Наталья Соколова, Дмитрий Соколов
LIMBO

Translator's Note

The events of the novel take place in one of the most mystical and enigmatic cities in the world – Saint Petersburg, Russia. In the original text, nearly all of the first and last names were "speaking names" that added depth to each character. For the English translation, the closest possible equivalents were chosen. The names of certain locations and establishments have likewise been adapted for English-speaking readers. Only one surname was kept in its authentic form – that of the main character, which the author gave her in honor of her very first school friend.

We hope you enjoy this dark yet romantic story. Please leave your reviews! The more feedback we receive, the sooner the sequel will see the light of day – the second book in the "Phoenixes and Serpents" series.

Prologue

The old railway cuts through the dense forest. It curves and winds between tall, dark green firs and pines that stretch endlessly. Cracked, wet wooden ties flash by in the window. Despite the heavy rain and gusty wind, the train driver accelerates as fast as he can. He's been told that a woman is giving birth in the first compartment.

It's an hour and a half ride to the nearest town with a hospital – will they make it? They have to. The conductor whispered that the woman's husband is a military man who serves in the KGB¹. They are traveling from Vladivostok all the way to Moscow, and now, after almost three days on the road, the labor has begun. They say it's a couple of weeks earlier than expected. The driver doesn't know anything else and doesn't want to know. The train shakes and sways at high speed. There's no time to think, he has to watch the tracks.

In the first compartment, it's quiet and dark, the curtain is drawn. A young woman, clutching her rounded belly, leans forward and closes her eyes. Her breathing is as restless and erratic as the wind raging outside, whipping the treetops. Pain tears through her body like the lightning flashes slashing the heavy sky beyond the window. Everything inside her trembles as if from peals of thunder. It seems a real hurricane is beginning.

The major in a dark gray tunic nervously crumples his black cap in his hands. He doesn't know how to help his wife. He shouldn't have taken her on this long trip, but he couldn't leave her alone in Moscow either. He had promised them not to take his eyes off her for a minute.

The contractions intensify, as does the storm. The train, flying like an arrow, suddenly brakes sharply. The rails whistle, suitcases fall from the racks. The train freezes in the middle of the wild forest. Something has happened on the tracks.

"Just what we needed!" the man in uniform mutters.

The conductor peeks in. She inquires about the condition of the woman in labor, sighing puzzledly. Then she explains: a tree has fallen across the tracks, and they can't go any further. They can't remove it themselves; an emergency helicopter has been called, but the weather is too bad for flying now, and it's unknown how long the storm will last. They'll have to choose: either stay on the train until the bad weather passes, but there's no one here to deliver the baby, as there isn't a single doctor among the passengers…

"Or?" the father's voice is taut as a string.

"Or walk through the forest to the nearest village. It's not a city, of course, but there's a local healer there. That is, a shaman…"

The woman in labor sobs, she's in pain and now scared too.

"Are you out of your mind?!" the man asks sternly. "A shaman?!"

"Yes, a Buryat² one. I'm afraid that's the best we can hope for. A young man traveling to Ulan-Ude has agreed to show you the way. If I were you, I'd hurry before he changes his mind…"

The journey to the village is like the nine circles of hell. The icy wind howls and knocks them off their feet. There's no road, not even a path. Feet sink ankle-deep into the marshy sludge. Fir branches catch on their clothes. Holding his black coat over his wife, the man shields her from the large raindrops falling from the trees and leads her – half-unconscious – following the slant-eyed young man.

After about forty minutes, the thicket parts. A small village appears in the distance. The three of them emerge from the forest just in time – right behind them, another mighty tree breaks and falls with a crash.

Lightning flashes on the horizon. The woman stumbles and falls again and again. Everything is as if in a fog. They carry her into the shaman's rickety hut – at the very foot of the hill – already in their arms. The old dark-faced healer, seeing them on the threshold, frowns and says a couple of phrases to his wife in the local language. The wrinkled old woman shakes her head and goes to the kitchen nook, curtained off by a screen. Aluminum dishes clatter, water pours from one bowl to another.

The shaman waves his hands at the two men, hurriedly ushering them towards the exit, uttering something instructive. The major doesn't understand his words, but the general meaning is clear – they won't be allowed to watch the birth. They need to find shelter in one of the neighboring houses.

