Page 21 of Spring's Arcana
Well,thatcouldn’t be borne. “The greedy little boy can hear you.” His own tone dripped boredom. “Perhaps you don’t want what I brought, then?”
The girl stiffened, Coco tongue-clicked in disapproval. “Staystill,or I will pull.”
“She means it,” Dima added. “Thezaikalooks nice, Madame. Not to my taste, but at least not embarrassing. We need glasses, unless you want to drink straight from the bottle.”
“Not embarrassing,he says.” Coco’s eyes narrowed, and she freed one slender hand enough to snap, a sharp whipcrack of sound. The girl flinched, the champagne cork popped free to sail across the room like a bullet, and flying alcoholic froth just barely missed Dima’s suit because he arched away like a surprised cat. “Pour for the ladies,mon petit voleur. Try to display alittleclass.”
“Just a little, since you ask so nice.” Dima’s fingers tingled. It was so easy, especially with more than one of their kind in a confined space. The air itself hummed with readiness, like a well-paid lover. Three champagne flutes built themselves from wishes and longing, crystal ringing high thin notes as it settled into the perfect shape,and he was mildly irked that Masha’s daughter didn’t bother to watch the miracle being worked.
Instead, she held very still while Coco’s claws plunged into her hair again, and a faint sheen of gem-bright sweat showed on the slim column of her throat.
For now, it was enough. Coco hummed, accepting a filled glass of Cliquot with queenly indifference, but the girl tried to shake her head.
Dima grabbed her wrist, expecting that same spike of pain jolting up his arm. But maybe she was too stunned to resist, because it was a mere warning rattle, an unpleasant buzz as he pressed her warm fingers around cold crystal.
He’d even chilled the flutes, because he was in a giving mood. “Don’t waste it.” Each word edged with just a little bit of disdain. “See? I’m much nicer than Baba. You should remember that.”
“I remember everything.” A glare from under those long dark lashes.
Dima retreated to the door. He didn’t swill from the bottle—he was in a good mood, wasn’t he? Especially when Coco bustled off muttering about a wrap, her glass refilling with bubbling alcohol and ribbon trimmings floating snakelike in her wake.
He dangled the large bottle by its neck, taking a long hit off his own glass and enjoying the subtle sound of its refill, the trails of bubbles lining up the insides, the delicacy required to translate liquid from one space to another. The girl touched her bottom lip—now just barely reddened, a subtle stain—to her own glass, but didn’t drink.
“You think I poison you?” Dima throttled the urge to slurp. Playing the crude buffoon was only fun when youdidn’tfeel like one.
“I know better than to drink in fairy tales,” she replied, darkly.
Maybe she wasn’t joking, either. Because while he wheezed with laughter, his vision blurring with hot water as his nose tingled with the champagne’s breath, she simply regarded him with those great dark solemn eyes.
THE KNIFE
GUTS FOR SHOELACES
A magical dress and a gangster’s car; maybe both would vanish at midnight, leaving her stranded in Long Island. But what really unsettled her was the even, endless inevitability of the ride—maybe all traffic jams were caused by cars like this punching through holes between other vehicles, pulling the road’s fabric into bunching behind them.
It wasn’t quite snowing, but the headlights made a bright cone full of tiny speckles before the high-backed, gliding car. The SUV crossed the Queensboro Bridge in full defiance of evening rush hour, turned north and east, and wallowed through plenty of curves and turns. Here, the streetlamps were well maintained even though far apart. At certain intervals a wall would rear on one side of the road or the other, generally flaring into an oversized wrought-iron or heavy wooden gate set just far enough from the road to mutterdon’t press the button unless you have business here,each guarded by a stubby intercom post set inconveniently far from a driver’s window.
Some gates had blinking multicolored lights or even weatherproof tinsel. One particularly large, vulgar specimen had what looked like custom reindeer antlers fastened to its top curve, which gave Nat a shudder.
Dmitri lounged in the back passenger seat, thankfully not drinking anymore. The big-ass bottle of champagne was left with Coco, who had gravely kissed Nat on both cheeks and trilledtrès belle, très belle, remember who dressed you tonight, darlingbefore shooing them out, Nat terrified the pretty green heels were going to slip on snow and ice.
But they didn’t. They grabbed just like boots, and the only thing she had to worry about was minor calf pain. The heels were only an inch high, sure, but that was enough to grant any wearer a backache. Even the wrap was perfect, heavy green watered silk a few shades darker than the dress, startlingly warm and very soft, covering her bare arms and ingeniously buttoned down the left side.
She hadn’t realized that her actual clothes—including her beloved combat boots—were gone until the car was halfway down the block. They, and her backpack, were left behind a sable curtain while Coco chivvied her into whisper-light silken underthings probably sewed by invisible hands. The tiny jeweled emerald-green clutch Coco had produced held Nat’s ID, her prepaid cell with a few minutes still left for the month, her house key, and the twenty for emergency cab fare—but out here, could she get a signal? And a twenty wasn’t going to cut it. Even a rideshare would cost a small fortune, assuming someone would take the job.
Here she was, at night, in a car with three strange men, dressed like… she couldn’t even say what it was like. And not even Leo knew where she was.
Stories beginning this way always ended badly.
Nat snuck a glance at Dmitri. The gangster was watching her in return, his wide toothy smile full of sharp, cheerful implications. “Don’t worry.” The grin faded, degree by degree, as hilly fields behind a split-rail fence undulated outside his window. “I promised Baba. You are safe as little baby chick under hen.”
Oh, I doubt that. “Is she your grandmother too?”
“What?” A swift snarl crossed his face, peeling back the handsomeness for a second, and Nat’s breath caught in her throat. “Nyet, zaika, and anyone else say that, I take their guts for shoelaces.”
I thought it was guts for garters. But even years of soaking in English couldn’t ferret out the ghost of a mother tongue underneath. Leo and Mom both had a few sayings that were just a shade off-center, though perfectly appropriate. “I just wondered.”
“Stupid. But you’re pretty, so it doesn’t matter.” His fingers flickered on his knee, then he stirred, digging in a breast pocket.
