Page 126 of Foul Days

“No problem.” Sokol nodded towards Asen. “He’s a very good dancer. It would be a shame if he goes to waste.”

“I would have thought you were looking forward to our demise.” Kosara realised a second too late that it wasn’t the most tactful remark.

Sokol wrinkled her nose. “I don’t eat people I’ve spoken to.”

And then, before Kosara could ask something silly, like “Is this the yuda version of vegetarianism?,” Sokol was gone. She flapped her wings and joined her sisters in their tireless circling around the tower. Kosara tried to spot her in the mass of waxy feathers, wondering vacantly if it was any fun flying around the cage again and again, night after night. It was probably more fun than being stuck inside.

Kosara sighed and opened the bottle of rakia. The sharp alcoholic smell made her eyes water.

She washed the wound, slowly and carefully. Only occasionally, when her heartbeat got too fast and her hands started to shake, did she stop to take a swig from the bottle. Not too much, though. She’d need it for keeping the wound clean.

Once she finished bandaging his leg, she left Asen to sleep. He stirred, sweat beading on his forehead. His skin had an unhealthy, yellowish tint. Kosara lifted the bottle once more, missing her mouth slightly. The burning liquid poured down her chin.

Asen snored quietly. His eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings. He smelled strongly of sickness, sweat, smoke, and … Kosara moved closer to make sure. Magic.

This was impossible. He had given his talisman to the Zmey.

Kosara breathed in again. It was definitely magic. Strong magic.

Slowly, she reached out and touched the collar of his shirt. Asen inhaled sharply. Kosara pulled away. He muttered something under his breath, turned to his side, and fell quiet once more.

Kosara carefully leaned in again to move his collar aside. His stubble scratched the back of her hand. His shirt was wet with sweat. Under it, his chest rose and fell in quick, uneven gasps. The corner of something black was just visible near his right collarbone, contrasting against his ashen skin. A tattoo? Strange, he didn’t seem like the type.

Kosara moved his shirt a little further. She jumped back, as if his skin had burned her.

It wasn’t a tattoo. It was a brand. Two interlocking K’s.

The sign of Konstantin Karaivanov.

22

Day Ten

“How much did you drink, exactly?” Asen’s voice woke Kosara up. She’d fallen asleep on the cage’s floor. The rain quietly drummed on the ground around her, soaking her clothes through. Her neck was stiff, her back hurt, and the hangover was just starting to creep on her. The bottle of rakia rested next to her, empty.

“Only a glass,” she muttered.

“You should really slow down on the drinking. You’re going to cause irreparable damage to your liver.”

“Forget about my liver. Why is your chest branded with the sign of Konstantin Karaivanov?”

Asen looked as if she’d slapped him. His eyes darted across the cage. If he was looking for his revolver, he wouldn’t find it. Kosara had it.

He tugged at the rags she’d used to tie his wrists to the bars of the cage, as if he’d only just noticed them. Then he raised his upper body to look at his tied ankles. Finally, his gaze fell on the raggedy edge of Kosara’s shirt.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked.

“Was it necessary for you to hide you’re one of Konstantin’s men?”

“I’m not his man. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“What about the brand? And the enchanted wedding ring? Who are you? Because you certainly don’t look like a naïve Belogradean copper right now.”

“I am a naïve Belogradean copper. I swear.”

Kosara raised her knife in the air and ran her finger over the blade, in what she’d imagined would be an intimidating gesture: start talking now, or else …

She immediately regretted it because she cut herself.

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