Page 46 of One For my Enemy

(If this, then this.)

The younger Marya Antonova had been right that Roman had a watchful eye, and perhaps as punishment for her accuracy, he had never stopped watching her. He kept tabs on her movements, becoming keenly attuned to her dealings with other witches, which was not necessarily a difficult thing to do. Marya’s role as Baba Yaga’s right hand and enforcer meant she eschewed subtlety for power by necessity. She, like Dimitri, bore the blessing and the burden of a highly distinctive face, and so she was easy enough to find and even easier to follow. It was hardly much work at all to notice she kept visiting the same person at regular intervals, and if it wasn’t an affair—which Roman highly doubted it was—then it was obviously business.

After nearly a decade’s vendetta, Roman finally managed to uncover Marya Antonova’s primary informant: the man called Brynmor Attaway, who was otherwise known as The Bridge.

Koschei would never have worked with The Bridge; he hardly needed him, firstly, considering his own network was so vast, and secondly, it was no secret that Roman’s father cared little for non-witches. Marya Antonova, by contrast, having no conceivable pride and probably even fewer scruples, paid The Bridge handsomely for his information. But it was Roman who offered him something even better than money; the one thing he knew The Bridge could not resist.

Power. Specifically, the only power The Bridge could not produce for himself.

Awitch’spower.

“One vial per week,” Bryn had said, eyeing the magic hidden inside Roman’s blood, “on Saturdays.” The seventh day, biblically, and a day of portent. Typical fae nonsense, Roman knew. They as a species were helplessly given to ritual. “Do that for me, Fedorov, and you have a deal. I’ll tell you who Marya Antonova is selling to, but if you’re even a day late—”

“I won’t be,” Roman assured him coolly, perhaps six months ago, before he’d come to realize that what he offered wasn’t quite as renewable as he had hoped.

(If this, then this.)

Dimitri had been the first to notice Roman was slowly draining himself of his magic.

“Your hands are shaking,” Dimitri noted, circling Roman with his usual princely concern. “Your control is limited. Are you giving it away, Roma, or selling it?”

“Neither,” Roman said through gritted teeth, though the answer, more aptly, was both.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Dimitri commanded, flashing golden once again.

“We’re going to bring down the Antonovas,” Roman replied, and while he’d said it with certainty—withpromise—he’d only seen Dimitri’s eyes go hard, tension deepening around his mouth.

“Show me,” he’d said, so Roman had brought him the tablets he’d intercepted.I want chaos for the Antonovas,he’d said to Bryn, who’d smiled his sharp-eyed smile, flashing his pearly teeth and checking his expensive watch.Easy enough,said The Bridge, and just as quickly, the scam had begun. Bryn told Roman when the Antonova witches were selling the tablets. Roman bought them, turned them around, and sold them for a profit through Bryn, who took his earnings in vials of blood as he handed over thick stacks of bills. The constant draining of Roman’s magic was taxing, sometimes like a fever, and his magic was wildly inconsistent, even unpredictable—but it was worth it, he reasoned, to one day bring down Baba Yaga and her Marya.

The plan had always been to hit their rivals where it would hurt them most, which was almost certainly the money. The Antonovas, unlike the Fedorovs, were not the vein of prideful that managed a more conventional form of honor. They were nouveau riche where Roman had always felt the Fedorovs were aristocracy, and the Antonovas took their conceit from the value of what they bought and sold rather than who they were. They were selfish, they were ruthless, and most importantly, they were rich, the first two things being dependent on the latter. It was to be a simple matter of draining them where they would feel the sting—but unfortunately, things had not gone precisely as planned.

(If this, then this.)

“You can’t continue like this,” Dimitri said, watching Roman suffer a spasm of magic that rattled the walls, manifesting like a tremor beneath their feet as they glanced over the tablets. “You could kill yourself, Roma, if you’re not careful—”

“Don’t tell Papa,” Roman warned instantly. “Or Lev. Please, Dima—”

“This has to stop,” Dimitri cut in, “now,Roma. Today. You won’t be giving The Bridge any more of your magic, and that begins immediately.”

“I have to,” Roman gritted out, irritated. Was Dimitri not even listening? “It’s Saturday, and if I don’t—”

The consequences were, quite literally, life-threatening. The Antonovas would kill him if they found out, not to mention what Koschei would think if he learned who Roman had been consorting with.

“The Bridge sells to the highest bidder, Dima,” Roman pressed, skirting the details, “and if Yaga finds out what I’ve done now, before we’re ready—”

“I’ll do it, then,” Dimitri exhaled, shaking his head. “I’ll do it for you today, Roma, but then it has to stop. Ithasto stop.”

Roman had not appreciated his elder brother’s tone. Nor had he appreciated the way Dimitri had strutted back into the apartment, chin too high, when Roman had been waiting for promising news. Foranynews, at least, that his efforts had not been wasted.

“I told him it was done,” Dimitri said, and Roman clenched a fist. “If Mash- ifMarya,” Dimitri corrected himself, “were to find out what you’ve done, she’d kill you, and Roma, you can hardly defend yourself now, not like this—”

“Did you at least keep to our deal?” Roman demanded, rising to his feet. “Dima, you arrogant fucking fool, did you give him a vial?”

But Dimitri Fedorov, who had always been too arrogant to feel shame, suffered none from Roman’s urging. “I don’t consider your deal worthy of my approval,” Dimitri said plainly, and turned away, leaving Roman behind.

Roman, then, had run.

“Please,” he said to The Bridge, his hands still shaking. Thirty minutes past midnight. Sunday, by all accounts, thought Roman had hoped there was some reasonable time with which to bargain. “Take it, take whatever you need, my brother was—I shouldn’t have trusted my brother,” he seethed, “he’s too blinded by the softness of his past—”

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