Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(29)

“Turn on the light.”

I sighed. “It is on.” There were half a dozen hundred-fifty-watt bulbs in the overhead fixture, enough that I could feel their heat slowly frying my brain. Not that it mattered. Troll eyesight is universally terrible, and no spell I’ve ever heard of seems to help.

There was a low-voiced conversation on the other side of the door. “You don’t have to whisper. I don’t speak troll,” I said helpfully.

“You should learn,” a familiar voice said as the door swung back.

I was still bent over, giving me a view of about a mile of shiny black leather encasing two massive thighs. A flick of the eye downward showed me a pair of high-heeled slides adding another three inches to an already towering height. Three gnarled toes peeked out the end, the usual number for a Bergtroll, or mountain troll. Although most don’t have nails painted high-gloss red.

Or so I liked to believe, anyway.

A trip upward showed me a very healthy bosom encased in a bright red vest, which was mostly hidden behind a flowing brown beard. It matched the hair framing the wide face above, which had been teased to within an inch of its life and streaked with platinum highlights. Its owner regarded me quizzically.

“Why you bent over like that?” Olga demanded.

Out of shock, I didn’t say. “No reason.”

I stood up and she pulled back, giving me access. The tiny mountain troll who had answered the door clambered back onto his stool, pushed over to one side where he could smoke in peace. He’d also been used as a doorman by the proprietors of the establishment’s former incarnation—a crowded gambling den. I guess it had gotten too crowded, because it had been replaced by a beauty parlor.

“New look?” I asked, settling myself onto an empty stool.

Olga plopped back onto a chair by a manicure station. The chair groaned, but held, and the manicurist went back to work on her thick, curved nails. “You should try,” she said, eyeing my short nails and casual hairstyle without favor. “You look like boy.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Most guys don’t think so.”

“I not see you married.”

“Hell has yet to freeze over,” I agreed.

She snorted. “What happened to that vampire?”

“Which one?” Lately, I had more in my life than I liked. Of course, since I liked zero, that wasn’t hard.

Olga spread her giant hands, turned them upward and made grabby motions. I grinned, thinking of Louis-Cesare’s expression if he ever found out that his name sounded like the troll word for “tight ass.” Not that it didn’t fit. On several levels.

“I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“You see him more often if you—” Olga looked at the manicurist. “What that word?”

“Gild the lily?” the girl asked, shooting me an appraising glance. “You’d look great with highlights.”

“I look like a skunk with highlights.” The curse of dark hair.

“You just haven’t had them done right,” she told me. “I’m a whiz at color. As soon as I’m done here, we could—”

“Maybe later,” I told her. I’d just gotten the blue.

I sketched the problem out for Olga while the rest of the rhinestones were appliquéd. “We don’t know that he’s here to sell it, but it seems like a good guess.” The war in the supernatural community had driven up the price of all defensive wards. And this was supposed to be the grandfather of them all.

She nodded and then just sat there. Unlike humans, trolls don’t have a problem with long silences. They also aren’t big in the idle chitchat department. Since I suck at that sort of thing myself, I found it oddly refreshing.

I flipped through a few magazines, went out front and bought a soda, came back in and perused the new stock of weapons in the back room. There was enough firepower to take out half of Brooklyn shelved alongside the peroxide and bags of hair extensions. Olga had needed a cheap place to start up her business again, and the proprietor had needed some security, so they’d worked out a partnership agreement. It was currently possible to come in for a shampoo and leave with the magical equivalent of a bazooka.

Most of the stuff I already had two of, but there was a nice selection of iron weapons I’d never really bothered to look at before. They were heavy and lacked the grace and flexibility of steel. There was nothing elegant here: no mirror-bright ceremonial blades, no inlaid grips, no fine-tooled scabbards. They were ugly, brutish weapons for ugly, brutish warfare.

I hefted a short sword that was more like a club, and liked its weight in my hand. It was well balanced, with a dull, slightly pitted surface. No one would see this coming on a dark night. I also selected a couple knives and a mace that must have weighed fifty pounds, and took them back into the main room.

And found Olga watching me. “What you do?”

“I need weapons.”

“You already have.”

“Yeah, but they don’t work too well on fey. And you may have heard, we had a little visit last night. By the way, thanks for the twins.”

Olga inclined her head. “What you do with these weapons?”

I thought that was an odd question. “What do I usually do with them?”

“You not go aftersubrand.”

It had been more of a statement than a question, but I answered it anyway. “I didn’t go after him this time. And how did you know he was here?”