Page 93 of One For my Enemy

(Ghosts.)

“You know, you do look quite a bit like Sasha,” Katya remarked as the dark-haired man disappeared into the distance, and Irina rolled her eyes, turning towards her sister.

“I look likeyou,” Irina corrected. “It’s not my fault if the stupid Fedorov thinks we all look the same. Only two of us are twins.”

“Yes, but you have Sasha’s hair,” Katya said, gesturing to her own cropped cut. “And anyway, has he said anything else?”

“No, he ran away,” Irina said, gesturing. “Didn’t you see?”

“Oh, no, I saw that,” Katya said, taking her sister’s arm and gesturing. “I meanthim,” she corrected, pointing to where the youngest Fedorov stood staring after his brother.

Irina couldn’t see it, of course, but Katya could. She could see the look of longing on his face; it reminded Katya of her son Luka when he was lamenting the loss of a toy.

“He brought us here for a reason,” Katya said. “Has he told you what it is?”

“Yes,” Irina replied. “But I’m not sure we should do it. Not this time.”

“This time,” Katya said, frowning. “What do you mean this time?”

Irina arched a brow that meant,You know what I mean.

Katya sighed a sigh that said,But why would we even try that? He isn’t one of us.

“He’s afraid of what will happen,” Irina told her.

“What, to his father? To his brothers? That’s on them,” Katya said, hardly apologetic. “People always worry about the people they leave behind when they pass on, Irka. We can’t just help every dead person we meet, and besides, Mama made a deal with Koschei, remember?”

“It’s not his brothers he’s worried about,” Irina told her, and then amended quickly, “I mean yes, he is, but that doesn’t seem to be the primary thing.”

“Then what’s he worried about?” Katya demanded. “And why would you care?”

Irina hesitated, her fingers twining with her twin’s.

“Because it’s about Sasha,” Irina said quietly, and to that, Katya blinked.

“Well,” Katya said. “That certainly changes things.”

IV. 13

(Connect the Dots.)

Kidneys did not come with instruction manuals; that much was obvious. The Bridge sat with a glass of his mother’s whisky and stared down at the bean-shaped organ, roughly the size of his own clenched fist. It was incredibly grotesque, and in the same token, grotesquely incredible. Magic had seemed a fanciful thing for so long—witches, after all, made it look so easy; made it theatrical in a way that seemed prettily accessible—that for Bryn to have the source of it sitting right in front of him was disrupting to the internal organs he already possessed.

It made sense in a strange, primitive sort of way that he should require something cut from the bowels of a witch in order to access the vaults of their power. Magic was in a witch’s blood the same way realm-traveling existed in Bryn’s own (genetic, as were his slender build and meadow-green eyes) so, of course, the organ designed to filter it would contain traces of its power. To harness it, though, seemed to be entirely another matter. It continued to feel borrowed rather than owned.

There was a sound at the door; Bryn jumped, hastily shoving the kidney back into his desk drawer as Roman Fedorov burst in, slamming the door behind him.

“Sasha,” he croaked, and Bryn arched a brow.

“I think you could do better,” he said, “if you’re considering a drastic rebrand.”

“No,Sasha,” Roman repeated urgently. “Sasha Antonova.”

Bryn had his suspicions. He also had an inclination not to share them. Instead, he nudged his foot out, shoving the spare desk chair out for Roman to collapse into, one hand drawn to the span of his forehead.

“I’m losing my mind,” Roman said hoarsely, and Bryn shrugged.

“Certainly a possibility,” he agreed. “Though, aren’t we all? Day by day.”

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