The Salt-Black Tree (The Dead God's Heart) by Lilith Saintcrow

Author:Lilith Saintcrow [Saintcrow, Lilith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250791559
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group
Published: 2023-08-07T18:30:00+00:00

KIDNAPPING AND THEFT

A big green sign, a green-painted building—of course, where else would Spring halt after so much of California’s dust-taupe and dry olive, oleander and madrona, hills sage-scarred and golden? Even the hushed cathedral halls of the redwoods, dripping with solid inches of cold precipitation, might not please a creature of tender new velvet and gentle rains.

The rube behind the BP’s counter was a hefty middle-aged woman with a graying blonde braid, a polyester vest pronouncing her an hourly serf and her plastic name tag bleating POLLY; her tired customer-service grimace was faintly ameliorated by a breath of jasmine under the reek of spoiled milk, cheap beer, and stick pepperoni.

His devotchka hadn’t blessed this woman, but there was no sharp ozone of Spring’s lightning displeasure here either. Dmitri went aisle to aisle, sniffing, and when the glass doors whooshed wide the chime of someone’s here held a sharp edge. The stink of politsiya politruk wandered through like it had a right to stick its fat pink glistening nose in, but this far west it wasn’t Friendly—who was probably still slugging it out with Barry in Ohio, at least one of them enjoying the dance.

Muscle twitched and rolled under a tan uniform, and the blank mirror-face of the helmet reflected only lazily drifting smoke instead of the convenience store’s bright fluorescent glare. It was Chip, Friendly’s extremely southwestern cousin, with his gleaming leather gloves and his high shiny jackboots.

Chip liked to dress well, and that gleaming helmet was constantly polished by freeway wind. It must have irked him to be even slightly out of his jurisdiction—but making the rules, or enforcing them with neck-snapping violence, meant little things like the letter of the Law could be briefly set aside.

If necessary. If the payoff was good enough.

Bright packaging disguising cheap sugar and looming expiration dates ruffle-rustled uneasily, and tinny canned Muzak from dust-choked speakers grated on Dima’s ears. He hadn’t even touched so much as a candy bar yet. “Little bit out of your territory,” he said, quietly, and Chip’s helmet swiveled, a twitching, insectile movement. The rube behind the counter made a small sound, staring at what to her silly mortal gaze was a motorcycle cop who’d forgotten to take his headgear off.

“Konetsss,” Chip hissed. “Been looking for you.”

Oh, I’m sure you have. Dima retreated a step, behind an endcap stacked with beer boxes. Drinking warm piss on the road was a tradition in these parts. “Liar. You sniffing after little Drozdova.” Everyone always thought he was the cheat in the great game; it was partly amusing and mostly maddening. It was his job, his function, his meaning, and his pleasure to take what could be subtracted from others; you could ascribe it to mortal greed or even simple hunger.

But no, everyone blamed him, and the guardians of private property and corporate interest got all the pets and praise for “keeping the peace” and “protecting.” As if they ever protected anything but themselves, as if peace was anything other than their grinding profit out of the blood and meat of the unfortunate.

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