Page 97 of Foul Days

Kosara finally looked up. Blackbeard stood on his lighthouse’s balcony, his silhouette dark against the bright lantern room.

Any other time of year, the lighthouse looked bizarre, perched on the side of the lake. During the Foul Days, it seemed out of place, too: a perfectly ordinary building on this foreign shore the Zmey had transported to Chernograd. Its peeling white walls contrasted against the dark sand.

“Blackbeard, my old friend!” Kosara shouted. “I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“Who the hell are you?” Blackbeard replied. “You know what, I don’t care! Soon you’ll be rusalka feed if you don’t step away from the water!”

“We’re miles away from the water!”

“That’s what you think. Rusalkas have an arm span of up to three times their height, did you know that?”

“I did, actually. Listen, we need to speak to you. Do you mind coming down?”

“Sorry, too busy! I have to wash my beard.”

Kosara fished for the compass in her pocket and pulled it out, swinging it by its long chain. “Look what we found!”

Blackbeard disappeared. What seemed like an impossibly short time later, the lighthouse door opened.

His beard wasn’t black anymore: it was grey and thick like chimney smoke. He wore it in tiny braids with amber beads glinting among them. His eyes were full of ruptured blood vessels and irritation.

Blackbeard grabbed at the compass. Kosara was faster. She’d known exactly what to expect from the old scoundrel. She snatched it away and hid it in her pocket again.

“You have to give it back,” Blackbeard barked. “It’s mine.”

“Do you have any proof?” Kosara asked.

“My name is etched on it.”

Kosara swore internally. She’d forgotten all about that little detail. “Well, you don’t get to claim everything you’ve written your name on.”

“Give it back!” His words boomed among the rocks like cannon shots. “Or I’ll call the police!”

Kosara snorted. No way would he ever risk bringing the police to his lighthouse full of stolen goods.

“I think you’ll find”—Asen pulled the badge from his pocket—“that I am the police.”

The unpleasant sound of bone rubbing against bone echoed between the stones. It took Kosara a second to realise where it came from—Blackbeard was grinding his teeth.

“I should have guessed,” he said. “Extortionists, the lot of you. What do you want?”

“We want you to take us to the Zmey’s palace,” Kosara replied.

Blackbeard laughed, making the beads in his beard chime. “So, you are suicidal.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“When I was young and stupid! Believe me, you’ll find nothing of any real worth in the Zmey’s palace. What did all the gold I stole from him bring me?” Blackbeard waved his hand to encompass the rocky shore, the sea, and the lighthouse. “It’s all cursed! You gamble with it—you always lose. You splash out on drink—it tastes like vinegar. You spend it on wenches—they bring you nothing but misery!”

Kosara suspected it was Blackbeard’s terrible attitude that spoiled his fun, not the Zmey’s cursed gold.

“We’re not interested in the Zmey’s gold,” Asen said. “We’re investigating a homicide.”

“Yeah?” Blackbeard asked. “Good luck arresting the Zmey!”

“He isn’t the suspect. I suppose he’s a witness.”

“You’re going to try to interrogate the Zmey?”

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