are always hungry.

Ivan stretched, seemingly immune to the horror that had transpired. Morozko bit back bile.

"I have not fed in so long," Maria sighed. She wiped her lips of blood. "You have not come to me in nearly two decades. What kept you away from me, I wondered?"

Ivan ran his hands through the leaf litter. "I have been busy, love. Kashchei stole a very important girl."

Maria gave a cruel laugh. "Kashchei this, Kashchei that. He is all that you care about. You have no hope of getting her back. You could not even save me."

"I have changed, Maria. I will not fail this time. I will bring you back to life, after all these eons."

"I hope so. The day you destroy Kashchei is the day I am finally free." Maria set to rebraiding her hair. "Why do I think that day will never come?"

Ivan looked upon the ghost of his wife, pained. "If you doubted me, you would not be here, haunting me."

Maria gave a slight smile. "You are far too stubborn, Ivanushka. That stubbornness is what makes you a fool. And from what I have heard, Kashchei's new prize is stubborn too. But it has done her no good. She has drunk the water of the deathless, and she is forever trapped. If she wants to keep her body, she will not leave Kashchei's kingdom. Not until you destroy him."

Morozko could not bear to hear anymore. He sank into his blankets and wept. Anya was trapped, and Morozko did not think he or even Ivan had the strength to defeat the Deathless.

The days passed like molasses. Anya knew every crevice of her room, which she refused to leave. She had memorized the gold filigree patterns on the ceiling, the curve of the armoire, and the various ointments and perfumes on the vanity. Bored, she had tried on every item of clothing Kashchei had given her.

The gold and silver fruits in the courtyard ripened, some of which Alina brought sliced to her to sample. Anya ate them now lazily, knowing she was already trapped. One idiotic sip of water had done her in, so it did not matter now if she indulged in pirogis or knish. Kashchei had known exactly what he was doing, trying to sicken her with his bestial display. She had nightmares about the worms writhing in his heart, the maggot broods in his skin.

Anya made up stories about the deathless girls she saw walking through the courtyard to pass the time, imagining what had brought them here, to be members of Kashchei's harem. She realized she was slowly going mad when she opened her window to converse with a spider. A fortnight after her self-imposed imprisonment, and due to a rather unresponsive arachnid, Anya decided she was done with her isolation. She stomped out of her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Anya wandered the sumptuous palace, with clear floors that let one see levels below. No one was in sight. There were thick fur carpets, paintings of dancing women on the walls, and musical instruments in glass cases where hallways intersected. Kashchei's tastes were quite clear in the way the artists had painted the girls. The perspective was off, almost predatory, focused on the flimsiness of an ankle or the innocence of a khorovod. Anya summoned bolts of golden flame and lit each painting she passed alight. The iciness of the walls kept her fires from spreading, but at least Kashchei's treasures were destroyed.

Anya walked down a spiral staircase and came to the courtyard. Gardens spread out to jeweled forests, with ruby willows, golden apple trees, and amethyst birch. The leaves clinked like wind chimes as a slight breeze rustled them. A group of laughing girls in resplendent sarafans approached, with Lana in the lead. They carried firewood at their strong shoulders. Anya ducked behind a topaz fir and listened to the women's conversation:

"Someone has been stealing the cream from the pantry," said a blonde. "I bet it was Darya. She is fat as a pig. I don't know what Kashchei sees in her."

Lana laughed. "Darya has grown quite round since she came here. No self-control when it comes to firebird wings. Anya has the opposite problem. That girl barely eats anything. She has already drunk the water of the deathless. It is not like more food will change her."

"I do not care if she is Morena's daughter. She is a stubborn bitch, and I do not know how you put up with her, Lana," said the blonde. "Cannot Anya see that she is only delaying the inevitable? Kashchei is a god. And gods get their way. Mokosh knows he is persuasive as the devil. He is Chernobog, after all."

"Do not call him that," Lana said, shifting her bundle of firewood to the other shoulder. "He finds that name foul. It was made up by peasants to demonize him. Do you not remember the sacrifices humans used to make to him? How repulsive."

"We knew no other way," said a brunette. "I was once human, remember? We needed a scapegoat, and Chernobog provided that."

"Enough talk of the past. Do you really think that he will make Anya his bride?" the blonde said. "He promised us all that once, and while I would not trade my powers or new life for anything, I always thought Kashchei's love would be mine and mine alone."

Lana plucked a silver pear from a tree and bit into it. "Kashchei is too great a man to have but one woman. He has a thousand faces. So he shall have a thousand loves."

"But Anya will be his only wife," the brunette said. "Does that not make you jealous? You are the one he beds most."

Lana sighed. "I will not lie. I do not like Anya much. She is spoiled and arrogant. Not to mention violent. But this is a political marriage. When the nechist find out that Morena's daughter has combined her powers with Kashchei, they will bow to their union undoubtedly."

Anya stuck out her tongue. "Like hell," she muttered.

Kashchei's harem entered the palace, leaving a clear path to the woods. Anya fled to them, soon lost in a forest of blue and golds. "I do not care if I turn to dust," Anya said, stubborn to her very death. "I will not stay here a second longer!"

She wandered into the woods, holding a witch light in her hands to see by in the thick darkness. Cinnamon-spiced barks filled the air with their sultry aromas. Anya walked far, and farther, into the darkness and thick pine, until she thought she could walk no more, and still there was no end.

She finally came to an abandoned mossy well in a clearing and sat down beside it to rest. Something smelled milky. She peered into the darkness of the well.

Something mewed at its bottom.

"Huh?" Anya said. She used the pulley to draw the well's bucket up, only to find an orange cat floating in a puddle of cream. "Aym!"

Aym licked the cream from his paws. "Mistress mine? What a pleasure. I was wondering when you'd leave that bloody castle and come fetch me. A familiar never leaves his witch, even if he has to follow her into the deathless lands. Pity me. I had to sneak into Kashchei's keep night after night, raiding his thin cream, which I brought here, where no one would find me. The deathless cows are shades, and the milk they give is tasteless, rendering their cream insufferable. But I'm a cat, and I need sustenance. What else could I do?"

Anya lifted the cream-wet orange tabby from the bucket and hugged him close. "No, Aym. You are stuck here too, now that you have eaten Kashchei's cream."

Aym bared his fangs in a smile. "I'm a cherti. I was never alive, not like nechist or humans are. Demons are made of fire, not earth and blood. The deathless foods have no effect on me."

"Oh Aym," Anya said, embracing him. "I cannot marry Kashchei. It is hopeless. I would rather die than be a pawn in his misogynistic, idiotic plans."

Aym purred as she rubbed his ears. "Mistress, there is no need for such talk. All you need to do is destroy his soul. Then the curse on the deathless lands will be lifted, and you will be free."

Anya set Aym down and they circled the well. "But he is immortal. If I split the egg with his soul open, given that I can even find it, and break the needle within, he will spring back fully formed."

"Baba Yaga told me of another way."

"What?" Anya stopped in her tracks. "Why would she tell you?"

Aym stretched, his green eyes glimmering. "Because she knew the time would come for you to fulfill your purpose."

The smile fell from Anya's face. "I always knew babushka had dark intentions for me."

