Page 154 of One For my Enemy

He glanced down at his watch; time to get going. The nights were growing longer now, hot and muggy and restless without sleep. Still, there was a moment, Lev knew, as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, when he could see the blend of night and day; the sun, the moon, and the stars. There was a moment when all of it aligned, and he didn’t want to miss it.

“Be well, Dima,” he said to his brother, wherever he was. “Keep him in line, Masha.”

He either imagined a nod, or felt it.

Then Lev Fedorov turned, half-smiling, and let his feet carry him down the sidewalk, traveling the newness of his path.

THE EPILOGUE

It was a strange thing, having a witch’s magic. For a time, Brynmor Attaway really thought it wouldn’t take. Surgeries, after all, went wrong all the time. Transplants (which typically involved far more precision than a vaguely suicidal witch blindly digging around with her bare hands) had consequences. Bryn waited to become ill, or for the electric buzz in his veins to fizzle out, crackling like power failure. It would have been enough, Bryn reasoned, to have made the effort, even if it couldn’t last. Which, of course, it wouldn’t—couldn’t possibly.

He waited for failure, but oddly, it never came.

“Well, that’s rather a nice thing, don’t you think?” asked his mother.

She wore her hair in a crown of braids around her head, like usual. She still looked sweetly eighteen, like she had his entire life, which was becoming more and more hilarious to Bryn the more he came to visit. What an ageless little demon she was.

“I’m not opposed,” he said. She lifted the kettle from where she stood barefoot in her kitchen, and he paused her, lifting a finger. Fairies were attuned to subtle gestures; he was glad to be here with her rather than with someone for whom he’d have to clear his throat, or make an otherwise unsubtle gesture. “Let me,” he offered simply, and levitated it over, depositing the hyacinth tea into their respective cups.

“Show off,” she groused, flouncing into her chair. She seemed secretly pleased in the way young women were usually pleased; as if they enjoyed being in on the joke, but were loath to admit it. “How are the others, then? Your witch friends.”

“My witch friends?” Bryn echoed doubtfully, raising the teacup to his lips.

“They’re witches. They’re your friends. Don’t be difficult, Brynmor.”

“My alleged ‘witch friends’ seem to enjoy my difficulty, Mother.”

“Don’t call me that. It makes me feel old.”

“Mum. Mama.”

“Stop.”

He sipped his tea, smiling into the cup.

“How’s your father?” she asked after a moment, and then brightened. “Dead yet?”

“Not yet, Mom.” Senator Attaway, like most of his kind (i.e., white male politicians) would live to see a decent age. Bryn set the tea down, adding, “I’m sure you’ll see him soon.”

She sighed dreamily. “I can’t wait. He was such an utter delight.”

Bryn shrugged. “Well, he’s human. He’s clinging to life, as they tend to do.”

“Hm, unfortunate. And the others?” she asked, abruptly remembering what he’d been there to discuss. “How’s the young one?”

“Lev?” Bryn guessed, and she nodded. “He holds the cursed Borough position now. The one previously held by Dimitri Fedorov,” he clarified, “and by Marya’s husband before that.”

She lifted a brow. “Cursed, really?”

“Stupid, I know.” Bryn rolled his eyes. “Imagine thinking something is cursed simply because others would die for it. What’s love, then?”

His mother fixed him with her brightest smile.

“Idiocy,” she said, “in its loveliest form.”

“What a clever fae you are,” Bryn remarked into his cup, half-smiling.

She gave a pleasant shrug. “How’s the other one?”

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