Page 50 of The Salt-Black Tree
“Technically, Marie Catherine Laveaux.” She paused for a moment, as if waiting for Nat to recognize the name.
Figures.She did recognize it, in fact, but asking questions would get her nowhere at this point. “Technically, Nat Drozdova.”
Dmitri snorted, but Marie ignored him. “This way, then.” She turned on one heel—the Cubans, like tap dancers’, had metal plating under the toes and tiny iron caps on the heel-bottoms. The crowd, now silent, parted. The bubble of hush moved with Marie, intensifying until the music pouring from other rooms was lost in dark water.
Nat followed. She did not look back.
A PAINTED TARGET
Dmitri Konets stalked through the crowd, his boot-toes spitting colorless sparks and his eyes burning. It was Laveaux’s house, of course, holy ground, but if even a single motherfucker laughed, or so much asbreathedin his direction…
The backpack dangled from his left hand, heavy with power. He could break open its zippered mouth and root around—at least one part of her arcana was in it, probably all three.
The stupid littlezaika. “Insurance,” she said. As if she couldn’t manifest another flint knife, or another item glowing with numinous force, just by existing long enough. Once she learned how, she could even select a mortal item of the proper shape and keep it close; will, time, and divinity would do the rest.
Did she know that trick yet? She was certainly learning fast. Discarded arcana could wreak terrible havoc among mortals, but their charge was finite when separated from their generator.
They were, after all, only tools.
A pale flicker at the edge of Dima’s peripheral vision was Calhoun in his accustomed eggshell linen suit with perpetual faint sweat-rings under meaty arms along with the shoulder-holster on the left side, placing his custom leather wingtips with prissy care and drifting just close enough to make his presence known. He wouldn’t dare start anything here—the Midwife of Metairiegenerally let her guests settle their scores without interference, but she made an exception when it came to cops.
Besides, like all of Friendly’s faces, he was a coward.
But no doubt he was salivating over the bag Dima was carrying. Hiszaikamight as well have painted a target on Dima’s back.
The house didn’t quite want to let him go, but one of his kind always knew where—and when—to leave. The front door tried to hide; he slipped through like a shiv between ribs and his lip lifted at the line of carriages swarming for entry. A piercing whistle split the Louisiana night, and an ice-freighted wind ruffled the surface of Lake Pontchartrain behind Laveaux’s domicile. No few of the gaunt carriage-thestrals sidled, the steady clockwork stream of visitors broken for a single endless moment.
The whistle turned into a metallic screech before dropping into the growl of an angry engine. Two headlights bloomed, bright vicious white, and the black car finished its lunge into existence on a cloud of burning rubber, stopping at the end of a long black smear. It snarled like he did, and Dima didn’t bother slowing, tossing the backpack through the open window. He dropped into the driver’s seat, the door slammed, and he caught sight of Calhoun on the steps, the good ol’ boy’s fat thumbs tucked in his braces and his florid face turning brick-red as he realized he was once again too slow.
Dmitri even gave him the finger through the open window, and his laugh melded into the engine’s steady roar.
He had an errand to run anyway. A loose end to tie up, a little insurance of his own to indulge in. Three mortal days was more than enough.
Dima showed his teeth, spun the wheel, and stamped on the accelerator. The thiefways folded around him, and with a sound like the last tubercular cough of a dying bandit married to the feedback-laced scream of a stooping hawk on summer tundra, Dmitri Konets and his chariot vanished from Metairie.
THE TREE
SWEET-TALK
Down a slope of velvety grass from the bright-lit wedding cake of Marie Laveaux’s home, a vast greenhouse of frosted glass soundlessly opened a massive side door at their approach. Spiderweb strands of white-painted iron held the panes, and the building’s exhalation was full of damp earth and growing things. Faint silvery light bloomed under the greenhouse’s roof, which was welcome since the night was a wet bandage pressed against the eyes.
Water lapped close by; Nat followed Marie’s moving shadow over a wooden threshold and onto a floor of pale, river-smoothed gravel. The warmth would have been welcome except for the absolutely soaking humidity; Nat was glad her peacoat was left safely in Baby.
She felt curiously naked without her backpack, but it had been the right move. Or so she hoped. “I’m looking for the salt-black tree,” she began.
“Did I ask?” Marie’s dreadlocks swayed, a river of segmented ink. Her metal-sheathed heels didn’t dare sink into deep, shifting gravel. “Yours isn’t the only story tonight, Drozdova. It’s not even the most interesting one. You pay for passage, I provide it, and we’re done.”
It might not interest you, but I’m still the one living it.Nat buttoned her lip, though, glad she was wearing boots. A faint susurration went through crowded greenery as she passed, likeher mother’s houseplants or Koschei the Deathless’s indoor garden.
Funny, the memory of the sorcerer wasn’t terrifying anymore. Just faintly unpleasant, a half-forgotten childhood nightmare. The silvery light came from a flock of bright dots overhead, pale fireflies moving like the will o’ wisps in a clearing before a giant cedar on the other side of the continent.
A central aisle held long wooden tables; Marie’s collection of alembics, burners, grinders, and drying racks was far more extensive than Koschei’s too. Glass and polished metal reflected tiny shimmers; something bubbled in a black cauldron over a low flame, its faint nasty steam dissipating as it slid heavily down the rounded sides.
Had this woman once been mortal? It probably wasn’t wise to ask.
“Funny,” Laveaux said, halting and swinging to face Nat, the whites of her eyes and her teeth gleaming in the indistinct illumination, a faint gloss on her perfect lips. “You’re not running your mouth too badly. That thief you came with, he’s always bitching about something.”
The urge to defend Dima died in Nat’s throat. Making excuses for a man who was clear about wanting to kill her was the height of idiocy, just like making excuses for Mom.