"Your babushka has played her cards well. Baba Yaga knew you were Morena's daughter, and that you would be abducted by Kashchei in time. You think a witch of her cunning would let something like that go unnoticed? Pah! She needed a reason for Morozko to assume his inheritance, and what better motivation than the abduction of his beloved? Baba Yaga sent him to find you. But you need no help, not with your abilities and my wits. Morozko's just here for backup. And then, of course, Kolya's been your intended all along, for what better rulers for Buyan than Ded Moroz's heir and the daughter of Morena?"

"Me? Rule Buyan? That is a rich joke!"

"Not to Baba Yaga. That is why she gave you to be the daughter of Buyan's most beloved king, Tsar Dmitri the Bountiful. You were raised to rule justly, wisely, and fairly. Fair as a feline fatale!"

Anya blew air through her teeth. She leaned against the side of the well. "You speak of Kashchei's destruction. But I do not know how to destroy the Deathless. He is a god, for Mokosh's sake."

Aym used a tree as a scratching post. "Even gods can be killed."

"Then tell me how."

"Oh, sweet damselfly, I will."

Morozko and Ivan did not encounter any other ghosts. Morozko suspected Maria Morevna held her spectral sisters at bay, already having claimed Ivan as her own. He wondered if Ivan's deaths each night at Maria's hands was the tithe they were paying to enter the deathless lands, for everything here had a price. Food was scarce, game nearly nonexistent, and they often went hungry.

The morning of the summer solstice came, and they arrived at a steep rim of mountains that ringed the deathless lands. A great lair of a cave lay atop the tallest mountains: the domain of Zmei Gorynych.

Greyback made quick work of the scree with Ivan on his back, and Morozko rose as a winter storm to the mountain's peak. Still, the summit was tall, and it took them half a day to scale it. In the interim, the sun sang her solstice song, luring Zmei out of his cave. The dragon took wing and courted his celestial love with a radiant display of fire from her triple gullets, washing the purple mountains in gold.

Twilight drew close when they came to the mouth of the cave. Zmei continued his display, like a proud bird of paradise.

"Quick," Ivan said, dismounting Greyback. "Zmei's cavern is a labyrinth, and the gateway closes at dusk."

Morozko followed Ivan inside, wading through Zmei's plundered hoards. Skeletons mixed with gold and jewels. Stalactites dripped like icicles from the ceiling and the lair smelled of charred meat.

The walls were lit by dragon-flame torches. After twists and turns, they finally came to a great oak door at the heart of the cave, half-buried in a pile of silver.

Morozko's bones tingled. This was it, the deathless lands. They quickly cleared the entrance of treasure and undid the golden latch. Brilliant summer light poured in from the cracked-open doors. Soon, the trio were through the entrance, doors closed behind them.

Morozko found himself in a long, ebony hallway with two glowing women perched atop twin thrones. They had hair like starlight and skin like milk. Each wore a shining key on a chain around their neck.

Ivan bowed, and Morozko followed suit, unsure who he was bowing to. Greyback stooped low so his muzzle touched the ground.

"Zorya Utrennjaja, wife of the storm, keeper of the morning star, and Zorya Vechernjaja, consort of the moon, guardian of the evening star, we come before you as humble servants of Buyan. We seek passage to the deathless lands," Ivan said, tipping his ushanka to them.

The Zoryas rose in tandem, their white gowns trailing behind them as they descended from their thrones. Zorya Utrennjaja had eyes the color of plum wine and Zorya Vechernjaja's gaze was like spilled blood.

Wordless, each Zorya placed a finger on Ivan's shoulders.

Ivan rose. Morozko stood, following Ivan.

Zorya Utrennjaja opened her rosy mouth, and an angel's song came out, wordless and tonal, like the slow creak of a glacier.

Ivan smiled. "Yes, we are looking for your granddaughter, Anya. I know you must guard your post. We will keep her safe."

Zorya Vechernjaja sang, her voice like the call of a mourning dove. Ivan somehow understood them. Perhaps, Morozko thought, this is the language of the gods.

Ivan placed his ushanka back on his head. "I know, Vechernjaja. But it does not matter. I am weary. It will be a good ending."

"Ending?" Morozko interrupted.

The Zoryas looked at him with thin smiles.

"Nothing," Ivan said. "They will take us to the deathless lands."

The Zoryas led the trio down a hallway to the east and used the keys around their necks to unlock a set of platinum doors. The howl of wind clashed beyond, and the doors opened to reveal a summer storm over thick jeweled forests. The Zoryas nodded, and Morozko followed Ivan and Greyback into the land of the undead.

A storm raged outside the translucent palace. Lightning flashed across the ceiling as rain fogged the glass. Anya cut into her steaming chicken kiev, sitting opposite Kashchei in the dining hall. She had taken to eating her meals with him in the past weeks. He told her stories of the old gods, of her mother, and she in turn told him of her childhood. Kashchei warmed to Anya even more, and like the monster in Beauty and the Beast, asked each night, after every meal, if she would marry him. Anya always said no.

But tonight, she said yes.

Kashchei nearly dropped his goblet. "You mean it?"

Anya attempted to hood her lids seductively, but it probably looked like she had a lazy eye. "Yes."

He nodded.

"I have thought about your proposal, long and hard," Anya began, "and though I was scared of you, I have grown to see how our alliance would benefit Buyan. Also, you are very handsome, and I would like to know what the kiss of a real man is like. Not the child's play of a bannik, but the touch of a god. Your girls will not stop talking of what a, um, skilled lover you are." Anya forced herself to blush. "I – I would like to make our marriage, erm, official."

Kashchei bit his upper lip. "I have thought of nothing else since you became a woman, Anya: watching you from my highest tower, across thrice nine kingdoms. How I have longed for you. Just like your beautiful mother Morena, yet somehow softer, and even more wild."

Anya suppressed a shudder. Her mind flashed to his rotting heart and pus-filled eyes. She swallowed hard at the sight of his bony helm.

Kashchei's peacock eyes danced with lust. "A toast then, to our engagement." He raised his goblet. He brought it to her glass, then downed the last of his alcohol.

Before Anya could react, Kashchei leaned across the table and licked the wine from her lips. Terror shot through her, but she responded to his touch, leaning into the curve of his hands. His skin was cold and smelled like crushed leaves.

Anya's whole body rebelled. She bit back bile.

She focused on her plan, so close to fruition, and let Kashchei carry her in a tangle of kisses to his chamber. It was pure black inside, with ebony furniture and shadowy furs. The only light came from a hungry hearth. A great jet oak sprouted from the center of the room, and a four-poster bed was carved from its canopy and trunk. Kashchei laid her down amongst the silk and wolfskin and decorated her neck with languorous kisses.

"Wait," Anya said.

Kashchei loomed over her, his breaths deep. "Of course – gentlemen first." He undid his kaftan, exposing his chest. A fine black rot spread over the flesh covering his heart.

Anya placed her hand over the rot and commanded her fingers not to tremble. She pressed a finger into the wound.

Kashchei winced.

"How did you know?" Kashchei growled, stroking her hair.

Anya probed her finger deeper, drawing blood. She tried to smirk, like the femme fatales she had seen in Morozko's film noir movies do, but mostly just ended up grimacing. "Women's intuition."

Kashchei trailed his hands down Anya's waist in a predatory fashion.

"Let us play a game," Anya said.

