Page 8 of One For my Enemy

“Don’t ask questions,” Roman warned impatiently, but Koschei held up a hand again.

“Let him ask, Romik.” Koschei turned his head slowly, the dark eyes that were so like Roman’s falling on Lev’s with a slow, practiced calculation. “There can be no errors, Levka. Yaga is a wickedly clever woman, and she will no doubt set traps. You must be certain of the time and place; of the identity of her chosen partner. You’ll be less conspicuous than Roma,” he added, gesturing to his second son, who had never managed not to be conspicuous in his entire life. “You’re the right age. You have a young look to you, nonthreatening. You’ll blend.”

“Blend,” Lev said, frowning. “Blend into what?”

This, however, Koschei had no patience for. He turned, facing forward, and beckoned Roman’s attention again.

“You think it will be soon?” Koschei asked quietly, and Roman nodded.

“I’m certain of it. We can finally take her down, Papa. Make her pay.”

Koschei nodded. In the ring, the shadows blurred, one colliding with the other.

“Start tonight,” Koschei said simply, and Roman rose to his feet, shoving Lev towards the door without another word.

I. 6

(Vigilance.)

“Masha,” Stas said, his hand coming to rest gently on Marya’s shoulder. “Are you feeling well?”

Marya tried again to blink away Dimitri’s bloodied face, clearing her throat and briskly returning her attention to the dishes.

“They’ll come for us,” she said, briskly scrutinizing a charmed saucepan, and then she sighed, abandoning the effort as her husband’s grip tightened knowingly around her shoulder. “I don’t know if I did the right thing, Stas,” she murmured, giving him a reluctant glance.

He shrugged, ever supportive. “You did what you were told. Your mother is far too ruthless to let the insult stand,” he assured her, as if that were any reassuring thought. “Besides, I’m sure she intends to do away with Koschei once and for all. This will all be over soon.”

Marya turned to face him; she placed her wet hands on his hips, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “We shouldn’t discuss things like this,” she said quietly, burrowing into the familiarity of his form, the softness of his sweater, the comfort of his presence. “You know I hate putting you in a difficult position.”

Stas nodded slowly, taking her fully in his arms. He was a Borough witch; a politician of sorts. Plausible deniability was crucial to his livelihood, particularly considering what the Boroughs knew of his connection to Marya. Secrets, at least in this marriage, were a form of respect.

The Witches’ Boroughs, while the ruling governing body of magical New York, were less powerful a connection than they might have seemed, at least to Marya. All of it was painfully restricting. Structure was divided along the same geographic lines as the non-magical municipal Boroughs. Representation was proportional by population. Responsibilities were voting on public issues; mandates, judgments, forums; laws, and therefore crime and punishment as well.

Were there closed-door meetings? Yes, of course. It wasn’t populism, not entirely. Not for a body of mostly-rich, mostly-men who controlled the workings of an entire community, and who could so easily levy a crippling magical tax or simply blacklist anyone who crossed them. Witches had been lawless before, and it had nearly brought them to ruin. Magic was one thing, indiscriminate to merit and easy enough to be born with if the circumstances were right, but possessing power was quite another.

Stas was a Borough witch, but not an Elder. He could be involved in the conversation, if he cared to be, but he wasn’t a particularly ambitious man. More likely he would serve a lifetime among the other Borough witches, as his father had done, and he would do so quietly. Wealth, status, influence; those were things for other men to concern themselves with. Stas Maksimov had aims for a quiet life and a loving wife, and he already had both, as far as he knew.

It was far more within Marya’s obligations to protect Stas than the other way around.

“Have you told Sasha yet?” Stas asked her, his fingers burying themselves soothingly in her hair.

“No,” Marya said into his sweater, shamefully muffling the sound into cashmere.

“Masha—”

“I don’t want this life for her, Stas.”

A redundant refrain, by then.

“I know you don’t, Masha. I know. But she’s your mother’s daughter, as much as you are. She’s not a baby any longer, and she has a family to protect, just as you do.”

“I know, but I just—” Marya exhaled. “I want to spare her. She wants more, Stas. She wants so much more than this life, and I—”

“It’s Sasha’s turn. You made this choice once, however many years ago,” Stas reminded her, and again, “It’s Sasha’s turn, Masha. You made your choice, and now she’ll make hers.”

Marya bit her tongue on the many things she couldn’t bear to say, letting her husband draw her gaze upwards instead.

“And who knows, maybe,” he ventured softly, “with Sasha’s help, you won’t have to do so much for your mother’s business. Maybe then we can start our own family, hm?” He smiled at her, warm and comforting, and briefly, she ached. “Have a little Mashenka of our own, maybe? A little cousin for Luka?”

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