Page 63 of The Salt-Black Tree
“I told her I’d find it for her.” Even though she hadn’t, Nat had given it the old college try. Now there was a thought—would she be able to take classes? A divinity could probably cheat on exams with ease, but it seemed counterproductive. Like Leo said, there was no substitute for hard work. “And you promised to kill me.”
“Did I?” He plucked the cigarette free, flicking it aside, and his lips peeled back. His teeth snapped together twice. The heavy sound, like billiard balls on a nice clean break, sent a shiver down Nat’s spine. “Better stay on that side, then, Drozdova.”
Nat approached the gate, slowly, brushing past her backpack. The hum of mortal traffic in the distance faded. She halted just at the edge of safety—but that was misleading, since he could obviously reach over rotting wood and rusted hinges. He’d just made a point of doing so.
She rubbed her hands together, her palms making soft sweet sounds.I’m only going to say this once,Baba whispered.
It was so easy, once you knew how. A bloody star bloomed as Nat cupped her hands, iron lightly claw-pricking her skin. Nat’s throat was dry—even a divinity could feel fear.
If he wanted to kill her, she’d be seeing the Cold Lady in hermother’s shattered, rotting garden. No more Yoo-hoo for Nat Drozdova, and maybe another Spring would find this forlorn ruin, remake it into a snug little den.
Dmitri Konets stood stock-still. He looked down at the Dead God’s Heart.
The gem responded, sensing its home even though the nasty inward-curving teeth prevented its flying free. Natconcentrated,closing her eyes. For once the darkness was kind; the jewel’s setting gave a creaking thrill, iron singing a low distressed song as the spikes retreated one by one with aching slowness.
“Take it,” Nat said, and her arms straightened. “It’s yours, after all.”
The gem itself sang too, a trailing, excited note.
ON HER WAY
For what seemed like forever, the thief of thieves stared at his own heart. It was just as ruddy, as brilliant, and as throbbing as he remembered; the honey-haired girl, her eyes closed, also raised her chin a little.
It would be easy for a bright, bone-handled straight razor to leave its home in his pocket, cleaving air and flesh both. She’d once seen the result of its bright deadly work, a deathless sorcerer gasp-gurgling.
Gold highlights crowned her; the tortoiseshell sunglasses nestled in a soft wavy cloud like they belonged there. The shapeless wool coat was well-loved, catkin-soft, and did its best to protect what lay underneath; her pale green, gold-edged dress flowed over shy curves. Green shoes peeked from under the hem, and only Spring would ramble in such frail footwear.
His fingers, stone-hard and feverish-hot, closed. They covered her hands, folding the gem and its barbaric setting out of sight—a shell protecting tender inner meat, a glowing seed inside fragrant pulp.
He could still squeeze, impaling her fingers on clawed iron. Golden ichor would burst free. She might even scream, changing her mind about trusting a thief.
It was very well within Dmitri’s power. He had bought his freedom; he had chosen to stay in this alien country. He could choose again.
As many times as he wanted, as many times as he wished.
Tiny dots of sweat touched his forehead. His snarl was an old steppe wolf’s, eyeing a dish set in the snow—tender tasty viands, to be sure, and the hand offering them just as succulent.
Iron quivered. Metal melted without heat, slithering between the touch of two divinities. Dima’s fingers tightened once, and though the Drozdova did not flinch tension invaded the slim column of her neck, her graceful shoulders. She swallowed, her throat moving, and he watched the fans of her dark, golden-tipped eyelashes against her cheekbones, her lips drawing in slightly like a lost, forlorn child expecting a vicious slap.
“I told you,” the thief said softly. “I make exception for you, too.” His teeth glinted, and the Heart trembled like a small animal between them. Quivering invaded his prettydevotchka; the Drozdova’s skirt made a soft sound as it moved. “Keep this for me.”
Gently,exquisitelygently—because he did not have to be so careful, and he wanted that very clear—he pushed her hands away, back to her side of the gate.
Nat’s dark eyes flew open. She stared at him; oh, he’d surprised hiskotenokaonce more. “But it’s your—”
“Pfft.” Dima snatched his fingers away, shaking them back into suppleness. “What am I going to do, put thing back in my chest again? Would be stupid, and I am not stupid man.”
Her gaze dropped to the gem. It still pulsed, just as brilliant, just as blood-tinged. The setting, though, had changed.
Silver scales rasped; a fluid snakelike length cradled the Heart. A supple chain pooled underneath, ready for clasping lightly around a lovely throat; it would nestle against another heartbeat, hiding under a shirt or a modest dress’s neckline. For all the gem’s size, it now seemed lighter, ready to be worn instead of locked in a thorn-nest.
“It’s beautiful.” As if she’d expected it to stay ugly.
“I take it to Baba, someone just steal it again. I keep it, perhaps same thing.” Dima waved away any objection she might think of. “Steal from a thief, who will care? But you, Natchenka L’vovna—if someone steal from you,Ihave a word with him,neh? Much better this way.” Dmitri stopped, his mouth hardening. He dug in his suit jacket’s breast pocket and produced the battered pack of cigarettes; this time it was blue, the writing on its back old-fashioned formal French.
“I haven’t been called Natchenka in a while.” Those brimming dark eyes held another question, but Dmitri Konets stepped back from the gate. He’d answered all he would today, and the inquiry died on her lips. But, because she was a woman, another objection took its place. “You could…”
Nat bit her lip, swallowing the rest of the sentence—you could just take it, and be done—when he snarled.
