Page 51 of Foul Days

Malamir let out a loud sigh. “Thank God! You almost had me there. I’d have had to call in the nurse to change my underpants.”

“Mr. Petrosyan,” Bakharov said sternly, “I still need to ask you a few questions. Could you please describe, in as much detail as you can remember, the events from New Year’s Eve and the following days?”

Malamir repeated what he’d told Kosara. Bakharov wrote it all down in his notepad, occasionally frowning.

As Bakharov and Malamir talked, Kosara took care of the upir. He could have been a resurrected corpse, but that didn’t mean he was undeserving of post-mortal care. She dragged him to the bed and tucked him under the covers. His wounds were messy, but they were nothing some bandages wouldn’t cover before his family came to pick him up. Shame there weren’t any silver coins to place on his eyes—not that they would do much good at this point.

Finally, Bakharov thanked Malamir for his cooperation.

“Take care, okay?” Kosara said, squeezing Malamir’s unwounded shoulder. “And let me know when you’re out. I’ll brew you an anaesthetic like nothing they have in the hospital.”

She and Bakharov walked out of the room and continued down the busy hospital corridors. Kosara noticed he also had his “of course I’m supposed to be here” stride down pat.

“So, what happened to you?” She nodded towards his bandaged forearm.

“One of your karakonjuls attacked me.”

“A karakonjul attacked you? I told you to ask them a riddle!”

“Believe it or not, it’s quite difficult to think of one when you have four rows of dagger-sized fangs buried in your arm.” Bakharov ran a hand through his hair. “You know what, you were right.”

“Mm?”

“Don’t make me say it again. I have no idea what I’m doing in Chernograd during the Foul Days. When you first left me in the street, I thought it was for the best. I prefer to work alone, and I was certain our methods would clash. I was quite glad to see the back of you. No offence.”

“None taken,” Kosara said. “I was the one who hid from you behind a row of post boxes.”

“You did.” Bakharov showed no sign that was a surprise to him. So, he had spotted her in her hiding place. “Anyway, only a few hours in this cursed city of yours have shown me how wrong I was. I was chased by those karakonjuls,” he said it carefully, the unfamiliar word stumbling clumsily off his tongue. “Then, an enormous golden-horned deer nearly ran me over, and the rider just laughed at me. Had this been Belograd, I wouldn’t have let her go without a fat fine.”

Kosara shuddered, imagining Bakharov attempting to fine a samodiva.

“I’m not used to this,” Bakharov admitted. “To feeling this helpless. My gun doesn’t work. The only thing that works is your knowledge.”

Kosara shrugged. She would have gloated if she didn’t feel just as helpless as he did. If she still had her magic, she would have dispatched the upir within seconds. As it was, the only thing that had saved her was Bakharov’s timely arrival.

“You’re not that helpless, judging by how you took care of that upir,” she said. “You saved”—she’d be damned if she said “my life”—“me a lot of work.”

“I only knew how to deal with him because you told me!”

Kosara couldn’t help herself anymore—she gave him a small, tight smile. “Nevertheless. Thank you.”

He smiled back, though his smile was a lot more open and, though she hated to admit it, distractingly handsome. “You’re welcome.”

She grabbed his wrist. He tried to flinch away. She didn’t let him. For God’s sake, Bakharov, I don’t bite.

She unravelled some of the bandage and grimaced. “It looks nasty.”

“I’ll be fine. I rubbed some iodine on it.”

Kosara scoffed. It would take more than iodine to disinfect a karakonjul bite wound. They were disgusting little beasts.

“You need a yarrow, honey, and calendula poultice,” she said.

“Good thing we’re in a hospital.”

“No way am I leaving you to those butchers. They’d probably cut it off. No, you’re coming with me.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

---