Babayaga

her feet, his hand over her mouth, and shoved her past the building’s gate, into the blackened darkness. The first thing she did was drop the chicken and try to kick at the man’s legs and bite his hand. The bird squawked loudly as it hit the pavement. Noelle’s assailant was breathing hard as he pushed her up against the wall. It was then she saw his terrible, thin face, his stubbled skin, weathered and oily, with acne scars running down the sides of both cheeks. His expression up close was mean and hungry. He leaned in toward his little prey, his breath stinking of bile, tobacco, and sour wine.
    “I only want what’s in your pockets,” he seethed. “Give me—” He was cut off by a wild screeching and a thunderous batting of wings, as if an entire kettle of hawks had dropped out of the skies. The man screamed out in a spasm of agony and released Noelle. She fell down and scampered away fast, looking back with fascination as the two silhouettes struggled in the shadows.
    The chicken was attacking the man with a frenzied fury. Blood was already thickly streaming down from his clawed eye sockets as he tried to shield himself. The bird twisted and fluttered, its beak attacks alternating between the man’s now tattered eyes and his Adam’s apple, pecking hard with quick success so that the man’s howls of pain were soon subsumed by the wet, gurgling sound of drowning. Finally, the bird’s screeches and its victim’s cries caused neighboring lights to come on. Noelle ran off down the street, nursing a strange thrill in her heart.
    A little over an hour later, with the verve of excitement still tickling her veins, and her ribs sore from the attack, an exhausted Noelle turned the corner of the avenue and saw her hotel, down at the end of the block. With its broad façade and fluttering flags, the building looked reassuringly paternal, as if it had been patiently waiting up through the long night to comfort her upon her return. She exhaled, pleased and relieved that she had found her way home. She knew the night manager would let her into her room; he was the one who had brought her warm milk on the first night they were there.
    She was surprised at how calm she felt, remarkably untouched by the puzzling series of events she had endured—the fight at the apartment, the death of the rat, Elga’s disappearance, and, finally, the awful assault on the street. She knew she should be a bundle of frayed nerves, ready to be put back in the asylum bed where Elga had first found her. But, truth to tell, she felt perfectly fine. She turned and looked back down the boulevard to where the chicken was coming along behind her. The red bird paused occasionally to peck at the pavement’s cracks.
    XV

    Will was awoken near dawn by Zoya’s soft kisses. The woman who had seemed dead to the world was now feverishly alive, her lips running across the top of his collarbone, biting at his ear. In no time her attentions had him completely alert. He clutched her tightly, pulling her against him. She held him fast, her hands joined at the base of his neck, her forehead pressed against his chest. He grabbed at her breasts and nipples as she bit his shoulder and pulled his hair, gasping as he found his way inside her. They rocked the bedframe and knocked the headboard hard against the wall. Her legs were above his body as she pressed up against him, burying her cries into his neck. They rode each other, ignoring the racket they made, finally finishing with a high breaking moan and strong shudder. Then she fell off to his side.
    “Where are we?” she sleepily asked, her eyes already closing again.
    “Oliver’s.”
    “Oliver’s?” Her question was barely a breath. “Why?”
    “There was someone watching my apartment. It wasn’t safe.”
    Her brow furrowed as if these words worried her, but then she slipped back to sleep, resting against his chest, her eyes shut fast. He watched her sleep for a bit and then crawled out from under her to go to the bathroom.
    He found Oliver in a bathrobe and striped pajamas, sitting up in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and an early edition of Le Monde . “Well, hullo,” said Oliver. “Couldn’t help hearing you two exerting yourselves in there. At first I thought it was Madame Boillet’s poor cats yowling from the flat downstairs.”
    “Sorry to wake you. I thought I heard someone else here?” Will couldn’t help prodding.
    “Oh, Gwen could sleep through the running of the bulls. And,