The valet guy by the Izbushka place says something to us in Russian. Ariel smiles at him uncomprehendingly and hands over the keys.

I grab Fluffster’s cage from the back and say, “If I come to Brighton Beach one more time this week, they’ll give me a free bottle of vodka.”

We walk up the steps, and Ariel mutters something unintelligible as she stares at the hen legs accoutrements near the entrance.

A bouncer of orc proportions (but clearly human) opens the heavy doors for us and also says something in Russian. We say thanks in English and slink into the restaurant.

The hut is anything but rustic inside. Marble and crystal are everywhere, reminding me of the Metropolitan Opera—especially if someone had recreated it somewhere in Vegas and went heavy on bling.

Cabaret-style performance is taking place on a stage in the middle of the room. The Russian-sounding music is upbeat, but the same can’t be said about the clientele.

Though I hate stereotyping, only two words swirl in my head as I take in the assortment of sketchy tattooed dudes and their silicone-enhanced escorts.

Russian mob.

“You must be Sasha,” says a familiar voice.

I turn around. Though he sounds even more skeletal in person, Koschei doesn’t look the way I’d imagined—like an emaciated old man. Though indeed slender, he’s young and dangerously handsome. His shoulder-length hair is jet black, and his marble-green eyes twinkle mischievously as he stares at us from underneath his blue-black eyebrows.

“And you are?” he asks Ariel, a half smirk appearing on his face.

“Here to make sure no one messes with my friend,” she answers with a smile that barely covers the threat in her voice.

“Only the seer is granted the audience. You’ll have to wait here.” He gestures at a small table.

Ariel looks at me uncertainly. I nod, and she takes the offered seat.

Koschei gestures at a waiter, then turns to me and says, “Follow.”

He walks deeper into the restaurant without a glance back.

Whenever a mobster type gets in Koschei’s way, the thin man simply looks at the offender, and one after another, the big, tattooed guys slink away as though dealing with someone triple their size.

Koschei clearly has a reputation.

“In there,” he says when we approach a door in the back.

I reach for the handle and can’t help but notice that this entryway looks exactly like a door into a simple wooden hut—completely incongruous with the otherwise posh surroundings.

The door opens with the creaking sound of an old wooden roller-coaster.

“Hello, dear,” someone says from the inside with a heavy Russian accent. The androgynous voice sounds like it belongs to someone ancient.

I gingerly step inside, but before I’m over the threshold, Koschei gives my back a light nudge. I stumble in, and he slams the door behind me.

Catching my balance, I examine the room and its occupant.

The place looks like a replica of a forest hut with its wooden walls, floor, and ceiling. Yaga must have a fetish for wood, because even the bowl and spoons are wooden—adorned in the brightly colored style of Matryoshka dolls.

Well, at least I don’t see any contracts I need to avoid signing. k12

My hostess—assuming this is Baba Yaga herself—looks even older than her voice implied. Some of the wrinkles on her forehead have their own wrinkles. In fact, she looks so old I could’ve mistaken her for an old man. Only her dandelion-like puffy hairstyle is in any way feminine. Her outfit looks even older than she is, consisting as it does of some kind of a roughhewn cloth with holes in it. A potato sack, maybe?

Despite all this, her eyes aren’t rheumy. They shine with keen intelligence and strength.

“Sasha?” She pronounces my name the same way as Felix’s parents.

“Hi,” I say. “Baba Yaga, right?”

“You’re a seer?” she asks, her accent thickening.

I nod.

“Useful things seers are.” Jumping spryly from her wooden chair, Yaga extends her hand and mutters something under her breath.

“Run,” Fluffster says in my mind. “She’s casting a spell on you.”

Before I can fully register my pet’s words, let alone act on them, black lightning shoots from the witch’s fingers and hits me straight in the forehead.

An excruciating pain sears through my brain, muddling my thoughts.

“She’s trying to steal your will,” Fluffster says, his mental voice sounding as though from a distance. “We’re not in my domain, so I can’t stop her. I’m so sorry.”