Page 18 of Spring's Arcana
The mental image of him lurking in a doorway, grinning with that sharp good humor while passers-by shivered and turned up their collars, was unexpectedly vivid. Still, she indicated the front steps. “Well, lead the way.”
“Lady goes first.”
Now I definitely don’t want my back to you. Nat took refuge in stubborn silence, as if Mom was trying to get her to drink beet juice again.
It is good for you, Natchenka. Come, for Mama.
Not even that blandishment could force her to down beet-blood. It reeked of iron, and there was always fine gritty dirt that lodged between your teeth no matter how well-washed the bulbs grubbed up from the garden were.
That was the final component to the gangster’s scent, Nat decided. Cold earth, opened up.
Like a grave.
She shuddered, tried to quell the movement with little success. His smile widened. Apparently Dmitri was having a grand old time.
“Cautious little girl. Very well.” He flowed down the stairs; they didn’t screamsqueak under him like they would for a salesman.
Mom hated door-to-door, even the kids working their way through college.
Nat followed Dmitri’s broad back down the flagstone path, her boots crunching on salt, and her stomach turned over, hard. The gate was still open, and when she was clear it gave a groan and swung to, latching with a snap like tiny bones.
Oh, God. A flash of pain bit behind her heart, and Nat had to take another cold, cold breath.
She had a deep, unsettling feeling she might never see the yellow house—or Leo—again. Maybe she was wrong.
But it was the same pressure behind her eyes and breastbone that made her blurt out a warning to Sister Roberta Grace Abiding; the urge to turn around, plow through the gate, flee into the house, and lock every door and window shook her like the cold.
Just think about making Mom better, or at least making the hospice bills de Winter’s problem. Focus on that.
The bear held the door for her, a pair of tiny Nats shivering on his mirrored lenses. She climbed into warmth and the smell of leather, and the molten bubble behind her breastbone vanished.
There was no turning back.
SO VIOLENT, SO FAIR
The SUV must’ve had expensive shocks, because it barely rocked on the worst parts of South Aurora before heading northwest. The leather interior was almost tropical, too, and the driver—another bear, only slightly smaller than the one in the passenger seat but without mirrored lenses covering his eyes, for which Nat was unendingly grateful—took them over the bridge onto the island. Nat stared out the window, uncomfortably warm in her peacoat, sweater, and hat; it would have taken her forever to ride the bus or, God forbid, walk this far.
Blocks flashed by, lights turning green almost as soon as they approached, and they didn’t even get stuck behind any lumbering plows or salters. Brooklyn Bridge should have been a solid stream of brake lights reflecting off ice, wet slush, and damp automobiles, but apparently it was one of those odd traffic moments—cars behaving more like particles in a cloud than self-respecting automobiles with places to be—that only happened in movies or when nobody was around to take advantage of them. Manhattan glittered, the skyline beautiful if you didn’t know what lived underneath its jeweled crust. A helicopter veered sharply overhead, police or news impossible to tell, and the SUV aimed farther north as if they were heading to Soho.
Finally, Tamlin Street swallowed them, and Nat’s unease hit cosmic levels. Getting home from here was easy, but she didn’t like the subway at this hour. Nor did she like this particular slice of town; the streets alternated between tony gentrification and direyou don’t want to be here after dusk,sometimes changing in the middle ofthe block. It reminded her of bubbling yeast right after the ancient starter in the earthenware kitchen crock was fed.
Tamlin was one of the gentrified avenues, and the big black vehicle slid to a soft stop before a row of tiny, hideously expensive boutiques, their windows glowing with the hungry golden light ofyou can’t afford this. Baba de Winter’s mobster glanced at her, his eyebrows twitching once. He grinned like he was having a good time, reaching for the door on his side.
Nat didn’t wait for anyone to grab hers, sliding across the seat, spilling into freezing air, and landing on ice her boots were thankfully well equipped to handle before skirting the back of the SUV and hopping the mound of plowed snow, landing on pavement with a jolt. The cold was a relief from the car’s close confines, and Dmitri shook his sleek dark head.
“Don’t you know how to treat a gentleman,zaika?”
If you were one, I’d’ve waited. Nat restrained the urge to say itorcross her arms defensively. Instead, she just studied him; even in the tailored suit and expensive coat he still bore a heavy five o’clock scruff. The effect wasn’t bad, she supposed, but the way his eyes gleamed would warn anyone with half an ounce of sense that he wasn’t a manicured, cellophane-wrapped trust-fund broker or banker wandering around unsupervised.
All she got for her restraint was a shrug, and the turning of his black-clad back as he stepped through a fortuitously placed break in the knee-high mountain range of shoveled-aside snow already solidifying into glacial immobility. The bear with the mirrored lenses slammed the rear passenger door, giving Nat what she could swear was a reproachful look, and she hurried after Dmitri.
The small hand-painted signs in the shop window saidAtelier ’39andClosedin antique, ornate curlicues, but Dmitri turned the crystal knob-handle and walked right in, a tiny golden bell overhead giving a soft sweet forlorn tinkle. It certainly didn’t look like a party.
In fact, it looked just like what it said on the package: a designer boutique, recessed spotlights shining down like the movie versions of alien abductions highlighting faceless black mannequins drapedin glittering outfits. Nat had to blink several times, her eyes watering; the clothes fluttered lazily on warm drafts, edges and seams twist-fraying like clay under fast water. The floor was mellow hardwood polished to a satin shine, and there was no sign of a cash register—if you were worried about what anything cost, you clearly shouldn’t be shopping here. A few black velvet love seats lurked where rich women could sit and be fawned on while they decided what to hang on their expensively dieted stick-skinniness, and there was a crystalline glass case against the back wall full of sharp hurtful spears of jewelry refraction.
Nat made sure the door was closed, wondering if she should dig for her phone and surreptitiously check the closest rideshares. She heard a soft rushing like a subway’s arrival without the screeching of brakes, and when she turned back there was a slim graceful shadow standing before Dmitri.
Tall, arms crossed, and completely sheathed in black—a scoop-neck cashmere sweater and tailored wool slacks breaking over sharp-toed stiletto heels that were four inches if they were a millimeter—the woman eyed Dmitri from behind a pair of black cat’s-eye glasses with a single rhinestone on each flaring tip. Maybe the sparkles were diamonds; the rest of her certainly looked like she could afford it. Her nails were crimson talons much like Baba’s or Mom’s a few years ago, kohl rimmed her pale, oddly colorless eyes, and her platinum updo was either natural or so expensively dyed it made no difference.
