Chapter 12: A Feast of Souls

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.