Page 62 of Foul Days

The police officer considered them for a second. “My da’s the same. I remember, last New Year’s Eve, I had the flu so I told him I couldn’t see him, and he threatened to barge into my house with the big tray of banitsa. And I told him, ‘Da,’ I said, ‘that would be breaking and entering. I’d have to arrest you!’”

Kosara swallowed hard. The young policeman’s smile had acquired a sharp edge.

“What did he say?” Kosara asked.

“He said, ‘Won’t the banitsa be a good enough reason for you to look away, son?’ Ha-ha! It was. His phyllo pastry is the best in Chernograd.”

“Ha-ha,” Kosara mumbled. She elbowed Asen in the side.

“Ouch!” Asen said. “What?”

“You’ve got money?” she whispered through clenched teeth, the smile never leaving her face.

“What? Why?”

Kosara elbowed him again.

“Ouch! Why do you keep—oh! I see. I haven’t got much on me.…” Asen rummaged through his wallet and produced a shiny new banknote.

When the policeman saw the number gleaming on it in golden ink, his eyes widened.

“A donation from a concerned citizen to the brave Chernogradean police,” Kosara said. “I’m sure you boys and girls have been working very hard.”

“Oh, thank you for your kindness.” The policeman pocketed the banknote. “Have a good evening.”

“You, too.”

Kosara watched him walk back to the station. Only once he’d disappeared inside, did she let herself exhale.

“Hurry up,” she said, “or they’ll bankrupt us.”

“That was unbelievable!” Asen stomped his cigarette out on the pavement, before collecting the butt and placing it in a box in his pocket. “Asking for a bribe so blatantly? Disgusting.”

“Says the copper who’s currently picking a lock.”

The lock pick in Asen’s hand quietly chimed as it hit the lock.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “I don’t even want to imagine what the boss would have said if I’d got arrested in Chernograd for attempted breaking and entering.”

The lock finally clicked. Asen opened the door. His face stayed serious, despite the corners of his mouth twitching. He’d enjoyed breaking that lock, Kosara could tell.

As soon as she stepped inside, a familiar smell tickled her nostrils. Magic. The house was saturated with it: from the fluffy rugs on the floor to the chiming chandeliers on the ceiling.

She peeked into the rooms on both sides of the hallway. It was obvious Roksana had been home recently. The loaf of bread on the kitchen counter had only just started to grow mouldy. The cezve was half-filled with cold coffee, and a few eggshells rested next to a greasy frying pan.

The deeper into the house they went, the stronger the smell of magic got. When they reached the door to the bedroom at the end of the hallway, it grew so intense it made Kosara’s head spin.

She pushed the door open with one finger and jumped back. Her hand instinctively curled up in a protective spell. Nothing happened.

Kosara walked into the bedroom and cast an apologetic glance over her shoulder at Asen. He put his revolver back in its holster. When he stepped over the threshold, his eyes grew larger.

“That’s why Roksana spends the Foul Days in the pub,” Kosara said.

The entire wall facing the bed was covered in stuffed monster heads. The karakonjul ones were less unsettling, their small toothy faces decidedly not human, but the rest of them …

“Why?” Asen asked.

“She likes to take a trophy from every monster she kills.” Kosara shivered, imagining Irnik’s face staring at her between the monsters. “I think she sees them as decoration most of the time. It’s only during the Foul Days that they prevent her from sleeping.”

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