Page 9 of The Salt-Black Tree
And she loved her mother, like a good little American girl should.
At certain intervals those chubby little arms about her neck had almost moved Maria to a variety of tenderness. The tearstained little face, the tiny bits of school art brought home and offered with shy hopefulness, the meek, bovine obedience were all part of the plan, and showing just enough affection to keep the clinging vine dependent had even been easy, sometimes.
Yes, if one path did not lead to the Drozdova’s renewal, another would. Patience was difficult, but Spring knew the value of waiting; what she did not allow to germinate Summer could not ripen and Harvest could not reap. If Baba let both Maria and her daughter become a banquet for carrion, the Heart might well be lost forever, and neither the icy grandmother nor Konets would riskthat.
Just like in Leo’s beloved chess—or in any other game,frankly—the entire operation rested upon arranging things so every path led inevitably to victory. The little American maggot would call it cheating, but power was power and respected the rules only enough to arrange for its own continuance. A wolf-pack was not cruel because it trapped a sheep in an unwinnable cul-de-sac; it was merely the way of the world.
So Maria Drozdova dozed and half-dreamed, carefully husbanding her failing strength. No gust of snowy wind smacked her window, no rodent lingered in a shadowed corner with a bright inquisitive alien gleam in its beady eyes. Baba was not watching her at the moment, and while the shadows thickened, they did not descend. The cold stayed outside with the weather, mortal heating enough to keep the room reasonably balmy.
She had waited a little over two mortal decades, a mere eyeblink for one of her kind. She could wait a little more.
The end, after all, was assured.
FED AND SHELTERED
The highway joined up to a freeway heading south, signs flashing by almost too quickly to decipher. Hills rose steadily on either side, the prairie breaking into bits and heaving upward. Trees tossed, combing the wind in arms both evergreen and naked.
Time did funny things during magical snowstorms, or maybe it just behaved strangely after a day spent digging divinity arcana out of ancient wells and riding a horse who was also a motorcycle before finishing up with a gun battle against carnivorous, mouthless shadows. It didn’t feel like long before the car slowed, the engine’s insistent pulse quieting. An exit’s curve reared before them, the car took a deep breath, and orange citylight smeared the sky. The snow gentled, flakes swelling as the night’s breath warmed a fraction, and the wind’s howl diminished.
But only fractionally. It still looked damn cold out there.
Dmitri was still smoking, but not at the same rate. A cigarette hung from his lip, its tip glowing dangerously, and he hummed a wandering tune under the engine’s noise. Just when he’d started doing that Nat couldn’t quite remember, and she hoped it wasn’t a prelude to more unpleasantness.
Maybe she’d even dozed a little, though she wasn’t quite tired. Emotionally exhausted, sure, but even the backache from sitting in a bucket seat for hours was strangely absent. And she wasn’t desperate to find a restroom, either.
“I thought we weren’t stopping until daylight.”
He nodded, and no burnt bits drifted from his cigarette tip. It must be nice, not needing an ashtray. “We stop for snacks anywhere you want, yes.”
“Those things might still be—”
“They got bigger problems tonight.” Instead of just steering with two fingers, he had one whole hand curled loosely around the right half of the steering yoke, lazily making tiny adjustments to their course. “You like french fries? Milkshake? Coke?”
What the hell?She wasn’t hungry, but it probably didn’t matter. The gangster had something in mind, and arguing or trying to change it would get Nat nowhere.
At least, not yet. “I’m fine,” she hedged. “But if you’ve got to stop—”
“For fucksake.” He gave her an irritated sidelong glance. “You don’t want nice dress, you don’t want shiny present, you don’t want dinner? What kind of girl are you, huh?”
The kind that knows not to take anything from you, thanks.“A rube, Dima.” A sharp jolt of irritation went through her, probably leftovers from a day packed with several different flavors of terror, not to mention a bone-jolting ride and an emotional thermo-nuke. “A silly little rube girl. Didn’t you know?”
The gangster snorted, the cigarette’s tip twitching as it brightened. “Oh, you so much more than that.” His free hand rose and he jabbed two fingers at the windshield. The snow whirled briefly aside, cringing under an invisible lash.
Feathery snow-brooms brushed the pavement clear for a short distance before them. The passenger-side mirror, speckled with melting ice, showed nothing resembling a trail behind them; maybe the snow just healed over their passage.
Like a scab.
A massive round sign—either built to look like a cross-section of a giant tree or a leftover from the time when old growth still covered plenty of America—blared a painted yellowWELCOMETO DEADWOOD. The black car slowed still further, its engine’s laughter suddenly conspiratorial, and when Dmitri whipped the steering wheel to the left Nat was almost ready for the jolt. The tires bumped, that same funny internal twitch Nat was learning heralded stepping into a divinity’s space, and a small ice-frosted parking lot swallowed them.
At the far end, warm electric glow escaped restaurant windows. The brick-and-timber building bore more than a faint resemblance to an old-timey saloon, but the doors were glass instead of swinging wood. WAGONWHEEL,the sign proclaimed proudly, COME ON IN!
Neon buzzed in one of the windows, a red smear that could have saidOPEN. Nat’s eyes watered as she tried to focus. The gangster all but stood on the brakes, rubber squealed, and when all motion halted the car was nestled between two neatly painted white stripes, angle-parked right next to a handicap spot.
Maybe even a god of gangsters wouldn’t pull into one of those, risking a divine parking ticket. Nat’s arms ached, clutching her backpack. “You’re a terrible driver.” The words popped out of her mouth, surprising her, and Dima’s short barking laugh did, too.
He sounded truly amused. “Never been in accident yet,devotchka. Sit still, let me get door.”
Because you’re such a gentleman. Right.She shook her head, reaching for the handle, and his hand closed around her left shoulder, fingers not quite biting in.
