As if on cue, I hear a groaning. Viktor is trying to sit up. There’s no time to argue about it. Three really better be the charm.
He turns the box around and around. I hold my hand over it and bleed. One. Two. Three drops.
The air crackles around us. The box lid snaps open. The key is inside, whole and solid.
Trembling, I pull it out, feel its weight in my hand.
“We did it, Ethan!” I leap up and down on the dusty train floor. “We did it!”
The crackling in the air intensifies. The overhead lights of the train flicker. The guy in the hoodie gives an audible gasp and points at the still-open door on the side of the train.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” The woman in the blue coat claps a hand over her mouth.
Ethan and I turn. Instead of a dark train tunnel, we’re looking into a forest. Ethan pulls me toward it. “Come on,” he says. “This is it.”
Once again, there’s no time to think—only time to hope that the leap we’re about to take is the right one. Because otherwise, a trashed cell phone will be the least of my worries.
I shove the box and key back into my pocket and hold tight to Ethan’s hand. “Let’s do it,” I tell him.
I don’t think about what’s coming next. I just take a deep breath and squeeze Ethan’s hand tighter as we fling ourselves from the train into the forest. We land hard on the moss-covered ground. A huge tree root jabs me in the waist as I roll to a stop. I sit up. So does Ethan. We’ve done it. We’re in Baba Yaga’s forest.
But so, I realize, as I hear a familiar deep groan behind us, is Viktor.
Thursday, in the Forest
Ethan
How in the hell, I wonder as I raise my knee and jam it full force into Viktor’s belly, did I ever trust this zalupa?
I wonder it again as he lands a punch to my cheek.
Son of a bitch.
“Give it up, Ethan,” he gasps as I return the favor with a punch of my own, and he staggers backward. “I told you I would stop her. Some things are just not meant to be.”
Stop her? We’re in Baba Yaga’s forest, Anne’s got the key, and unless I’m mistaken, our magic isn’t quite working here, so we have to resort to good old-fashioned brute violence. Many things may arise to stop Anne—who’s just hauled herself up off the ground a few feet away—but I doubt now that Viktor is one of them. “You really don’t ever get tired of hearing yourself talk, do you?” My next pop to his jaw sends him sprawling to the ground. And then I’m over him, punching again and again until his face slackens and his eyes roll closed.
“Is he—dead?” Anne’s standing over us.
I roll my eyes. “Hardly.” I stand up. “Unfortunately, he’ll be just fine. Well, at least until we release Anastasia.” A man can hope.
“No, really, Ethan.” Anne’s eyes flick from my face to Viktor’s unconscious form and back again. “You can’t just kill him. I mean, even if you could.”
“I know,” I say gently. “I know. He’s going to wake up soon, Anne, and we need to find Anastasia before he does.”
“So then what? Just leave him here?” Another detail that hadn’t quite occurred to me.
“We’ll think of something.” I grab her hand. “Let’s go.”
We head off into the forest.
Within seconds, we’re hopelessly lost. I can’t see where we’ve started. I can’t see ahead of us. It’s all just a thick mass of trees and shrubs pressed tightly together. The branches snag our clothing and lash at our arms and legs, and even our faces, as we attempt to walk.
A thick rope of vines whirls down from a low-hanging branch and whips itself around Anne so quickly that it takes my breath away until I can pull her free from its grip. Our feet sink into the wet, spongy ground, and dead leaves and other things stick to our shoes as we walk.
“It’s hard to breathe,” Anne gasps. Her face is flushed, and her sweat-slicked hair is flattened to her forehead.
Something small and soft brushes by my legs. I look down. It’s a cat. I think his fur is black, but it’s hard to see because the trees have blocked out all but a few thin rays of light. The cat blinks up at me, his eyes gleaming gold and orange in the darkness.
“ Koshka, ” Anne says, startling me. “ Koshka, ” she repeats. The Russian word for “cat.”
“How do you know that?” I ask her. The cat slips away into the darkness. I can hear his feet against the leaves for only a second or two, and then he’s gone.