He hissed as she peeled back his skin.

"Anything you want," Kashchei rasped.

Anya plunged her hand inside him and clutched his wormy heart. She squeezed its chambers hard, and he fell onto her, crying out in mixed pleasure and pain. She wished she could hurt him, kill him – make him suffer as she had. Instead, the bastard had the nerve to enjoy it.

Anya struggled under his weight, beating back the terror that raged in her mind.

"The game goes like this," Anya forced herself to say, leading Kashchei onto his side so that she had a firm grasp on his heart but was no longer overwhelmed by his heft. She could feel maggots squiggle between her fingers and a worm loop around her thumb. "You show me your death, I show you mine. You make me immortal, like you, and I make you mortal for the slightest moment. You give me your heart, no holding back. In return, I give you mine."

Kashchei's lips quirked in amusement. "And how would you do that, dear witchling?"

"By killing you for your pleasure. I will give you the most exquisite death you have ever experienced. It will be tantalizing. And then, you will spring back anew, spry and young, and our marriage will be sung of in dance halls for decades to come."

Kashchei enfolded Anya's wrist within his cold hands. "I like this game. I have always loved it rough, but none of my girls have ever thought to kill me."

"I am not your lover, I am your bride."

Kashchei laughed. "Very well then. My death, as you wish, is here."

He rose from the bed, but not before Anya gave a final heart-squeeze that made Kashchei shiver.

Kashchei went to the head of the bed and caressed a whirl in the oak's bark. The trunk swelled open, revealing a firebird egg. He cracked it apart and swallowed the raw yolk, then fished a needle from the eggshell. "It is best to keep your hidden parts within you," he explained.

The needle was long and sharp.

Kashchei gave a crooked smile. "Now, sweet Anya, show me yours."

Anya took the needle and poked the vein at her wrist. A bead of blood welled up. "It is there, at my pulse. But I cannot hold it. Make my death a tangible thing, like yours."

Kashchei eyed the firebird pendant at Anya's neck. "Give me your necklace."

Anya undid the clasp, bit back a curse, and let the chain fall into his hands.

The magic was quick and painful. Kashchei reached into Anya's chest, into her soul, and pulled out a bright opaline thread. Anya screamed as her very essence was torn from her. She felt her vitality dwindle as she fell onto the bed, glassy eyed. She watched Kashchei thread her soul through his needle, then weave it around the firebird pendant like a cocoon.

The silk of her soul fused with the firebird pendant. Warmth flooded Anya, and she felt strength course through her. She rose from the bed, struggling to regain composure. Kashchei gave a slow smile.

"Immortality suits you," Kashchei purred. The eggshell in his hands reformed around the needle, and a separate one grew around the firebird pendant.

"Here is my death." He placed his egg in her palms and tucked her soul away in the tree. "Kill me, make it sweet, then kiss me alive from my corpse."

Anya looked into his lambent eyes, trying to divine whether Kashchei knew what she was about to do. All she saw was lust in their flickering peacock depths.

With firm hands, she cracked open the egg, swallowed the yolk, then bent the needle in two. Kashchei split at the waist as if he was ax-hewn wood. She twisted the needle, and it broke. Kashchei moaned as his life's blood poured from the stump of his abdomen.

Anya had a minute at the most before he regenerated. A minute to take the rotting part of Chernobog into herself and make it her own. No wonder Ivan Tsarevich had never thought to do this: it was as disgusting as the Black God himself.

Feeling like she was about to puke, she knelt beside his corpse and speared her hand into the rot of his chest. She tore his wormy heart from him and bit in.

Anya didn't stop eating, though the maggots squirmed on her tongue, though each time she swallowed she felt like she was dying.

It was a strange thing, to eat a god's death.

The heart's gristle was tough on her teeth.

A minute had passed. The heart was stuck in her throat, and she was only three-quarters of the way through, scarfing it down like a wolf.

Kashchei's split body quivered. His lips moved.

"You little bliatz," he rasped, gore at his mouth. "You think that you are destroying me? That you have tricked me? I will live on inside you. I will drive you mad."

Anya finished the heart and bit back her gag reflex. "I will take my chances, then, instead of being trapped here with a monster."

Kashchei gave a rough laugh. "You will become the Black God, my little monster, the most hated spirit of all. Those you love will turn away from you, disgusted by your very presence. In the end, you are just like Ivan: a fool."

Kashchei's body shuddered, and he began to turn to dust.

Anya wiped black blood from her lips. It felt like her body was being flooded with shadows. "If foolishness is the price of my freedom, then I am willing to pay it. Goodbye, Kashchei."

A harsh wind picked up, scooping the remains of Kashchei out the window. The primal forces that had made him reclaimed him, as all gods fade into history, making room for the new. Anya's heart began to pulse wildly as a new magic embraced it.

"I will not let this power corrupt me," she whispered to Kashchei's ghost. "I will not be Chernobog, no – I will be Bilobog: a goddess of firebird light."

Morozko could barely see through the fury of the storm. Lightning split an amethyst birch in two, setting the jewel tree aflame. From behind the fallen tree slunk an orange tabby.

"It is about time that you arrived," purred Aym.

Morozko stopped in his tracks. "Pus in boots? How the hell did you get here?"

Aym laughed. "I have my ways. You look rather blue – sadness at my mistress's disappearance must have taken a toll on you. I would say that you are practically frozen in sorrow."

Ivan rounded a corner on Greyback. His eyes gaped wide. "Something has changed," he breathed. "I can feel it in my soul, now bound to another master. Actually, no – mistress? A – a goddess? But how?"

Aym wove in between Greyback's legs, purring. "You wouldn't happen to have any cream, would you, bud? The deathless lands have lackluster food, and that's an understatement."

"Shut your muzzle, pus," Morozko said. "What happened? Is there truth to Ivan's intuition?"

Aym licked a raindrop off a fallen leaf. "I'm sure you have at least a little milk."

"You damned cherti!"

"You're right, I am damned. Fallen, in fact." Aym batted a butterfly taking harbor from the rain under a mushroom. "No cream, no answers. Why don't you go to Kashchei's keep and find out for yourselves?"

Morozko swiped Aym from the ground and wrung him like a towel. Aym snarled, pouncing from Morozko's arms onto his face. Morozko pried the clawing cat away from his eyes and flung Aym to the ground.

Aym rolled about, laughing. "My mistress is no longer a witch. No, she has become much more."

"Is she alive?"

Aym shook rain from his fur. "That's debatable. Is Baba Yaga alive? She is mountain crags and winter wind. Is Veles alive? He is snake skins and fallen leaves. Are the Zoryas alive? They are starlight and mist. Anya will become what she desires. That is the power of death."

Morozko paled. "Ivan, let us go."

The first thing Anya did as a goddess was vomit. Worms and maggots fell to the floor from her throat. She wiped a squirming thing from her lip and rose on shaking legs.

Someone banged on the door.

"Kashchei? Kashchei! My lord, answer me." There was a deep sob. "The gardens are withering. A storm unlike anything I have seen is upon us. The firebirds have even fled their jeweled roost. Kashchei, my love, my king, what happened?"

Anya stumbled to the door and unlocked it. Lana's eyes were wet and red.

Lana looked through Anya as if she were a ghost. She ran into the room and searched in the ebony oak for Kashchei's soul. Finding nothing, she sank onto the bed and was silent.

