Page 85 of One For my Enemy

(Strings, Reprise.)

“You owe Koschei a favor,” Dimitri said, “and therefore you owe me, as well.”

“You’re not Koschei yet,” snarled the Borough witch.

His name was Raphael Santos, and he didn’t owe Koschei a single favor.

He owed Koscheiseveralfavors.

Raphael was something of a jack of all trades, though he wasn’t marginally good at any of them. The only thing he was especially good at was shrugging on a persona, and in this case, it was the quiet demeanor of someone who was misusing his power out of sight. He was one of Koschei’s property managers, mostly known for having a strong hand with keeping tenants in check.

Unfortunately for Raphael, Dimitri wasn’t inexperienced with coercion. That was why Raphael was presently being dangled outside his own window with one of Dimitri’s hands wrapped tightly around his throat.

“Don’t consider me Koschei, then,” Dimitri suggested. “After all, I’m a different man. For example, I do not particularly care for people who don’t answer my questions,” he said, lifting a brow in warning. At Raphael’s unwilling scowl ofI’m listening,Dimitri continued, “I heard a rumor you worked with the Antonovas recently, didn’t you? They say Yaga’s come to see you, though I would have thought she had better taste. As far as I can tell, you’re not much use to anyone.”

“I told you already,” Raphael snarled, eyes growing red, “Marya isdead.” His eyes darted out to the street below. “Even if she were alive, I wouldn’t know where to find her. She finds me, she always findsme—”

It had been the same answer from the previous Borough witch, and the same answer from the dealer.

“Well,” Dimitri said, dragging Raphael back inside, “if you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”

Raphael fell to the floor and growled his disapproval, glaring up at Dimitri.

“You’re fucking insane,” he said.

Dimitri shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as pressed for time. Where can I find the Borough witch Stas Maksimov?”

At that, Raphael frowned. “You can’t,” he said. “Stas Maksimov is dead.”

Dimitri blinked. “What?”

“You haven’t heard?” Raphael said. “He died after Marya. They say it was your own brother who did it—though,” he added with a bitter lilt of humor, “per usual, with anything your family does, there’s no proof.”

Dimitri stared at him.

And stared.

And then said, brusquely, “You should remember that I’m not Koschei, Santos. Unlike him, I expect you to pay what you owe.”

Raphael Santos had a practice of holding back some percentages of the rent he collected on Koschei’s behalf. He’d been doing it for years. Koschei looked the other way because Raphael brought him access to some of his more questionable creatures, but Dimitri had no such hobbies. He was a collector of wills, not beings.

“Or else what?” Raphael grunted.

“Or else you’ll spend your remaining days wondering ‘or else what,’” Dimitri snapped. “Is that clear? But tell Marya Antonova I’m looking for her, and I’ll cross one favor off your list.”

“She’s dead,” Raphael said again, impatiently this time. “Aren’t you listening?”

“There are other realms through which to pass that message if you no longer care to exist in this one,” Dimitri warned, and Raphael flinched. “So. Are we understood?”

“Yes, Koschei,” Raphael snarled under his breath, and Dimitri dipped his head in acknowledgement, turning to leave.

It had been said with venom, he knew, but still.

The title rather suited him.

IV. 6

(Playing Fetch.)

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