“It’s what Baba Yaga called him in the dream.” With effort, she pushes a heavily drooping branch out of our way.
The trees around us start to sway violently. The wind picks up.
“We must be close.” My eyes narrow to a squint as the wind rakes us.
“Do you think it’s Baba Yaga?” Anne stumbles and grabs my arm. The wind gives another vicious howl.
“Yes,” I tell her. “We need to keep moving.”
What we also need to do is figure out what side Baba Yaga is on. Is she protecting Anastasia? Or has the magic compelled her to side with Viktor and keep us away? Maybe Anne is right and it’s somehow both of those at the same time. If we can get to Anastasia, perhaps it will no longer matter.
“Do you see that?” Anne shouts. She’s pointing to our right. I peer into the darkness. Small dots of light dance far in the distance.
“Come on.” I yank her hand. “This way.”
We walk toward the lights. They twinkle and blink as we struggle closer. At one point, I glimpse the cat, the koshka . He pokes his black head out from under a bed of rotting leaves and hisses. He flicks his pink tongue at us, then licks it, slowly, over his tiny, sharp teeth.
Above us, there’s a swirling sound—the same one I’d heard when Baba Yaga had swooped down on the university campus. “She’s coming!” Anne cries out. “I know it, Ethan. It’s Baba Yaga!” She pulls at my arm and runs toward the dancing lights that continue to flicker ahead of us. The lights, I realize with a sinking feeling, have not gotten any closer, no matter how far we’ve walked.
Anne is wrong. It’s not Baba Yaga who breaks through the treetops above us.
It’s just her hands.
Thursday, in the Forest
Anne
I don’t even bother to scream when the giant hands come scuttling after us like two mutant hermit crabs or something. I just grab onto Ethan’s hand and run. The branches snap at our faces. The hands swish after us. The wind keeps howling like some crazed animal.
We keep moving.
I hear another howling sound, only this time it’s not the wind. It’s the koshka.
He sort of materializes in front of us, then stands there flicking his pink tongue in and out of his mouth, waiting. His black fur ruffles in the gale-force winds. His eyes are two glowing yellow slits. I think back to the dream, to the cat winding around my ankles as I sat at Baba Yaga’s table.
In my mind, I see Anastasia. She’s sitting in the huge rocker in the hut, gazing at the skull in the fire—watching as two people stand in the middle of a forest. Ethan and me.
“Follow him,” Anastasia says. It’s a shock to finally hear her voice, even if it’s just in a vision. “Follow Auntie’s koshka . He will lead you to me. You must trust me.” And then she’s gone.
“Did you see her?” I shout to Ethan over the wind.
“See who?” He stares at me. I simply have got to stop having these visions that only I can see.
“We need to follow him,” I say, pointing to the cat.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Ethan says. The part of me that’s not totally terrified notes that he’s sounding more and more like me.
“Oh right,” I tell him. “’Cause I have so much time and energy here to make up a joke.”
“If you’re sure,” Ethan says. The cat is already heading off into the trees. “Okay, then, let’s go,” he says. So we do.
We push deeper into the forest. Sometimes, I hear the hands rushing at us from behind. Sometimes, they
seem to be coming from one side or the other. Sometimes, I don’t hear them at all. But the koshka keeps moving steadily.
And we keep following.
Then I realize that—finally—the row of little lights has gotten closer—close enough for me to realize, in yet another moment that I’m sure will require years of therapy should I actually live through this, that they’re more than just pretty little lights. They’re a row of glowing skulls, each one on a stick jammed into the ground.
But none of it matters, because it’s then that we—the cat, Ethan, and I—stumble to a halt.
Correction: the cat slinks off out of sight, leaving Ethan and me gasping for breath in front of Baba Yaga’s hut.
We’ve made it.
“Get the key,” Ethan says to me. His voice is low and tight.
