Page 72 of Spring's Arcana
Did divinities do cocaine? Now there was a question the gangster would probably love to answer.
The bartender cleared his throat. Dmitri’s gaze swung slowly to him, and the gangster god smiled. It was a slow, terrifying grin; the man, though he was a good head taller and probably twenty pounds heavier—at the veryleast—stepped back, a floorboard creaking sharply as his weight shifted. He found something to do at the far end of the ramshackle bar, a puddle of deep shadow swallowing everything except his pale, stained apron.
Conversation at the pool tables resumed, the clack of balls hitting each other, a low laugh. The rest of the place sank into profound apathy. The waitress’s shoes—thick-soled numbers that wouldn’t be out of place on a nurse—made soft sounds as she prowled, and bottles clinked.
“There’s no music now,” Nat said, staring at her empty glass.
“Jukebox over there.” Dmitri tipped his head again, indicating the pool tables. Snugged next to a dark archway—there was indeed a faded RESTROOMSsign overhead—was what looked like an honest-to-gosh Wurlitzer, with bubbles rising through the glowing tubes on its face. “Just ask it nice,zaika.”
The prospect of walking past the men at those green-felted tables was only slightly more appetizing than the likely state of the bathrooms. “Can I do it from here?”
“Try.” He lifted his drink, took it down in one go, and exhaled hard, smoke rising from the paper-wrapped stick in his hand.
How do I say “Excuse me, I’d like some music?”She stared at the jukebox, letting her eyes unfocus, and a few moments later, a sharp click like a revolver’s hammer drawn back cut through the pool-playing mutter.
The first few bars were familiar; George Harrison began to sing “Here comes the sun…” and Nat was suddenly young again, standing in the kitchen while Leo and Mom danced, Maria laughing and all right with the world for a few moments as she swayed and dipped in his arms.
Tears prickled behind Nat’s eyelids.
Sometimes Mom would hug her and whispermy little one, hush now my little one,stroking Nat’s hair that wasn’t as bright as hers. She was golden-warm and beautiful, a sun in the little yellow house, the glow Leo and Nat revolved around. She’d taught Nat to cook and how to clean, how to weed and what to leave, how to loosen earth with a whisper and how to layer a compost pile, how to whistle like a bluebird or fill a feeder so the hummingbirds would find it acceptable.
And she had lied, relentlessly, for as long as Nat could remember. She resented her daughter’s sticky, grubby hands on cleanlinen, Nat’s need for regular mealtimes, the way Nat grew out of clothes or shoes.
All mothers got tired though, didn’t they? And Maria was never truly, actively cruel—at least, not for very long. Lots of kids had it worse growing up.
You bloom, she fades.
The thought she’d been trying to avoid walked right through her skull like a cat deciding it wanted attention, presenting its hindquarters with an arrogant tail-flick. What if, Nat wondered, there was only so much divinity power, and she was taking more than her fair share by justexisting?
The song stretched, the entire bar caught in hardening honey. The lights turned mellow; a brief warm breeze whirled through, ruffling every napkin and rustling across leather, denim, T-shirts, scarves, gin-blossomed noses and hard hands, bright earrings and knotted bandannas.
Dmitri beckoned the bartender. “Another,” he said, and the word cut the glow in half. The good feeling drained away, and Nat hunched her shoulders.
“You gonna pay?” The bearded man had recovered his bravery, it looked like, or whoever was down at the other end of the bar had bolstered him.
“Fuck your mother,” Dmitri said, quietly, but every syllable was clearly audible all the way to the front door.
Oh, boy. Apparently she was stuck betweenoh Godand sounding like a pearl-clutching old lady. “Please can you just—” Nat began, but there was a gleam at the other end of the bar, and another man melded out of the deep well of shadow.
He wasn’t quite mountainous but his shoulders gave a good impression of it; his raven hair lay under a red bandanna and his leather jacket was at once shiny and well-broken. His nose was a sunburned blade matching rosy windburn on his stubbled brown cheeks. An unlit cigarette hung from the corner of his sculpted mouth, and his engineer boots were just like Leo’s but lovingly polished. Nat figured the biggest, shiniest motorcycle outside was his, and it probably sounded like thunder when he kicked it into life. The same buzzing,blurring sense ofpresenceDima carried hung on him too; his belt was large, leather, and buckled with a giant sterling-silver eagle.
In short, he was the epitome ofbiker,even wearing leather chaps over the pegged jeans clinging to legs packed with well-delineated muscle. Dark eyes peered from a network of fine lines that came from squinting against roadglare. He paused, his hip bumping one of the barstools, and regarded the gangster steadily.
The clatter of pool balls and low male voices halted. Breathless tension took its place.
“Been a while, Dima.” A deep, resonant baritone that could probably cut through the roar of going seventy on the freeway without a windshield lingered on each word.
“Not long enough, little bro.” The gangster turned slightly on his seat, cocking his head. Nat couldn’t see his expression, but she could imagine the slow, insouciant study of the other man from boot-toe to bandanna-top. “You hiding out here?”
“Nah.” The Biker’s gaze slipped past Dima’s shoulder, glided over Nat in a brief sweep. At least he didn’t stare at her chest, but she was in so many layers it probably would have taken X-ray vision or a prospector to find anything there. “Whatcha want?”
“Friendly getting above his pay grade again.” The gangster said it carelessly, but with an edge to his tone, and now Nat knew why he’d stopped here. “He coming through after me.”
“Is he now.” The Biker nodded, and one large, hard, callused hand rose to scratch at his bristled chin. “Well, we’ll get out the welcome wagon.” He indicated the bartender with a swift, economical motion; it beggared belief that someone so muscular could move with such fluidity. “But honestly, Dima. Mortals gotta live too.”
“Then they oughta know better than to disrespect me.”
“True, true. Suppose we call it on the house, this being her first visit and all.” The man’s gaze swung to Nat, lingered. “So. Mascha’s dead.”