Anya held the egg of her death in her hands. "Alina..."

Lana tucked her legs to her chest and rocked back and forth. "That is not my name."

Anya sat down beside Lana on the bed. "I am so sorry. I had to do it. I could not go on, trapped here, forced into a marriage to that – to, well, to him. I know that you loved him. And I think I can understand why. He was not exactly as evil as I thought he was. Just... different."

"How did you do it?" Lana said, her voice sorrowful. "No one can kill the Deathless. Ivan Tsarevich tried for centuries."

Anya sighed. "A man could not kill Kashchei, nor a witch. But Kashchei can be trapped. Maria Morevna did it. He killed her in the end, but she held him for a while. And I suppose, someday, that he will kill me too. But for now, he is in the prison of my rib cage. I am him, and he is me, yet we are still not quite the same."

Lana's gaze hardened. "You have his eyes now: ever-changing like the sea. I should hate you, but all I feel is hollow. I have not felt a thing but love for my lord for decades. Now that he is gone, why, I suppose I feel nothing at all..."

There was a cry from the doorway. Anya and Lana looked up to see Morozko, his face raw.

"Do you feel anything now, Alinushka?" Morozko said, having sunk to his knees.

Lana bit her lip. "I am sorry, Kolya. I was not the love you deserved. We were both foolish, back then, young and careless. Though I think, in my time in the deathless lands, that I became something you would have been proud of. I learned to garden. To cook. I became softer, but strong. I did not kill for pleasure anymore. Kashchei taught me how to love. How to be immortal in the most beautiful of ways."

The ebony oak rustled. Its leaves fell in a flurry, and its bark spilled open, revealing hundreds of soul-eggs. They had faint cracks, with yolk dripping from them like honey.

"I was always proud of you," Morozko whispered.

Lana gave a sorrowful smile. "My lord is calling me, Kolya. I can feel it in my dream-dust bones."

Lana closed her eyes, the last oak leaf fell, and the soul eggs in the tree split open, revealing trinkets Kashchei's lovers had bound their life forces to.

"Alina!" Morozko raced to Lana's side to embrace her. He found himself clutching dust. "No. No. No!"

"Kolya, I am so – so – hack - sorry," Anya stuttered. She felt something slither in her gut, then doubled over to barf up more maggots.

"Alina was already dead," said Ivan, stepping into the room. "All the deathless women were. It was not lives they were living, but a shadow play."

Anya stumbled to her feet. "And now those shadows are mine." She closed her eyes, and she could feel the souls of Kashchei's girls slipping through his – her – heart, dancing maggots in her mind.

Morozko curled his fists around Lana's dust. He brought it to his nose and took a jagged breath. "I thought I was here to rescue you, Anya," Morozko finally said. "Instead, you saved yourself. You saved Buyan itself from Kashchei the Deathless, its greatest plague. I can at least be proud that I raised you to be resourceful."

Anya helped Morozko stand. "Baba Yaga played us, Kolya. She wanted you to become Ded Moroz's heir and for me to assume Kashchei's powers. She even planned on us falling in love. Babushka knew that I was Morena's daughter. I would not be surprised if my stupid bitch of a parent gave me to Baba Yaga so that I could be raised in da's inn, close to you. All my life, we have been chess pieces, babushka's unwitting pawns. Baba Yaga could have stopped Kashchei, but she let him take me. I cannot go back home, knowing that. I cannot trust babushka again."

Morozko's face was grim. "I do not think I can return either – not like this. Our family as we know it is gone. Iosif and Elizaveta are dead. Dmitri is broken. Your disappearance sent him spiraling into depression. His kingdom is withering."

"Oh, da..." Anya dabbed her eyes. "I cannot face him, not when I have Kashchei's heart. I do not even know what I am anymore."

"I can send word to your father that you are alive," Ivan said.

Anya gave a pained smile. "Thank you...?"

"Ivan. Ivan Tsarevich."

"Oh. That would explain the wolf. Greyback, is that you? Oh dear Greyback, I did not notice you in all this confusion!"

Greyback laughed and licked her face.

Anya clenched her fists. "I think I need to find my mother. To hear answers. To understand, finally, who I am, and she who made me a demigod."

Morozko looked at the dust in his hands. He trembled. So cold. "I cannot imagine how you feel, Annushka. But I will do whatever I can to help. But first, can we – can we bury Alina?"

They did so, under the ruby willows. The storm cleared, and as soon as the sun shone, the glass palace began to melt, like a spun-sugar castle being licked by a child. The breeze clinked a jeweled melody in the trees.

"I never thought the destruction of the deathless lands that I yearned for would be so beautiful," Ivan said. "I have someone I must say goodbye to. Morozko, it was good travelling with you. I must find a new purpose, now that Kashchei is gone."

"Good luck, Ivan." Morozko clapped him on the back. "Perhaps we will meet again."

Ivan tipped his ushanka to them. "I hope so, friend. My queen is finally free. As the first of the deathless girls, the original rebel shade, she is finally alive again, her spell is broken, and we can finally go home – together." With that, the prince mounted Greyback and rode off into the woods.

Morozko patted the last of the dirt onto Lana – Alina's - grave. He took the silver ring off his thumb and tucked it into the ground with her, then knelt down to kiss the grass. "Goodbye, Alinushka," he whispered.

Anya smoothed her hands down Morozko's back. "She was kind to me."

Morozko tried to smile, but it hurt. "I am glad."

Though the firebirds had fled and Kashchei's enchantment was fading, there was a somber beauty to the once deathless lands. The crystalline plants reverted back to their normal greenery, and true life flowed into the ground. Anya and Morozko walked hand in hand to the portal to Buyan, Aym slinking a few steps behind them.

"Why didn't you ever tell me that you were Snegurochka's son? I mean, it explains why you are not wrinkly and old like the other banniks, but I never really thought about it," Anya said.

Morozko squeezed her hand. "Because I hate my grandfather, and I loathe the family business. You were enough of a brat to take care of. Delivering presents to thousands of children is not something that I am keen on."

Anya gave a weak laugh. "I have missed you so much, Kolya."

"I missed you too. You do not, um, mind that I look like this now, do you? I thought, in order to save you, that I had to become something else. Someone I am not."

Anya avoided stepping on a mushroom. "Well, your skin is cold, but you are still you. You put on Ded Moroz's crown for me. If you can accept me as I am now, as a – as Bilobog, or whatever, then I can still love you."

Morozko stopped, taking both of her hands into his. "Anya, I would not care if you became a hag. I would still adore you. Remember? I am your sidekick. All I want is your happiness."

Anya leaned into him. "Thanks, Kolya. You mean the world to me, too."

Their lips met.

Aym coughed up a hairball. It landed square on Morozko's cheek, interrupting their kiss. Aym purred with laughter as Morozko wiped the matted fur from his face.

"Pus in boots, go on ahead, leave us alone. We are kind of having a moment," Morozko growled.

Aym scampered off.

They resumed their kiss, and Morozko ran his hands down Anya's side, to her hips. He felt the egg of her soul in her pocket and fished it out. It was a bright, brassy gold. He rolled it in his hands.

Morozko tucked the egg back into her pocket. "It is very beautiful. A firebird egg. I always knew that your spirit was strong. I can feel your soul in the egg, so full of potential. You will be the kindest goddess of all."

