Page 153 of Foul Days

But it did. On the tip of her thumb, a flame danced, red and so hot she felt the heat on her face. It cracked and sizzled. She smiled. Finally, she was whole.

Then, her flame twitched and grew even hotter. It changed from red to a bright, brilliant blue. The same blue as the Zmey’s.

Kosara swallowed hard. She’d been expecting that would happen—her magic couldn’t come back unscarred by him. She forced the smile to remain on her lips.

Her magic was scarred, just like her hands. But it was still hers.

The Zmey was gone.

He’s gone, she could swear she heard her eleven additional shadows whispering. Celebrating, just like she was. He’s gone.

Kosara stumbled between the houses to the back garden. The twelve shadows followed her as she staggered towards Asen. He was still slumped with his back against the projector, resting in a pile of muddy snow.

Kosara checked the back of his head. The wound was already swelling. It would grow into a nasty bump by tomorrow.

“Honestly, Bakharov,” she muttered, “keep it up and I’ll run out of bandages.”

“Mm?” He unglued his eyes, blinking, trying to focus on her. “Kosara? What happened?”

“We won.”

Asen smiled his bright smile at her. Then, without saying another word, he shut his eyes again.

Lazy bastard, Kosara thought affectionately. She grabbed him by the underarms and dragged him through the snow, huffing and puffing. Her breath escaped in plumes in the cold air.

It took her a while to get him back to the house. Through it all, she couldn’t quite decide why she didn’t simply ask her shadows to help her carry him. They wouldn’t hurt him.

Would they?

27

Kosara clicked her fingers. The blue flames danced on her fingertips.

Her twelve shadows waited at her feet. She felt so small next to them, but at the same time, enormous. Like she filled her entire kitchen, and if she inhaled too deeply, she might cause the walls to burst.

It was difficult to keep focused. The shadows’ murmur filled her head. Some of them showed her visions of the past: pale figures darting in her peripheral vision like ghosts. Others whispered of the future, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t convince them she didn’t want to know.

Was that how it had been for the Zmey, carrying around the shadows of twelve witches? And if so, how could he bear it?

Kosara felt as if she might crack any minute. As if she’d lose her own thoughts in between the shadows’ constant chatter. As if she’d lose herself.

And would that be so bad, after all? She could become something more than just herself. Something much stronger. A lot more dangerous.

Concentrate, she ordered herself. You can deal with that later.

Later, she’d have to try to locate the shadows’ owners—whether she’d find them alive or dead was another matter. And if she found them alive, could she bear parting with the shadows? Now that she’d tasted power, could she give it up and go back to her ordinary self?

Later. Now, concentrate.

She opened a vial and carefully guided the blue flames inside. For a second, the fire resisted capture, trying to climb up the walls and slide back out. Kosara muttered a curse and screwed the vial shut.

Then, she wrote a simple note: I’ve got him. She tied it with a cord around the vial’s neck and clicked her fingers again. The vial evaporated in a puff of smoke.

Karaivanov had wanted proof she’d captured the Zmey. Now, she’d given it to him.

Only a few minutes later, a piece of paper flew down Kosara’s chimney. She dug the note out of the ashes.

She smiled as she read Karaivanov’s answer: Meet me on the stone bridge at dawn.

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