Beka scuffed the dirt with one bare toe. “Hasn’t anyone ever chosen wrong?” she asked. “In all the history of the Baba Yagas, did none of them ever pick the wrong girl to train as her successor? Because I have to tell you, Chewie, I’m pretty sure that Brenna made a mistake when she chose me. I’m just not good enough.”
“I don’t ever remember hearing of such a thing,” Chewie said, his tone thoughtful. “There have been some pretty strange Babas through the years, but hell, strange is practically a part of the job description. And Brenna clearly thought you were good enough, or she wouldn’t have left you in charge of a third of this benighted country.”
“Ha,” Beka said, shaking her head. “Brenna stayed around to keep training me a lot longer than most Babas do. Barbara told me that her mentor sent her out on her own when she was nineteen. I was almost twenty-eight before Brenna left, and even then, the Queen of the Otherworld had to order her to retire, or she’d still be here.”
Chewie cocked his head, looking at her thoughtfully. “Has it ever occurred to you that Brenna’s reluctance to leave had more to do with her than it did you and your skills or lack thereof? After all, even she admitted that you were an extremely powerful witch.”
“Powerful, yes,” Beka said, ruefully. “Careful and wise, not so much.”
The dog huffed again, this time without the pyrotechnics. “Man, you sink one submarine and you spend the next ten years second-guessing yourself. I think Brenna was too hard on you. And now that she’s not here, you’ve taken over the job. Cut yourself a little slack, will you?”
Beka knotted her hands together in her lap, looking down at them instead of at her companion. “I’m thinking of cutting myself a lot of slack, actually, Chewie. Like, as in giving it up altogether.”
Chewie’s jaw fell open. “What? You can’t just quit being a Baba Yaga!”
“I can, actually,” Beka said quietly. “The change isn’t final until a Baba has been drinking the Water of Life and Death for twenty-five years. That won’t be until my thirtieth birthday, in a couple of months. If I stop using it now, my extra powers will eventually wane and I’ll go back to aging at a normal rate. I’d be a regular Human again.”
“Why the hell would you want to be that?” Chewie bellowed. “You are so much more than that now. And people are depending on you. The world needs Babas, and there are too few of them as it is.”
“Lots of reasons,” Beka said. She tried to concentrate on the sound of the waves, which always soothed her, but tonight, they seemed to have lost their magic. “I don’t feel like I’m doing a very good job at being a Baba. I haven’t been able to make any headway in solving the Selkies’ and Merpeople’s problem. And once you are permanently a Baba . . . well, you know, Babas can’t have children of their own. Sometimes I think I might want that.”
Chewie rested his massive head on her thigh. “You’ve only been working on the water issue for a few days; it is too soon to say you have failed. Besides, do you really want to give up magic?”
She didn’t say anything. If she knew the answer to that, she would have made this decision long ago.
He gave a bone-scented sigh and rubbed his jowl affectionately against her leg. “I can’t tell you what to do, Beka. I can just tell you that I would be very sorry if you weren’t my Baba. I’ve kind of gotten used to having you around.”
Beka blinked back unexpected emotion. “Thanks, Chewie. That’s really sweet.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then said, “You know what’s really sweet? S’mores, that’s what.” He gazed up at her with an innocent expression. “Just sayin’.”
* * *
PEWTER-EDGED CLOUDS SCUDDED across a sky that bled crimson, making the rising sun look sickly and dull. Restless waves lashed the barnacled hull of the boat as Marcus stood guard over the port side where it was tied up to the dock, ignoring the spitting rain with the practice of someone who’d spent most of his youth on the sea.
His breath caught in his throat when he saw Beka walking toward him. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a practical braid, and her gear was slung over one shoulder; she looked cool, and competent, and not at all like the flaky hippie chick he’d snared in his nets less than a week before. He had to remind himself that underneath the current illusion there still lurked the girl who lived in a painted bus and made a living selling jewelry to people dressed as knights and wenches. It wasn’t fair that even in the sullen light of an overcast morning, she still shone like the sun.