Page 54 of Foul Days

Once the water had finally boiled, Kosara prepared the poultice for Bakharov’s wound. She selected the correct herbs and weighed them precisely, throwing them in the cauldron bubbling over the fire at exactly the right time. Honey to prevent an infection, yarrow to slow down the bleeding, lard to close the wound, marigold to help it heal faster.

Each new addition sent clouds of steam up in the air. The smell of herbs filled the kitchen. The flames leaped up around the cauldron, heating up the metal until it shone red, sending flickering shadows across the walls.

This was the one element of witchcraft she still had. Magic wasn’t necessary for brewing cures and healing potions—she only needed skill and knowledge. She still had plenty of that. And she’d brew the best damned poultice in all of damned Chernograd, damn it.

Bakharov didn’t utter a word as she furiously stirred the cauldron. Once the herbs had finished simmering, Kosara took them off the fire. She unravelled Bakharov’s old bandage and inhaled sharply through her teeth.

“That bad?” he asked.

“Not great.”

The wound looked even worse after she cleaned it: the karakonjul’s curved teeth had sunk deep into his flesh, almost to the bone. She’d have to keep a close eye on it in case it got infected. Which meant that she was stuck with Bakharov for the time being.

“How did you manage to fight the karakonjul off?” she asked as she spread a thick layer of the herb poultice over the wound.

“I shot it,” Bakharov said.

Kosara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. There was something disconcerting about the ease with which Bakharov shot things. Typical copper, thinking bullets solved any problem.

She knew she had no right to complain, though. His gun had saved her from an upir.

“Did it help?” she asked.

“Not at all. So, I ran. Thankfully, I have longer legs than it.”

“That was lucky. They’re very fast.”

Kosara tied a new bandage around his arm, then took a step back to inspect her work. “There, that’s better.”

Bakharov moved his arm. “It feels much better already. The pain’s completely gone. How did you do that?”

“I’m a witch, remember?”

He kept prodding at the bandage with his finger, as if expecting it to start hurting again any second. “Thank you. It’s my shooting arm, you know, I might need it tomorrow.”

Kosara smiled tensely. She’d been trying not to focus on the next morning when they’d have to surprise Roksana at her house. Nevertheless, the thought gnawed at her, always in the back of her mind.

“Hopefully you don’t need it.” She had no doubt he would. Roksana would never go down without a fight.

Bakharov considered her for a second. “Are you sure you’re ready to see her?”

Not in the slightest.

Kosara still couldn’t wrap her head around any of it. Roksana had stolen her shadow. Did she know that by doing that, she had doomed Kosara to a slow death?

Of course she did. Did she even care?

Apparently, murder was something she had no qualms about. Kosara had no idea why she expected her life might weigh heavier on the monster hunter’s consciousness than Irnik Ivanov’s.

Perhaps it was because Roksana had managed to expertly hide her true nature all these years. Kosara had been so foolish to trust her. After all, she knew very well that not all murderers looked like monsters. Kosara was living proof of that herself.

“I’m ready,” she said. “I need to get my shadow back as soon as possible. When should we go? First thing in the morning?”

“We?” The corners of Bakharov’s mouth twitched. “You mean you won’t try to ditch me again?”

“Well, I considered it carefully, and I decided you can be pretty useful.” She avoided meeting his eyes. “Especially in an upir attack.”

“So”—he extended a hand towards her—“team?”

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