"And you will be the crankiest Father Frost the world has ever known."

Morozko laughed. "There is already a Father Frost. It is Jack Frost in English, technically. Like that awful Soviet film. There is already a Big Frost and he is Ded Moroz."

The Zoryas welcomed them into their portal with open arms. Zorya Utrennjaja clasped Anya to her white breast, reveling in the softness of her granddaughter's hair. As wife of Perun, Zorya Utrennjaja was mother to Morena, and she told Anya in her celestial language where to find the witch goddess. Anya instinctually understood the language the Zoryas spoke. It was like flurrying snow.

"Thank you, grandmother," Anya said.

Zorya Utrennjaja kissed her cheek. Visit me again, sweet child, she said. This is for you. So you do not need Baba Yaga's hut to travel between worlds. You will set your own course, like a firebird through the wild, ever-looking for a halcyon roost. Zorya Utrennjaja pulled a key on a ribbon from her pocket and draped it over Anya's head. All you must do is picture in your mind the place where you wish to go, twist the key, and a door will appear before you. Say hello to Morena for me.

INTERLUDE

My daughter was the spitting image of me. It was like having a shard of mirror break free from a vanity, grow legs, and come to shine all your flaws onto you. She was furious when she stepped into her father's gardening store, rightfully so, but I hoped that the flowers would soothe her. They always calmed me, the henbane and mugwort, perfect for potions, and the lavender, meant for incense and teas. Her father looked up from his watering can and dropped it.

"Anastasia?" he said, shaking. "My beautiful daughter?"

She balled her fists. "You are not my father," she said in English with a Russian lilt. "My da is a leshy, and I have no mother at all. I am here to speak to Morena, the woman who abandoned me to nechist, to become a toy of Baba Yaga's."

Capitol Hill traffic spilled by outside, and I could see through the window Snegurochka's son, my daughter's guardian. He was smoking a cigarette, perhaps to calm his nerves. I supposed he wanted to give my daughter time alone with her negligent mother, to hear my answers in privacy.

"I did not abandon you," I said, stepping out from the workshop where I was pressing fern flowers for their nectar. "I gave you the best possible upbringing with Buyan's best king and a legacy you deserved. A chance to become the goddess Buyan longed for."

"You could have been that goddess!" Anastasia said. "A mother's care was all I needed. I never had it. Just Baba Yaga's tough love and scheming."

I licked my thumb of nectar. "Witches are not good mothers. My familiars are my children, and I am winter wind and death. Vasily, your father, can barely hold me. I even tired of Jarilo after all these years. I wanted to give you a family that could love you. Come here, Anastasia. Let me hold you, like I did when you were born."

"No, Morena. I can hardly stand looking at you and – and him," she said, looking at her father. She paused to finger a blossoming fern. "Da said I had cornflower blue eyes once, before his leshy blessing. Now I know where they came from."

Anastasia began to cry, snot dribbling onto her lip, and did not resist when we embraced her.

"When you were born, Anastasia, I wanted nothing more than to keep you," Vasily said, rugged face a river of tears. He pressed a kiss to our daughter's brow. "But we were under constant attack from Kashchei. He and your mother were bitter enemies. It would not have been safe to raise you in such a place. We were always moving, constantly battling the Deathless. So we gave you to Baba Yaga, to be raised by the kindest tsar in Buyan, in hopes that one day you would be able to overcome Kashchei. A goddess could not kill Kashchei, nor could Ivan Tsarevich, deathless as he was. It took a girl of human blood to give him the taint of mortality. And now look at you! You are a goddess like your mother. I could not be prouder of my beautiful – sniff – my beautiful baby girl who blessed my small life the moment she was born."

My daughter choked. "The things I went through – they were hell. I let him touch me. I ate his heart. It was horrible. Why? Why did I have to do that!"

I ran my hand through her hair, as wood-dark as my own. "The children of Perun must make sacrifices to keep Buyan balanced."

Anya blotted her eyes. "What do you know of sacrifice? I lost half my family. I lost my heart."

I squeezed her shoulders. "And I lost you. But here we are, after all these years, whole and safe. With you a full-grown woman. All I ever wanted for you was for you to find your own place in the world. I have found peace after years of wandering, here with your father, in his little shop that smells of Buyan. And you: you have your own love. We all cast our dreams into the world and hope for the best, even us almighty gods – almighty in nothing but sorrow."

"Why couldn't your wish have been to raise me?"

I sighed. "I was afraid that I would put you in danger. A witch's house, constantly at war with Chernobog, is no place to keep a child. I thought that when you became an adult, and things were safer, then we could finally meet. I wanted to give you a freedom growing up that you could not have had moving across the world at the drop of a hat when Kashchei turned his eye on me. Vasily and I have had to start over again constantly. I wanted to give you stability."

My daughter broke free of our embrace. "You wanted me and Kolya to fall in love, to rule Buyan together. In the end, we both became something that we are not."

I smiled. "Perhaps, sweet Anastasia, you became the things you feared, and in doing so, became stronger. That is what growing up entails."

My daughter wiped the snot from her lips. "There are easier ways to become adults."

I gave her a tissue from the register. She blotted her face. "Not when you are the daughter of Morena or the heir to Ded Moroz. I do not expect you to forgive me. I was never meant to be a good mother. I know it hurts, and it feels like you have been played. But you are Bilobog now, a deity that never was. A goddess of golden light. And I think that there are many things I can teach you. Perhaps, in time, you can forgive me and your father, and we can begin anew."

She crumpled her tissue and tossed it in the wastebasket. "Perhaps. I thought I would come here and spit in both your faces. But I understand you. And that hurts even more."

"We love you, Anastasia. Please remember that," her father said, my Vasily, a liberal dissident against the kremlin, scooped up from a work camp in the Soviet Union and into my wintry arms, who had hated himself since the day we gave our daughter away.

My daughter looked out the window at Snegurochka's son. She bit her bottom lip, took a long pause, then spoke: "Thank you," she said. "I think that I am going to leave now – to travel the worlds with Morozko, and find my place in them."

I noticed my mother's morning star key at her throat. "You have our blessing, Anastasia. You have always had it. We will never stop loving you. When – if – you are ever ready to meet us again, we will be here, waiting."

My daughter gave a faint smile. "Thank you. Can I – can I have a picture of you and – and your husband?"

I gave her the one pinned to the wall behind the register, taken on Vasily and I's honeymoon to Lake Baikal. She studied Vasily's grin and my sly smile, then tucked it into her pocket. "You two look, well, happy."

I unlocked the locket at my throat and showed her the miniature of herself, swaddled in a newborn's blanket. "Not as happy as when you came into our lives."

She blinked back tears. "Goodbye, Morena and Vasily. Mother Mokosh bless you."

With that, my daughter walked out the door, shoulders squared. Snegurochka's son held her, and they walked hand-in-hand into the dusk. I bit back my sorrow and teeming, unfathomable joy.

Vasily squeezed my hand. "She's as fierce as you."

I gave a laugh, releasing my pain. "She has your stubbornness. Get back to work, Vaska. We have gardens to tend."

