Page 40 of Foul Days

“Take me across the Wall,” Bakharov repeated. “I can’t exactly arrest you for smuggling if you’re smuggling me, can I?”

“Why would you want to go to Chernograd?” Sevar asked.

“Confidential police business.”

“If this is a trap—”

“I don’t need to trap you. I can already arrest you.”

Sevar slowly lit another cigarette. His fingers shook. “I won’t bring you back. What you’re buying yourself is a one-way ticket.”

“Deal.”

A wry smile tugged on the corner of Kosara’s lips. So, this was what all the theatrics were about. Bakharov was a surprisingly good actor, though now that she thought about it, he had overdone it a bit with the “keep your hands where I can see them.”

Somehow, she was certain this wasn’t an official police operation. This was simply him, stubbornly following a dangerous criminal into an even more dangerous city.

And to think for a brief moment she’d assumed Bakharov belonged to that mythical breed of good coppers. That maybe the Belogradean police had their act together, unlike their Chernogradean colleagues. As it turned out, Bakharov was just as crooked as the lot of them—coming here brandishing that gun of his as if it were a toy, extorting people.

The worst part was, he looked perfectly content with himself. He probably felt justified, breaking the law as long as he did it to catch criminals.

And, truth be told, Kosara suspected he’d never get in trouble for it. If anything, he’d probably get another shiny commendation letter from the mayor once he returned to Belograd.

“You’re going after Karaivanov’s gang, aren’t you?” she asked.

Bakharov didn’t even glance at her. “I don’t believe any of this concerns you, Miss Popova. You’re free to go.”

“Go? Go where? You have to take me with you. It’s the Foul Days over there.”

Bakharov patted the revolver. “I don’t believe I need you.”

Kosara barely suppressed her laughter. Silly Belogradean copper. “You need me. I’m a witch.”

“You’re a charlatan.”

She clutched her chest to show him he’d dealt her a deadly blow. As far as she was concerned, she was both.

“Do you know how to counteract a samodiva’s curse?” she asked.

“No, why?”

“Do you know what varkolaks are afraid of?”

“I don’t.”

“How to set a karakonjul trap?”

“No.”

“How to kill an upir? How to render a yuda harmless? How to fight a rusalka?”

He shook his head.

“You can’t go without me,” she said.

“Fine.”

“Honestly, Bakharov, there’s no way you’ll survive for five … Wait, did you just agree?”

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