Page 77 of Foul Days

“For God’s sake, Bakharov! Now!”

Finally, his eyes caught hers. He stopped in his tracks. The samodiva staggered and held onto his shoulder.

With one sharp movement, he took her veil off and threw it towards Kosara.

The samodiva shrieked, leaping after it. Too late. Kosara pierced the veil with her knife, pinning it to the ground.

The samodiva crumpled to her knees. The shine seeped out of her skin. Her hair dulled, as if covered with patina. On the ground, her veil turned and twisted like a silky snake. Kosara held the knife’s handle in place with both hands.

Asen leaned on one of the trees, breathing heavily.

“Are you okay?” Kosara asked.

He opened his mouth to reply but began coughing. Instead, he lifted a thumb up in the air.

“Are you sure?”

This time, he lifted both thumbs.

Kosara looked at the samodiva she’d caught, trying to avoid her dark gaze. It wasn’t easy, since their eyes were at the same level as they both kneeled. The monster seemed strangely small in the tall grass.

“Let me go, you little gremlin!” the samodiva said. “Why are you torturing me?”

Really, what was Kosara doing? Why was she causing distress to such a beautiful creature?

Kosara caught herself starting to pull the knife out of the ground. She shook her head to dispel the samodiva’s magic and sank it deeper into the damp earth.

“I’ll let you go,” Kosara said, “if you do me a favour.”

“What do you want?”

“I need your invitation to the Zmey’s feast.”

The samodiva threw her head back and laughed loudly, her white teeth glinting in the moonlight.

Kosara didn’t think she’d said anything particularly funny. “What?”

“Why do you want to go to the Zmey’s stupid party? It’s so dreary!”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Honestly, he’s turned into such a bore in his old age. He doesn’t even dance anymore.”

“Well, in that case, can I have your invitation?”

“Why are you asking me? I’m sure he’ll give you one if you ask nicely. Getting in the palace would be easy for you—it’s the getting out you have to worry about.”

Kosara glared at the samodiva. That was the point.

“Listen, I understand,” the samodiva said. “You’re avoiding him. I don’t blame you, I’ve been as well. To be honest with you, my funny little dwarf”—the samodiva leaned forwards, as if sharing a great secret—“he hasn’t been the same, ever since his sister disappeared.”

“What sister?”

“He blames himself, and he blames us, and it’s not our fault in the slightest, since we were out dancing when it all happened. Maybe she’s fine, you know? Maybe she simply wanted to get some space from him—you know very well how overbearing he can be.… Well, will you let me go now?”

Kosara’s left hand reached for the knife’s handle. She caught her wrist with her right hand and pressed it close to her body. “What sister?” she asked again. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh dear, I always forget how short your little human lives are. For you this must be ancient history.”

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