Page 142 of One For my Enemy

She placed a cool hand on Bryn’s back, pulling his shirt loose from where it had been tucked into his trousers. Slowly, her fingers crept under the fabric, running comfortingly over his spine as he shivered, unsure what was to come.

“I can talk to her for you,” Marya continued to Roman, “if you’ll do something for me.”

Abruptly, her nails dug into Bryn’s back, leaving him to bite down on a hiss of pain. He twisted around, staring down at her with displeasure, and she shook her head.

“Quiet, please,” she warned him. “I’m making a deal with Roma.”

Bryn had the distinct sensation her witchy little fingers had dug in under his skin.

“I just want Sasha to know it wasn’t my fault she’s dead,” Roman said, voice toneless. “I just need someone to show her it wasn’t my fault.”

“You know, it’s your faultI’mdead,” Marya said. From the light of his study, Bryn was certain the scar over her heart was showing; he was positive Roman could see the carved-out edge of what he’d caused. “So, whose fault is Sasha’s death, Roma, if not yours?”

Something twisted in Bryn’s internal organs. He bit down on a yell.

“It’s my father’s fault,” Roman whispered, and then Marya wrenched Bryn’s insides, scalding him from the inside out as he let out a terrible shout, bracing himself on his desk.

“Yes, it is,” Marya confirmed, and then, all at once, the pain had stopped. She withdrew her hand, giving Bryn a brief pat on the back. “All done,” she told him. “Now it’s yours to use.”

He stared at her, unsure what to say, but she had already turned back to Roman.

“A knife, Bridge?” Marya requested. “No, wait. A sword.” She turned to face him. “Do you know what a spatha is?”

Bryn blinked. “The gladiator sword?”

“Yes, that,” she said, and from a distance, Roman turned pale. “Do you know it?”

“I know what it is,” Bryn said impatiently, “but I don’t have a fucking spatha sitting around my office, Marya—”

“Summon it.” She slid him a sidelong glance. “Put your hand out,” she said, gesturing for him to mimic her, “and call it forth. I know just where there’s one you can use,” she added, with another fleeting glance at Roman. “Koschei has one in his warehouse.”

“But I can’t—”

“You can now,” Marya said, beckoning again. “So, get to it, Bridge.”

Brynmor Attaway thought, as he often did, how dearly he had always hated witches. He hated anyone for whom things came easily. Sure, things came to him easily enoughnow,but the title ‘Esquire’ after one’s name tended to take care of that matter for him. People were free to dislike him as they pleased, but every minute they spent talking to him still had an exorbitant dollar amount attached. He had value, even if he lacked worth. Witches, on the other hand, were worthy in any amount. A little twitch of a finger could alter the physicalities of the universe. For an entire shitty lifetime, Bryn had pressed and pressed and pressed against the laws and customs of reality and still risen up empty-handed.

But today, a witch asked him to fetch an outrageous sword from probably miles away and he had held out his hand as if that request were reasonable, curling his fingers up as if it were something within the realm of possibility. He imagined closing his fingers around it, still only half-convinced. Was this really how easy it was? Had he never actually overestimated the ease of witchery and, in fact,underestimatedit? He crooked a finger, then another. Imagined the girth of the spatha’s pommel in his hand; the heft, the weight.

Something in his body jerked to life—stretched out, yawned, and said,finally.

Then Bryn opened his eyes to find the spatha in his grip, and slowly, Marya Antonova smiled.

“Give it to Roma,” she said.

Bryn didn’t want to.I did this,he thought. He was the sort of person who hung evidence of his value around his office. Surely it should go somewhere for other people to see.Look, look what I’ve done.

“You can make another one,” Marya said impatiently. “Give that one to Roma.”

Already, Roman looked seven types of dead. Bryn, who’d seen more types of that, was certain of it. Still, a deal was a deal. Witch organs, fae blood. The blood won out. He handed the spatha to Roman, who took it numbly.

“What are you doing?” forced itself blankly through Roman’s lips.

“Playing a game,” Marya said, shrugging. “Running an experiment. How badly did you want me dead, Roma Fedorov?”

“Badly enough to do it myself,” he answered.

“Yes, true. I admire that sort of initiative,” she said. “Maybe in another life we might have been friends.”

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