Page 48 of The Salt-Black Tree
A tide of whispers filled the lobby; bright avid eyes on burning-vital divinities, powers, and principalities swiveled to follow their progress, some of them perhaps envying Konets his companion’s warm grace. There was throaty-voiced Dollaparda near the fireplace, with her plunging neckline and her teased-blonde mane, sequins glittering as her dress hugged every curve and her misty smile full of goodwill; next to her, Quean Bey Moriah was a vision in bright goldenrod, her hair a soft brown cloud and her dainty foot tapping, eager for a dance. Lafitte, with his tricorn hat bearing its bloodred feather and his high boots ready to cling to a heaving deck or kick a hungry alligator, gave a single bright flash of a smile, acknowledging his cousin—there were thieves upon the water, too, and they knew who to propitiate in this part of the world.
Yeller crouched on one of the couches, his shaggy gold hairrasping as he scratched behind a flopping ear with delicate claws. Yemayja Gulfe lounged indolently on a red velvet love seat; her skirt blue as calm ocean turned into white froth at the bottom, and above it a statuesque brown torso repeated on the prow of many a ship held up a head carved from mahogany, a sapphire nestled in her cleavage winking its semaphore of desire. Even Picasse Matisse halted his constant gossipy whispering with linen-suited Playwright Capote, both of them staring hungrily at a muse who didn’t even glance their way, safely tucked to Dima’s other side. All of them, and more, watched Spring’s advent.
One or two made their peculiar little salutes to honor an Endless, one of the great forces of nature itself come into her power and patently about to visit Marie, who would probably enjoy the sudden influx of guests about as much as she enjoyed anything else.
Dima showed his teeth, warning them all to mind their fucking manners, and maybe a few even took the hint. A Black man with an ash-smeared face simply bared his own strong white fangs in return, winking out on a draft of cigar smoke with apopof collapsing air Nat didn’t notice; she was busy eyeing the Elysium’s revolving door as if she could unravel its ancient magic.
He would not put it past hisdevotchka,oh no. Dmitri’s smile widened, full of predatory good cheer, and he shepherded the Drozdova out into the soft, clinging southern evening.
The rubes still used open carriages in this part of the world, their drivers harvesting tourist dollars, canvas shitcatchers slung under mortal-equine rumps as if it would keep the streets cleaner. The rube traps were not shining cream or deep glossy black half-pumpkins with springy wheels, though; nor were they drawn by flame-eyed skeletal quadrupeds with bony swanwings and clawed, whisper-quiet padfeet.
Such pleasures were reserved for divinities.
It was pleasant to lounge upon purple velvet, watching the mortal world slide by like hot grease while a whip-carrying coachman—jaunty-tilted hat, long face-wrapping scarf, bottle-green velvet suit, olive-dyed kid gloves, shining boots with silver-clad heels—held the reins. A fresh breeze dispelled cloying humidity but never ventured into an actual chill, and arriving in style held a thrill all its own.
The rubes had only pale imitations of this ceremonial transport, and he would have thought a girl raised mortal would enjoy the upgrade.
But Nat Drozdova sat tense and arms-crossed the entire way, though the moving air lovingly patted her hair and her escort had given her a cotillion gift.
It didn’t matter. He was in anexcellentmood. Very soon, he was sure, he would see a bloody diamond throbbing with its own hurtful inner strength again.
It wasn’t every day a man traveled towards his heart in a carriage-and-four, so Dima intended to enjoy it.
HELLUVA TRICK
There was no snow; every tree was green and dusk was wet purple gathering in luxurious masses of foliage. If this was the depth of winter, she could see why retirees fled south; there was no killing frost or black ice. At home this would be a late-spring night, almost fifty Fahrenheit and glad for every single degree. Everyone on the street was dressed as if they feared catching a cold, however—at least, all the normal people, themortals, were.
Or, all the normal humans she saw flickers of during that nauseating ride. Which wasn’t very many at all.
The big white half-pumpkin carriage moved with sickmaking fluidity, borne on its own peculiar slipstream. It wasn’t so much the speed as the elastic jouncing back and forth that threatened to unseat her stomach. The winged horses with their skeleton sides and clawed feet would probably like to show a rider a shortcut or two, and she shuddered at the thought. Dmitri lounged next to her, grinning like he was having a grand old time, and the city whirled around the conveyance like ink streaking on a greased, spinning dish.