The woman leans tiredly against the wall. A fire burns in the hut, the old woman brings her a blanket, and she finally warms up. Her eyes close by themselves, her body falls into a viscous oblivion, only occasionally arching from waves of increasing pain. With each contraction, the thunder rumbles more distinctly, and the hosts become more anxious.

"Phoenix or serpent?" the shaman suddenly asks.

She doesn't understand him at all – she blinks her light eyelashes and remains silent. Sitting opposite, the healer looks at her intently:

"Phoenix or… dragon?" he repeats, looking from under his brows.

The question remains unanswered again. The shaman's wife, sighing, brings the woman in labor a wide clay cup with a steaming, hot drink.

Taking a sip, she grimaces and covers her mouth:

"It's bitter!" she pushes away the cup, nearly spilling its contents. The shaman swears. First in his dialect, then with difficulty switching to Russian:

"Immortal wing, gathered at dawn, helps open the gates of the worlds!" he again puts the cup with the decoction under her nose.

"No, I won't! It's too bitter!"

"Drink!" the old man growls like a wolf. The eyes in the narrow slits of his eyelids flash red – the fire from the hearth reflects in them so brightly that it becomes scary. "Drink! You will ruin us all!"

Tears flow down the young woman's face. Her lips twist, her fingers clutching the cup tremble. The burning poison, sip after sip, flows down her throat, befuddles her head, and ties her stomach in knots. The contractions intensify. Or rather, one continuous contraction begins, without breaks or hope for rest.

"Work, maiden," the shaman mutters, turning away. Now he seems calm and pays no attention to the fact that the wind outside is about to rip the flimsy roof off the house. "Work. The faster you give birth, the sooner all this will end…"

Meanwhile, the major, shielding himself from the bad weather with his overcoat, was knocking on the doors of nearby huts in search of a "messenger." He urgently needed to send a telegram to Moscow. There were no volunteers to set out in such a difficult hour. His clothes were getting wet, his desperation growing. Finally, in one of the huts, a sullen Buryat woman agreed to send her youngest son to the post office. Not for free, of course. She asked for a large sum of money and, in addition, a "navigator's" wristwatch.

In exchange, the host found a small, unevenly torn sheet of brown paper and a piece of charcoal, which was used in the village instead of a pencil.

"Wife in labor," the military man scrawled with a trembling hand. "It seems we've succeeded. Will contact you later. If we survive."

On the back, he wrote a phone number and someone's name and surname.

The woman's son tightened his short jacket, sat on a piebald horse, and, bending over, galloped headlong to the city – through the wind, thunder and wall of pouring rain.

Several hours later, when he returns to the village with a reply message in his bosom, the hurricane will already be over. It will get warmer. Bright sunlight will illuminate piles of destroyed village huts and barns. Only one single shaman's hut will have withstood the merciless elements that day; the other houses will be completely destroyed. Some residents will hide in cellars, some will scatter, some will die under the rubble. The boy will search for a long time among the ruins for that very capital military man but will eventually find only his ownerless cap under a fallen fence.

He will quietly peek into the sorcerer's house, see the sleeping woman who has given birth there, and on her chest – a peacefully snuffling newborn boy with an umbilical cord tied with camel wool. The shaman and his old wife will also be asleep by the extinguished hearth, and he won't dare to disturb them.

He'll go out – and will remain standing in the middle of the sun-drenched road, holding a short telegram in his hands.

On the crumpled yellow sheet of paper, the reply that came from Moscow will be printed in faded letters:

"Phoenix or serpent?"

Chapter 1: Maps of Unfamiliar Cities

"Mom, who came?"

In the morning, coming to the kitchen, I took milk from the fridge and cereals from the drawer, and sat down at the table. Today I was flying in my sleep all night again, and after such dreams I am always wildly hungry.

"No one came, Niki, why?"

"Are you sure?.."

I'm ready to bet that through my sleep, I heard the front door slam!

"Well… Only the postman came in, brought a registered letter."

Sighing, Dad tore his gaze from the window and also sat down to breakfast. On the contrary, I stretched and looked out the window to figure out what to wear today. Next week is already September, but the weather is still as warm as in the middle of summer.

Squinting from the bright sun reflecting in all possible glasses, I watched a black tinted Volga³ drove away from our house. Can you imagine, someone still drives them! The last time I saw one was in a museum. And also at Uncle Roman's – a long-time friend of my parents, a military man from the FSB. But now he has no time at all to visit us. Probably a lot of work at Lubyanka⁴…

"What kind of letter?" I asked belatedly.

