Page 43 of Foul Days

“Are you alright?” Kosara asked.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice trembling. “You?”

Kosara opened her mouth, but she didn’t answer him. Instead, she spun around and vomited overboard. The taste of bile burned the roof of her mouth. Hopefully, she hadn’t just ruined some random passerby’s evening walk.

She turned back to face Bakharov. “I’m fine.”

“Great,” Sevar said. “I’m glad everyone’s doing well. Now, I’ll give you your parachutes.”

Kosara stood up in her seat. “What parachutes?”

“I have no reason to land. The last thing I need right now is a hungry karakonjul jumping into the basket before I can get away.” He pushed a bundle of soft fabric into Kosara’s hands. “Put it on, and when you’re about thirty steps away from the ground, you just have to pull on that cord.…”

“What cord?” Kosara shouted, her voice unrecognisably high in her own ears.

“This one!” Sevar reached and placed her hand on it. “What’s your problem? This is the easy part.”

Kosara’s head spun so fast she was worried it would unscrew from her neck and float away into the night. They flew low, and she could distinguish the people in the street below, walking briskly, holding onto their coats and hats so the wind wouldn’t blow them away.

“No problem,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

“It was a pleasure having you on board,” Sevar said, his voice suggesting exactly the opposite. “Thank you for travelling with us tonight.” And then he slammed both his hands onto her side.

“Wait a—” she shouted, but she was already falling. The wind thumped in her ears.

The cobblestones approached fast. In her panic, she nearly forgot to pull on her parachute’s cord, but in the last moment, her trembling fingers found it. Right on time. The next second, her hands turned to shadow.

She hung in the air for a heartbeat before her posterior gently landed on the wet ground. It was only then that she stopped shouting.

9

Day Five

Chernograd was quiet: the thick curtain of snow muffled every sound. The streetlamps came on one by one, illuminating the street ahead. With every hiss and flash of light Kosara flinched, expecting a monster to appear.

For a change, her luck seemed fair. They were alone in the snow-covered street. The night had just begun to fall, and the monsters still slept.

Next to her, Bakharov relaxed slightly. His hand fell away from the revolver’s holster.

Still, Kosara’s nails couldn’t seem to stop digging into her palms. The muscles on her neck strained as she cast a quick glance over her shoulder. She was certain she spotted the Zmey’s familiar figure lurking in a dark corner, until she blinked, and he was gone. You cheating hag, he whispered in her ear. Did you really think you could escape me?

Kosara squeezed her eyes shut. Keep focused. She’d have plenty of time to panic later. Right now, there was too much work to be done—starting with shaking off this damned copper. She had no inclination to play nanny to a clueless Belogradean.

Currently, he was turning around, trying to take in the whole street at once. Obvious tourist.

“Shut your mouth,” Kosara said, “before it fills with snow.”

He did. Then he whispered, “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“What, the snow?”

“No. There are no colours.”

At first, Kosara didn’t understand him. Of course there were colours. The snow was so white it made her eyes water. The granite buildings rose high, dark with soot and dirt. Their pointed roofs pierced the grey sky.

Then she remembered the Main Street in Belograd, with its many-hued lanterns, brightly lit shop windows, and eclectically dressed people.

“You’ll have to find yourself a new coat,” she said. “This one’s too conspicuous.” In fact, his red coat was the only spot of colour around.

---