Page 17 of Spring's Arcana
The SUV sat there, but Nat didn’t move. The cuckoo clock ticked back and forth. One second she was sure it was all a coincidence,misunderstanding, and a giant practical joke, the next she was sure the big black car would heave away from the curb as soon as she opened the front door. If the gangster wanted her, he’d have to come up the walk.
If he didn’t, would Mom die? And was Nat a monster for considering the prospect so calmly, with such a shameful hot feeling of relief?
Finally, a wad of muscle in a suit and a trench coat that matched the car’s black gleam slunk out of the front passenger side, closing the door with crisp authority instead of a slam. He looked vaguely military, his gleaming bullet head bearing a high-and-tight waxed to within an inch of its life, and despite the hour he wore mirrored sunglasses.
Apparently for mobsters, cool didn’t stop when the sun went down. Those shoulders were amazing, but he looked for all the world like a bear forced into a suit and black coat, standing on its hind legs and faintly discomfited by the pose.
He opened the back passenger door, bowing slightly like an old-timey coachman, and Dmitri flowed from the car like oil. The gangster’s boot-toes glistened, his dark hair gleamed, and he wore a knee-length wool coat that had the same vaguely military air as the bear’s but was obviously of much higher quality. The gangster immediately ruined the coat’s lines by plunging his hands deep in his trouser pockets, and he stepped across the ice-rimed sidewalk with finicky care.
Nat realized she was holding her breath, her pulse pounding in her temples, and let out a sigh.
The garden gate swung inward by itself, like it sometimes did when Mom didn’t have a hand free to push it; Dmitri glided up the flagstone walk Leo had shoveled with frequent breaks for schnapps-spiked hot cocoa that short afternoon. Even sprinkled with just the right amount of rock salt—Mom would rather someone fall and break a hip than have too much sodium in her garden, naturally—it was bound to be slippery; the thought of Twinkle Toes landing on his ass cheered Nat up immensely.
She turned sharply from the window, strode across the livingroom, reached the front door just in time, and jerked it open just as his knuckles were descending for the first knock.
They regarded each other over the threshold. Cold air poured in and Dmitri grinned, his teeth only a shade off from new snow. He looked impossibly vital, impossiblyalive,just like Baba de Winter.
Just like Mom used to.
Nat’s throat was slick and dry as a windshield baking on a dusty summer day. She coughed, hoped she wouldn’t hiccup again in the middle of the sentence, and managed to say, “You’re late.”
“Destiny is always on time,zaika.” Under the woolen coat a charcoal suit lurked, tailored to within an inch of its life. The shirt was black silk, and his trouser hems broke beautifully over those boots. A chunky gold watch gleamed on his left wrist, but his hands—fingers oddly delicate, yet strong enough to strangle—were bare of any ring.
He really needs a diamond on that pinkie. “I expected Mrs. de Winter to come too.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t want her here, at charming little house. I am much nicer.” He took her in from hat to toes, and his eyebrows arched. His accent was indeed very much like Leo’s. “That? Is what you’re wearing?”
“Of course.” Nat pushed down a deep flare of annoyance. “I didn’t know what to—”
“Does nothing for you. Well, come on.” A peremptory beckoning motion with one of those buffed, manicured hands. Even his tie was expensive, a faint purple tinge to its deep black. At least he wasn’t tanning-bed orange or leathery; all in all, this guy was handsome as could be expected for a criminal. “We have time. The party doesn’t get started until midnight.”
Midnight?“Party?” In other words, she wanted more details before she stepped outside, and Nat folded her arms. The heat pump kicked on, soughing warm air through all the vents, and Leo stopped rustling and splashing in the kitchen.
Suddenly, Nat didn’t want her uncle anywhere near this man. She made a little shooing motion of her own. “Move. I’m coming out.”
“Might want to stay in there,zaika.” His smile didn’t alter one whit. “Let things happen how they should, huh? Only natural, after all.”
You mean let my mother die. “Move,” she repeated. “I told Mrs. de Winter I’d get this thing she wants, and I’m going to.” Maybe she’d end up a drug mule working for a literary gangster queen.
It had to pay better than any job she’d had since she was thirteen, stocking shelves at the Dolla Emporium two streets over because the proprietor knew Mom and didn’t bother with things like child labor laws.
“Your funeral.” Dmitri took a half-step sideways, the narrow strip of the front porch creaking sharply once under his boots. “Come out and play, little girl.”
“My name is Nat.” She wasn’t hiccupping anymore, but it felt like she had a live coal lodged somewhere under her breastbone. No amount of water—or milk with radishes, which Leo swore by—would make it go away; she would just have to find a quiet corner, close her eyes, and try to summon a burp.
“Is it Natasha or Natalya? You can tell Dmitri.” Was he actually trying to sound cajoling?
Dream on, dude.Everyone wanted to know her full name, and all of them could go piss up a rope. “Just Nat.”
“You should be nicer to me.” His tone turned caressing, as oily as the gleam on the big black car’s paint. “I would be very good to you.”
“Oh, yeah. And there’s a bridge you’d like to sell me, I bet. Goes right over the Hudson, only slightly used.” Nat stepped decisively over the threshold, pulling the door closed. Her house key—the only one she carried, with a plain silver ring and a leather tab bearing Leo’s careful stamping—was in her peacoat pocket, and she took her time throwing the lock.
Just to be sure.
The gangster loomed disturbingly close, and the edge of his body heat was far warmer than it should have been. Nat didn’t want her back to him, and almost whapped him with her elbow as she turned. There wasn’t a lot of room on the porch, and he was taking up most of it.
He smelled of tobacco and faint lemony aftershave, but under it was an edge of burning not quite like cigarettes. A metallic tang of snow, as if he’d been outside a lot longer than the walk to her front door, and she wondered if he’d been around the corner or across the street watching until the SUV showed up.
