Page 63 of Foul Days

“And you’re surprised this woman’s capable of murder?”

Kosara shrugged. “They’re just monsters.”

Except that some of them could have been Uncle Dimitar, who grew a bit hairier during the full moon, and Aunty Kalina, who’d died fifty years ago.…

Kosara sighed. The monsters were monsters. You killed them, or they killed you. She was a witch—she had no right to judge. She’d brewed plenty of toothache cures using upir teeth. She’d happily ground many a karakonjul ear in her mortar and pestle to make a potion for manly vigour.

She tried to ignore the monsters’ accusing eyes following her as she walked around the room. The sound of her soles on the tiled floor suddenly sounded an awful lot like the flapping of a yuda’s wings. The rustling of leaves outside reminded her of a samodiva’s laughter.

Asen kneeled to look under the bed, then checked the cupboard. Kosara lifted the book on the bedside table.

“I’ve read this one! She stopped reading just before it got interesting, when it turns out thirteen of the passengers took turns to—Wait!”

Asen froze, his hand on the handle of the wardrobe. “What?”

“That must be where the smell of magic is coming from.” There was nothing else in the room that seemed even remotely magical.

“What smell?”

“Step back.” She rolled up her sleeves.

Asen drew his revolver. Yeah, good luck shooting a fireball, Mister Policeman. Then she looked at her own hands. And good luck counteracting a spell, Miss Witch-Without-a-Shadow.

Kosara opened the wardrobe with one sharp movement. Her heart thumped once, twice, three times, before calming down again. It was just a wardrobe. Piles of dark clothes rested inside it. Two bunches of herbs swung from the rail: one of lavender, to dispel the moths, and a second of valerian, basil, and wormwood, to keep away the monsters. Roksana’s monster-hunting uniform hung next to it, its fur old and worn and its many brass bells covered in patina.

The smell was residual, Kosara realised. There had been some kind of strong magic in this room, but it was now gone.

She swore under her breath. They were too late.

Asen shook his head and walked to the window. Kosara wasn’t sure what he hoped to see outside. A neat trail of footprints in the freshly fallen snow, leading straight to where Roksana was hiding? If only they had that kind of luck.…

She spotted two stark white stains on Asen’s knees, contrasting against the dark fabric of his trousers.

“You’ve got something…” She gestured towards him.

He patted his knees, sending white clouds up in the air. “Chalk.”

“Chalk,” Kosara repeated, brows furrowed. She kneeled down and ran a finger over the floorboards. It came back covered in fine chalk dust. She lifted the rug.

Most of the magic circle was gone, as if someone had quickly smeared it with their foot once they were finished with it. Only a couple of symbols remained visible in the corner.

It was enough for Kosara. She’d recognise this handwriting anywhere.

“What’s that?” Asen asked.

Kosara touched one of the symbols, then wiped the chalk off on her coat. “Teleportation spell.”

“Like the one in Irnik’s house?”

“Oh no. This one used no amulet. Just pure magic.”

“Really? I thought that was very difficult.”

“It is. Terribly difficult. The human body has an awful lot of organs to keep track of. You should consider yourself lucky to find one of these without a leftover body part just sitting in it in a puddle of blood.”

“How come this one worked then?”

“It was drawn by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Besides, it’s slightly more manageable over a short distance. This one, for example, is for less than ten minutes’ walk away.”

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