Page 49 of Foul Days

“No way! Murdered? Why?”

“Because of the witches’ shadows. Karaivanov must have sent her for them. Apparently, they found Roksana’s fingerprints all over the scene.”

Malamir swore. “I’m sorry, doll. That’s terrible.”

Kosara shrugged. At this point, why was she even surprised? That’s what everyone she’d ever trusted did: they failed her. Sevar by stealing her money and running off to Belograd. The Zmey by being the Zmey. Nevena by goddamned dying.

Roksana was just another name in a long string of disappointments.

Malamir shook his head. He looked more sad than angry. “Honestly, what kind of money could Karaivanov have possibly—”

“Shush,” Kosara said. Something wasn’t right. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Nothing moved. The room was quiet.

The room was quiet. The large man on the next bed over wasn’t snoring. The ward in the hallway was leaky.…

Damn it. She’d let herself get distracted. She couldn’t afford to get distracted.

Kosara jumped up from the bed and turned around, just in time to see the man’s eyes opening. They were a bright, bloodshot red.

The upir darted towards her. She was halfway through a defensive spell, before remembering she’d lost her magic and finishing it with a loud curse.

Moist fingers sank into her upper arms. Something wet touched her cheek—a tongue? She blinked, and he was on top of her, pressing her to the wall. His breath stank of rot.

“Oh my God!” Malamir screamed. “Help! Somebody help!”

Kosara tried to push the upir away, but her hands couldn’t get a grip on his clammy skin. His bones were sharp under the decaying flesh, like iron rods encased in jelly. His weight was suffocating.

She had an aspen stake in her coat pocket, she was sure, if only she could reach it.…

“Help!” Malamir kept shouting. “Help!”

Kosara managed to wriggle one arm from under the upir. She reached for her pocket. Her fingers found the stake.

It wouldn’t budge. Kosara kept pulling on it in a panic, ignoring the stinging of splinters piercing her palm. It must have got caught in the lining.

Teeth, sharp as needles, brushed against her neck. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t take in a breath.

“Will somebody please help!” Malamir choked out.

This is how I die. This whole time, Kosara had thought it would be the Zmey who got her in the end—but no, it was going to be a newly resurrected, middle-aged upir with bad sleep apnoea and even worse breath. Oh, dear God, this is how I—

There was a loud bang. At first, Kosara thought it had been the cracking of her rib cage as it snapped beneath the upir’s bulbous torso. But then, he backed off her, confusion in his eyes.

Air! Kosara inhaled deeply, hot tears running down her cheeks. Oh my God, air!

What had given her this reprieve? It didn’t matter. She had to move fast.

She pulled on the aspen stake in her pocket sharply. The lining finally tore, releasing it. The stake sank deep into the upir’s chest, until Kosara’s hand was coated in thick, black blood. The upir crashed on his back, a wet sound echoing as his flesh hit the linoleum.

Kosara blinked, her vision finally coming back into focus. The upir convulsed once on the floor like a crushed worm, before falling still. His teeth were bared, a few drops of bright-red blood glistening on their pointed ends. Her blood.

A hole smoked in his temple. Another hole gaped in his chest, dripping black liquid, the stake still protruding from it.

Kosara scrambled backwards to get away from him. A pair of hands grabbed her shoulders. She screamed.

“It’s alright, it’s me,” said a familiar voice. She looked up and saw Bakharov’s worried face. Honestly, this man was like a tick—impossible to shake off.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

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