Natasha leaned closer to the warded magical rope binding the long-legged hut to the iron ring in the concrete floor of the warehouse. A strand of hair lay across the rope. Faint, almost invisible wisps of smoke rose from the hair as it burned its way down deeper into the rope. Already it was sliced almost halfway through. Not long now.

"Is it almost free?" a voice behind her asked.

She jerked slightly in surprise but composed herself as she turned to face Baba Yaga. The area around the house was illuminated only by a single faint light high above. The dim light cast Baba’s features in shadows, giving her a maniacal look.

"Almost," Natasha said.

"And the other restraints?" Baba waved her gnarled hand at the other ropes. From here, Natasha couldn’t tell what was going on with the other ropes. But she had checked on them a little while ago, and the spell was working, if slowly.

"I’m managing them.”

“Good. Then it won't be long now." The old woman was looking more bent and wizened than ever. Her voice rasped.

Natasha's own skin had become wrinkly and weathered since she had taken up the mantle of Baba Yaga. The transference of power was not instantaneous, but its effects were already clear. While Natasha now looked venerable, the old woman, Baba Yaga, looked positively ancient. Her back was bent, her body crumpled in on itself. Her hands resembled claws now. Her hands had a gnarled, arthritic look that made them more like claws than fingers.

Even though she herself had agreed to rejoin the cycle of Baba Yaga's power, Natasha still marveled that the old woman took her impending end so easily.

"Everything is as it should be," the crone rasped, as if reading Natasha's thoughts. Perhaps she could. The two of them were close to being the same now. It wouldn't be long before the transference was complete. If awakening the castle did not push her over the edge, then it would not be long after.

"You know this will trigger his traps, don't you?"

"Yes," Natasha said. "But we will be ready."

The crone cackled. "Yes, yes we will. Your daughter is near. Do you worry for her? Things are about to get rather exciting."

Natasha shook her head. "No. Enough of our power has gone into that golem of hers. It will keep her safe."

The crone cackled again. "Perhaps, perhaps. The future is never so certain. But if it were, what fun would living be?"

Natasha turned her head to study the woman. "And dying?" she asked.

"That too, that too," the old woman said with a grin. "All the world is an adventure. Besides, I don't know if you can call this dying anyway." She waved a gnarled hand. "I think we can go on cheating the end a bit longer, don't you?"

Natasha made a noncommittal noise.

"Oh yes," the old woman continued. "I think we shall. Now that you're back, I think it's high time we move into the modern era. I look forward to seeing what you make of this old thing." She waved her hand at the building perched on legs above them. Despite the eclectic mix of rooms melded together at haphazard angles, the theme of the architecture was still distinctly late medieval.

"You know, I can just remember when this was a thatched old shack. I think when most people catch a glimpse of it, that's still what they see."

Natasha eyed the old woman. Did she really remember that far back? Surely that had been hundreds of years. She knew the cycle of Baba's power stretched out over an incredible sweep of time. But was it really that long?

Again the old woman seemed to read her thoughts and cackled. "Oh yes, oh yes. Time seems to move so swiftly when you are young. But as it passes, it starts to stretch out farther and farther until you hardly remember how long it's been."

Natasha interrupted the woman's introspection. She wasn't particularly interested in her musings anyway. "It's almost ready." She pointed to the rope towards the back of the house.

It was trembling now, and they could see the gap yawning open where the hair had almost sliced through it. Of course, it wasn't the hair that was doing the slicing, but the power of magic coursing through it. They were Veronica's hairs, and the power coursing through them was hers, infused with something deeper and much older. The power of debt. The force of obligation and reciprocity. These were an ancient force that Rasputin's wards had no effect on.

He'd warded himself against Baba Yaga’s power, never expecting that she would bargain with another magic user to free her hut. After all, Rasputin would never willingly place himself in another’s debt. He couldn’t have imagined that Baba Yaga would.

Perhaps even a few months ago, Natasha would have been afraid to do so. Now, she knew what it was like to lose everything. She’d take a few risks, leave a few debts to be called in later, to avoid that fate.

The old woman looked back at Natasha. "Now, daughter, shall we join our powers together once more?"

