Page 2 of Foul Days

“Should we get back to the game, then?” Kosara gave her a winning smile.

Roksana sighed and returned the pistol to its holster. “You never told me if you’re in.”

“I’m in.”

“Wasn’t that difficult, was it? Malamir?”

“It’s getting late.” Malamir’s watch slid between his trembling fingers and swung on its chain. Kosara felt a strong compulsion to double her bet.

Would you look at that! A hypnotising watch. Kosara had never seen one of those in the wild before.

“Where did you get that from?” she asked.

Malamir grinned, his white teeth glinting. “My watch? It’s nice, isn’t it? I won it at cards.”

No wonder the old rascal was doing so well. If he hadn’t already given up, Kosara would have gladly ratted him out to Roksana. As it was, she stashed this information in case it came in handy later.

“Alright,” Roksana said. “And what about you, mister…”

“My name isn’t important,” said the stranger.

Kosara rolled her eyes. He was trying way too hard with the “dark and mysterious” act. He didn’t utter a word unless it was to raise the bet. When he wasn’t inspecting his cards, he stared at Kosara, as if he waited for her to do something. As if he’d never seen a witch before.

“So, Mr. My-name-isn’t-important.” Roksana chuckled at her own joke. “Are you in?”

“I might be in.” The stranger twisted the knot of his neckerchief. The toes of his red brogues tapped on the dusty floor. “I might be in, if we make things a bit more interesting.”

Kosara looked down at her pile of tokens. She’d done well tonight. The silver ones were enough for her to eat like a queen for a month. With the bronze ones she could buy that dress she’d spotted in the tailor’s window: velvet and black as midnight. With the iron tokens she’d order everyone in the pub a drink tomorrow—to celebrate, if they survived tonight.

She scratched the scar on her cheek, three raised scrapes. Every self-respecting witch had a few battle scars. “How much?”

“I don’t want your money,” said the stranger.

“What do you want, then?”

Slowly, he untied his neckerchief. Roksana whistled.

On a thin chain around the stranger’s neck hung a string of black beads. He brushed them with his palm, and they trembled like candle flames in the wind.

Kosara bit her lip hard, almost to blood. The stranger wore a necklace of witches’ shadows.

“I want your shadow,” he said.

Through the haze of seer’s sage smoke and alcohol, Kosara felt the sharp sting of alarm. She shook her head so quickly, her hair hit her across the face. “No. I can’t.”

“Think about it. You’ll bet one shadow. I’m offering you”—he weighed them in his hand—“eleven. It’s a good deal.”

“I’m a witch. Without my shadow, I’m nothing.”

“You’re a mediocre witch. I’m offering you true power.”

A mediocre witch. She’d be offended if it wasn’t true. She could heat up her coffee with a snap of her fingers and ask her shadow to fetch her coat. On a good day, she could conjure a firework or two. Parlour tricks.

If she won, she’d become a real witch, like the ones from the old fairy tales. She’d pay all the inns, cafes, and restaurants with alchemists’ gold. She’d weave herself a dress from moonlight. She’d turn the river into wine and give the entire city a free drink.

But if she lost …

Everyone knew what happened to witches who’d lost their shadows: they slowly turned into shadows themselves. It could take years or even decades, but it was unavoidable. Was it worth betting her corporeal body for the possibility of almost unlimited power?

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