Page 42 of Foul Days

The shots from Bakharov’s revolver rang fast. Bullet after bullet sank into the Wall’s flesh, making the tentacles stagger back, giving the balloon precious seconds to escape their grasp.

As much as Kosara hated to admit it, he hadn’t been showing off: he was a great shot. She felt so useless without her magic as she watched him aiming and pressing the trigger, again, and again, and again.…

Then the revolver clicked.

“Damn it.” Bakharov fell to one knee to reload.

In the corner of her eye, Kosara spotted something dark moving. One of the tentacles crawled in between the ropes and into the basket, searching.

“Oh my God,” she muttered. And then, much louder, “Watch out!”

Too late. The tentacle wrapped around Bakharov’s ankle. He screamed, still trying to stuff bullets into his revolver.

“Oh my God!” This time, Kosara shouted it. She pulled the knife from her boot. The tentacle caressed Bakharov’s leg, slowly, almost gently, but every time it touched his skin, he convulsed as if struck by electricity. The bullets tumbled from between his fingers and rolled around the basket’s floor.

Kosara staggered forwards. Just before she’d managed to strike, her fingers went numb. Oh no, not now. The knife fell to the floor with a clang.

The tentacle jolted. It spun towards her, drawn to the sound, leaving an inky trail on the wicker. Sevar, rather uselessly, jumped away from its path, his face ashen.

Not now! Kosara stumbled after the knife.

“Hey, hands!” she shouted. “Hey, there are two of you!”

Her fingers trembled, still not finding the knife’s handle. Bakharov was looking at her, a mixture of terror, pain, and confusion on his face.

“One of you washes the other! And then both of you! Wash! The! Face!”

Her hands twitched, solidified, and closed around the knife’s handle. She leaped and sank the blade deep into the tentacle’s flesh.

It jerked back. Its wound began to smoke. The knife in Kosara’s hand grew hotter and hotter until she dropped it. The tentacle flew backwards and disappeared back into the Wall, hissing like an angry snake.

“Oh my God,” Kosara concluded. Her hand pulsated painfully where the knife had burned her. She looked down at it, red and shiny and starting to blister, and smiled a broad smile. She was so glad she could feel it.

Bakharov scrambled to collect his bullets. Kosara helped him. Warm liquid ran down her face, a sticky mixture of sweat, tears, and melting snowflakes.

“Thanks,” he said when he finally managed to reload. “What was that you were singing?”

“It’s kind of a chant.”

“I could have sworn it was a children’s song.”

“No, it’s definitely—” A shot interrupted her. Another tentacle hissed and disappeared into the darkness below.

“Hold on!” Sevar shouted. “Not much longer left now.”

Kosara barely suppressed her urge to plant a big wet kiss on his shiny forehead. Not much longer left. The sweetest four words she’d heard all day.

They suffered a few more hits—one sending them flying right, and another one left.…

And then it all went quiet. The tentacles stayed behind, swaying after them, as if waving them goodbye. The balloon hung in the air for a moment, before slowly gliding forwards.

Kosara slumped back on the bench. A laugh escaped her throat. They’d made it! They’d crossed the Wall in a hot-air balloon. This might not have been the stupidest thing she’d ever done, but it was certainly in her top five.

She rested her head against the rigging. Cold snowflakes landed on her face. The familiar smell of Chernograd filled her nostrils: chimney smoke and burning coal, freshly baked bread and tobacco, and magic.

Home.

Bakharov let out a deep sigh before he sat next to her. His hair stuck up in all directions. His cheeks were covered in soot.

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