They backpacked Europe, hostel by hostel. It was Anya's insistence that they travel simply, no planes, all train, bus and foot. Morozko mastered the art of smoking when you were a walking refrigerator. Anya learned to pack light. Both needed time to heal – one had lost his body, the other had lost her soul.

Despite the marvels of the Old Word – the museums, the culture, the castles and cathedrals - Anya could not sleep. When she shut her eyes, she saw the deathless girls, each whispering silently, tears on their cheeks like pearls. Alina was always at the forefront, swirling into dust.

It had been a year since they set out on their journey, though Anya's body had stopped aging. Physically, she would always remain eighteen, perpetually frozen in time. She turned, restless, in Morozko's arms, glamoured like him, for now light poured from her throat. It made sleeping even more difficult when you were a permanent nightlight.

Bilobog. It was the name of a god folklorists had invented, but yet now existed, the White God – no, Goddess.

Anya did not feel powerful, she just felt haunted. Whenever she looked in the mirror, she saw Kashchei's eyes. He might have been dead, but his ghost was a devil on her shoulder, waiting for a moment of weakness. She frightened at the thought of immortality, wondering if as the years dragged on, she too would become arrogant and corrupt, just like Chernobog the Black.

She had his heart, after all.

"Annushka, stop moving. It is midnight," Morozko whispered, squeezing her tight.

"Sorry."

"Do not make me sing you a lullaby. I will wake up the whole room."

Anya smiled. "It is not my fault that you are as cold as a morgue."

"Well you burn hot as the sun, Bilobog. Which reminds me. The sunlight is waning, and the New Year is almost upon us. I will have to do the unthinkable: take up the family business. I cannot even wrap a present without getting a paper cut. How in thrice nine kingdoms will I deliver gifts to all of the Soviet Union?"

"Magic."

"Hah. You know as well as I that magic takes work."

Anya looked at the other travelers in their room. Miraculously, none had been woken by their conversation. Anya sighed. "Kolya, I am having the nightmares again."

Morozko smoothed her hair. "I know. You cry out in your sleep like the Sirin bird."

Anya cuddled into his chest. "Oh."

"I think we need to get out of Europe. It is too close to Russia, which is too close to Buyan, which is too close to anyone that I want to deal with. Let us say we catch a plane to the Caribbean?"

"No planes. And that is too close to my mother."

"How about Antarctica? I can commune with the penguins. They freeze their asses off too, and we both suffer from endless winter syndrome. I am sure there is some kind of penguin bar at the South Pole."

Anya had to stifle a laugh. "We would both have to wear tuxedos, otherwise the penguins would know that we were imposters."

They bantered until dawn tinged the sky over England, keeping their nightmares at bay. The hostel came with a complimentary breakfast, and they found themselves eating sausages, eggs, and orange juice. Morozko chugged coffee like it was his lifeblood. It temporarily warmed him, though the comfort was fleeting.

The changing leaves outside and moss on the bottom of the tree trunks reminded Anya of Dmitri. She sighed.

"What is wrong?" Morozko asked, sugar from a pastry dusting his lip.

"I miss home."

Morozko bowed his head. "So letters from Dima aren't enough. I was afraid you would say that."

"Kolya, you have to forgive him. He is your friend. My father."

Morozko returned his breakfast tray to the kitchen. He spoke over his shoulder. "I do, it is Baba Yaga that I cannot stand."

Anya wiped sausage grease from her lips. "Da said that Baba Yaga left Buyan. She was only allied with him to raise me. Mother Mokosh knows where that hag is now."

Morozko sat back down. "Good riddance. You should have told me Baba Yaga was gone. I would have gone back to the inn in a heartbeat. Anyways, as much as I have loved our trip, I think that I am too old to travel. I should retire to the tropics and buy a timeshare."

Anya cleaned off the rest of her plate. "We have visited every country in Europe, and the rest of the nearby ones that are not. It is probably time to head back to Buyan."

"Anything to delay returning to the North Pole and facing my illustrious grandfather."

"Anya? Am I hallucinating?" Dmitri breathed, answering the door of his inn.

"Hi da."

"My dear, sweetling Annushka!" He swept Anya up into a bear hug and spun her around, planting her cheeks with kisses. "My daughter, how you have changed. Light pours from you now like the Zoryas themselves. You would make Perun's lightning jealous."

Liliya smiled behind Dmitri, a samovar at hand. "Come in, Anya and Kolya, tea is waiting."

They settled at an oak table in the dining room much like the one that had burned years ago. The inn was empty save their family. Dmitri had retreated into himself and his books at the loss of his daughter, and was just beginning to recover. It was not a time for waging wars, and after Kashchei's intrusive visit and Baba Yaga's schemes, Dmitri was now wary of guests.

Dmitri had shaved his mossy beard off, and looked younger than Anya remembered, no more than a man in his early thirties. Perhaps Anya had just grown older, she thought. Liliya was unchanged, still dressed in blue robes and translucent with a sword at her side. The robes were looser, though. Perhaps she had put on winter weight?

Anya's heart warmed at the sight of them both. Dmitri poured the tea, and he asked Morozko and Anya of their travels. They regaled him with tales of the Mona Lisa and boating down the Seine.

A soft smile spread on Dmitri's face. He held Anya's hand, which he squeezed occasionally. "That all sounds wonderful, sweetheart. But winter is almost here, and it is a time for rest, to allow the seeds you have planted to slumber until spring. Perhaps you will stay here at the inn for a few months."

"Oh da, I would love to," Anya said.

Dmitri grinned. "Excellent. Liliya and I have a surprise for you."

Liliya poured herself a cup of tea.

Morozko, sitting next to her, narrowed his eyes. "What is that ugly thing on your finger, Lilyka?"

Liliya blushed for the first time in the history of her life. She quickly tucked her hand under the table. "Nothing."

Morozko continued. "It looked like a hideous ring a leshy would pick out, made out twigs and dead leaves. You two... you two? Well, I would say I saw this coming from miles away, but apparently, I have been distracted." He chuckled. "Congrats, Dima. You have chained the untamable."

Liliya blushed even darker. "Shut your mouth, soap shavings."

"Mother Mokosh, are you two getting married?" Anya blurted, nearly dropping her tea. "But da? I thought you were married to the woods? That is what you always said when I asked!"

Dmitri laughed. "You were too young to understand, Anya. Who better to be my wife than my general?"

"General of an empty forest, now," Liliya muttered. "I may as well be a wife. All my sisters are gone and I have nothing to do except care for the father of my child."

Morozko spat out his tea. "I thought the stick up your ass had punctured your uterus. You mean you two are having a kid? I leave for a year and you decide to play house! No, no way in thrice nine kingdoms, Anya was enough to raise."

"Hey!" Anya said, stepping on Morozko's toes. Morozko cursed. "I was a good kid. And now I will have a little brother. Or perhaps a sister. That will be quite strange."

Dmitri placed his hand over the slight swell of Liliya's stomach. "Brother. We are naming him Iosif."

Tears dotted Anya's eyes. "Osya would love that."

"Your dear departed domovoi would not love the world that his namesake will be born into," came an all-too-familiar voice.

There was Baba Yaga at the back window, resting on her hovering mortar.

"You scheming bitch," Morozko hissed.

"Is that any way to greet your babushka?" Baba Yaga clucked. She knocked on the glass. "Would you let an old granny warm her bones by the hearth?" Without asking, she let herself in, hobbling over to Anya's side.

