Page 86 of Foul Days

“What is?”

“This!” Kosara pointed at the hand which had started crawling back out. “A doctor’s wife, most likely well-to-do and educated, but she didn’t bother to bury her husband with the appropriate rituals to protect him from resurrecting! No aspen branches in sight, no church candles burning on the grave, no incense, and, I’d bet you, no silver coins on his eyes. It’s frankly shocking. They don’t take care of their dead, and then they run to us. ‘Help, my husband died and now he’s trying to suck the cat’s blood!’ Well, of course he is, if you didn’t bury him properly! There’s so much information out there nowadays, the Witch and Warlock Association releases a pamphlet every year, it’s a shame no one ever bothers to read it!”

Kosara angrily pulled out the garlic bulb, peeled a clove and dabbed it behind her ears. She passed it to Asen. He took it from her carefully, as if he was worried she might bite his hand off.

She’d perhaps gotten a tad too passionate discussing the drawbacks of not laying your dead to rest properly—but she simply couldn’t believe how ignorant some people were. Chernograd would have been a much safer city, if only it listened to its witches.

They advanced through the graveyard carefully, keeping to the snow-covered path. Every so often, Kosara stopped and listened, making sure they hadn’t awoken any more upirs. Asen kept turning around, as if looking for something. Perhaps he also imagined hungry upirs lurking behind every gravestone.

They found Algara’s grave easily, following Vila’s directions. It was deep within the graveyard, only a few minutes’ walk from the church. The headstone was so overgrown with shrubs, their bare branches completely enveloped it. Her name was barely visible underneath: Algara Yalanjieva, witch.

“Unbelievable,” Kosara said. “Blackbeard hasn’t even bothered tidying up her grave. I’m glad she didn’t resurrect—she’d probably have died from embarrassment.” Kosara dusted her hands. “Well, ready to get digging?”

Judging by Asen’s face, he wasn’t. He crossed himself before he nodded.

They borrowed tools from a rickety shed leaning against the church wall. The gravediggers wouldn’t need them anyway, as there were no funerals during the Foul Days.

It soon became obvious Kosara had underestimated how long digging a grave took. The earth was frozen solid. Asen chipped at it with a mattock, and loud ringing sounded every time he hit the ground. Kosara shovelled, the lumps of soil hard and heavy like river stones.

They worked all day, stopping only for a painfully short lunch: a couple of sheep’s cheese pastries and a warm cup of coffee from the nearby bakery. They ate them standing outside in the snow, too afraid that if they sat down, they wouldn’t have it in them to get back up.

Just after lunch, Asen disappeared for half an hour or so, claiming he had important business to attend to. Kosara spotted him walking towards a large marble monument.

She didn’t want to pry, but she couldn’t help but wonder what business a Belogradean copper could possibly have at the Chernogradean graveyard. She kept working, sweat rolling down her forehead. She kind of wished she’d followed him.

You’re being silly. He probably just needed the toilet. The two of them weren’t tied together, after all. He was allowed to do things without her.

When Asen returned, it was already starting to get dark. In the distance, the streetlamps lit up with a hiss. The winter days were short in Chernograd, which was a problem since the long nights were full of monsters.

“We need to hurry up,” Kosara said. “We can’t stay in the graveyard after dark.” Then she had a proper look at him. “Have you been crying?”

He frowned, wiping his red eyes with his sleeve. “It’s the wind.”

“Right.” Kosara narrowed her eyes at him. She knew it—she should have followed him earlier.

“How much time do we have?” he asked, grabbing the mattock.

“No more than an hour. But we should be almost there.”

They had to be almost there. Kosara’s muscles ached and her hands smarted. She’d taken off her coat, and her top was drenched in sweat. It turned freezing cold whenever she stopped working.

A howl sounded in the distance, chilling her even further.

“Varkolaks?” Asen asked.

“Yes.”

“Should we go?”

Probably.

“We can’t give up now,” she said.

“We can come back tomorrow.”

“What if someone finds out about us digging around and gets it before us? Malamir is a lovely boy, but he can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“And what if the upirs get us?”

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