Page 24 of Spring's Arcana
She had laid aside the business suit; instead, a long black dress clung to near-skeletal thinness. Its cuffs frayed over her hands, bone-white fingers peeping through, and the plunging neckline showed décolletage too plump and firm for the rest of her bony frame.
It was, after all, her time of the year. For a moment Dmitri held the old woman’s gaze, wondering if she would open her arms for a dance. Perhaps the black hand would descend, maybe on his shoulder, maybe on his nape, and that would be that.
Or maybe it wouldn’t, because he was still strong. Stronger than agood many on the dance floor, fromtheMarilynn Harlowe simpering in her white backless dress, her features blurring in approximation of the highest box-office grosser of the month around the famous mole on her upper lip, to the hipster ExperiMental lifting what was definitely not a cigarette to their chiseled lips and remarking offhandedly to a coterie of adoring bubbleheads that they’d done the remix on the number Jay’s captive bandmaster was playing upon a giant gleaming pipe organ fastened to the western wall. More wide, brim-stuffed ballrooms stretched in either direction, mirrors reflecting each other, all crowded with fantastical shapes.
The Producer was holding court in a corner behind red ropes, several velvet chaise longues groaning under glittering, translucent figures nodding along with his declamations; by the way his suit was swelling, it looked like a couple of unformedcelebritiiwere trying to hive-hatch off soon. Cashe was at one of the bars, surrounded by wasp-waisted goldflies, both warriors and drones pursing their honeyed lips as a hexagonal silver coin spun over bony knuckles; s/he darted a venomous look at Dmitri and motioned for another drink. Nothing would ever take downthatold horse, and while s/he was around, Dmitri’s own position was all but assured.
The crowd stilled in a tiny bubble around him, watching avidly to see if the black hand would show tonight. But Baba merely smiled, sharp white teeth peeking through her crimson lips. “You took her to Coco.”
“She was going to wearjeans.” He beckoned a passing Jeeves and subtracted another whiskey from the proffered tray. “Eating well tonight, Grandmother?”
“None of your business.” Her fingers twitched through masses of fraying black thread at her cuffs. Those tiny snakes could bite deep in less than a heartbeat. “Your friend Koschei’s in town, Dima. You’d best keep an eye on my granddaughter.”
As if it wasn’t her idea to bring Maruschka’s daughter to be ogled, and start the game. He hadn’t known of the sorcerer’s return, though, and that soured the evening just a bit.
“A pleasure.” Dima showed his own teeth. Which must havesatisfied the crone, for she melded back into the whirl of dancing glitter.
A rotund man in a dusty black suit and top hat, his red suspenders peeking out as he cavorted past, was followed by a string of greenbacks, the cadaverous Mother of Accountants following with a disapproving glare, her pencil skirt hitting just at mid-knee as she hurried to make sure the debits matched the credits pouring off old Moneybags, Cashe’s pampered grandson. Kelebritas Proper was at the bar, flickering between shapes like the mutable butterfly they were; purple-haired Hygeia hovered anxiously near a sweeping staircase leading to the mezzanine, her white dress flowing like thezaika’s and her blind gaze searching the crowd for distress.
“Didn’t think I’d seeyouhere,” a tiny piping voice said, and he glanced down to find Noelle in red and green, her fair round face wrinkling and tiny plump paws holding a flask of bubbling mulled wine, a gout of pale fume off the liquid falling in curdled billows like dry-ice smoke and vanishing before it hit the floor. Of course, it was her time of the year too. “Don’t you have a convenience store to rob or something?”
“Don’t you have a little child to lie to?” He tossed more whiskey far back, enjoying the sting. “And a big fatDed Morozto suck off?”
“I’m not a capitalist.” Noelle took a hit off her own flask in response; her bright blue gaze gleamed with predatory glee. “That’s your gig. But I could give you a present, if you like.”
“Save it.” The skin roughened up Dmitri’s back. “And if I find you anywhere near my little girl in green, I will end you.”
“Good luck trying.” The child smiled, and a shadow of ancient knowledge moved in her blue eyes. “In green, huh? I thought Dascha wasn’t allowed out of the building.” Long ago, they would sacrifice upon smoking altars in Noelle’s honor to bring back the sun after deep-frozen solstices; nowadays, only money was immolated in useless trinkets each year. Her consort had turned into a corpulent man in ermine-trimmed red wool, and even if she disliked the change, there was nothing to be done about it.
Some marriages were like that.
“Not Dascha. Matchenka’s girl; the old one is dying.” He didn’tmind giving away that particular bit of information. “Guess the New World doesn’t agree with her after all.”
Noelle’s soft mouth opened slightly; she outright gaped at him. He sauntered away, satisfied that he’d just dropped a bucket of bloody chum into a knot of swimming sharks. Of course when Noelle laid eyes on thezaikashe’d probably go running to fucking Koschei with the news, but that couldn’t be helped.
Sooner or later, the thing they calledDeathlesswould have found out there was an open avenue to a very valuable item anyway, and the chance to at once do Dmitri a disservice and perhaps force a greater creature to his bidding would be irresistible.
Once the sorcerer bit, Dmitri Konets would havehischance to do a little disservicing. It wasn’t the prize he was after in the long run, but it would be satisfying if he could cause the Deathless some major damage.
Noelle vanished into a cavalcade of brightly clad TeeVees, their outlines pixilating as they drank and their forms shimmering between stereotype and obverse. He was about to follow them, but a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and Dmitri reached up without thought, locking the wrist and half-turning, preparatory to tearing the limb that dared to touch him without permission free of its host.
“Konets.” The big man in blue with the wide leather belt smiled at him, tipping his hat brim up with one blunt finger. The service revolver at his hip was big and shiny-bold, and his jackboots were polished to mirrorgleam. “You looked like you were contemplating breaking the Law, my friend.”
“Don’t you have a civilian to shoot?” Dmitri could have broken thepolitrukfucker’s wrist, but he let go after a token hard twist, tendons groaning. Tonight wasn’t for such games, not least because thezaikawas borne past in Jay’s arms, doing a good job of keeping up with the waltz and listening to a constant stream of whatever was coming out of his mouth. It wasn’t like him to dance for more than a few moments…
… but she was wearing green, of course. Coco knew her business; Jay wouldn’t be the only one enamored tonight.
“Business before pleasure.” Friendly’s smile widened. His kind had once been black-jacketed kommissars; he was a homegrown version of those ideological sociopaths. His nose, very broad and pink, twitched once; there was a shadow-suggestion of two bumps swelling on either side of his sweat-shiny forehead and dark half-moons showed under his armpits, salty exertion soaking into a uniform. His kind was the same in every country, even if Dmitri’s varied due to local conditions. “And I could help you on either count. Mason’s over at the bar, he’d love a case to work on.”
There was a word for a thief who worked with Friendly and Columbo Mason’s type, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. “When I want your services,politseyski,I’ll pay for them. Like always. Go make yourself useful near the punch bowl.”
Friendly’s right hand dropped casually to the big black baton at his side. It was a showy blunt weapon, and if he was in a bad mood tonight—or if Dima looked weak—he’d go for it.
That would mean Dmitri’s straight razors, pearl-handled or black and nestled in their small leather homes, would leap free to drink before Jay could arrive to insist on mannerly behavior. He didn’t really want to kill tonight, but if thismykopinsisted, well, a man did what he must.
Always.
“Dmitri!” A woman with a cloud of graying, frizzy hair separated from the crowd, yellow pencils stuck in the mass and her dark eyes blinking behind steel-rimmed glasses, shouldering Friendly aside. His expression turned sour. “Haven’t seen you inages. Care to comment on the new visitor?”
