Page 94 of One For my Enemy

Roman wearily held up a hand. “Stop. You’re exhausting.” He sat up, steepling his fingers at his mouth. “Bridge,” he said, glancing up briefly, “are ghosts real?”

“No,” Bryn said. “And neither are witches. Or fairies.”

“Not helpful,” Roman muttered.

“Nor is this. You realize I do have a job, don’t you?” Bryn said, gesturing pointedly around his office. “Not to mention that last I checked, you had one, too.”

“Not at the moment,” Roman said under his breath, but rather than explain himself, he immediately rose to his feet, pacing. “There must be ways people cross between realms. Aren’t there?” He spun, facing Bryn. “You do it.”

Bryn bristled. “Difficult as this is to believe, Roman, not everyone can do what I do. You are, after all, here formyadvice, aren’t you?”

Roman’s mouth tightened. “My brother may as well be stone,” he said flatly, “or I’d talk to him instead.”

Bryn delicately didn’t mention Dimitri was more like fraying rope than he was any sort of stone; it didn’t feel particularly relevant.

“I certainly can’t talk to him about—” Roman broke off. “About Lev, so—”

“Lev?” Bryn echoed. “I thought this was about Sasha.”

“It’s—” Roman grimaced. “You’re right,” he said wearily, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“You shouldn’t,” Bryn agreed, “but you are, aren’t you? So, say what you have to say, then. Get it out of your system.”

Roman considered it.

“If she’s… angry,” Roman said slowly, “could she come for me?”

“I’m sure anger supersedes death all the time,” Bryn permitted. “But that doesn’t mean everything that goes bump in the night is something to check for over your shoulder.”

This, too, Roman considered.

“Have you heard of rusalkas?” he asked. “Old World tales. Women who die near rivers and come back as demons—”

“There isn’t always truth behind every tale.”

“But sometimes there is!”

“Sometimes, yes,” Bryn permitted, though his interest was rapidly waning. “And what will you do if this Sasha-rusalka is hunting you, Roman?”

“Their purpose is to kill men,” Roman said.

“Well, sounds dreadfully heteronormative,” Bryn remarked. “Have you considered perhaps this folktale is merely another arm of the patriarchy?”

“You’re mocking me.” Roman’s mouth tightened, though he fell back into the chair. “Not helpful, Bridge.”

“I’m not your friend,” Bryn reminded him. “Ergo, my obligation to be helpful is highly dependent on my mood.”

To his displeasure, Roman arched a brow. “I take it my father’s magic isn’t serving you particularly well, then? I could help you, you know.” He sat back in his chair, half-smiling. “If I were so inclined, that is.”

Tempting. Still, “I doubt Koschei would be pleased to find you here.”

Roman bristled at that, an observation that Bryn carefully tucked away. “I’m not offering you anything.”

“No,” Bryn agreed, “which is wise, because I’ve offeredyounothing. You’re nearly as susceptible to deals as I am.”

“Please,” Roman scoffed, rising to his feet again. He was agitated this time; Bryn guessed he was finally leaving. “I’m not like you.”

“No,” Bryn agreed, “which is unfortunate, I imagine, at this particular moment. Do let me know if you run into your rusalka again,” he called after Roman, idly propping his feet on his desk. “Try not to die.”

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