"Yes," Natasha said. She turned away from the castle. Behind her, she heard another of the ropes creak as its last threads started to snap. The old woman pulled out a twisted branch from under her cloak. From it hung feathers and small bones. It was a distinctive pattern of charms Natasha recognized as old magic from the Americas. She nodded in approval. It was likely to be effective.

She pushed aside her long cloak, revealing the hilt of her saber. The blade slid easily from its sheath with a soft hiss. Wisps of magic rose from the steel.

"Oh, how old-fashioned!" Baba exclaimed. "Is that really blood from virgins?"

Natasha felt suddenly defensive. "Yes, but they were all bad."

There was a crack, and behind them, a rope fell to the floor with a thud. Neither of the women turned to look. A moment later, another snapped and fell. Natasha's cloak stirred as a false breeze blew through the room. It wasn't wind, but magic. All around them, the walls of the chamber began to glow with intricate patterns of green and purple light.

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"Ah, now they come."

Something moved in the shadows at the edge of the room. A figure approached, then another, and another. Soon the shadows all around them writhed with motion as more and more figures appeared.

There was a low moan, and then from across the room another in echo, and then another.

"Zombies," Natasha muttered. "I hate these guys."

The closest zombies lunged into the circle of light, arms outstretched and mouth slathering. She dropped into a fencing stance, and her blade flicked out. It passed through the first zombie as easily as a cloud of smoke. The creature's head toppled from its neck, and the body sagged to the ground. One down, who knew how many more to go.

Baba Yaga was enjoying herself more than Natasha could ever remember seeing. She scampered forward on crooked legs, cackling merrily. Her stick waved back and forth in front of her as she held it aloft, bones rattling. The zombies nearest her slowed and then froze in place. She laughed louder as she thrust the stick towards one at a distance of a couple of meters away. The zombie twitched as if it had actually been struck. Then it turned and shuffled away. At the edge of the pool of light, it lunged and grabbed onto another zombie and chomped down hard on its arm.

Baba was already twirling her stick at another. Soon she was surrounded by a ring of zombies, all facing outward and fighting for her. She laughed and laughed as if this was the most amusing thing she had seen in our long centuries.

Natasha cut through zombies as they came with ruthless precision. The first dozen fell with no effort. Then the sword started slowing. With each slash, it grated against bone and sinew. The magic she had imbued was fading. Two of the monsters lunged at her together. She cut down the first one, but was slow blocking the second. Her blade caught on its ribs, and she resorted to kicking it away. It thrashed around on the ground, only wounded, before she cut off its head and dispatched it.

"What's the matter, daughter?" the old woman cackled from inside her circle of monsters. "Virgins not last as long as they used to?"

"Did they ever last?" Natasha grimaced, but she had other tricks to play. She reached inside her long coat. It wasn't as nicely tailored as her uniform jacket had been, but it had many more pockets on the inside.

She drew out a vial and popped its cork one-handed. The fluid hissed as she poured it over the steel blade. Holy water washed over the last flakes of dried virgins’ blood, and her blade began to glow.

"Not a very efficient combo," her mother cackled from across the room. "But it'll do, it'll do."

Five zombies were approaching her, but they slowed as she raised the glowing sword. For a moment, it looked as if they wouldn't attack. Then all of them lunged together. Natasha danced to the side and then back, engaging each one in turn from left to right. One, two, three, four, and five. They all fell with clean slashes through the neck.

There were still a couple of the monsters skulking around in the shadows, but these seemed to be much degraded, the magic that had imbued them largely gone. In places, their skin had rotted completely away, and they wandered aimlessly in circles. Unlike in stories, these zombies didn't charge inexorably for human flesh but followed whatever orders had been drilled into them when they were raised from their graves.

The walls of the chamber still glowed, tendrils of green drifting across the swirls of purple. The tendrils of green slowly came together at one point along the wall, gathering into a bright patch, while the purple still remained spread out across the rest of the chamber. The green began weaving around the body of one of the deanimated corpses. The monster staggered upward, surrounded in an impetus of light. It spoke with a twisty, twisted, grasping voice. She knew it at once.

"You have walked into my trap," Rasputin said through his puppet. "Once again, you have underestimated me."