I’m shaking as I reach into my pocket and wrap my hand around it. “Now what?” I ask him. I’m still staring at the hut. It seems to be—well, breathing. Like it’s alive or something. The crooked wooden walls suck in and out as we stand there. Steam puffs in huge bursts from the long, narrow chimney. The chicken legs—yes, it really is standing on chicken legs—kind of quiver every few seconds, like they’re getting ready to bolt if the opportunity arises. The one little window on the left wall keeps sort of winking at us. Like it sees us. And the skulls—well, they’re watching us too. I had thought the skulls were each on a stick of some sort, which would be bad enough—only they’re not on sticks. They’re each on top of a bone. And these are human-looking bones.
My stomach rolls. For a moment, I think I might throw up. My hands tighten into fists. The edges of the key dig into my already cut palm.
The hands—thankfully—are still nowhere in sight. Nor is Baba Yaga.
“Let’s try it,” Ethan says.
“Okay.” My voice comes out shaky and small. My heart’s fluttering around in my chest like a little flag left up in a hurricane.
We move closer. The hut puffs in and out. One second, it’s small, and the next, it seems to tower over us. Underneath it, the chicken legs claw at the dirt, scratching up big clumps of it, which they kick at us as we approach.
“I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore,” I mutter. A crazed-sounding giggle kind of sticks in my throat.
Ethan gives me a quick scowl. “Keep your eye on the door,” he says. “In the fairy tales, the hut can—”
“Flip around so we can’t get to it?” He’s forgotten I’ve already paid a visit in my dream. We’re now looking at the back of the hut, which is still moving in and out like some demented wooden accordion.
Shit.
“What do we do now?” I move past shaky to primal screaming territory. “Tell it to turn around? Like, ‘Hey there, hut, turn your front to me’?”
The hut spins wildly—around and around until I’m almost dizzy from watching it—but when it stops, the front door is once again facing us. “Uh, yes,” Ethan says. “Something like that.”
I guess when you’re Destiny Girl, things really do go your way occasionally.
Then I hear a shuffling sound in the woods behind us, and I figure if I’m really going to do this, I better just do it. I place my hand on the small gate in the middle of the skull fence and push. It gives a deafening moan, like all the people who were once attached to these skulls, who probably belong to the bones jammed into the earth, are screaming at once.
“Don’t listen to it,” Ethan shouts above the moaning and shrieking. “Keep moving!”
I do as he says. We pass through the gate. Still, the voices of the skulls call to us. It’s as if their voices are wrapping around me, pulling at me. I stumble backward for an instant. Invisible arms grab at me. “Help us,” the voices scream in my head. “Don’t leave us here.”
But I keep on going, and so does Ethan. We reach the door.
I uncurl my fingers and look at the key nestled in the palm of my hand. There’s no going back. If the key doesn’t work, it’s over. Even if it does, we may not make it out of here.
“Now, Anne,” Ethan says softly. “Go on.” He squeezes my arm.
My hand is shaking—in fact, all of me is shaking—but I place the key in the lock of the wooden door of Baba Yaga’s hut and turn it. I hold my breath.
The door creaks open.
And then she’s there. Anastasia.
Not a trick. Not a vision. Not a dream.
She’s this pretty girl with a thin face and brown, wavy hair who looks not much older than me. She’s wearing a worn, white lace dress that I’m sure was once very beautiful. And she seems to recognize me, just as I recognize her.
I reach out my hands, and she clasps them. “Anastasia,” I say to her.
She nods. “And you are Anne,” she says, and I’m struck by the sound of her voice. Even after all she’s been through, she sounds—well, royal. I’m also struck by something else.
“You speak English,” I say, hearing how stupid that sounds as soon as it’s out of my mouth. I feel oddly plain and ordinary next to her. Which is totally weird after all I’ve been through.
“My mother taught me,” she says softly. “She taught all of us. So we could converse with our European relatives. But I haven’t used it in—well, I suppose you will be able to tell me how long it’s truly been.”
My stomach rolls when I hear that last part.
Behind me, I hear Ethan clear his throat. The small-talk part of the visit is over.
“I guess I’m supposed to get you out of here now,” I say. “I think that’s how it works. You can’t leave until I come for you. Well, I did. I’m here. So you don’t have to stay any longer.”
