Page 16 of The Salt-Black Tree
She reached the parking lot and hesitated, staring over a vast empty expanse dotted with inadequate lamps.
“Good evening, Drozdova.”
Nat flinched, casting around wildly. The owner of the purring, piping voice was a tuxedo cat, black ears perked and white chest gleaming. She had pristine pale socks, too, and sat on the red-paintedNO PARKINGcurb, tail curled neatly around her feet.
So the cats spoke here, too.
“Oh,” Nat managed, her heart pounding in her throat. “Hello.”
The tuxedo blinked slowly, affectionately. Nat edged closer,careful not to loom, then crouched and extended her fingers. A careful, thorough investigation, tiny puffs of breath touching her skin, and the cat let out a pleased meow. “Much stronger now. It’s very good.”
Is it?“Is my mother…” Nat couldn’t make herself say the word; it lodged in her throat like a bit of hard candy swallowed before its time. “Is she all right?”
“Still alive, but fading fast.” Another slow blink, the cat very pleased to see her indeed. “It is the way of things.”
I wish someone would have told me.Her backpack almost slid free; Nat sighed. “I might not make it in time.” It was a terrible, terrifying thought.
If Mom did die before Nat got to the Heart… no.
No.She couldn’t think about that. Even contemplating her own possible consumption was better than the image of Mom in the hospice bed, deflated and motionless, eyes closed and her terrible stinging mouth silent forever.
“In time? For what?” The cat’s head tilted, inquisitive and interested at once. “You could scratch behind my ear, you know. I wouldn’t mind.”
Nat’s cheeks felt strange. She realized she was smiling—though how she could at a time like this was beyond her, probably more proof that she was a bad daughter and even worse at this divinity stuff—and duck-walked a little closer, then smoothed her fingertips over the tuxedo’s head. Finding the right spot behind the ear wasn’t a challenge, nor was applying just the right amount of pressure—the small creature did all the work, all Nat had to do was be gentle. Anemic bushes rooted in dry dirt rattled as the breeze freshened, and a strengthening breath of jasmine rode moving air.
“I’m looking for something here. I don’t know quite what.” Her legs ached a little, but all in all, she felt remarkably good considering the past few days.
Was it Christmas yet? She’d lost all track of time, and it waswarm enough for spring here. But a California winter probably qualified as summer elsewhere.
I don’t know if I’ll ever see spring again.The quiet, forlorn thought vanished without any fuss. Cramming unpleasant things into mental hiding spots was all but reflexive for Maria Drozdova’s daughter.
The unsettling implication that one day they might burst free of all confinement followed suit.
“I suggest the Elysium.” The tuxedo’s tail-tip twitched; the cat leaned into Nat’s touch with surprising strength. A rumble lingered under its tone, the purr almost too large for its slim, slinky body. “Beverly Hills, naturally.”
So there’s a divinity hotel here too; it’s a whole-ass franchise. Good to know.“That’s an excellent idea,” Nat agreed. The hungry shadows couldn’t get into those, Dima had said as much. “You’ve been protecting me all this time, haven’t you. All of you.”
“Pfft.” The cat’s eyelids dropped to half-mast. “You’re the Drozdova.” Just like a human might saywater’s wet,orpoliticians lie. “Our compact is ancient, and you mean good hunting.” Her lip lifted, teeth gleaming very much like Dmitri’s. “We remember. We’ll remember long after the silly humans are gone, too.”
That’s comforting, I suppose.“Did you…”Don’t lie, Natchenka. Cats don’t talk in this country.“Did you ever talk to my mother?”
“I never met her.” The cat didn’t quite sound dismissive, just bored.
Well, that was what Nat got for asking an overly broad question. “The cats here in this country, I mean. Not you personally.”
“Ah. No.” The tuxedo flowed under her fingertips, letting Nat’s touch wander down her neck, brush her shoulder, and scrub along flexible ribs. “Right there… yes, that’s a good spot. Why would we?” she continued, meditatively. “Youare the Drozdova. Native-born, and all that. A little harder, please.”
Nat complied. “I don’t suppose you like him, either. Dmitri.”
A tiny chirruping sound melded out of the purr, the felineequivalent of a laugh. “Oh, we understand him. He’s a hunter too, after all.”
I can see that.Nat found the spot at the base of the cat’s tail and rubbed at exactly the right pressure. The tuxedo balanced on the concrete edge, a thousand tiny adjustments keeping her perfectly poised, her back arching with satisfaction.
Mom had never allowed a pet, despite all Nat’s pleading. Was she afraid they’d talk, and Nat might learn… what?
A kid would trust a parent over their own lying eyes and ears. Nat had for most of her life. It happened all the time—adults knew best, they were the gods of small universes within the home walls. What choice did a child have but to be convinced?
It was enough to make you wonder if the rubes Dima was always scoffing at were the same. Kids believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and in parental love. Grown-ups believed in paying insurance premiums, going to church, and getting laid.
