Page 49 of The Salt-Black Tree
“Me.” A pleasant contralto sliced the hubbub in half; the music retreated as a bubble of hush descended upon Nat, Dmitri, and a tall mahogany-skinned woman in a suit jacket and pencil skirt of indigo so dark it was almost black, who glided out of the crowd with a panther’s stalking fluidity. Her dreadlocks were as long as Marisol’s mane, black as the damp darkness of midnight in silt, and tiny gem-beads on a multiplicity of hair-fine threads wrapped around her neck, descending onto her snowy silk blouse. Her glossy Cuban heels matched her suit, and she weighed Nat with a swift glance before turning her attention to Dmitri. “I’ve business with the Drozdova. Leave.”
“Got business with her too.” Dmitri looked supremely unconcerned, but the deep rattle-burr in Nat’s bones quieted, and she got the idea this woman was very, very powerful indeed.
And probably had a Georgia-sized temper to boot.
“It’s all right,” Nat said, and was faintly surprised neither of them ignored her. In fact, both the woman and Dmitri looked at her, clearly expecting more. “My mother probably arranged it this way, Dima.”
“Dima.” The woman’s faint ironclad smile didn’t change. The lights trapped in her necklace-beads sparkled, some flashing randomly, others stuttering as if trying to impart a message. “Got a weakness for a certain season, Konets?”
“I am equal-opportunity,gospozha. And always available.” The gangster’s chin turned in the woman’s direction, and Dmitri’s slow, murderous, very amused grin was back.
Oh, boy.A divinity pissing-match. Nat took the opportunity to slip her hand free of his elbow. “Let me just talk to her, please. And then you can—”
“Three days.” The woman didn’t fold her arms, but something in the set of her shoulders said she wanted to. Her fingernails were indigo too, the varnish starred with infinitesimal bright points, a galaxy on each digit. “Where she’s going, you can’t follow.”
Just like Ranger’s.But three days? Time apparently moved funny in divine pocket dimensions or alternate realities. Maybe that was where Nat had lost Christmas, in the desert with the Western Well—or in Spring’s Country, before her mother threw her out.
The memories should have been terrifying, but so much else had happened they caused barely a ripple.
“The fuck I can’t,” Dima snarled. The bright happy music faltered for a moment, the great crystal chandelier tinkling dangerously.
“You want to try the swamp,mal’chik?” The woman’s accent on the last word wasn’t bad at all; she sounded like Mama cursing in the old country’s tongue. “Because that’s where you end up, causing trouble inmyhouse.”
“Dmitri.” Nat shook her head and shoved her untasted glass at him. He moved as if to take it, stopped before his hand closed, and its fall flowered into breakage on highly polished parquet. “Oh, shi—I mean, I’m sorry.”
Mama would have told her toclean it up, silly stupid girl. Bending down, or getting on her knees, to mop up the mess was probably just asking to be kicked.
Or something worse.
But the woman just shook her head, dreadlocks moving with fluid grace. Maybe a broken glass was no big deal, here.
So Nat slipped her backpack from her shoulder, and pushed it at the gangster as well. “Here. Hold this. It’ll mean I have to come back, right?”
The crowd around them stilled. Now the woman in indigodidcross her arms, cocking her head and watching with bright interest.
Dmitri’s fingers curled around the top of her backpack; his arm tensed as if it was far heavier than it looked. “You give me this?” His dark eyes narrowed, deadly serious, and his other hand tightened on the glass tumbler.
“Youholdit,” Nat corrected. The arcana were in there, and while he might try to steal them… well, she’d solve that problem once she’d solved all the bigger ones. “Like layaway.” No, that was the wrong word. “Insurance. So you know I’m coming back.”
“Unless you die,” the woman added, not quite helpfully though her tone was very sweet indeed.
“I never thought I’d get out of this alive.” As soon as she said it, Nat’s lips tingled, and she realized it was true.
Oh, she didwantto live. Who didn’t? But in the little yellow house on South Aurora, you learned from birth what you wanted and what you got were two very different things.
“Maybe I peek inside. See what Drozdova hides.” Dmitri’s snarl wasn’t pleasant at all. It wasn’t any surprise, either.
The longer this impossible divine bullshit went on, the less astonishing it became.
“If you want to get a faceful of my dirty laundry, go ahead and be a pervert.” Nat stepped away, so he had to grab the backpack or drop it. The champagne spreading on the floor lifted into bubbling curls of sweetish smoke, and the glass melted, sank into wood like heavy liquid met by a thirsty towel. The parquet was pristine again.
It was a helluva trick. Far better than blotting, sweeping, and gently working any stain free with an almost-dry cloth. Divinities made great housecleaners—why had Mom been so determined to use mortal methods? Had her daughter’s bare existence robbed her of the power to do otherwise?
Nat found that for once, to her everlasting relief, she didn’t care. “I’m ready,” she informed the woman, lifting her chin and hoping like hell she looked even a little prepared.
“Nobody’s ever ready.” But the other divinity held out one slim, strong hand. Her nails glittered, her necklace twinkled, and her expression was closed, almost neutral. “Marie.”
The handshake was short, brief, to the point; warm skin against hers felt human indeed. “Nat.”
