Page 65 of Spring's Arcana
When she emerged, the black car was in the same place. A similarly dark blot leaning against its trunk was Dmitri, smoking as he watched a Crown Victoria, much whiter than the snow, cruise up the rest station’s ramp. A shining gold shield on its side sent migraine darts of reflection every-which-way, hiding its true shape under dazzle. A plume of black smoke lifted behind the car, its tires wreathed in orange-and-yellow flame oddly pale under bright sunshine, and its top glowed with a long bar of bright flashing blue and red.
The tire-fires snuffed themselves as the vehicle coasted to a stop, and she didn’t want to know what the siren would sound like.The Crown Vic pointed its blunt white headlight-glowing nose at an angle as it halted behind the black car, and while its windows weren’t tinted the day’s glare on each made the driver a mystery.
When the driver’s door finally opened, a tall bulky form in blue serge swelled, one ruddy, meaty hand clapping a Smokey-the-Bear hat onto a close-cropped, glistening head. The cop had mirrored aviator sunglasses, spit-shining boots with heavy gripping soles, and the blue cloth of his uniform paled like a chameleon’s skin as he moved, turning into the tan of a highway patrol officer.
Nat’s mouth went dry. It was the cop from Jay’s.
Florid, angrily shaven cheeks and a pursed-tight mouth completed the picture of ponderous authority, just like the holster on a broad leather belt and a silvery winking from a tiny case also attached—handcuffs, Nat guessed, and tried not to shudder, picking her way carefully along cracked, frost-heaved, icy sidewalk. She set her chin and headed for the black car, hoping she didn’t look scared.
It was a vain hope, but all she had.
The ginger-haired cop from Jay’s was the absolute incarnation of every officer she’d ever seen on television shows or grainy news footage, right down to the glittering badge pinned to his barrel chest. Refracted darts hurt the eyes just like the jabbing light-bar atop the Crown Vic’s roof. The only strangeness was the fleshy protuberances on his gleaming forehead, and the pink dampness of his nose. And that burning, buzzing sense ofthere-ness.
This, in other words, was a goddamn divinity too.
The cop took his time, bearing down slowly on Dima, who smoked and gazed past the white car, his chin level and his dark eyes smoldering. Even the air rippled between them, straining uncomfortably between two chemicals so opposed their contact would produce an explosion.
“Afternoon, Konets.” The cop’s voice was a deep rumble, surprisingly crisp consonants rubbing fruity vowels. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a license.”
Another uncomfortable silence enfolded all three of them, broken only by the highway’s seashell groan in the near distance.Finally, when he’d made the fact that he didn’thaveto answer adequately clear, the gangster spoke. “Don’t suppose I need one.”
Mirrored sunglass lenses turned in Nat’s direction. The motion was oddly mechanical, well-oiled, and soulless. “And you? You got some ID, young lady?”
The voice wrapped around Nat, shortened her breath, turned her heart into the rabbit Dmitri was always calling her, and made her palms damp. She didn’t start digging for her wallet only by sheer force of will, because Dima laughed, a harsh cawing bare of any amusement whatsoever.
“None you need to see. Go back to stepping on necks, Friendly. This ain’t your time.”
Friendly? As in Officer Friendly?A great swimming sense of unreality descended on Nat—not for the first time since she’d entered de Winter’s building, and probably not for the last.You havegotto be kidding me.
The cop’s thin, prissy mouth twitched, and his flush mounted again. His nose twitched too, pink and gleaming-damp. “Why don’t we let the young lady decide, Konets? I’m sure you’ve been your usual charming self.”
“Fuck.” Dmitri’s tone hardened; the word rode a tide of incense-smelling, exhaled smoke. “Off.”
The sky was crystalline, the snow-choked rest stop deserted, and Nat stayed where she was, her boots nailed to the sidewalk. A soft, terrible humming enfolded both men, like a power transformer buried under a sheet of ice; it was the same feeling she used to get watching the sheriff and the villain in old Westerns face each other early in the movie.
Leo loved old cowboy movies.Now that John Wayne,he would say.He’s a real bast—uh, a real fellow, eh, devotchka? Nothing like him in the old country, except maybe Cossacks. Go make some popcorn, we watch together.
The cop’s chin turned a little farther towards her. “You know, Miss Drozdova, you don’t have to go with him. I could take you there.”
Was he attempting to sound paternal? Nat’s throat was so dryshe doubted she could produce any noise, whether affirmative or not.
“Oh, yeah.” Dima shrugged. “Clap on nice shiny pair of bracelets after he got no more use for you,zaika. Put you in little cell too, only let you out whenhesays.”
“I operate in strict accordance with the Law.” The capital letter was plainly audible. “You’ll be safe with me, Miss Drozdova. And once you have what you’re looking for, I’m sure you’ll know the right thing to do with it.”
“You think you can eat me,politruk?” The corners of Dima’s mouth pulled up, a grimace not even attempting to impersonate a smile. “You choke on it, if I don’t find you first and carve you likematryoshka.”
So this guy could eat it, but Mom can’t?Maybe they had to be opposing forces before they could consume each other? In that case, could de Winter eat Mom?
Nat had no idea and nobody to ask. Then again, so much of this was bonkers, it really didn’t matter.
“Speak English, you fucking commie.” Friendly’s calm cracked; his own lips skinned back and his teeth were very white, and oddly blunt. They could probably do a lot of damage, crushing and tearing; they weren’t sharp, but they looked very strong indeed. “You’re in our house now.”
“Your house is a shitpile,pig.” Dmitri’s left hand rose; he pinched the cigarette’s filter between two fingers. His right, though, hovered low and tense, and Nat was suddenly, deeply, mortally certain the two of them were about to pull the most classic of Western-movie clichés right in the middle of an Indiana rest stop. “You think I don’t know you of old?”
Oh, God. If this was authority, she didn’t want it. Nat cleared her dry, aching throat, and both men looked at her, the cop with some visible surprise and Dmitri…
Well, he looked vicious, his sharp face feral and contorted. The resemblance to a hungry street cat expecting nothing good from anything human-shaped was overwhelming, and her chest hurt, a familiar pain.