Dmitri narrowed his eyes. "Get out of my realm, you treacherous hag. Don't you dare threaten my son."

"Remember who it was that gave you your first child, leshy." Baba Yaga twirled her pestle like a baton. She flashed her iron-tooth grin.

Anya's heart thumped in rebellion. She stood to face off against the crone. "Babushka," she said calmly. "After everything you did, you show up at my doorstep, expecting to be forgiven? You taught me that witches can only trust their coven, but the two witches in my life betrayed me. I have become everything that you wanted: I even defeated Kashchei. Don't you know when to quit?"

Baba Yaga's eyes were fire. "You and Morozko run from fate. Be wary: destiny is a serpent that bites your heels. It will strike in its own dear time."

"We have both changed enough for a lifetime," Morozko said. "We are more powerful than you now. Get out of Dima's realm."

Baba Yaga's lips drew thin. "Hate me or not, I could not give an owl's hoot. You will always have your crooked babushka's love. The fact is, your celestial family needs you, witch daughter. Perun of the ruddy hair and wily, snake-skinned Veles watch as the World Tree, our dearly beloved Mother Mokosh, sickens."

Anya crossed her arms. "You are tricking me: it is so obvious I could cut your deceit with a butter knife. I want nothing to do with the gods."

The hag plucked a long hair from one of her warts and spun it round her pinky. "Anya, Anya, always so stubborn, never thinking of the consequences of your actions. Hah! When you destroyed Chernobog's deathless lands, the World Tree became unbalanced. For what is life without the Black God? A weed that springs up in every crevasse it can find."

"The deathless lands were nothing but a curse on Buyan," Morozko said, guarded.

Baba Yaga snapped her chin hair in two. "Yes, they were treacherous, but they kept Buyan in check. Without them, the World Tree grows at a maddening pace, sapping Mokosh's strength. You must heal her as only Bilobog can. For that is what Bilobog is: the shining white light of life, a stolen godhood - a conundrum that should not exist. You must pour your vitality into Mokosh, restore the Tree's balance, and take up the mantle of the Black God. After all, Bilobog was never meant to be. Buyan needs a Chernobog. Maybe you will be less of a pig than the last one!"

Anya shivered.

"My daughter will do no such thing!" Dmitri nearly snapped Baba Yaga like a twig.

Anya thought of the deathless girls behind her eyes. Of Alina fading to dust. The image of Kashchei's reflection in every mirror she looked into rippled: his oceanic eyes, now hers, wordlessly mocking her when she brushed her teeth.

"I will do it," Anya finally said, her voice quiet.

Morozko balled his hands into fists. "Hell no! Anya, are you crazy?"

Anya focused on her feet. Her mind raced: Bilobog was ever-burning, a tallow lit at both ends. Light casts a shadow, and hers happened to have a name – Chernobog the Black.

It was a fate she had been running from, all the way across Europe, seeking peace when she knew, in her heart of hearts, that if you eat a god's death, you became that god, no matter what name you take.

Anya wended her hands into Morozko's. He untensed at her touch. Anya gave a tired smile. "This is why I have insomnia, Kolya. Every time I fall asleep, I see the faces of the girls that I murdered. Their souls are trapped inside me. So is Kashchei's. Right now I am like Maria Morevna was: his captor, except instead of keeping him in a dungeon, his prison is my ribs. He taunts me every time my mind empties. I will know no rest until he is gone."

Morozko his fingers through her hair. "Anya, I thought they were just nightmares. Why didn't you tell me Kashchei was talking to you?"

Baba Yaga pulled out her pipe and began puffing away.

Anya gave a reassuring glance to Dmitri and Liliya, then turned to Morozko, squeezing his hand. "I did not want to frighten you. We were having such a fun time, living the dream I had harbored since I was little – traveling with you. But Baba Yaga, as much as I hate her, is right. Kashchei said I would become Chernobog: it was one of the few truths he told."

Dmitri clasped Anya's shoulders. "Sweetheart, this is dangerous."

Anya sighed. "I know. But if I stop denying what I am and actually do something right for once, instead of being a victim of circumstance: if I heal Mokosh and take on Chernobog's duties, I would become the master of souls. I could set those within me free, including Kashchei. He and the deathless girls would not drive me mad."

Baba Yaga blew a ring of smoke in the shape of a heart. It framed Anya's face. "You have the qualities even Morena lacks: the bravery of a queen. Above all, Buyan's regent must be willing to sacrifice herself on Russia's altar, pouring their blood, nay - their very heart, back into the land. I raised you well, dear Annushka."

Anya slapped Baba Yaga's craggy cheek. Her eyes could cut diamonds. "Get out."

The problem with gods is that often, they like to stay hidden. And the most sacred place in all Buyan, the World Tree, where Perun nested in the branches and Veles snaked round the roots, was not really a tree, but a woman.

Mother Mokosh, whose name Russian peasants centuries ago would swear on by taking dirt into their mouths – Mokosh's body - and spitting it out, like the Greeks making an oath on the River Styx, echoed a tradition that may as well have been Neolithic.

To swear on Mother Mokosh was to swear on the vitality of the land, summoning the very magic that bound Buyan together. But that magic was failing, reckless, with vines choking forests, greenery growing like mad beyond even the leshys' control. Dmitri's forest was nearly unnavigable, and the tsar went out each day, pruning and plucking, trying to put a stopper on the wilderness.

Anya and Morozko stowed what little they had in the oversized backpacks that had served them well in European adventures. The only sentimental thing Anya carried was the picture of her parents, Morena and Vasily, at Lake Baikal. She liked to look at it before falling asleep, wondering what it would have been like to grow up in a hedge witch's gardening shop, with the kiss of Morena's frost on her fingers, icing the fern flowers and rasknoviks hidden in the cupboard.

"Ready to go?" Morozko asked on the morning of their departure.

Anya held the golden shell of her soul, rolling it between her palms. Its glow pulsed with her heartbeat, no bigger than a robin's egg. Funny, to think that the source of all her pain was contained in something smaller than her fist, threaded through a ruby and gold filigree firebird.

"Yeah." Anya tucked her soul egg into the silk satchel she wore round her neck on the ribbon with the Zorya's key, convenient storage for your death when you were traveling light. The key's slight weight reassured her.

Morozko frowned. "I wish I could take your place."

"It is fine. I am not scared – I ran out of terror a year ago. I just want to get this thing over with."

Anya and Morozko found themselves at Veles' home sooner than they would have liked.

Veles' skin was scaled and ridge. His laugh was like ice crackling on a pond. He drank his vodka in great gulps and bade his snakes carry the empty glasses away. There was always a viper at his shoulder. Sometimes, it sampled his drink.

And Perun, with his ruddy hair and golden, freckled cheeks, looked nothing like Anya's mother. Still, there was a tricky flash of his eye that was similar to Morena's. He did not take his eyes off his granddaughter. Perun sipped his vodka slow, a hand always on his hammer.

Perun wiped his lip of alcohol, then cleared his throat. "Thank you for meeting us here. Not exactly my type of establishment, but it gets Veles' point across."

"This is a biker bar in Siberia. What kind of point is that, exactly?" Morozko said, stirring his Bloody Mary. The spice of the mixed drink warmed his frozen insides. The gaudy red Christmas lights and tiki bar annoyed him to no end. That, and the snake that had looped itself round his ankle, begging for alcohol.

