Page 44 of Foul Days

He raised his collar to protect his neck from the wind. “I like this one. How come it’s snowing so much here? It was mild in Belograd.”

“It has something to do with the world of monsters. The closer it gets to the Foul Days, the more of their weather we get. Did you know that karakonjul fur is as thick as that of an arctic fox?”

“I didn’t know that, no.”

Kosara started walking, the muddy snow splashing under her boots, and Bakharov rushed to catch up with her. “Where are we going?”

Somewhere I can ditch you, Kosara thought, but what she said was, “Somewhere warmer. I can barely feel my toes.”

As he followed her, Bakharov kept looking around. “You know what, this isn’t what I expected at all. It all seems so … ordinary.”

Kosara knew what he meant. Other than an insomniac yuda occasionally crossing the sky high above, they’d seen no monsters. The people went about their usual business: doing their shopping, picking up their children from grandma’s house, stopping at church for evening prayer.

But Kosara was a local, and she sensed the tension. The shopping baskets weren’t full of groceries, but of garlic and aspen stakes. The parents walked quickly, anxious to get their children behind locked doors. There was a queue in front of every church. The only time that ever happened was during the Foul Days, when people needed to replenish their supplies of holy water.

“Believe me,” Kosara said, “it’ll be pandemonium soon.”

Loud music and shouting came from a nearby pub. Bakharov slowed down to gawk at it. The building was so full, the crowd had spilled outside. A waitress came out with a small barrel of wine and began filling all the empty glasses she could spot.

“What are these people doing?” Bakharov asked.

“Looks like they’re having a drink.”

“It’s nearly nighttime! Shouldn’t they be preparing?”

Kosara shrugged. “There’s only so much you can do, really.”

“But having fun hours before a city-wide emergency—”

“Drinking in Chernograd isn’t fun. It’s serious business.”

Bakharov still seemed unconvinced. Kosara sighed. “Look, we face destruction, ruin, and tragedy every year. We have to learn how to let go sometimes, or we’ll crumble under the pressure. And, believe me, we might look like a sour-faced bunch of grumps, but nobody knows how to let go like a Chernogradean.”

There was a loud giggle from the pub. A large brassiere landed in the muddy snow at their feet.

“Honestly”—Kosara stepped over it—“you haven’t been to a party until you go to a party in Chernograd.” She pulled Bakharov by the arm, so he’d keep walking. “Come on. I have some advice for you. Maybe you should write it down. Just in case we get separated.”

He raised a single eyebrow—God knows how—and pulled out the notepad from his chest pocket.

“Every monster has a weakness,” Kosara said. “Upirs hate garlic, varkolaks can’t stand silver. You probably know all the obvious stuff. Here are a few more handy tips from a witch. If you meet a yuda, trick her into seeing her own image in something reflective. They’re terrified of it. If you encounter a samodiva, sing.”

“Sing?”

“Yes, they love music. They won’t hurt you until you stop singing. Same goes for varkolaks, actually. If you spot a karakonjul, ask it a riddle, and it will freeze until it can answer it. If you happen upon the Zmey…” Kosara paused. “Um, run.”

“I thought you said they all have their weaknesses. What’s its weakness?”

I suspect it might be me, Kosara thought, but she didn’t say it. Instead, she waved a hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the Zmey. He won’t bother you if you stay out of his way.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you aren’t a young woman.”

Bakharov wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Sounds like a charmer. You seem to know a lot about him.”

Kosara cleared her throat. “Anyway, one last point, and this one is particularly important.” She waited until he looked down at his notebook again, and then she took a step sideways and slipped into the doorway of a block of flats. She pressed herself against the damp wall, behind a row of post boxes.

“Kosara?” Bakharov called. “Kosara?” This one sounded closer. He’d probably poked his head in the doorway. “Oh, for God’s sake.” He tutted. The snow crunched under his feet as he continued down the street.

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