Page 92 of Foul Days

Kosara nodded. Her teeth were chattering so loudly, the sound echoed around her.

Asen said, “On one … two … th—”

“Wait!”

There was something wrong. Kosara could feel it with her every goose bump. The moans outside had grown quieter. The upirs’ breathing quickened—the damp, gurgling noise getting faster, like boiling water.

“I think…” Kosara hesitated.

The upirs’ feet shuffled in the snow, and then there were thumps, as if they bumped into each other in their hurry to escape.

“I think they might be running away,” she said.

Asen listened for a few seconds. “They seem to be. But why?”

Kosara met his gaze. Could she have done such a great job of turning herself into an upir repellent, they could smell her through the door? Surely not. She was missing half the right ingredients. “I have no—”

A growl sounded. For some reason, Kosara recognised it. She’d heard this low, rumbling noise before, she was certain.

And then, a rhythmic sound drifted in, like wood clicking against frozen ground. Click-click-click, closer and closer.

What the hell …

Something much stronger than an upir slammed against the door. That was the last straw for the pile of church furniture. It swayed, backwards and forwards, and collapsed. Carved wood inlaid with silver and gold rained down, crashing onto the floor around Kosara and sending splinters flying up in the air.

The door banged open. A dead upir lay in the snow at the threshold, his glassy eyes staring at the sky. A karakonjul the size of a large dog leaned over it, pieces of decaying flesh dangling between four rows of fangs. Snowflakes glistened in its brown fur and gathered in the grooves of its curved horns. Its donkey-like ears pointed straight up, the hairs sticking out of them blowing in the wind. Its muzzle was black with upir blood.

Its horned head turned to look up at Kosara. Hunger flashed in its yellow eyes. Its growl grew louder.

Goddamnit. Out of the frying pan and straight into the karakonjul. Kosara scrambled to find the aspen stake in her pocket. It wouldn’t help much against a karakonjul, but it might slow it down. If only she hadn’t spent the last half an hour turning herself into a weapon against upirs …

She searched through her mind in a panic, desperately trying to remember a riddle. Asen had been right. It wasn’t easy once you were faced with eyes like lanterns and the mouth full of endless teeth.

What walks on one leg in the spring, and on two legs in the winter? Was that a riddle? Or was it just nonsense?

The beast opened its mouth, spitting out the upir’s rotten arm. It looked ready for something much fresher and witch-flavoured. Kosara froze, hypnotized by its eyes. The taste of blood filled her mouth.

Asen aimed his revolver, but he didn’t pull the trigger. In his eyes Kosara saw the same panic she felt. He’d already been attacked by a karakonjul once, and he knew the bullets wouldn’t stop it.

The beast’s shoulders tensed, the muscles tightening beneath its thick hide. It was going to jump. Kosara swore quietly, gripping the useless aspen stake with both hands.

“Down, boy!” a familiar voice drifted from outside.

Yeah, good luck with that. As if you could command a bloodthirsty beast from another dimension.

The karakonjul blinked. Its talons screeched against the floor. And then, it took a step back and sat on its hind legs. Its tail flapped against the ground like a happy puppy’s.

Kosara gaped at it. No way.

A messy-haired Malamir emerged from the fog behind the beast, leaning on wooden crutches. Click, click, click, they clicked against the frozen ground as he walked. His breathing was ragged, but a smile tugged on his lips.

“Good boy!” Malamir shouted and threw the karakonjul a piece of pale meat. Chicken? Kosara surely hoped it was that and not more upir. It disappeared into the beast’s gaping mouth before she could have a good look at it. “Give me a paw!”

The creature laid its furry paw into Malamir’s extended hand. No. Way.

“Don’t ever rush in front of me like that, do you hear me?” Malamir shook a finger at the karakonjul. “Or I won’t let you off the leash anymore.”

Kosara swore quietly. The leash? Was she hearing what she thought she was hearing?

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