“I would like that,” Anastasia says. “I would like that very much.” She gives my hands a squeeze. “But wait. I must not forget. I need to get something. I think it will be fine if you come with me. I—I do not want you to let go. Do not worry. It will not take long.”
This is not something I’d expected. I’d made my visit to this cabin more than enough times. But as Anastasia pulls me over the threshold with her, I realize I’ve got one more visit to make.
It’s all as I had seen it: the rocker, the fireplace, even the skull floating in the flames. I swallow my panic and hang on to Anastasia. Her hand feels small and thin in mine.
“Here,” she says, and plucks a small, wooden doll with painted red lips from the bed in the corner. It’s exactly like the one on my lacquer box. “It is my matroyshka ,” Anastasia tells me. “My mother gave her to me. I cannot leave her here.” She tucks the little doll in the pocket of her dress.
My panic returns. We need to get out of here. Viktor’s going to wake up, and Baba Yaga could come back at any time. This is so not where I want to be when any of that happens.
I tug gently on her hand. “Come,” I say. “It really is time for us to go.” Skin to skin, our palms feel almost electric. My hand does its glow thing. I pull her toward me, and slowly, ever so slowly, she lets me guide her out of Baba Yaga’s hut.
Everything rushes through me then—joy and amazement and an incredibly deep sadness that this girl has been hidden away for so long that I wonder if she had given up hope.
“You didn’t let him stop you,” she says. “I have been able to watch through Auntie’s magic.”
“Him? Oh, you mean Viktor, don’t you? Well, he tried. Oh boy, did he try. But we—”
“Anastasia,” Ethan says. I’d almost forgotten he was still here. His face looks like I feel. Every emotion flitting across it in rapid succession.
We all stand there, looking at each other, and then Anastasia lets go of my hand and walks to Ethan. I smile as he wraps his arms around her, says something to her that I can’t hear. Then he reaches up and smooths her hair. “We came for you,” he says, “just as we promised.”
Anastasia tilts her head and looks up at Ethan. “I am not particularly fond of promises anymore,” she says. “But you are here, and the rest will sort itself out now that you are.”
I want to ask what she means
by that, but suddenly there’s no more time for our little reunion. We hear the all-too- familiar whooshing sound that can mean only one thing: Baba Yaga is coming.
Anastasia gestures toward the back of the hut. She shouts something to Ethan in Russian.
“What?” I scream at them. “What’s she saying? Ethan, what’s she telling you?” And why the heck did she have to switch to Russian? Other than it being her native tongue and all…
“She says the three horsemen are back there,” he replies. “They’ll take us out of here. She says her Auntie Yaga promised her they’d help.”
Auntie. Just like I’d heard her say in my dream.
Above us, black clouds rush in over the treetops. The whooshing sound grows louder, closer.
“We must ride now,” Anastasia says to me. “We need to go before she returns.” She’s switched back to English again.
She looks at me. There I am, face to face with the girl whose bloodline runs through me too—who lost everything so her half brother could have it all. It’s more than unfair. And not, I think as I watch her, like that Russian fairy tale at all. Vasilisa the Brave got a happy ending.
Anastasia deserves one too.
In the sky above the hut, thunder rumbles, and a bolt of pure white lightning streaks through the clouds. We race to the other side of the hut. Three horses stand in a circle: one white, one red, one black. Three horsemen sit on their backs.
Anastasia digs into her pocket and brings out a fistful of what looks like oats. She approaches each horse in turn, croons something to them that I don’t understand, and feeds each one from the palm of her hand.
The horsemen dismount. They bow and gesture toward their horses.
“Can you ride?” Ethan asks me above the wind.
“A little,” I tell him. Now is not the time to explain that my last riding experience was on vacation at a dude ranch in Texas when I was nine.
“Well, just hang on,” he says. He lifts me in the air so I can mount the white horse. There’s no saddle or anything, so I have to just grab onto the mane and kind of hoist myself up—which, let me say, is not as easy as it sounds. He does the same with Anastasia, putting her behind me on the same white horse. She wraps her arms around my waist.