She couldn’t even enjoy the scenery, and she wished she was in her own comfortable blue chariot instead.
Gliding, rocking, swaying like a demented cradle, their carriage finally joined a long line of others moving at a steady pace down a long drive between ranks of arching trees, their boughsmeeting overhead in complex knotwork to make a tunnel. During daylight, bursting from the shadow to see the circular drive before a house of red brick with white columns marching across its face was probably an Experience, but it was dark, the movement made her gorge rise hot and acid, and she was just trying to keep whatever coffee she’d managed to swallow happy in its home.
Dima had even warned her not to eat dinner. Looked like he’d done her a real solid.
The mansion wasn’t as massive as Jay’s house, and there was no migraine attack of colored lights. Still, every window was glowing with electric gold, and music floated through their open eyes. Jazz, in fact, and the sheer gorgeous vitality of each note shouted it was a live band. Not just live and in fine form, but having a great time, too. The beat throbbed, the bass walked, the guitar sang, and the horns cried out happily, rollicking along like an express train.
The centerpiece of the drive was a massive cypress, its arms hung with veils of gray moss reminding her ofthose who eat. She shivered, and Dmitri’s elbow nudged her upper arm.
It was probably entirely accidental, but it still helped. He couldn’t let them get to her.
At least, not just yet.
Each carriage paused for the briefest possible interval in front of the house; their turn came after a mercifully short wait nonetheless spent in constant swaying motion. Getting her feet back on solid ground was a gift, and she didn’t even care that Dmitri helped her out of the damn thingorthat he kept her hand, tucking it in his elbow and warning her with a swift, pointed glance that any objection would be fruitless.
Her legs felt suspiciously like a sailor’s after half a year away from dry land, and she had longing thoughts of pulling the new sunglasses down to shield her from the glare when they plunged through the winged doorway into a vast, bright fronthall. Rooms stretched in every direction, each with a hanging chandelier—a massive iron confection with dripping beeswax candles, one made of rainbow glass rectangles in a cascade, and over this massive central entrance hall, a giant writhing mass of hanging, incandescent crystals.
Imagining the fixtures descending at high speed was frightening, but anyone unlucky enough to be caught underneath wouldn’t suffer long.
There were no stairs separating different levels of divinity here; everyone milled in rub-shoulder congeniality, somehow carrying goblets, tumblers, flutes, or glasses. Dmitri snapped, a crisp shot-sound, and handed her a champagne flute full of pale bubbly; another snap produced two inches of amber fluid in a squat smoked-glass container he sipped at, glowering at all and sundry.
One hand trapped in his elbow, the other weighted down with booze, Nat caught sight of a vast ballroom seething with bright motion. Most of the dancing guests held the same vitalthere-ness of divinities; those with weaker glow clustered in laughing knots at the periphery watching the show. Every possible sartorial statement was on display: suits of every description, three-piece, linen, and threadbare; dresses simple, homespun, or elaborate; a golden-tanned girl in a bikini, sucking on a lollipop, gave Nat a cheeky wink as her bare painted toes scattered sugar-sand; a round man who looked like Mr. Moneybags from the Monopoly game grinned in her direction as he raised a foaming iron-bound tankard; a skinny fellow with a glossy top hat and smooth ebon skin under a layer of chalky ash-paint turning his face into a skull’s grinned around a puffing cigar; a tomboyish towhead girl in worn denim bib overalls with a corncob pipe hanging from one corner of her mouth—she looked vaguely familiar, had she been at Jay’s?—watched Nat somberly; a Black man in a flashy multicolored suit and furry cowboy hat waltzed with a brown woman in a similarly bright dress whose thick black eyebrows met in the middle…
“Rules,” Dmitri said as he lowered his smoky glass, a quick flicker of pale tongue touching his top lip. “Respect the house, don’t start shit you can’t finish, and respecther.”
Sounds reasonable enough.Nat was just glad to be out of the goddamn buggy. “Her?”