Veles chuckled. "I dwell in liminal places, forgotten stretches of road. There is power in wanderers. After all, you would know, Snegurochka's son. You have traveled far over your many centuries."

Anya ran her finger around the lid of her tea. "Where is Mokosh?"

"Upstairs in bed," Veles said. "We have been tending to her as best we can. But she is dying. Mokosh needs your light, dear Anastasia. The soul that dwells within you has great power: to awaken and to kill. It will take all your strength to cure Mother Earth."

Anya trembled.

Veles continued: "I know that your grandfather and I are asking you to sacrifice the things you thought would set you apart from Chernobog, but I would gander a guess, that when you ate the Black God's heart, you knew what would happen. Your light is a sickness, the burning fever of transformation. There is no killing the Deathless. Only becoming him. Put that light to a higher purpose and heal our sweet Mokosh."

Perun clutched his shot glass so hard is shattered. "I do not want Anastasia to do it. I have just met my granddaughter, Veles – I will not lose her."

Anya paled under Perun's unyielding gaze. "I did not know my life was in danger."

Morozko put a protective arm around Anya. "I will not let her do anything that will hurt her."

Perun and Veles looked to each other, their eyes knowing.

Veles stroked the viper clinging to his collarbone. "There is another way: one Mokosh, Perun and I have discussed. Mokosh is willing – but it would be an even heavier price than death."

Morozko slammed his glass down onto the table, spilling his drink. "What is it with you gods, toying with our lives like dolls? First Chernobog, then Morena, now the kings of Buyan! You make Baba Yaga look like an inviting poodle, waiting to be pet. Anya has been through hell and high water. Fuck Mokosh – she can die! Leave Anya alone." He stormed out the bar, upstairs to Mokosh' room, to confront the ailing goddess.

"Kolya! Wait," Anya called. She heard a door slam.

Anya buried her face in her hands and inhaled sharply. "I cannot live like this, with Kashchei tormenting me. I want him gone. If – if finally ridding Buyan of him means my – well, my death, then I guess that is what will happen. At least I will have died for peace."

Perun took Anya's hands into his. "Sweet Mokosh, you have my strength. The same fire as your mother, even. Veles and I are not talking about death, dear, but rebirth. Giving up your light will do one of two things: you will either become like Chernobog, the master of souls, or the power will drive you mad.

Perun paused, looking out the window at the flurries. "But there is another way. Gods die, transform, and are reborn as time goes on. If you poured all your fire into Mokosh, you would have no light left. But Mokosh is life itself. Hers is the heaviest burden of all. She has made an offer that, should you take it, would transform you even more than assuming Chernobog's duties."

Anya shivered.

Perun squeezed her hand and gave her a rugged smile. "Whatever you choose, I will support you with all my heart. So will Morena, your mother. How could we not?"

Anya looked down at her boots. "I am ready to meet Mokosh, then."

Veles clapped his hands together. "You are as fierce as your family, Anastasia. Though we have our quarrels, I have to admit that I admire the Thunderer's gene pool."

And so, Anya followed the kings of the gods upstairs.

Mokosh's skin was dark like wood, her lashes as thick as a doe's. Rich hair, a bright verdant green-black, spooled down her shoulders in tight curls. Mokosh slept under nesting birds and squirrels, burrowed into the bowers that branched from her ribs. Her chest was hollow, with sap and a pulsing heart like an oak gall.

She reached out with twig fingers, a beatific smile on her face. "I am dying, sweet girl. And you, you are so alive! How beautiful. So many times you prayed to me: I did my best to answer them all. Look at my branches – I am blooming. I will bear a single fruit when the moon rises. Please, Morozko, Anastasia – sit with me and tell me of your story. I want to hear all of your adventures and your love."

Morozko stepped out from the shadows of Mokosh's branches, tears in his eyes. The sight of Mother Earth, Buyan's holiest power, fragile and bedridden from blossoming, had banished his anger. All Morozko felt was sorrow. He took Anya's hand in his.

"I will tell you, Mother," Anya said, smile soft. "But first, let me heal you. This light I have will save you."

Anya took her soul egg from her pocket, prepared to break it open and let the yolk fill Mokosh's throat.

Mokosh creaked as she reached for Anya's arm. "Dear Anastasia, giving up your life is simple – noble even. It is living that is pain. People do not sing ballads of quiet survivors. I want you to live like no one has before: as the union of life and death. You would truly become Bilobog: Chernobog and Mokosh, creation and destruction. Buyan's rightful queen. I am tired – my rings span ages – but you? You are young, strong, braver than even your grandfather – I would choose no heir but you."

Anya reeled. Morozko steadied her.

Anya looked to him. "Kolya – do you think...is that even possible?"

Morozko nodded: "I am a child of opposites: bannik and snow maiden. And I turned out alright. It may just be crazy enough to work."

Anya put her soul egg away and tucked a strand of leafy hair behind Mokosh's sweaty brow. "Mother, won't you die?"

Mokosh gave a laugh like willow branches rustling. "Sweet Anastasia, nothing truly dies. I will live on in you. In the way you marvel at a butterfly's flight, in the mazurkas you dance in Morozko's arms – every time you open a volume of Pushkin, I will play across the pages like poetry. Let me bring peace to your burning witch light, my dear, dear Bilobog."

"That name is a mouthful," Morozko said, smiling as he held Anya. "I think I will just call her my Annushka."

Mokosh looked out at the stars. "In the end, names do not matter. It is our dreams and deeds that define us."

Anya wiped droplets from Mokosh's clammy face. "I want to leave a better Buyan behind for Dima and Liliya's son – for my own children. Mother, I accept your offer. I will live so fiercely that you will never be forgotten."

Mokosh's branches stirred. She closed her eyes.

Her flesh gnarled, growing more bark-like. "Life is the greatest price we all pay, in the end," Mokosh breathed. "But it is also our greatest joy. I know that you will bring Buyan happiness, dear Anastasia."

The moon rose. A brilliant scarlet blossom seeped from Mokosh's galled heart. Mokosh sighed.

Just as soon as the flower appeared, it folded into fruit, red-gold like a firebird. Mokosh reached into her chest and plucked it. With her dying breath, she offered it to Anya.

Anya ate the fruit of love, the lifeblood of Buyan, and she felt Chernobog's shadows retreat as all Kashchei's girls were set free like a Jacob's ladder of angels, climbing up to the moon. Anya's witch fire cooled into kindling, the homey coal of a hearth, and Mokosh lived on in her heart.

Mokosh lived on in Morozko and Anya's wedding vows. In the smile of their daughter Elizaveta's face.

Mokosh lived on in young Iosif raising chaos at Dmitri's inn, chasing after Elizaveta, Liliya hot on his heels. In a bustling inn christened with two families, a hub of love and new beginnings.

Mokosh lived on in Perun's first family reunion in centuries – the Zoryas, Anya, baby Elizaveta, and Morena wrapped in his thundercloud arms.

Mokosh lives on to this day, in a woman named Anastasia, Bilobog in the tongue of the gods, but just Anya to those who know her well.

And he who knows her best?

Morozko calls her his heart, which he found, many winters ago.

###
