Page 14 of Spring's Arcana
All the pragmatism Maria had tried so hard to inculcate was going to peel away from the little maggot-child in layers, another irony. If the Drozdova could gather the strength to rise from the bed, she’d be able to browbeat the girl more effectively. Everything depended upon the thing that had swollen in Maria’s womb next to that deep, constant angular ache, upon the last twenty mortal years of careful training and pruning forcing a sapling into the proper shape.
If all went well, the little parasite would do as she had been taught.
Of course the Baba would leap at the chance to reclaim a glittering, coruscating gem with its own secret pulse; Dima might evencooperate, with this tempting morsel dangling before him. After all, much of the world—mortal or divine—could be seduced by wide eyes and carefully watered naïveté.
The Drozdova caught more than one bit of prey that way, after all. Even here in America.
Maria’s trembling hands brushed the shoulders of Leo’s old coat. The old man’s useless, doddering affection clung to the thick fabric, robbing her skeletal fingers of strength needed to catch, to hold fast. It was useless to wish she hadn’t scattered the items quite so widely after all.
What else could she have done? It was a huge continent, and reserving what she had stolen against this stage in the game required extraordinary measures. Maria shouldn’t have waited so long; she’d done her work too well and now the girl believed nothing at all.
It didn’t matter. Greedy Baba would force the parasite to do what it should, Konets would make sure of it, and Maria’s plans would come to fruition. Now she had to rest, conserve her strength.
Maria Drozdova drew in a rattling breath, the tearing pain in her middle so familiar she barely felt it anymore. Next to the child’s waiting ear, she whispered the riddle, hoping the leech was only intelligent enough to unravel its fringes. Giving just enough training while still keeping it weakened enough for her purposes was a balancing act, and much would depend on how well Maria had performed the circus feat for two short, stupid, endless mortal decades.
“Listen,” she breathed, hating the rattle in her throat. “Listen to me, little dumpling.”
The girl went still; the Drozdova gathered all the power deep-buried rage could summon, and if she could just concentrate enough, it would be not a riddle but a proper geas.
Now, when it counted, she was weak—but when your prey was even weaker, it didn’t matter so much.
“This, then, is the way to the Black God’s Heart,” she croak-whispered. “The path starts with the Knife; the path to the Knife starts with the man who believes in the future. Then find the rest—the Cup is in the well to the West where the iron horse leads, the Key rests in thegreenest place at the very edge of the world. After all the treasures are gathered, find the salt-black tree with the snake at its roots. Knock thrice, my daughter, and what you seek shall be given you.”
Maria fell against the pillows, spent and drained, the deep dry pain in her belly mounting though the relief of a secret shared and a burden shifted filled her hollowing bones.
She only hoped it wasn’t too late.
If there was a mouse in the room, it heard nothing but cloth moving and a hot susurration, breath brushing a willing ear. Masha Drozdova, her body failing, whispered the riddle in her daughter’s ear before collapsing into the pillows once more, her eyes fluttering closed and her failing strength retreating to deep hollows, clinging to life.
Her daughter simply stared at the window, perplexed.
ONLY TARNISHED
The snow kept threatening to leave but never quite managing, like a bored and highly demanding lover who hasn’t found your replacement yet. That was fine with Dmitri; he liked the infinite sky overhead and a few flakes spattering here and there while people hurried along sidewalks strewn with chemical pellets. There was a bumper crop of fender benders, always a good time—except it was too cold for tempers to flare very badly. Still, overworked cops called out to minor traffic accidents weren’t causing problems elsewhere.
Which made his in-lawsveryhappy. Well, some of them. Others cursed and shivered, feeling bad luck upon the wind. Any man with a big family knows it isn’t possible to please everyone at once. It is, however, very possible to please nobody at all, which Dima rather liked doing.
Still, they were good people, his in-laws. Devious, yes. Corrupt, certainly. Violent? Ah, exquisitely. But they had no other gods before him, displaying the necessary skill of knowing very well what they could not afford, and he was content to have it so.
For now.
One of his very favorite local nephews met him inside Holy Saint Agata Cathedral near Claremont Park, in fact, sliding into the pew while Dmitri leaned back, his fingers laced behind his head, staring at the high, shadowy ceiling. Many of his in-laws had helped pay for construction, others tossed no few blood- or coke-dotted bills in the offering plate while they prayed not to RomeorMoscoworConstantinople but to the one who kept their fingers light, their prey unsuspecting, and their lungs clear of blood.
Such prayers pleased their loving uncle-in-law mightily. Especially during the holiday season.
Sergei Serafimovitch Kezagov—not his original name, to be sure—settled his heavy buttocks firmly upon hard wood polished by many a more penitent set of asses. His graying hair slicked back and his mustache magnificently waxed, he wore sober charcoal wool, a tie of gaudy maroon silk, well-polished wingtips, and the heft of a very successful businessman as well as a plain gold wedding ring.
Stolen, of course.Technicallyan in-law couldn’t have a wife; human ties were inevitably used against you. A lover was one thing, a sacrament quite another—but rules were meant to be flouted by the lucky or the skilled, so most of the time Dima winked, well pleased.
Besides, the ties were not only useful to enemies. They could be useful to an uncle, as well.
“You’re late,” Dmitri said, and continued his perusal of the ceiling. In the old country there would be ikons gazing from every direction, gazing into varnished eternity. Here, it was only dust and plain paint, but that didn’t mean he disliked the simplicity.
Quite the opposite.
“Traffic is very bad.” Sergei sounded very correct, as always—propitiatory, but not fawning. He proffered the paper cup; Dmitri sniffed, slowly slithered to sit upright, and accepted the offering.
Strong, harsh black coffee—several shots of espresso, with a dash of drip over the top to keep it warm. A bite of something other than vodka, a hint of caramel… and the rusty, coppery tang of a traitor’s emptied veins. Dima sniffed again, his nose twitching, and took much of the near-boiling eighteen liquid ounces down in several long swallows, his throat working and every candle in the church blessed with a pinprick of flame wavering for a moment as a cold breath filled the nave.
