Page 60 of Foul Days

“It’s a spice. Try it.”

“Do you always carry spices about?”

“Only the essentials. Cardamom, bay leaf, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves…”

Kosara took a careful bite. It burned her lips and left a fiery trail down her throat. It wasn’t bad, she had to admit. In fact, it was lovely.

“It’s nice,” she said.

“Glad you like it.” Asen sat across from her, cup in hand. “Well, are you ready to catch a murderer?”

Not in the slightest. “Always.”

* * *

As soon as they approached Roksana’s house, it became obvious no one was home. The windows were dark, and no smoke came out the chimney. The roof was an onion dome of snow.

A bizarre cocktail of relief and desperation stirred in Kosara’s stomach. On the one hand, she wouldn’t have to face Roksana yet. On the other, the shadow disease now reached all the way up her arm, creeping towards her chest. She was quickly running out of time.

Asen knocked on the door three times, waited a second, and knocked again. It wasn’t the friendly “knock knock, is anyone home?” of a worried neighbour or a travelling salesperson. It was an assured policeman’s knock. There was no reply.

“Damn it,” Kosara concluded.

“Do you know where else she might have gone?”

Kosara shook her head. Roksana knew Chernograd better than anyone. She’d explored every dark corner of the city, searching for the most exotic monsters she could get her hands on. She could have holed up anywhere.

Asen shielded his eyes against the sun as he looked up at the house. “That’s almost a mansion.”

“Roksana makes good money.”

“Surely, she could afford wards. Why was she in the pub for New Year’s Eve?”

“Oh, you’ll see. Once we get in.” Kosara produced a key ring from her bag. She unlocked the first lock, and then the second, but when she got to the third, the key wouldn’t turn. She tried several times before swearing and shoving the key ring back in her bag. “The bastard’s changed the lock. Why would she change the lock?”

“Because she knew you’d want to prod around her house?” Asen sighed deeply. “Stand closer.”

“What?”

He inspected the lock. Something metallic glinted in his clenched fist. A lock pick.

Kosara caught herself in the last moment before her jaw hit the ground. He’d arrest anyone else who as much as thought about maybe purchasing a lock pick. Yet here he was, with a full set, trying them one after the other to check which size best fit the lock.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Stupid question. It was obvious what he was doing.

“You wanted to get in, didn’t you? Stand closer,” Asen repeated. “Please.”

Kosara stood next to him, hiding him from curious eyes—especially those that might peek out the windows of the nearby police station. She had no doubt the station was stuffed to the brim with coppers: they rarely showed their noses outside during the Foul Days. Kosara remembered one time, several years ago, when they’d promoted a new, unusually keen sergeant who’d very bravely declared his boys and girls would be patrolling the city every evening to make sure all citizens got home safe. He’d been ousted from the force by lunchtime.

“Does everyone from Belograd know how to pick locks?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Asen said. “Otherwise my job would become very difficult.”

“Is this a standard part of the police training?”

“It’s not.”

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