Page 112 of Foul Days

She was back. Seven years later. Even more powerless than the last time. She was either very brave, or very foolish.

Oh, who was she kidding? Very foolish. Definitely very foolish.

The feast’s din echoed between the trees—the yudas’ shouts, the rusalkas’ shrieks, the laughter of the samodivas, and howls.

“Dogs?” Asen asked, hopeful.

Kosara shook her head. “Wolves.”

Along the staircase leading to the palace door, two rows of varkolaks waited. Silver cuffs gleamed around their ankles, and thin silver chains tied them to the railing.

Kosara held Asen by the crook of his elbow. His muscles tightened for a moment under her touch, before relaxing. They walked forwards confidently: two household spirits, here to pay tribute to their Tsar.

As soon as they stepped on the staircase, the varkolaks on both sides stood up, pulling on their chains and making them clatter. Under Kosara’s hand, Asen’s arm twitched. He must have been itching to draw his revolver.

The varkolaks growled and bared their teeth. A whiff of wet fur and bad breath hit Kosara. The image of Nevena’s face on the night of her death kept trying to float to the front of Kosara’s mind—she kept pushing it away.

She looked over her shoulder, back towards the garden, where the moon yarn gleamed in the darkness. If things went wrong, there would be no point in running. The wolves were faster.

One approached Kosara and sniffed her, touching her ankle with his damp nose. His growls subsided. Then, one by one, the varkolaks relaxed. Some of them curled up on the floor, like sleepy dogs.

Kosara finally exhaled. As she climbed the stairs, the wolves greeted her, wagging their tails. One licked the back of her hand with his rough tongue. They couldn’t smell the difference between a witch and a household spirit. Thank God.

Kosara could see, however, that she and Asen had another obstacle to overcome, and this one didn’t have an IQ smaller than his shoe size. In front of the gate, at the top of the stairs, stood an ancient upir. He wasn’t like the upirs from the graveyard, with minds clouded by bloodthirst and bodies weak with malnutrition. This one had recently fed: his bloated belly strained the buttons of his shirt. His hair fell down his shoulders, delicate as cobweb.

When he noticed Kosara and Asen, he extended his hand. His elbow creaked like an old hinge. “Your invitation?”

Kosara handed him the silver disc.

“Hmm.” He looked Kosara up and down, and then down and up. She tried hard not to shrink under his gaze. “You aren’t a samodiva. What are you?”

Damn it.

“Me?” Kosara let out a laugh. It sounded terribly fake. “Of course not! Little old me—a samodiva? Ha-ha. Ha. I’m but a simple household spirit.”

“This is an invitation for a samodiva.”

“Is it? I never bother reading these things anymore. Oh well, there must have been some sort of mix-up. You’d better let the big boss know. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Kosara tried to squeeze past the upir, but he stood his ground. He exhaled loudly through his nostrils. “What kind of spirits are you, anyway?”

“Household,” Kosara said.

“Specifically?”

“I am the fireplace spirit from Seventeen Kokiche Street. And he is…” She gave Asen a pleading look.

“The spirit of the police station,” he said.

Kosara blinked. What had she told him? Pick a place that feels like home. Oh dear.

“Hmm.” The upir looked unconvinced. “You stink.”

Kosara followed his gaze to her bag. The garlic!

“What is it?” the upir asked, his nose wrinkled.

She gave him a tense smile. “I’ve got a new perfume.”

---