Page 10 of The Salt-Black Tree
“Why you do that?” The edge of a snarl rode the words, but didn’t quite break the surface. “Isaid,let me get door.”
“I’m not going to run away.”At least, not yet.Her throat was so dry she’d even take some Mountain Dew at this point. “Especially in a blizzard.”
“Like that matter. Let me get door. Safer, you understand?” His grasp eased when she let her hand fall into her lap. “Good. See? Dima can be friendly.”
“Sure you can.” It probably wasn’t the brightest idea in theworld to antagonize him, but Nat had been pushed around enough. Besides, Ranger said she didn’t have to put up withallDima’s bullshit, and even if the cowboy hadn’t thought to warn her about his murderous mount, she appreciated the vote of confidence. “When you want something.”
“Everyone want something.” Having dispensed that little bit of wisdom, the gangster let go of her, and not only opened her car door but the restaurant’s, ushering her in as if it was date night.
The snowy cold wasn’t bad, just pine-scented and bracing. Still, Nat was glad of Leo’s old peacoat. Her legs were still a little gooshy, so stepping into the restaurant’s bright golden warmth was a welcome relief. It smelled of grilled meat, baking bread, coffee—all good things, without the underlay of bleach and stickiness shoutingfood service. In fact, the mix of aromas was more like a home kitchen, and a cheery soprano, “Sit on anywhere, be with you in a hot bit,” rang out.
Tables and red-clad booths marched in neat rows. Everything was crimson gingham and bare wood, the floor polished planks and the kitchen behind a steel counter slightly less than shoulder-high. Steam hissed as something hit a grill, and Nat couldn’t quite see into the cooking area past a glare of hanging chrome heatlamps. The paneled walls were festooned with grainy black-and-white photos in plain metal frames between bits of what she could only call Western kitsch—stuffed deer heads, dust-scorched antique signs from long-closed general stores and saloons, rusting farm implements, shelves crowded with knickknacks and gewgaws as well as small taxidermy animals.
The stuffed roadkill was a bit much, their glass eyes bright with interest, but Dima didn’t give her time to absorb the surroundings. He ushered her to a long marble-topped soda-fountain counter, and a flicker of movement behind it was a statuesquewoman in a green-and-red calico frock, blue eyes inquisitive as the motionless wildlife’s. A faded bonnet, matching her dress, was tied under her chin, shading that bright gaze. Her skirt swung as she halted next to the glaring-indistinct window to the kitchen. “Two plates!” she bellowed into the brightness, and was answered by a furious clattering. “Come on in, y’all, and sit down. My oh my, the Drozdova comin’ here—shoulda let me know, I’d’ve put on a spread, asked the local dignitaries, got a band to play—”
“Just passing through.” Dima indicated a red vinyl barstool, its chrome pillar glinting; Nat clambered aboard. “How are you, Nell?”
“Oh, busy as hell, just as always.” The woman’s bright blue gaze didn’t alter; Nat had the sense she was being weighed. It was depressingly familiar, and she settled her backpack on her lap. Hugging it—and the warm, forgiving glow of the Cup inside—felt a lot safer.
It was probably imaginary protection, but at this point she’d take it. She’d take just about anything, frankly.
Dmitri no doubt had some sort of agenda, just like at the biker bar. Maybe this was another relative? The gangster settled on the stool next to her. This part of the restaurant did look an awful lot like a soda fountain, though Nat had only seen those in movies. The woman looked like she’d ridden in a covered wagon, and she had the same buzzing sense of vitality, ofmore-there-ness.
A divinity, working in a restaurant? Or maybe this was like Ranger’s roadhouse. Nat stared at gold-veined white marble, blinking furiously. At least in the car she could pretend to be watching the scenery, and the scraping, tingling sense of danger as well as steady motion kept the tears away.
As long as you kept moving, you didn’t have to think about your problems, or about black horses saying horrifyingly plausible things about your own mother. Who might have beenbrusque and dismissive, but at least she’d fed Nat, put a roof over her head, and bought school clothes—complaining all the while, of course, because it was expensive to raise a child, but…
A fresh sizzling came from the blank glare hiding the kitchen. The smell of grilled meat intensified, as if Leo were searing steaks in a cast-iron skillet.
Cows got fed and sheltered too, didn’t they? Right before the hammer descended and their carcasses were hung up for carving.
It was a terrible thought.
She will eat you, Drozdova. After you bring her what she wants, so she can bargain with Baba Yaga to allow the theft of a native-born child.
The nagging sense of a missing puzzle piece had vanished. The horse’s words explained everything quite neatly, a razor taking the shortest logical route.
“Good heavens.” The calico-clad woman halted on the other side of the counter, setting down two thick brown china mugs with flared bottoms. The rich good smell of coffee from fresh-ground beans rose on tiny threads of steam. “Y’all look miserable, miss. Is it the weather, or the company? Truth be told, I’m a bit surprised to see you ridin’ around withhim.”
You and everyone else.“He wants something,” Nat said, dully. She took a deep breath, and tried for what she hoped was a pleasant, social smile. “You’re a divinity, right? It’s nice to meet you.”
“Ain’t you polite.” The woman’s cheeks were apple-red, and her tanned, capable hands dove below the counter’s surface, coming up full of bright antique silverware. “I’m Nell, Nell Bonney. Used to be Shamhat, back in the day. Civilizin’s my game, though it never seems to take—if there’s one thing humans’re good at, it’s finding new ways to be jackasses. Anyway, I keep a house here and there.”
Old country?“So you’re from somewhere else too?”
“We’re all travelers, kiddo.” A tendril of red hair slipped free of Nell’s bonnet; she blew it out of her face with a quick irritated huff and in a trice had place settings in front of both Nat and Dmitri. The gangster settled his elbows on the counter and stared kitchenward, very pointedly ignoring both women.
But he wasn’t smoking, and no trace of sneering good humor lingered around his mouth. If he was like this more often, he could even be considered handsome, or at least striking.
All his grinning and threatening drained any attractiveness away. Maybe that’s why he did it.
“You’re from New York way,” Nell continued. “Did you happen to see my big sister out there? Goes by Candy nowadays.”
Nurse Candy?“I did meet her.” Nat wished the barstool was a little lower. Her feet dangled like a kid’s, and her boots probably still had traces of magical sand on them despite wiping on the mat by the door. “She, uh, did some first aid on me.”
“Nice to see she ain’t forgotten it.” Nell’s grin held a gap between her front teeth and all the warmth in the world. “Her kind goes out first, and mine once it’s halfway respectable. We fight—what family doesn’t, you know—but in the end, it’s always the same.”
Did she try to eat you?“Oh.” She couldn’t find a single thing to say; Nat hugged her backpack tighter.
