Page 31 of One For my Enemy

“I have faith in Lev, and anyway, we already know most of what we need to. We only need to know when and where to be able to stop it, and then—”

“Yaga will not take kindly to that,” Koschei warned. “Nor do you have much familiarity with her daughters. When I said to plant Levka, I meant to do it among strangers. Yaga’s witches are not to be trifled with.”

Roman bristled, sensing disapproval. “I know what I’m doing, Papa.”

“I hope so, Roman. I hope so.” Koschei scraped a hand over his cheek, thoughtful. “But is this what Dima would do, do you think?”

The words turned his second son’s expression cold. “Dima’s lying half-dead in his bed, Papa,” Roman said, parsing the words between his teeth. “Dima’s judgment is what got us here, isn’t it? So now, we’re doing what I would do.”

“I’m not questioning you, Romik,” Koschei told him carefully. “I simply miss my son. It has been a long time since I’ve had to act without him.”

“I’m your son,” Roman replied stubbornly. “I am equally your son.”

Koschei reached out with a sigh, gripping Roman’s chin in his hand to look at him; at the very image of what Koschei himself had been as a young man. Roman was as dark as he was, as determined. Dimitri had been both their opposites.

“Yaga has wronged me in many ways,” Koschei said quietly, “but nothing she’s ever done has been as spiteful as this. Yaga tried to take my Dima, and for that, I will never forgive her.” He paused, and then, “Do whatever it takes to bring Marya Antonova to justice, Roman, and her mother, too. Whatever it takes. I trust you to see that Yaga suffers as fully as I have.”

“Yes, Papa.” At that, Roman’s spirit seemed to return. He lifted his chin, freeing it from his father’s hold. “I swear, Papa, I’ll make Yaga and her daughters pay.”

“Good.” Koschei sat back wearily, feeling his age creak in his bones. “Do not fail me, Romik.”

“I won’t, Papa,” Roman promised him. “I won’t.”

II. 14

(Little Talks.)

“You seem troubled, Marya Antonova,” remarked The Bridge, pouring her a glass of his mother’s whisky. “How may I be of service?”

Marya spirited the glass away from him, closing her long fingers around it as his gaze furtively followed its path. “You can answer some questions I have,” she said, “which we both know you so dearly love to do.”

“Not without payment,” he corrected, watching her take a testing sip. “Though, perhaps if you managed to ask me nicely,” he mused, pouring a second glass for himself, “I might be more inclined.”

“Well, then,” said Marya, “I suppose we’re at an impasse,” and in response, The Bridge smiled broadly, toasting her as he fell into the seat opposite hers.

The man who was called The Bridge, known to his mortal clients and to Marya Antonova as Brynmor Attaway, had been given a moniker befitting his connection with all the various realms of Manhattan, magical and otherwise. The illegitimate son of a powerful (albeit human) state politician and a magicless species of fae, Brynmor, commonly called Bryn, worked various positions as a contract attorney for a Wall Street firm, a particularly conniving dealer among the more discreet members of the Witches’ Boroughs, and, most recently, as an informant for the Antonovas, with Marya as his handler. Bryn was mostly sought after for his knowledge (and proficiency with deals), as he lived among both primary currency-wielding species.

He was handsome, like all fae, and slippery, like all lawyers, but he could be informative when the circumstances were right. Marya, who had questions she needed answered, had planned, per usual, to make them so.

“I want to know what the Fedorovs have done with Dimitri,” she said.

“What makes you think I know?” countered Bryn, shrugging. “I know what everyone knows: That the eldest Fedorov has been dispatched, and the Antonovas are to blame.”

“But he isn’t dead,” Marya said, and to that, Bryn chuckled.

“Do you find that disappointing?”

“I find it,” Marya began, and eventually settled on, “Curious.”

“Well, then perhaps you should improve the quality of your murders. As far as I can tell, they don’t seem to stick.”

“If I wanted him dead, Bridge, he’d be dead.”

“You say that, and yet…”

Bryn trailed off pointedly, swinging one leg over the other, and Marya flicked her fingers, sending his glass of whisky dribbling down his shirt.

“Oops,” she murmured, and Bryn glared at her.

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