Page 69 of One For my Enemy

But his golden son was dark with fury, haunted and shadowed with pain.

“How has your hatred served you, Papa?” Dimitri asked him, gnashing the words between his teeth. “More than a decade ago a woman refused you—refused the offer of the great Koschei the Deathless—and yet you have brought nothing but devastation since then. The Antonovas built an empire, they built an enterprise, and what have we done?”

At his father’s silence, Dimitri shook his head.

“What are we,” Dimitri spat pridefully, “but hardened men and loyal sons who’ve destroyed each other and ourselves, all for the pittance of your approval?”

“Dima,” Koschei sighed, reaching out for him. “Dima, please.”

“I’ve lost enough today,” Dimitri told him, shrinking back from his father’s touch. “I’ve lost enough, and now my faith in you. I hope the taste of your peace is bitter with what you’ve done.”

“Dima,” Koschei begged, rising to his feet. “Dima—”

But Dimitri, who had never turned his back on his father before, was already gone, and in his absence Koschei turned to the figures in the shadows, gritting his teeth.

“Be sure that Baba Yaga keeps to her end of the deal,” he snapped to the shadow creatures, who flickered in obedience.

Then the shadows crept out of the room, sliding eerily along the floor.

III. 20

(Peace.)

It was almost impossible for Ivan to tell what had happened first. Perhaps it had been Stas who’d raised a hand, aiming it somewhere between Ivan and Sasha, his target unknown; and then perhaps Roman, who had used a wild burst of magic to free himself from his restraints that nearly blasted aside the entire pillar, had recovered his gun, using it to shoot Stas in the chest. Perhaps it was the opposite. Perhaps the world itself had ended somehow and now Ivan stood dizzied among a sea of bodies, staring at the smoking barrel of Roman Fedorov’s gun. Perhaps none of it was even real.

Ivan raised his hands slowly, glancing at Sasha, who stood with her hand over her mouth, white-faced. Roman, meanwhile, looked vacantly at Ivan, lips parted.

“Sometimes,” Roman said, swallowing as he gestured to Stas, “death does bring peace.”

Ivan blinked, and Roman carefully bent to place the gun on the ground, sliding it towards Sasha.

“So, will you kill me, then?” Roman asked her, rising to his feet. It was less a request this time than a question.So, will you kill me?as easily as if he’d asked,So, will you be able to sleep tonight? Will you be able to live with all of this? Can you exist in this world as you once did? Will you ever be the same?

“No,” Sasha said, and Roman’s dark brow twitched; surprised, perhaps bemused. “Not that I don’t wish to,” she said bitterly, letting her hand fall at her side. “I would think your death no less than you deserved. But I couldn’t—” She swallowed hard, lips pressed thin. “I can’t.” Her gaze fell on Lev Fedorov, who was only just beginning to lose the youthful flush in his cheeks. “He asked me not to.”

Roman opened his mouth, about to speak, but Ivan stepped between them, shaking his head.

“Run,” Ivan advised, gesturing, and for a moment, Roman merely froze.

Then he turned, not saying a word, and disappeared into a glimmer of nothing; as if he’d slipped and fallen out of time and space.

Ivan paused for a moment, uncertain what to do first—uncertain where to go, or who to move—when he heard footsteps behind him and turned, recognizing the familiar gait. The familiar tap of heels, which were unmistakable, and the lungful of rosewater he associated with only one person on earth.

The figure, which must have been a figment of Ivan’s imagination, strode slowly over to Sasha, who stared up at it with confusion, equally bewildered.

“How is this—how are you—”

The figure tapped once against Sasha’s temple, hard, a bright light bursting out from beneath the impact, and Sasha’s knees buckled, collapsing beneath her. Then the figure reached down, slowly, and carefully lifted her, one hand slid under Sasha’s knees while the other meticulously propped itself beneath her chest.

As Sasha rose in the air, carried in the arms of what could only be a mirage—or else a total stranger—the shadows swarmed around them and the figure itself turned to Ivan, expectant.

“Is she…dead?” Ivan asked in disbelief, staring at Sasha’s glassy eyes. “Did you just—”

“Yes. For now. Are you coming?” the figure asked him softly, and Ivan blinked, stunned.

Perhaps the worldhadended.

“Yes,” he said eventually, because no other answer would come to his tongue. Figment of his imagination or not, that was always his answer when she asked: “Yes, of course, Marya. As you wish.”

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