The walls flared brighter, until the whole room was illuminated with a purple glow. The leg house, which had been standing tall, slowly sank towards the floor. Natasha could feel the power being sucked out of it by the magical script all around them.

"You will not so easily rob me of my prize. No, instead, you have delivered yourself into my hands."

"Myself?" the crone rasped. "The time for that has passed long since, Grigori, and you never appreciated it while it lasted."

The wizard old woman leaned heavily now on the staff, which had grown and transformed into a walking stick. She tottered the several steps to stand at Natasha's side.

"It's time, daughter. You won't have the power unless you take it from me."

Natasha had long since lost whatever love she’d once had for the old woman. That had faded away decades past, but in the last few days, the lingering bitterness had also faded. Now she felt the pang of something else as they stood on the doorway of this final parting. What was it? Regret? She wasn't sure, but it didn't matter. It was too late for second thoughts or second chances. The only direction was forward.

She reached out a hand and laid it on the woman's head. Her rasping breaths sent shudders through the frail body. Something flowed out of the woman and into Natasha. Something full of power from long before memory, history or even legend. Something truly ancient. It briefly connected mother to daughter. Then it was gone.

Natasha raised her hand and looked at it. The age spots on the back of her skin seemed darker, but that might have been her imagination. She looked down. All that remained beside her were the crumpled heap of old rags and a stick that was no more than a fallen branch.

The zombie that Rasputin occupied hissed at her in dismay.

"It won't matter," it said defiantly. "You still don't have enough power to escape. The old magics are not strong enough anymore."

The walls of the room creaked. All around, the purple light darkened in square patches in the dim glow. They became doors that swung down like portholes on a pirate galleon to reveal the black mouths of ancient-looking cannons. How long had he had their house? How old were these defenses? Natasha had heard General Petrov had it, but clearly, the chamber was much older than Petrov.

"Do you see?" the zombie cackled, waving his hands at the dozens of yawning mouths around them. "Your time has ended. The future is here."

Natasha looked around in dismay. Could she regenerate the house if it were destroyed? She had the power now, but could she make it into a form that would protect it? Maybe if she shrunk it small enough, it could avoid the cannon fire. It didn't seem possible.

A voice whispered in the back of her mind, "Do it, daughter. Reach out. Reach out to the house. Make it again in your image."

Natasha stretched her power towards the house. Now, freed of the ropes, she could feel it. The magic engines, buried deep inside the hut, were quiet. Like a banked fire, ready for the bellows and the poker to be stirred back into a roaring bonfire.

The power within her was just what it needed. The substance of the house was there in her mind. She could feel the wood, the plaster of the walls, the slate tiles of the roof. The reed and mud filling between the beams that made the walls tight. And more. There was metal. Brass, iron, but most of all steel.

It wasn't in the walls of the house. It was stacked in the storerooms, tons upon tons of it.

Natasha felt laughter swell up inside her from deep down before bursting forth to echo across the room.

"No, old man, it is you who are behind the times. Behold." She threw up her hands. Power roared out of her. Her coat whipped as the air in the room blasted into a frenzy. Bundles of straw swirled around from the last few thatched patches on the roof. Dust and pebbles joined in as the mud and plaster was blasted away. Natasha closed her eyes. She didn't need to see the house tumbling. She could feel it in her soul. It crumbled to dust and was remade all at the same time.

Where there had been plaster walls, there were sheets of steel overlapping and riveted. Where there had been heavy wooden beams, there were spars of steel. Sheets of metal crawled down the legs. Where before they had resembled rusted and rickety chicken legs made of iron, now they were armor-plated pylons.

There were turrets, like a battleship’s. There were armored walls and armored roofs.

And most of all, there were guns. The yawning barrels didn't resemble ancient brass pirate cannons. They were modern steel and rifled.

The voice in the back of Natasha's mind was laughing as it faded to nothing. "Yes, my daughter, yes. It's beautiful. You will do well.” The last whisper and the final traces of the voice faded away.

In the ancient past, Baba's house had been a stinking mud hut resembling its contemporaries. In the last few hundred years, it had been plastered with beams as befit the era. But they had come to a new era. An era of steel.

And finally, her home would keep up with the times.