Page 70 of One For my Enemy

At the sound of her name, Marya Antonova smiled, holding the limp body of her sister loosely in her arms as she waited for Ivan to place his hand lightly on her shoulder. “You’re a good man, Ivan,” she murmured, “though you have some room for improvement as a bodyguard.”

As Ivan felt the cold evening air wrap around him—like an infant being swaddled, or a child in an embrace—he let out a laugh, half-crying, the sound of it just one more victim to be swallowed up by the night. And perhaps it was his imagination—perhaps not—but as they left, he could have sworn the shadows around them had flickered and danced, grotesquely satisfied.

III. 21

(The Heart.)

When Marya Antonova died, Dimitri Fedorov had placed her heart in a box, carefully, and settled it in his desk, waiting for a time he might be willing to part with it. She’d already told him, some seventeen years ago, what she wished from him; she wanted it buried, kept safe.

He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her—would never be—but it felt wrong, somehow, to keep her like that. To keep her frozen, as he was, and unable to prevent the sins committed by their families; the vendettas, and therefore the atrocities which would inevitably come next.

Dimitri carried the box mournfully in his hands, taking it out to the place he’d first told her he loved her. The ground there was hard, and digging wasn’t easy work—he did it by hand—but eventually he’d made a hole in the earth, just near the base of the tree in the garden they’d played in as children. He had confessed to her here; kissed her here; loved her here; and now he would bury her here, as she’d once requested from him.

He paused, holding the box penitently in his hand, and then frowned, noticing something strange.

Apulse,he realized with alarm, and opened the box, his fingers shaking around the latch.

The moment he wrenched the lid open, there was no mistaking it. The heart inside was beating, throbbing, each motion syncopated and succinct. There was no error. The marvel that was Marya Antonova’s heart had started again, somehow, and Dimitri watched, breathless, as it sent him a sign; a calling; a declaration of war.

Keep it safe for me, Dima. Don’t let anybody find it.

Slowly, Dimitri smiled, the arch of it glowing like the sun.

Marya Antonova’s heart had started a war. Somehow, it would end one, too.

III. 22

(Vitality and Organs.)

There was a dull thud against Brynmor Attaway’s custom coffee table just before he looked up with disgust, startled by the old man who’d materialized in his living room.

“What the—is that a—”

“Kidney? Yes.” The old man sat down across from Bryn with a wince, slowly lowering himself onto the cushions of the sofa. “Easy enough to live without,” he muttered, “though not particularly enjoyable to remove.”

“But—” Bryn blinked. “How is this—what do you—”

“You think I don’t know what happens behind my back, especially when it comes to my children?” the old man asked, and at that, Bryn realized the man before him was none other than the reclusive Koschei the Deathless, Fedorov patriarch.

“I’ve lost one son tonight,” Koschei said solemnly, “and I will not lose another. My son Roman’s debt to you is paid.”

Bryn sniffed at the kidney, his keen sense of equity getting the better of him.

“This is too much,” he said gruffly, knowing that magic belonging to a witch like Koschei was worth far more than that of his son; even his eldest son. “The deal is uneven. I should offer you something else. Information, perhaps.”

Koschei scoffed. “And what would I want to know from a magicless fae?”

“I’m not without my gifts,” Bryn said. “In fact, I am called The Bridge for more than one reason, Lord Deathless.”

“You can travel realms?” Koschei asked warily, and Bryn nodded, inclining his head.

“Have to say hello to mother from time to time, though I spent the better part of the day doing something else. Behind the veil,” he clarified, and Koschei scowled.

“Why would that matter to me?” Koschei asked, none-too-politely, and with a warning twitch of his fingers.

Suddenly, Bryn was far less concerned with the inequity of a deal than he was with teaching a witch, or perhaps several witches, a lesson about what—andwho—could be easily dismissed.

“It matters,” Bryn replied languidly, “because Marya Antonova isn’t there.”

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