Page 47 of Spring's Arcana
“I’m not the type.”
“What type are you, then?” It was mere conversation, Dima told himself. Polite, even—women liked it when you expressed some interest.
“Like you care.” Quick as a rapier, her pert little reply.
“You’re right.” All trace of smile faded; Dmitri’s face turned into a mask. “Better not leave anything behind, little girl. I drive fast.”
Her eyebrows lifted. Even they were tipped with gold, though her lashes were sinfully dark. “We aren’t walking?”
The low-slung black muscle car purred to a stop behind him, partially hidden by a small mountain of plowed snow. Soon the latter would freeze into an iceberg that could rip the bottom out of a ship, if one was so foolish as to come rollicking by on dry land. “You always this sarcastic?”
“No,” she said. “But for you, I’ll make an exception.”
“I make exception for you too, then,” he said, and knew it was a promise as soon as the words hit frigid air. It irked him, and he scowled. “Come out and play, Drozdova. I’ve been waiting.”
“I should make you wait more.” But she moved, taking a single step, and the man behind the upstairs window shook his head.
Maybe the mortal knew the danger she was in. Or maybe it was something else. Dima didn’t care; he was too busy stepping through the break in the plow-mountains to reach for the passenger door.
Today, at least, he could be a gentleman.
IDEAS
Coco’s atelier was closed and locked, but Dmitri said she could leave the paper bag on the front step. “Should just keep it,” he grumbled, sinking himself a little deeper in the leather seat. The car’s steering wheel was more of a yoke, like in small planes or race cars; the engine’s purr was faintly menacing. It had the curves of an old, beautiful Chevelle, and the hood ornament was the silver snarling head of a fanged creature somewhere between wolf and bear. “Be careful,zaika.”
“I can’t keep it. That would be rude.” Nat reached for the chrome handle. For a moment she was afraid it wouldn’t let her out like the SUV last night, but the door swung wide and she just had to worry about slipping and falling on her ass.
Fortunately the ice cringed away from the boutique’s doorstep in scalloped patterns, delicate seashell traceries revealing an invisible border. If Nat let her gaze unfocus just a little she could see a shimmer, just like whatever unseen thing—or series of things—did Coco’s sewing.
I hope it’s a union shop.She settled the paper bag snug against the bottom of the glass door and straightened, suddenly aware she’d left the car’s side hanging open and there were eyes on her. The sensation of being watched was unmistakable and a little frightening.
No, alotfrightening.
“Thank you,” Nat said softly. “It was beautiful. I felt like a princess.”Until they nailed a man to railroad ties and his body split open. That was a real corker, as Sister Eunice Grace would say.
Why had Mom sent her to Catholic school? She’d insisted on it, despite Leo mutteringnothing good ever came from priests, I should know, Maria, and so should you.
My daughter,Maria Drozdova said,will obey me. And that was that.
Wouldn’t the sisters just have a ball with this? Imagining Dmitri among the black-and-white statues with their habits billowing on cold breezes was only moderately funny, in the way just barely escaping a terrible accident could make you laugh while sitting on a grassy verge and waiting for the fire trucks to arrive.
All this time she’d thought Mama sent her to the nuns because it was better than public school, or some holdover from the old country. Would anyone ever tell her the real reason? Maybe Baba would know.
Good luck scraping together the courage to askher,though.
The sense of being watched sharpened, and she stepped gingerly away from the door. Getting back to the car was no trouble. Yet Nat paused, looking down the deserted, frozen sidewalk. Nothing about this was normal, but the sudden isolation was super-dupernot ordinary, and the mad thought that she could take off, her fists pumping and her ribs heaving, and somehow, some way, outpace the big black car—
“Eh,zaika.” Dmitri leaned over the center armrest, peering into the failing light. “Don’t get any ideas, now.” A storm was on the way; Nat’s scalp tingled and her fingers ached a little.
The feeling wasn’t fear, though. Or it was, but underneath was a deeper, darker swelling.
Anticipation.
I have plenty of ideas,she realized. She walked back to the car like a child returning to school, mutinous but unable to resist.
Yet.
She dropped into leather-cradling warmth, closing the door a little harder than she had to. Her backpack was on the narrow shelf masquerading as a backseat, and she wondered if he’d try to paw through it.
