Page 147 of One For my Enemy

Sasha and Lev met Ivan outside the meeting hall of the Witches’ Boroughs, hurrying towards him. He stood amid a dull clamor from inside, scrapes of chairs and argumentative voices stretching incomprehensibly towards the street.

“What’s going on?” Sasha asked, Lev half a step behind her, and Ivan shook his head, angling himself in her direction.

“Nothing. It’s only some excitement, it will—” Abruptly, Ivan blinked, registering Lev’s appearance. “Pass,” he finished with confusion, and then, somewhat guiltily, “Oh.” A pause. “You both, you’re—”

“My sister’s planning something,” Sasha said urgently, drawing Ivan’s attention back to her. “Do you know where she is?”

“No,” Ivan confessed, looking grimly apprehensive. “But Dimitri just said something about going to find her, and—” He paused, digging into his pocket. “She gave me this, if it helps. I don’t know what it contains.”

Ivan handed her an envelope from inside his coat, which Sasha could see hadn’t been opened. Leave it to a man like Ivan to carry a mysterious package for her sister without ever asking why.

“Who was it meant for?” Lev asked, and Ivan gave a small gesture over his shoulder.

“The Boroughs,” he said. “They’re up in arms about Dimitri’s disappearance at the moment, so I haven’t had a chance to hand it over, but—”

“Lev,” Sasha said, nudging him as she drew out a handwritten letter. “Look at this.”

Lev skimmed the page, then frowned.

“Did I—” He blinked. “Did I read that wrong?”

Sasha shook her head, tracing the lines of her sister’s handwriting under her thumb.

This life will try to leave you empty-handed,she heard her sister say,unless you learn to strike first.

“No,” Sasha said, and looked up. “We have to find her. Now.”

V. 24

(Choices.)

Roman stepped forward, the tip of the spatha pressing a thin white line into his father’s throat. A flick of his wrist would do it. Barely an inch. Marya watched him, waiting, and the moment Koschei relented, his shoulders falling in resignation—the moment the Deathless had accepted his death—she caught the edge of the blade in her hand, letting the metal bite into her palm.

“Very good, Koschei,” she murmured to him, and his lungs abruptly filled, launching him unsteadily back a step. “Drop it,” she said to Roman, who seemed to wake from a trance the moment she spoke, hastily letting the sword fall. He stared at his own shaking hands, looking as if he hardly believed they belonged to him, and Marya swung the spatha up in the air, catching the pommel deftly.

“I thought,” Roman said, swallowing. “I thought you wanted me to—”

“To kill him? No, Roma. This is much better,” Marya said, half-smiling at him in approval. “Death is so easy, isn’t it? Hardly anything at all, compared with other things—like the necessity of choices. You chose yourself over your father,” she clarified, aiming the blade at Roman before swinging it pointedly to Koschei, “andyouchose one son over the other. You both chose, as I once chose, and now you’ve both known loss as I have known it, because neither of you will ever forget what you’ve done.”

She could see on Koschei’s face he understood as much; already, his skin was ragged and sallow with grief. He’d seen his own death and done nothing to prevent it. He’d confessed to his own son that he loved one more, and though Roman would never understood what Marya had observed from watching—Roman, after all, would not have noticed the lie Koschei had told to secure his own fate—he would always remember the words:I love Dima more.

“Still,” Marya said, and stepped forward with the sword in her hand, transforming it quickly to a knife. Easier to maneuver, and she was no gruesome Fedorov assassin. She had an Antonova’s delicate hands. “I have vendettas to resolve, Koschei. You understand,” she said, pressing the side of the blade to his neck herself. “I couldn’t leave the satisfaction to Roma.”

“No,” Roman said, stepping forward. “No, don’t—”

Marya’s hand shot out, slamming him against the wall.

“Stay there,” she told him. “You made your choice. Live with it.” She slid the edge of the knife higher, nicking a bit of Koschei’s silver hair. “My turn,” she murmured, and Koschei gave her a bitter smile.

“You’ve really taken everything from me, Marya,” he murmured.

“Yes. Like you once did.” The metal of the blade was kissing his neck, slithering up to his jaw. “And now you can’t stop me, Koschei. You can’t hurt me. Your own son has made it so you can do nothing to touch me or my family, and you have no choice but to lie at my feet and rot to nothing if that’s the fate I choose for you.”

She leaned forward, speaking in his ear.

“You destroyed all three of your sons,” she whispered to him. “One by one, Koschei the Deathless, you broke them, and now none of them will mourn you. They’ll only mourn themselves and what they might have been without you, without your greed. Without your darkness.”

She didn’t mention what had become of her sisters. Whatwouldbecome of them, corrupted by the world in which they lived. She didn’t mention that the path Koschei had given his sons wasn’t the only one responsible for damage, as she’d made her own arrangements to deal with the rest. Koschei’s death would only solve half a problem; Marya Antonova, ruthlessly effective as she was, had made arrangements for what remained.

---