Page 40 of One For my Enemy

“Yaga,” Ivan called softly, tapping lightly on her door. “Yaga, it’s Ivan.”

The door opened slowly, revealing Baba Yaga in the frame.

“There’s only one reason you would be here at this time of night,” she noted without preamble, and he shuddered at the premonition.

“Marya isn’t home,” Ivan said. “She’s not with Stas, or with Katya or Irka. She’s not here, in your house.” He swallowed heavily. “I failed her, Yaga. I feel it. I can feel it in my bones.”

Yaga stared into the space between them.

“Get my coat,” she said eventually.

Ivan didn’t work for her, but for Marya’s sake, he fetched it anyway, drawing it from the coat closet and holding it out for Yaga as she stepped within the garment, her thin arms sliding effortlessly through silken chasms of fabric.

“Come,” Yaga beckoned. “Let us find her, then.”

II. 19

(Promises, Promises.)

Before that night, Dimitri Fedorov would have given his life to hold Marya Antonova again, even for one last time. Had he known that doing so would costherlife, though, he would have gladly sent her away without pause for consideration. One minute she’d been in his arms, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she been real, beenhere,been wanting? Only now—

“Masha!” he shouted helplessly, not even noticing the injury to himself as she fell backwards, the tip of the sword slicing against him as it burst free from her chest. “Roma,” he gasped, holding a rapidly failing Marya in his arms to look up at his second brother, blinking in disbelief. “Roma, what have you done?”

Roman said nothing, only giving the sword a sharp tug. It was a spatha from their father’s collection of cursed weaponry, a thin gladiator’s weapon designed for killing for sport. It didn’t come free at first; it had been lodged through Marya’s spine, piercing her heart, and had come cleanly through the other side, leaving her to stagger backwards as Roman yanked it, hard. One pull, and then another. It was a horrifying spectacle, but only once Roman had pulled the sword free did he finally let the pommel fall from his hand, leaving it to fall to the floor with a clatter.

“Roma,” Dimitri hurled at him, aiming his brother’s name like an arrow as he tried desperately to hold what still remained of Marya, pressing his hands to the bleeding. “Roma, what have you done? Masha,please—”

Marya’s head fell back, a garnet too dark, too rich to be blood staining the neat fabric of her dress. Dimitri, too weak to stand, struggled to hold her upright, ultimately abandoning the effort and sliding to the floor to let her collapse against him, limp.

“Masha, stay with me,” he said to her, trying to help her up; trying anything, trying everything. “Roma, help me, I can’t—I can hardly move, I need you t-”

“No,” Roman said, unflinching. “After what she’s cost us? No, Dima. Believe me, I’m the one saving you.”

That, more than anything, was unfathomable. “She brought meback,you idiot!” Dimitri yelled, torn between fury and pain. “What have you done, Roma? Yaga will have your fucking head for this—”

“Why?” Roman snapped, folding his arms over his chest. “Do you intend to turn me in this time, Dima? This was what was always going to happen.” A threatening pause, and then, “I told you, there was always a plan.”

Dimitri stared at him. “Roma,” he strained to say, the numbness of dread settling in his limbs. “Roma, you can’t… How far does this go? I thought this was aboutmoney,you told me this was a simple matter of settling adebt—”

“Nothing’s ever just money, Dima,” Roman said bluntly. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t understand everything I’ve done for you, for us. You’ve always had things so easy, haven’t you?” he laughed bitterly. “Always had everything handed to you, never earned. You don’t know what it’s like to fight for what’s yours.”

Dimitri gaped at him, disbelieving.

“We’re brothers,” he said blankly, still holding Marya’s head protectively to his chest, as if he could transfer whatever life remained from his heart to hers. “Everything mine is yours, Roma. Everything!”

But Roman only shook his head. “You misunderstand, as you always have. Power isn’t given, Dima,” he said. “Power is taken. The most dangerous of the Antonova witches is dead now, and who will Papa thank for that, hm? Certainly not you.” He cracked a hardened smile, backing slowly away. “You would have ruined all of us for her sake, you would have thrown it all away, but I won’t let you do it.”

“Roma,” Dimitri raged, struggling fruitlessly towards him. “ROMA!”

But by then his brother had disappeared, the bloodied sword left abandoned in a pool of crimson on the floor. Only then did Dimitri finally notice the cut across his chest; across his own heart, which for some reason did not stop beating despite the stillness where Marya Antonova’s should have been. He’d been so sure that it would, for having loved her; he’d been positive, once, that it would break, shatter, deliver itself to oblivion, all for love of her.

“Masha,” he whispered to her, holding her close. Pain overrode fear, though he knew that would be real enough. Soon, he knew, fear would be all he could feel besides pain.

But for the moment, that would have to wait.

Dimitri had first told Marya Antonova he loved her when he was thirteen years old. She’d been shading her eyes from the sun, giving him her narrowed, impatient look (at fourteen she was older, worldlier, more experienced) but he hadn’t dropped his gaze from hers, fearless, taking power from the sun’s rays and tilting his chin up to say the words without hesitation:

Marya Antonova, I’m in love with you.

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