Page 46 of Spring's Arcana
Which was unacceptable. Let Candy think he meant to let Maschka eat carrion in a fouled nest; let any-fucking-one in the world think what they liked. He answered to none of them, even the Cold Lady.
After all, he was still here, wasn’t he? He had paid an honest price for something that truly mattered. A thief, even the thief of thieves, could choose to do so once in a while.
If it pleased him.
Dmitri’s boots were soundless as he ambled along, falling snow melting into nonexistence as it approached him, the banked fire of his rage breathed upon and gathering strength. And yes, his instincts were sharp as the straight razors in their dark, comfortablehomes; he heard the squeak of the front door as a mouse edged out, the faint rustle of a brown paper bag, grit under a light dancing step adding sandpaper rasp to a waltz.
She watched the flagstone path scattered with not nearly enough rock salt, that honey-highlight hair tucked under yesterday’s green knit cap and yesterday’s woolen coat blurring her outline. Despite that, her legs were lovingly cased by a pair of worn jeans, the thinness over the knees proclaiming them a favorite pair. The backpack was hitched to her shoulder—Coco must have sent it back, no doubt curious about where the girl had been hiding all this time—and she had the look of a woman about to set out on a journey.
Not without him, though. If the young Drozdova thought she could slip away from Dmitri Konets, she was about to be surprised.
Nat didn’t swing the paper grocery bag. She carried it carefully, keeping well away from sticks of winter-sleeping plants. Now what, Dmitri wondered, could she have in there? A snack? A weapon? A spare pair of panties?
The last prospect pulled his lips back into a grin, and his teeth were just as cold-white as the drifts, though significantly cleaner. He halted at the garden gate, expecting it to open as it had yesterday.
It remained stubbornly closed, however, and the girl looked up. Her nose was pink, and so were the tender rims of her eyelids. Her eyelashes weren’t matted because she’d splashed her face with cold water, and if a certain long-dead émigré novelist had been able to see her, Dmitri thought he might well change the name of the barely teenage character who had made him famous. It was all there—the faintly blurred beauty, the beautiful skin, the wide, slightly dazed eyes, and the volatile, eternal burning of youth and renewal.
Even Maschka had never looked like this, and Dmitri’s smile widened, became a little more natural. It wouldn’t do to scare her again.
Not yet, anyway.
Her breath was a white cloud. So was his, and the two faded without touching. She examined him, her cupid’s-bow mouth tight and grave, and he wondered, belatedly, what had made her cry. It wasn’t a usual reaction to seeing under the skin of the world.
What would it be like to grow up thinking you were one ofthem,the rubes, the worshipers? Dmitri tried to imagine the confusion, but the rage was back, burning in his marrow, raising thin traceries of steam from his damp shoulders. “Good morning, little Drozdova.”
“Good morning, Mr. Konets.” Polite and distant, clutching the rolled top of the grocery bag with whitened knuckles.
Cold silence built a wall between them. He searched for something to say, to demolish those invisible bricks. “You think you get away from me, huh?”
“I was pretty sure you’d show up.” She lifted the bag a little. “Can we take this back to Coco? I don’t want to… Well, anyway, it’s probably on the way.”
“And just where we going,zaika?”
“West.” Her shoulders hunched. Could she tell there was a pale face in an upper window, gazing longingly at the front yard? Looked like an old man, and for a moment Dima considered kicking the gate in, then the front door, and demanding to know who the hellthatwas.
It wasn’t an uncharacteristic urge, but he wasn’t used to it in this sort of situation. So he cocked his head, listening for the internal shell-song that would tell him if something truly valuable was locked away inside the yellow house. Wouldn’t that be amusing, the old Drozdova keeping her stolen thing close and the daughter leading him a merry chase?
But there was nothing but warm subliminal static. Only sentimental value, then. “Who’s that?” He pointed, a quick, accusing jab of one finger, and there was a sharp crackling sound as the yellow house woke fully for one baleful instant and gazed at him.
“Nobody you need to talk to.” For the first time, thezaikaactually sounded… sharp. Protective, even. “Are we walking?”
“You didn’t like the ride last time.” But he tugged on the strings under the skin of the world, just because. After all, there was no reason to use shoe leather if you could drive.
“Fine.” She took a step towards the gate, a little matador tempting a large angry beast. Shoulders proudly back, her expression just slightly disdainful. “Do you want to stop by your place and get changed?”
What the hell for?Dima looked down at last night’s suit, still bearing evidence of battle. Visible reminders of once again serving Koschei a dose of medicine the sorcerer liked least; it pleased Dmitri to remember how the glass cases had shattered and the formless mummy-things howled. “Ashamed to be seen with me,zaika?”
“I thought you’d be cold,” she informed him, lifting her chin a little more. Curls fountained from under the green knit cap, stirring slightly as the icy breeze veered. It was going to clear and freeze hard; the city would lose what little secret warmth it possessed once she left.
West,she said. If it was a dodge, she’d find out he was better at those games. So Dima stepped back from the gate and tried a more charming smile instead of mere teeth-baring. “Can’t freeze the dead.”
“Are you?” She didn’t smile in return, just stared at him with those somber dark eyes. The old man behind the upstairs windows was saying something, his mouth moving around three tiny words while he spread a hand against clear glass, staring not at Dima but at the girl whose back, slim and supple under the big wool coat, was straight as a sword. “Dead, I mean?”
“Not just yet.” The smile soured, and Dima beckoned. An engine purred a block away; unchained tires bit the packed, ice-corrugated road. Even this unsleeping Babylon could be forced to hibernate when winter decided she wanted her bony fists around its throat. “Come, then. We go west.”
“Can we stop by Coco’s?” Not giving an inch. Oh, it wasn’t fair for a girl to be so solemn, with the high blush in her cheeks that wasn’t awareness of him or her own power but instead a completely natural reaction to the frost. “Other than that, I’m ready.”
“No luggage?”
