Page 11 of Foul Days

“This is none of your concern,” Bayan barked. “It’s not your business he’s going to set on fire.”

“You agreed to give us all refuge here.” Sava took a step forwards. Kosara frantically gestured at him to sit back down. He was a big man and might have looked intimidating, but the only reason he could stand up on his dodgy knees was the poultice Kosara brewed him every week. He’d be helpless in a fight.

Bayan considered him over the barrel of his rifle. “The circumstances have changed.” And then he added, stressing each word, “Fifty-six, fifty-five, fifty-four—”

The stranger coughed in his fist. Kosara jumped. She’d almost forgotten he was there.

“I believe I can help,” he said.

“How?”

“I can take you beyond the Wall. He’ll never get you there. But it will cost you.”

“How much?”

“I think you know.”

My shadow.

Kosara’s first instinct was to refuse. She couldn’t leave Chernograd. Every year, there were fewer and fewer witches willing to fight the monsters. It was a profession with a rather high death rate.

Besides, the people here needed her to protect them from the Zmey. She knew him. Whenever he was about to strike a particular neighbourhood, she was always there first, evacuating the people and the animals. Whenever he’d set his eyes on yet another young girl, Kosara was the one who warned her family to be careful.

Not that it always worked.

“—forty-six, forty-five—”

She also couldn’t leave Nevena. Whatever small part of her sister was still left, it was here. She’d be so lonely without Kosara.

“—forty-two, forty-one—”

And to lose her shadow? She’d die without it. She’d spend a few years or decades as a useless, defenceless witch, and then, she’d fade into a shadow herself.

“—thirty-nine, thirty-eight—”

On the other hand, if the Zmey got her, she was as good as dead. She couldn’t go back to his palace. Never again.

“Kosara, don’t—” Malamir started.

“Leave her alone,” Roksana snapped. “It’s her decision.”

Kosara squeezed her eyes so hard, colourful spots danced in front of her vision. She could still see the Zmey’s teeth, sharp like a dog’s, bared in a smile. She could smell the sulphur on his breath, coming out in clouds in the frigid night. She could feel his fingers, always scalding hot, wrapped around her neck, squeezing and not letting go, no matter how much she pleaded.

Her vision would get blurry, every breath would burn, and one thought would shine bright in her half-conscious mind: I’m going to die.

Kosara looked down at her shadow. Don’t, screamed a desperate little voice in her mind, you’ll regret it.

But there was also the other voice, the one stuck on repeat: I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die—

Her city would have to do without her. She was probably giving herself too much credit, anyway—Chernograd was a survivor. The absence of a single witch wouldn’t be enough to crush it.

And Nevena? Nevena was dead.

“—twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven—”

Kosara grabbed her shadow in her fist. At first it tried to fight, twisting and turning and sliding between her fingers. Then it fell still. She rolled it in her palms until it was small and black like a jet bead.

Without giving herself enough time to hesitate, she placed it in the stranger’s open hand. As soon as her fingers let go of it, something pulled on her navel, so abruptly she nearly fell. She stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by light. When she lifted her arm, on the wall behind her, her shadow didn’t raise its arm in reply.

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