Page 60 of One For my Enemy

“I was going to, but Dima—” Roman let out a growl of frustration. “I don’t know what he did with her body.”

“Well, I only need an organ, don’t I?” Bryn remarked. “A liver? A kidney?” He paused, reaching over to take a loud slurp through the straw of some kind of smoothie. “A heart?” he asked, once he’d taken an indulgent sip.

Roman grimaced. “I could use your help, you know. I can still get it to you, I know I can, but not if you—” His mouth tightened. “Not if one of the Antonovas kills me first.”

Bryn shrugged. “Well, then you have until one of them kills you, or until you give up your brother,” he offered neutrally, “to hold up your end of the deal. Perhaps when you’re no longer in my debt, I might feel more inclined to take your side.”

“Bridge, for fuck’s sake—”

Bryn sighed loudly, picking up his book. “Oh, relax,” he murmured, tossing a piece of paper towards Roman that listed an address and a time. “I eventually come through, don’t I?”

To that, Roman merely turned on his heel, doubting The Bridge deserved an answer.

III. 11

(A Cup of Tea.)

The tiredness of magic was unlike any tiredness Baba Yaga had ever known, even after years of raising seven children and running a household for a man who’d never once had to lift a finger. Magic was not unlike any other flex of muscle; it was a grueling task, physically and mentally, just like the use of any limb. It didn’t come from nothing, and it had a price, a cost, a strain. To use it was to drain oneself, though she tried not to let it be too obvious as she wearily joined her youngest daughter in the kitchen.

“How are you feeling, Sashenka?” Yaga asked, sitting across from Sasha at the table. Marya had not wanted Sasha to do this, Yaga knew, and now she felt a moment of disconcerting unease, wondering if her daughter would disapprove—orif,perhaps, Yaga might not have lost Marya at all, had she not been so insistent.

Sasha blinked, dragging her attention from wherever it had been. “Ah, fine, Mama. I’m not anticipating any problems,” she said, with a faint grimness Yaga assumed she must have learned from her older sister. Marya had always had a fitting sense of certainty, and Sasha had learned it well.

“There is one thing, though, Mama,” Sasha ventured slowly, clearing her throat. “I think it was one of the Fedorov brothers who killed Masha.” She paused, biding her time before she added, “I think it was Roman, the middle one.”

The vulture, Masha had called him. Eyes of death.

“Oh?” Yaga posed carefully, waiting.

“Yes,” Sasha said. “I set a trap for him.”

That Yaga had not expected. “You did what, Sashenka?”

“Just leave it to me, Mama,” Sasha told her, not answering right away. “I know I may have… disappointed you, in the past, but in this, I will not fail you.” She paused for another moment before adding, “The Bridge knows who killed Masha, Mama, I’m sure of it. I trust that he’ll lead them to me.”

Of that, Yaga was less certain; she had never trusted The Bridge. He’d always felt like a piece of the Old World that she was most eager to leave behind, only Marya had liked him. She’d found the blur of his morality amusing.He’s not so complicated,Marya had always said,and he’s useful. Like an instrument that plays sweetly in the right hands.

“I see,” Yaga said slowly.

“It has to stop, Mama,” Sasha continued. “This hatred between our families, one way or another, it has to end. Better this way. Better it ends on our terms.” She looked up slowly, challengingly, her grey eyes rising beneath the framing of her lashes. “My terms,” she clarified.

Yaga paused, considering this, and rose to her feet.

“I’m going to make us some tea,” she said, and Sasha sighed.

“Mama, did you hear me? I just said—”

“I know what you said, Sashenka,” Yaga said. “I heard you. I understand you. You wish to take vengeance on your sister’s killer, and if I were a wiser woman, perhaps I would stop you. Perhaps I would remind you that an eye for an eye will satisfy no one, or tell you how a journey of revenge threatens two graves in the end. But seeing as I am grieving, and angry—seeing how I am filled with enmity, and very well gnashing fury between my teeth—I’m simply going to make us some tea and remind you how best to kill a witch,” she murmured, “because at the moment, I feel quite certain blood will satisfy me.”

“But this will be the end, won’t it?” Sasha pressed. “Promise me, Mama. Once I find Masha’s murderer, our troubles with Koschei and his sons are over. It ends there.”

“It does,” Yaga swore to her youngest, and reached out, cupping her hand around Sasha’s cheek.

This, her baby, was her most hesitant child; the only one whose heart Yaga felt she didn’t truly know. She wondered if it might have been a mistake not to try to know it sooner.

“I would hate to lose you, Sashenka,” Yaga murmured, and drew her thumb over her daughter’s lips, tracing the shape of them. “Are you afraid?”

“I’m not afraid,” Sasha said, and as with all her daughters, Yaga believed her.

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