Page 113 of One For my Enemy

(Mourning.)

Roman was sitting in the dark when Dimitri came home late that night. He said nothing when Dimitri entered, merely watching him pause in the doorway. Dimitri, meanwhile, let his gaze travel over the outline of Roman’s silhouette beside the open window, folding his arms neutrally over his chest.

“What are you doing here?” Dimitri asked, irritated. “I thought I made it clear your presence was unwanted.”

Roman swallowed heavily. “I can’t sleep.”

“Not my problem.”

Dimitri turned to leave, but Roman leaned forward to rest his face in his hands.

“Dima,” Roman said, his pleading muffled within the lines of his palms. “Dima, please, I can’t sleep there. His room, it’s…” A swallow, and then again, softer, “Dima, please.”

Dimitri went stiff, pausing in place. Even he, in his anger, must have understood why Roman couldn’t be alone in the place Lev had once lived.

“Fine,” Dimitri said after a moment. “I need to discuss something with you anyway.”

Roman lifted his head, guarded. “What is it?”

“Stas Maksimov’s vacant seat on the Witches’ Borough. I’m going to run for it.”

It was said entirely without expression, matter-of-factly and without hesitation, and Roman blinked, entirely taken by surprise.

“Have you spoken with Papa?” he asked.

“No,” Dimitri replied.

“But—”

“I’m not asking his permission, or yours. I’m just informing you.”

“But Dima, why—”

“My reasoning is none of your business,” Dimitri cut in, entirely dispassionate. “I have an interest in being a Borough witch. I’ve already declared my intent to run. That’s all you need to know.”

“But—” Roman stared at him. “Papa already has connections with the Boroughs.”

“Yes. I know.”

“So why would you—”

“Because I want my own,” Dimitri said. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“I—”

Yes, Roman wanted to say. Yes, of course it was. Why would Dimitri Fedorov, son of Koschei the Deathless, deign to take on the role of inconsequential Borough witch? Perhaps it would be worth it to be an Elder, to sway votes, but Stas Maksimov’s position with the Boroughs had been limited at best. He’d had a vote, but no influence.

“I would like you to stay out of it,” Dimitri said, as Roman took a deep breath, unable to draw meaning from anything his brother was saying. “You’ve taken little care to keep your hands clean, Roma, and I prefer not to be viewed as a tool of Koschei’s enterprise.”

“Surely the Borough witches who know of you will suspect you of ulterior motives either way,” Roman said, frowning. “You can’t possibly think they’dwantyou to have that seat, do you?”

Dimitri shrugged. “Why should I care what the Borough witches want?”

“You should care what Papa wants.”

“Oh, should I?” Dimitri mocked, with a hardened laugh. “Interesting assessment, Roma. And why should I care what you want, for that matter?”

“Dima. Please, I know you’re…” Roman took care not to use the word ‘angry,’ knowing it hadn’t gone particularly well the last time. “I know I’m not who you wanted me to be,” he determined, cautiously moving forward. “I know I’ve let you down in ways I may never be able to resolve. But you’re still my brother,” he insisted, rising to his feet, “and—”

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