Page 43 of Spring's Arcana
You’re rude too. But Nat just dropped her gaze, studying the slightly sticky crusts on her arms. The slashes were gone, all that remained were Candy’s careful, ladderlike brushstrokes. It could be abstract art, she decided. Body painting. The pinup nurse could probably win an avant-garde airbrush competition or two.
Almost home. Nat longed to get out and run, even if the sidewalk was a solid sheet of ice. Cracking her head on pavement seemed a fair risk at this point.
Why hadn’t Momtoldher? Nat would have set off to find this thing as soon as Maria started getting sick. She could have brought it back and made everything better by now.
“Little Drozdova.” Dmitri made it a singsong. “Don’t sound like your mama’s got much time left.”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to hurry.”Leave me alone, asshole.And there, like a gift, was a bright bodega window painted with a cheery holiday snowman at Falada and Fifty-fifth; they were two blocks from her slice of South Aurora. “You can let me out here.”
“Ah, no, no, little girl.” He waved one finger, its tip bearing a scorch-smudge. “I said you were under both my eyes, and I mean it. Until you find the Dead God’s Heart, you have my entire attention.”
Dead god’s heart. If only someone would have said that without all the theatrics—but would she have believed it?
“Great.” She didn’t mean to sound sarcastic. Or maybe she did; Mom would call ityour nasty side, Natchenka, and don’t you show it to me.
It didn’t matter. He was a liar like all the rest, only with Dima it was right up front. Almost a twisted sense of honesty in its own way, or maybe she was just punch-drunk after pulling an all-nighter. There was definite graying along the eastern horizon, or what you could see of it through the buildings, and she hadn’t seen another car creeping through the city’s iced-over concrete veins since they crossed from wherever-the-hell Candy lived into Brooklyn without so much as a glimpse of the water, let alone a bridge.
It should have bothered her, but after tonight she doubted she’d ever be bothered again.
“They say when you have a god’s heart, you can make a wish on it.” The gangster alternated between sneering and quiet thoughtfulness so quickly he was going to give himself whiplash. “What you gonna wish for?”
For Mama to be all right again.It was the sort of thing a five-year-old might believe, but then again, so were talking cats and flying vans. “Who says that?”
“Oh, you know.Theydo.” His eyebrows twitched; he was laughing at her.
“Can you even tell the truth anymore? Or is it impossible?” Nat fumbled with her seat belt, grabbed the clutch, and reached for the door handle. “Just stop right here. I’ll walk.” She leaned forward, shaking free of the belt. “Do you hear me? Stop.”
“My nephews don’t take orders from you.” Dmitri drummed hisfingers on his knee, and his non-smile widened. “I am gentleman,zaika. I take you to your door.”
As long as you’re not wanting a goodnight kiss. Still, Nat tugged on the handle. It didn’t budge even though the door was unlocked, the little orange bar on a plastic tab only underlining her helplessness. “Let meout,” she hissed, and the handle stretched like warm taffy against her fingers.
“You keep that up, Dima’s gonna carry you. Again.” His upper lip lifted even more, and it wasn’t the snarl he had aimed at Koschei. The expression was somehow more chilling, because it utterly lacked the veneer of anarchic glee. “Be a good girl now. I’ve had a busy night.”
Oh,you’vehad a night?Nat didn’t let go of the door handle. It was all useless, but she didn’t have to give in completely.
Did she?
The little yellow house slid into view, and she let out an inarticulate sound of relief. The SUV glided to a stop, the handle suddenly yielding as it should, and she slithered out, not waiting for one of the Sunglass Twins to open her door. Coco’s heels clattered on ice as she lunged for the back of the car, made it around, and slipped through a fortuitous break in the high-piled, immovable mass of plowed and refrozen snow. The gate was already opening; a burst of white flakes trailed her as she ran up the flagstone walk, rock salt crunching underfoot and the bright golden light in the living room window a beacon guiding her to the porch.
Settled on the top step, her backpack was a plump shivering child punished by a few minutes in the cold, its top slightly open and her neatly folded jeans peeking out. She grabbed it as she crested the stairs, and the light in the living room told her one thing.
Leo, as usual, was waiting up for her. Nat Drozdova plunged through her own front door, slammed it shut, leaning against it with a heavy backpack dangling against her green-and-gold skirt, and knew the night wasn’t quite over.
Not yet.
NO DIFFERENCE
He was at the kitchen table, an old man rolling vile-smellingmakhorkain cheap papers. A whole pack’s worth of hand-rolled cigarettes were lined up in front of him, and two shoeboxes along the right-hand side of the table were full of them too. Other than that, there was an ancient, freezer-burned bottle of vodka with a ring of condensation around its base—Mama would sigh before she snappedget a coaster—next to a single clean, dry glass tumbler, and another box.
The last item was wooden, handmade from the look of it, and about ten inches long. It was very narrow, like Candy’s house, and the top held burned-in scrollwork that was unquestionably Leo’s.
Nat dropped her backpack just inside the hall archway. It made a soft sound against the wall, hit the linoleum with a thump, and Uncle Leo didn’t look at her. Instead, he finished rolling the cigarette, methodically, and fished in the breast pocket of his flannel button-up for his old battered silver lighter—not a Zippo, a foreign cylindrical model.
You can’t smoke in here. Mom will go nuts. But Nat said nothing, leaning against the door frame in her borrowed dress.
How on earth was she supposed to return it? Or the tiny bedazzled clutch?
Flame caressed a twisted-shut cigarette tip. Leo inhaled deeply, then acrid tobacco smoke fumed through his nostrils. He didn’t smoke like Dmitri; no, he was blessedly, comfortingly familiar.
