Page 76 of Foul Days

Kosara rolled her eyes. Folk music.

Asen had been right, though. The samodivas loved it. Their feet already tapped in rhythm in the tall grass.

“How considerate,” one of them said, “you’ve brought us a gift.”

“I thought you might be bored without music.”

“I didn’t mean the music.” The samodiva extended one long, lean arm towards Asen. “Will you dance with us?”

He caught her hand, then lifted his gaze and met hers. A stupid smile lit his face. “Of course.”

Damn it. Kosara had warned him not to look them in the eyes.

The samodivas grabbed both his hands and dragged him into their dance. They danced wildly: their hair slashed the air like whips, their dresses billowed like ship’s sails, their feet pounded the earth like war drums. Asen did surprisingly well keeping up with them, his steps careful and his breathing measured, but occasionally he fell behind, and they pulled at his arms sharply.

“What’s your name?” one of them asked.

“Asen!” he shouted.

“Asen,” the samodiva repeated.

Kosara felt their magic tightening its grip around him. She swore internally. Had he not listened to a single word she’d said? Stupid, stubborn copper.

The wind grew stronger. The oak leaves rustled, tearing away from their branches and landing heavy on the ground. The grass swayed like a stormy sea. The dew splashed beneath the samodivas’ feet.

Kosara could tell Asen was getting tired. His steps grew heavier and his breathing, shallower. He’d taken his coat off and his T-shirt was soaked in sweat, sticking to his chest. One of the samodivas handed him the demijohn, and he drank, the moonlight running down his chin and landing on his shirt in large, gleaming drops.

Kosara swore again, this time out loud. She couldn’t quite decide who she was angrier with: Asen, for not listening to her; herself, for letting him convince her this was a good idea; or the samodivas, simply for existing.

“Bakharov!” she shouted.

Look at me, she willed him in her mind. Look at me!

After a long while, he managed to tear his gaze off the samodivas. Kosara exhaled sharply. His eyes were still his—not the glassy, wild stare of an enchanted person. She still had time to help him escape their magic.

Frankly, she shouldn’t have bothered. She’d told him not to come, and he’d insisted. How would he ever learn his lesson if she saved him from every otherworldly creature who threatened to make him dance to his death?

Kosara sighed. Of course she was going to save him. She was a witch. It was her job to save idiots from monsters. She angled her knife so it caught the moonlight and aimed it at Asen’s eyes.

He blinked. She glowered at him. If you’ve got the tiniest little bit of sense left …

Asen caught one of the samodivas by the waist. He leaned closer to her neck, inhaled the scent of spring flowers radiating from her skin …

And dragged her across the square, past the trees, to a nearby side street.

Kosara ran after them. She could still hear the music there. The grass began to disappear, only showing in patches between the cobblestones.

Asen held onto the samodiva tightly. They danced so quickly they were two blurs: him—red and black; and her—white and silver.

Kosara kneeled in the grass. Her fingers squeezed the knife’s handle, white with pressure. The cold dew seeped in through her trousers. Asen and the samodiva’s shadows ran past her so quickly she felt dizzy.

“Now!” she shouted.

Nothing happened. They kept dancing, clinging to each other. Kosara bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. Was she too late after all?

“Now!” she repeated.

He paid no attention to her.

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