Page 92 of Spring's Arcana
She’d always thought that was hyperbole. It was another thing entirely to feel her skin crawl and tiny strands all over her body attempting to stand up. They said it was to make you look bigger when faced with a predator.
Her backpack was heavy. A tiny quiver near its bottom was the Knife; the Cup was a steady warmth different than the desert’s.
“The agreement was for you to take me back to Ranger.” It was a good impression of Mom’sdon’t you dare try to overcharge me,deployed on hapless retail workers every time Maria Drozdova wanted to argue the price of something down. Nat’s own squirming embarrassment at witnessing each incident was only rivaled by astonishment that it inevitably worked.
But Mom had stopped shopping, retreating into the little yellow house. Growing tired, growing weaker, growingold,and watching Nat whenever she was home from work.
Watching her closely. As if waiting for something.
“Are you certain?” The black horse blew out through his lips, and their elastic writhing would have been funny if she hadn’t glimpsed the teeth shifting behind them. The horse’s head was subtly changed,too, and a shadow of great branching stag-horns lifted into liquid shade. “I can show you so much more, Drozdova. You need not worry about the path before you, or about your mother, ever again.”
Nat folded her arms. “I think I’ll keep worrying, thank you. Will you honor our agreement?”
“The agreement was between you and He Who Rides, Drozdova. Not withme.” Another teeth-snap, but the horse was thankfully looking far more horselike again, and less like… something else. “I merely do as I’m bid. Come, into the saddle. All you must do is whisper where you wish to go.”
Not sure I believe you, thanks. But what else could she do—walk across the desert? She couldn’t even guess which direction to start in.
The sun, after all, was stuck at high noon. She didn’t know quite how she knew that, but the knowledge was deep, inescapable, and would have been terrifying if she hadn’t had so much else to be scared of lately.
Was it bravery if you simply didn’t have any choice but to continue?
Nat edged for the beast again. One bright stirrup lay against its glossy side; she kept a nervous watch on the horse’s head, but those shadowy horns didn’t reappear. A rustle went through the tree, hot silken air caressing its branches. The Well made a soft low sound too, the wind brushing across its top like Leo’s trick of making a half-full pop bottle sing two different mournful notes at once.
Nat mounted with a lunge. The horse made a fluid movement; she had to grab for the reins. He didn’t quite shake, but he did settle himself with a bruising jolt. “Well?” He turned his head, his long neck a sweet curve, and regarded her with that sly sideways glee. “Where goeth we, little Drozdova?”
“Take me to Ranger.” She tried to sound definite instead of just quivery-scared. “As was agreed.”
“Are yousure? I know shortcuts. So many of them, and rivers none of your kind or mortals have ever seen…”
That would be stealing. “Take me to Ranger,” she repeated. “As was agreed.”
The black horse stiffened, a low angry grinding beginning inhis chest. He wheeled, caracoling, and arched his neck afresh. There was a puff of smoke, a rattle like chains, and Nat clung to the reins as the beast shot away from imperfect shade, into the burning sands.
NO MOUTHS
Waiting on a porch and drinking coffee wasn’t quite the worst way Dima had ever spent a long sodden winter morning stretching into cloudy, iron-colored afternoon, but it wasn’t very exciting either. Especially when your companion settled in one of the wicker chairs, his boots propped on the porch railing, and pulled his gray ten-gallon hat down over his eyes, appearing to nap for hours except when he reached for a tin cup of constantly steaming coffee settled on a tiny wicker table to his left.
Ranger’s right hand rested very near a gun’s butt, though, and Dima’s own fingers itched. He paced across the front of the house, slow even clockwork steps, not bothering to make them cat-quiet.
Sometime after the sun began to fall from its noontime height, the Cowboy stirred. “So.” Ranger’s voice came from deep under the hat’s shade. “That’s Maria’s game, then.”
“Near as I can tell.” The gangster had not made the mistake of thinking the cowboy asleep or unaware; nor did he bother pretending not to understand. Both were a compliment from one antithetical but not quite opposed creature to the other, Dima supposed.
Respecting your enemies meant you did not underestimate them.
“And you’re… gonna let her do it?”
“Why interfere?” The gangster gave a tiny shrug, making his turn at the far end of the porch, pacing back. “No profit either way.” His boot-toes glittered angrily.
Ranger didn’t move. His left hand moved for his coffee mug again; Dima cradled his own cup in both hands, glad of the warmthlike any rube. It wasn’t a sweet potion, but it was strong, and at least the cowboy put enough bourbon in it.
Vodka would have been a step too far, fromhim.
“It ain’t right,” Ranger said heavily. He picked up his drink and took a moderate draft, setting the mug back down without looking. He tipped his hat up slightly with two left fingers, and his gaze glowed piercing from its brimshade.
The shadows were lengthening, and some of them sharpened at the edges.
Just a little.
