Page 73 of Foul Days

“Who are we going to ask?” Asen said. “Your household spirits?”

“Oh no. They’d be in huge trouble if we get caught. I’ll ask the samodivas.”

He coughed on his coffee. “What?”

“The samodivas. They don’t need their invites. The Zmey invites them every year, and they never go.”

“You think they’ll just give one to you?”

“Well, no, obviously not. I suspect they’ll take some convincing.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

The plan? Silly Belogradean. As if you could plan your encounters with terrifying creatures from another dimension.

Kosara bit her lip. It tasted bitter, like coffee. “Just like witches’ magic is in our shadows, the samodivas’ magic is in their veils. If you take their veil off, they’re helpless.”

“And how do you do that?”

Good question. Kosara had never taken a samodiva’s veil before. She knew what to do in theory: Vila had taught her all about hunting monsters, cutting yudas’ feathers, collecting upir venom, trimming karakonjul ear hair, and shearing varkolaks. The old witch considered it a matter of professional pride that she gathered all her potion ingredients herself.

Kosara, on the other hand, had no qualms about buying hers from the pharmacy. They came already dried, clearly labelled, and distilled to the correct strength.

“Samodivas have one weakness,” she said, remembering Vila’s lessons. “They love music. They’re known for capturing musicians and forcing them to play until they drop dead from exhaustion.”

“And that’s a weakness?”

“Yes, because while the music plays, the samodivas will dance. They’ll be distracted, and I can snatch one of their veils.”

Concern flashed across Asen’s face. “I can only play the accordion. Not very well, mind you, but it might do.”

“Sorry?”

“I can maybe manage a few chords on the tamboura, but I’m not that great at it.”

“Oh,” Kosara said. “Don’t worry, you’re not coming.”

“Then who’s going to distract the samodivas while you’re trying to steal their veils?”

Kosara smiled. “In the war against the monsters”—she walked towards the large cupboard in the corner—“our greatest ally is modern technology.”

She opened it to reveal a dusty gramophone. Her father had ordered it from Belograd as a name-day present for her years ago. Kosara didn’t even want to know how much he’d paid for it.

“That’s actually quite clever.” Asen, annoyingly, seemed surprised. “What record will we play?”

“It doesn’t matter what I play,” Kosara said, emphasising the I, hoping he’d finally get the message. “They’ll dance to anything.”

Asen kneeled down next to the gramophone and went through her selection of records. He pulled one out of its sleeve and lifted it to the light, revealing a black-and-blue photograph of a rib cage. “Is this album etched onto an X-ray?”

“Yeah,” Kosara said. “It’s cheaper than vinyl.”

“You’re My Blood Type by the Rotting Upirs?”

“That one’s a classic.”

“Bites in the Night by the Filthy Animals?”

“Great band.”

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