Page 130 of One For my Enemy

“No, I haven’t,” Yaga warily agreed. “I’ve always had you, Masha. I do not forget that.”

“Yes,” Marya said. “You do forget. You forget that while I have always been on your side, you have never truly been on mine.” She glanced up stiffly. “We have both only ever worked for you, haven’t we, Mama?”

“Masha,” Yaga said, troubled by her daughter’s tone, but Marya shook her head.

“I kept your hands clean for twelve years, Baba Yaga,” said Marya Antonova. “But now, these filthy hands are taking what’s theirs.”

She rose to her feet, and oddly, only one thought occurred to Yaga then; her own words coming back to her, sharp and bitter and full of slashes, stinging her chest with the irony.

My daughters are diamonds. Nothing is more beautiful. Nothing shines brighter.

Nothing will break them,and worse, with a twist of the knife:Because I am the one who taught them how to be this cold.

“I hope your peace serves you well,” Marya said, “because I am no longer willing.”

And then, with a wave of her hand, she gathered the tablets from the workshop, taking them with her as she went.

V. 14

(Do Not Call Her.)

As far as roommates went, there were worse ones than Eric Taylor. Largely because he spent most of his time in pseudo-forced captivity, but still, Lev figured plenty of hostages would be happy to make a fuss if given the opportunity. Not Eric. He seemed to be enjoying his role, for whatever reason. It only occurred to Lev much later that perhaps Eric hadn’t had enough friends to recognize Lev wasn’t technically one.

“How was the meeting?” Eric would ask when Lev arrived back at the penthouse, laden down with dirty money he would eventually pass over to Marya. What she was doing with it, he had no idea. She was intensely secretive, but it made no difference to him. If there was one thing Lev Fedorov trusted, it was that Marya Antonova knew how to get what she wanted, whatever that was.

“Fine,” Lev would say, because it always was. There wasn’t a lot of sophistication in magical drug dealing; certainly not any more than any errand he’d run for his father. The product, as far as Lev could see, was flawless; the buyers were addicts. Complexities, then, were slim. “Another day, another client.”

That, and another visit to Marya.

“You’re good at this,” Marya noted, dark gaze watching Lev slide the money across the desk, as he usually did. “Why do you think that is?”

“People seem to like me,” Lev said, as Marya’s mouth quirked.

“Not as universal a gift as you might think,” she noted.

“Maybe not,” he agreed, “but then again, I’ve never cursed anyone half to death.”

She laughed. She was the sort of person who could laugh at history; discard it, throw it away, never at its mercy. “True.”

He didn’t ask when he could see his brothers. It wasn’t Marya who was preventing him from doing so, truth be told. He didn’t ask about his father, either. Lev, unlike Marya Antonova, wasn’t so quick to part from the truth. Falsity had never been his strength, and he doubted he could lie to them, successfully or not.

He did, however, ask frequently about The Plan.

“What are you doing?” he would press her. “With the money. Why work so hard to grow this, when you don’t seem to care what it brings you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Solnyshko,” Marya would say. “In this world, money is a far more compelling magic. The more of it you have, the more untouchable you are—it doesn’t need to beforsomething, it just is.”

“Maybe so,” Lev would say, “but not for you.”

And she would touch his cheek, shaking her head, and send him back to Eric with the promise that he would understand everything soon enough.

“Consider it a favor,” she would say. “Someday, you will know why I have done all of this, and you will know it was worth it, worth everything. Someday, when you replay all your little questions knowing what you know, you’ll feel silly for even asking. But for now, I think having answers will simply weigh you down.”

She wasn’t unkind, but she was firm. Not unlike Sasha, who would have had to learn it from somewhere. When the thought of Sasha’s origins would inevitably occur to Lev, he would think longer of her; of the future she’d said they were supposed to have, and then he would think: At least Eric Taylor wasn’t the worst roommate in the world.

Most of the time, actually, Eric was stoned.

“You witches,” Eric said deliriously, a tablet settling into the span of his tongue. “You’re all totally fucked.”

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