Page 67 of One For my Enemy

Stas blinked, looking down, and realized it was Ivan speaking to him.

“Stas,” Ivan said, “don’t do this. Please.”

Stas looked down at his hands, realizing that he had power coiled inside them, the tips of his fingers glowing where his palm shook above Sasha, who hadn’t left Lev Fedorov’s side. She only looked up at him with blankness; with a vacant sense of apprehension.

“I wasn’t,” Stas began, and swallowed hard, curling his hand into a fist and taking two steps back. “I wasn’t doing anything. I wasn’t—this isn’t—”

“Back up, Stas,” Ivan warned, his eyes wide, and Stas hated him. Abruptly, he hated Ivan more than anyone in the world. More than Dimitri. More than Roman, more than Lev, more than anyone who bore the name Fedorov at all. Ivan was the one who’d failed, and countless times, too; failed to keep Masha safe. Failed to keep Sasha away from Lev Fedorov. Failed, failed, failed again, in ways that Marya would never have forgiven. Failed her, and Stas by extension, and now—and now—

“STAS!” Ivan shouted, throwing up a hand as Stas raised his own in anger, but for the second and final time that night, he failed to see until it was too late.

It was only after Stas heard a shot ring out in the night that he realized it was he who’d been the target. He looked down, watching a stain of crimson spread across his chest, and fell to his knees.

“Masha,” he whispered, reaching for the familiar fabric of her coat, and as his past caught up with him again, he let out a final breath of relief, his cheek colliding blissfully with the bloodied ground below.

III. 19

(Blood for Blood.)

“Hello, Koschei.”

The old man turned slowly, tearing his attention from the empty ring to look over his shoulder.

“Yaga,” he said simply.

Wards, even the best of them, would not have kept her out. He had always guessed as much.

She tilted her head, removing her gloves one finger at a time to reveal crimson painted nails, each one a telling glimmer of perfection. “Perhaps on an occasion such as this one,” Yaga suggested, “we might do away with pretense?”

Koschei stiffened. “Ms. Antonova,” he said, and Yaga’s mouth twitched, amused.

“Perhaps we might discard formality as well,” she beckoned, “Lazar.”

His grimace deepened. “Marya,” he returned, and only then did she permit a smile. “And what occasion is this, then?”

“Ah. Death, of course.” He said nothing, and she continued without any noticeable change in her expression. “It seems your sons have run amok, Lazar,” she commented. “They’ve forced my daughters into murder, or else into inadvisable declarations of need.”

Koschei permitted a grunt of something dispassionate. “Your daughters have always lured my sons to madness. Daughter, that is. And you.” He glanced up swiftly. “You Antonova women are a curse.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you,” Yaga permitted, “but flattery is hardly necessary, under the circumstances.”

“Why are you here, Marya?” Koschei said, irritated. “Twelve years’ worth of silence suited me well enough.”

“My youngest daughter sought restitution for my Masha’s death,” Yaga said, and Koschei flinched. “One of your sons owed it to her.”

Koschei didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of asking what she knew. “That’s an Old World law,” he said instead, and Yaga shrugged.

“It is,” she agreed. “My daughters are well schooled, Lazar. They know their history, their origins, what makes them witches. Did you think I would teach them nothing of what they are?”

“Not everything needs to be taught,” Koschei said warily.

“Agree to disagree,” Yaga said, “and I know perfectly well you cannot possibly tell me I am not owed something for my loss. One of you killed Masha,” she reminded him, voice low, and Koschei’s throat swelled with apprehension. “One of you killed her, and for that, I will accept no price less than blood for blood.”

“You can’t have Dima,” Koschei said quickly, reflexively. “I know what Masha was to you, Marya, and I’m sorry for your loss, but if you touch Dimitri—”

“I wouldn’t,” Yaga assured him coolly. “I’m not the one who goes around killing when it suits me, Koschei. I’m generally too clever for brutality—or at least, I was,” she murmured, “until tonight.”

Koschei looked up, fixing his dark gaze on hers. “How do you know it was one of my sons who killed Masha?”

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