Page 24 of Foul Days

Chernogradean magic wasn’t pretty. It had nothing in common with the beautiful Tarot cards and eye-catching crystal balls the Belogradean charlatans seemed to favour. However, there were certain things even a witch from Chernograd would never do.

She took a deep breath. “That’s the idea, yes.”

“The book mentioned the construction of the Devil’s Bridge. Now, I know Chernograd like the palm of my bloody hand, and I’ve never heard of such a bridge.”

“It’s not a real bridge. That’s just an old story.”

“It is? Do you know it?”

“I know it.” Kosara racked her wine-soaked brain, trying to remember the details. “Before the Wall was built, Chernograd was surrounded by a river. We could reach Belograd with boats, but the waters were treacherous, and sailing was dangerous. The then-mayor hired the most famous architect in town, Master Manol, to build a bridge to connect the two cities. Manol and his eight brothers began the construction, but there was a problem: whatever they managed to erect during the day, collapsed into the water at night. The nine brothers quickly realised—the Devil had cursed the new bridge.”

“Funny,” Roksana said. “My book claimed it was Lamia destroying the bridge overnight.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it was the Devil in the version my mum used to tell. Hence, ‘The Devil’s Bridge.’ Anyway, the brothers realised there was only one solution. They had to embed a young woman in the bridge to protect it.”

Roksana groaned. “A young woman. Of-fucking-course.”

“Each morning, the brothers’ wives came to the bridge to bring them breakfast. So, the brothers agreed on a fair way to pick the victim: whoever’s wife arrived first the next day would be the one they’d embed in the bridge. Manol’s brothers couldn’t bear to keep the terrible secret. They all warned their wives not to come. Manol was too honourable and said nothing to his wife.”

“Honourable! More like bloody stupid.”

“Well, yeah. Early the next morning, Manol’s wife arrived with the food basket in one arm and their baby son in the other. When she saw the brothers’ faces, she immediately knew what was about to happen. She didn’t cry, and she didn’t beg. She only asked for one thing—that when they embed her in the bridge, they leave one of her breasts out, so she could feed her baby.”

Kosara stopped talking. Uncomfortable silence followed. The stories from Chernograd had the uncanny ability to kill the mood at every party.

“Personally,” she said after a while, “I don’t think the story is meant to be taken literally. It’s a metaphor for the ridiculous sacrifices women are expected to make for their husbands’ careers.”

Roksana took a drink of wine. A few drops stayed in the fine hairs above her upper lip. “You’re probably right. Thanks, anyway.”

Kosara gave the monster hunter a long look. Roksana was puffing on her pipe, eyebrows furrowed. She’d gotten herself in trouble again, Kosara could tell, otherwise she wouldn’t be on this side of the Wall, asking about embedding magic and mythical monsters. Perhaps she’d accepted a contract to kill an embedded wraith—the most dangerous type of ghost, and the most bloodthirsty. She’d done stupider things before.

Or perhaps she’d been paid to find that Lamia of hers, and she was trying to figure out how to lure it. It would be pointless, Kosara was certain. Lamia was obviously mythical. It wouldn’t be the first time a monster had turned out to be nothing but a figment of someone’s overactive imagination. A few years back, a group of merchants at the market were convinced they’d spotted a dragon circling Chernograd. It turned out it had been the local aero club’s latest experimental craft, which they’d unwisely painted green.

In any case, Kosara had no energy to prod for more information. She was in enough trouble herself. She’d let herself relax tonight, but tomorrow, she had to start untangling this whole mess. Hopefully, the Witch’s Cauldron boutique would have some answers for her.

5

Day Three

It was a sunny morning, but the Witch’s Cauldron was dark. Layers of silk mesh enveloped the lights on the ceiling, making them glimmer like stars on a foggy night. The gramophone played a slow piano ballad. A few well-dressed men and women tried on expensive necklaces and richly decorated hats, ran ring-encrusted fingers over the fine fabrics, and turned around in front of the tall mirrors.

It looked like the last place Kosara would expect to find her shadow.

She quickly flicked through a rail of dresses. They were all black, but not like her worn, faded black: they were sleek satin, intricate lace, and soft velvet. Precious stones gleamed on their necklines and cuffs.

Several staff members walked between the clothes racks, their heels clicking against the parquet floor. Kosara sensed one of them getting closer and closer, but she didn’t turn around until she heard the woman’s horrified voice, “Oh, darling! Not those!”

“Excuse me?”

“These won’t suit you at all. Come!” She grabbed Kosara by the forearm and dragged her to the discounted rack. Her fingers searched the clothes until they settled on something suspiciously reminiscent of a black sack. She measured it against Kosara’s torso. “There you go!”

Kosara placed the sack back on the rail. She squinted towards the staff member’s name badge. “Actually, Bistra, I’m not interested in clothes.”

“I can tell,” Bistra said.

“I’m not interested in clothes today. I was wondering if you have something a bit more … authentic.”

“We’ve got a collection of rusalka scale jewellery.”

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