The eyes that glared at Eric were definitely not Jack's. They weren't even Red's. They belonged to the crone, and they certainly spoke of just how angry she was. It was taking a good deal of will power to keep from tearing Eric's home apart in anger.
Jack stalked out of the bathroom, needing more space from the Viking. It was saying a great deal that Eric was still standing unharmed. Of course, a few of his things were exploding, but nothing that was overly precious. It could all be replaced.
Standing in the middle of the room, Jack floated; in fact, much in the room started to float. It wasn't a question of ability, of power then. The City hadn't even bothered to turn it off; the crone could use as much power as desired. But, the face was the same because the body was still the same. One look down told the crone everything. With a growl everything dropped, even Jack, who crouched on the ground.
"It's not me." He stared up at the ceiling, as if that were the direction the City's essence was. It was everywhere, but the ceiling worked for now. "Nothing's wrong with me. Except I'm in this fucking body!" A few more things exploded. Books might have jumped off shelves, something might have caught fire.
"I should leave." The lose of choice, of not being able to do as she/he/it pleased, was embarrassing and aggravating. Very rarely did Baba Yaga not get her way; the small desires did not bother her, if they didn't come. It was things like being stuck in a body she did not want...that upset her. It was like being captured, and Baba Yaga really did not being captured.