Excerpt from Foul Days by Genoveva Dimova, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"What do you want, then?"

Slowly, he untied his neckerchief. Roksana whistled.

On a thin chain around the stranger's neck hung a string of black beads. He brushed them with his palm, and they trembled like candle flames in the wind.

Kosara bit her lip hard, almost to blood. The stranger wore a necklace of witches' shadows.

"I want your shadow," he said.

Through the haze of seer's sage smoke and alcohol, Kosara felt the sharp sting of alarm. She shook her head so quickly, her hair hit her across the face. "No. I can't."

"Think about it. You'll bet one shadow. I'm offering you"—he weighed them in his hand—"eleven. It's a good deal."

"I'm a witch. Without my shadow, I'm nothing."

"You're a mediocre witch. I'm offering you true power."

A mediocre witch. She'd be offended if it wasn't true. She could heat up her coffee with a snap of her fingers and ask her shadow to fetch her coat. On a good day, she could conjure a firework or two. Parlour tricks.

If she won, she'd become a real witch, like the ones from the old fairy tales. She'd pay all the inns, cafes, and restaurants with alchemists' gold. She'd weave herself a dress from moonlight. She'd turn the river into wine and give the entire city a free drink.

But if she lost …

Everyone knew what happened to witches who'd lost their shadows: they slowly turned into shadows themselves. It could take years or even decades, but it was unavoidable. Was it worth betting her corporeal body for the possibility of almost unlimited power?

"Come on, Kosara," said the stranger. "Just think what you could do with so much magic. You could cross the Wall and escape this cursed city. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

Kosara chewed on her lip. The stranger had read her completely wrong. She didn't want to cross the Wall, which—she was aware—made her a minority in Chernograd. She couldn't leave her city to be ravaged by its monsters while she lived happily ever after on the other side.

No, what she truly wanted was for the monsters to be dealt with, once and for all. And with such power, she could finally achieve that.

"Don't do anything stupid, doll." Malamir's horrified eyes searched hers.

"No risk"—Roksana shot a cloud of smoke at her—"no gain."

"Well?" said the stranger. "I've been told you can't resist a good gamble."

"Who told you that?" Kosara asked.

"One of your friends."

Kosara raised her eyebrows at Roksana and Malamir. She would hardly call them "friends." More like good acquaintances.

Roksana smirked, her face half-hidden behind a curtain of smoke. "Wasn't me."

"Me neither," Malamir said quickly. "I'd never."

"How many years have we known each other?" Roksana asked. "I've never said a bad word about you."

"Me neither," added Malamir. "Never."

Kosara let out a puff of air through her nostrils. Dirty liars. They were lucky she liked them.

She looked down at her cards, blurring slightly in her trembling fingers. Her hand was nearly unbeatable. The only way the stranger could win was if he held a queen, a king, and an ace of spades.

Kosara had bet on much worse chances before, but she'd never bet anything so precious.

"Come on, Kosara," the stranger said again.

He wouldn't give up easily. A witch's shadow couldn't be stolen—it had to be given willingly. He'd already convinced eleven other witches to give him theirs.

Kosara downed her glass of plum rakia in one go. It burned her tongue and seared her throat, but it did nothing to calm her nerves.

"Kosara, doll." Malamir rested a hand on her shoulder. She didn't look at him. In the corner of her eye, she saw his hypnotising watch swinging in the dark hollows of his coat. "I really don't think this is a smart—"

"Stop pestering her, for fuck's sake," Roksana snapped. "It's her decision. Our Kosara knows what she's doing."

Excerpted from Foul Days by Genoveva Dimova. Copyright © 2024 by Genoveva Dimova. Excerpted by permission of Tor Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.