Daughter of Smoke and Bone(17)

She was old enough now that there was no risk of social services sniffing around, but as for friends, that was still a tightrope. Zuzana was the best friend she’d ever had, and she didn’t want to lose her.

She sighed. “I’m sorry about this week. It’s been crazy. It’s work—”

“Work? Since when do you work?”

“I work. What do you think I live on, rainwater and daydreams?”

She’d hoped to make Zuzana smile, but her friend just squinted at her. “How would I know what you live on, Karou? How long have we been friends, and you’ve never mentioned a job or a family or anything—”

Ignoring the “family or anything” part, Karou replied, “Well, it’s not exactly a job. I just run errands for this guy. Make pickups, meet with people.”

“What, like a drug dealer?”

“Come on, Zuze, really? He’s a… collector, I guess.”

“Oh? What does he collect?”

“Just stuff. Who cares?”

“I care. I’m interested. It just sounds weird, Karou. You’re not mixed up in something weird, are you?”

Oh no, thought Karou. Not at all. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I really can’t talk about it. It’s not my business, it’s his.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Zuzana spun on one platform heel and walked out into the rain.

“Wait!” Karou called after her. She wanted to talk about it. She wanted to tell Zuzana everything, to complain about her crappy week—the elephant tusks, the nightmarish animal market, how Brimstone only paid her in stupid shings, and the creepy banging on the other door. She could put it in her sketchbook, and that was something, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to talk.

It was out of the question, of course. “Can we please go to Poison?” she asked, her voice coming out small and tired. Zuzana looked back and saw the expression that Karou sometimes got when she thought no one was watching. It was sadness, lostness, and the worst thing about it was the way it seemed like a default—like it was there all the time, and all her other expressions were just an array of masks she used to cover it up.

Zuzana relented. “Fine. Okay. I’m dying for some goulash. Get it? Dying. Ha ha.”

The poisoned goulash; it was an old groaner between them, and Karou knew everything was okay. For now. But what about next time?

They set out, umbrella-less and huddled together, hurrying through the drizzle.

“You should know,” Zuzana said, “Jackass has been hanging around Poison. I think he’s lying in wait for you.”

Karou groaned. “Great.” Kaz had been calling and texting, and she had been ignoring him.

“We could go somewhere else—”

“No. I’m not letting that rodent-loaf have Poison. Poison’s ours.”

“Rodent-loaf?” repeated Zuzana.

It was a favorite insult of Issa’s, and made sense in the context of the serpent-woman’s diet, which consisted mainly of small furry creatures. Karou said, “Yes. Loaf of rodent. Ground mouse-meat with bread crumbs and ketchup—”

“Ugh. Stop.”

“Or you could substitute hamsters, I suppose,” said Karou. “Or guinea pigs. You know they roast guinea pigs in Peru, skewered on little sticks, like marshmallows?”

“Stop,” said Zuzana.

“Mmm, guinea pig s’mores—”

“Stop now, before I throw up. Please.”

And Karou did stop, not because of Zuzana’s plea, but because she caught a familiar flutter in the corner of her eye. No no no, she said to herself. She didn’t—wouldn’t—turn her head. Not Kishmish, not tonight.

Noting her sudden silence, Zuzana asked, “You okay?”

The flutter again, in a circle of lamplight in Karou’s line of sight. Too far off to draw special attention to itself, but unmistakably Kishmish.

Damn.

“I’m fine,” Karou said, and she kept on resolutely in the direction of Poison Kitchen. What was she supposed to do, smack her forehead and claim to have remembered an errand, after all that? She wondered what Zuzana would say if she could see Brimstone’s little beast messenger, his bat wings so bizarre on his feathered body. Being Zuzana, she’d probably want to make a marionette version of him.

“How’s the puppet project coming?” Karou asked, trying to act normal.

Zuzana brightened and started to tell her. Karou half listened, but she was distracted by her jumbled defiance and anxiety. What would Brimstone do if she didn’t come? What could he do, come out and get her?

She was aware of Kishmish following, and as she ducked under the arch into the courtyard of Poison Kitchen, she gave him a pointed look as if to say, I see you. And I’m not coming. He cocked his head at her, perplexed, and she left him there and went inside.

The cafe was crowded, though Kaz, blessedly, was nowhere to be seen. A mix of local laborers, backpackers, expat artist types, and students hung out at the coffins, the fume of their cigarettes so heavy the Roman statues seemed to loom from a fog, ghoulish in their gas masks.

“Damn,” said Karou, seeing a trio of scruffy backpackers lounging at their favorite table. “Pestilence is taken.”

“Everything is taken,” said Zuzana. “Stupid Lonely Planet book. I want to go back in time and mug that damn travel writer at the end of the alley, make sure he never finds this place.”