"The letter, daughter, is for you," Mom said tensely, exchanging glances with Dad. "They're inviting you to study. In Leningrad⁵."

The bowl of cereal tipped over. Milk ran in a thin stream across the table.

"In St. Petersburg," Dad grimly corrected, throwing a stack of napkins into the puddle.

"Mom, wait," I babbled. "What Leningrad, what St. Petersburg?! What about the Veterinary Academy?.. Well, I got in, everything's fine…"

"Niki, the Veterinary Academy is canceled. You've been accepted to the institute. A very good one. In Leningrad. Your documents are already there."

"What?! You secretly sent my documents there?! Oh, Mom! It's… it's mean! You should know… I'll turn eighteen in six months, and I'll transfer out of there anyway! Got it?!"

"Daughter, calm down, we didn't decide anything here."

"We didn't decide, yeah right," Dad grumbled. "We should have told her everything right away, not like this on the last day!"

"What do you mean on the last?!"

Mom cast a reproachful look at him, and only then did I realize that these two had been arguing all Saturday morning while I was asleep.

"Well, okay," I sighed conciliatorily. "What kind of institute is it at least, what's it called?"

"LIMBO," Mom answered readily. "A very old and beautiful one. You'll like it there. And what a wonderful city!.."

"LIMBO…" I twirled the glass of apple juice in my hands, which Dad had slipped me instead of the bowl of cereal. "What does that stand for?"

"Leningrad Institute of Modeling… Modeling… I forgot the last letters. Alex, do you remember?"

"Nope," Dad shrugged. "Business Objectives, maybe?"

"Maybe," Mom concluded with feigned carelessness. "Well, when you get there, you'll find out."

"But what will I be at least?"

"They'll explain everything to you there."

"What do you mean 'they'll explain there'?! You sent my documents to some special faculty, not just into the void!.."

"Special. Exactly special…"

"Nicole, tell me," Dad suddenly changed the subject, "do you still have those dreams?"

I shuddered. Here we go! I hope this is really an institute, and not some kind of correctional school for teenagers with "oddities" like me.

For some reason, my parents have been very scared of my dreams since childhood. The dreams, meanwhile, are completely ordinary. Without monsters, witches, and beasts, not even nightmares. I don't foresee the future in my dreams, don't walk in otherworldly realms, don't sell my soul to the devil. It's just that from time to time I dream that I'm flying high in the sky somewhere far, far away from home, and these places look very realistic – as if I'm traveling in reality.

As a child, I used to draw maps of unfamiliar cities. Waking up, I would immediately grab a pen and get so carried away that sometimes I was late for school. But even if I did arrive at lessons on time, on such days I had no time for studying. The back pages of all my notebooks were filled with sketches of maps. Streets, houses, road bends, squares, shops, factories and hospitals lay down on paper and grew to the scale of huge anthills.

One day, Dad took these drawings from me. He compared them with real maps of Russia that he used to buy in his youth while hitchhiking. He twisted the original for a long time, then the drawn checkered sheets. Sighed. Scratched his head. Then he placed my artwork between the spreads of certain pages of real cities, nodded to me puzzledly, and went to the kitchen to "consult" with Mom.

Later, my parents took me first to child psychologists, and then to all sorts of fortune-tellers, healers and witches. Probably, they were afraid of the evil eye and curses – not for nothing has my room been hung since infancy with some dubious amulets made of camel wool, and they still make me wear a camel thread on my left hand when I go outside.

Alas, neither psychologists nor magic spells have helped in all these years. Dreams still come to me with enviable regularity – every new moon and full moon. Moreover, now I don't just travel, but look for "the red matter", though it's better not to tell my parents about this. I decided to keep details from them and don't share with them much. For example, that I don't fly in my own body. More precisely, in the dream I have no body at all – my being is one huge wing, woven either from smoke or from black sharp blades instead of feathers. And this creature without a head and torso feeds on the red light emanating from people.

Not all people emit the red light, but only those who have conceived something bad. I "hunt" for burglars, pickpockets, maniacs, rapists, illegal goods traders – and other scum that comes out onto the streets at nightfall. If there is at least one such person in the city, I will notice him immediately and transfer to him in a split second.

Almost always at these moments, the would-be villains see my shadow, their face contorts, their hands begin to tremble. The crime is canceled, they run away in terror, and I eat the red matter that remains of them, then in the morning I feel more energetic than usual. But sometimes there are "blind" ones, they don't notice my approach until the very end, and then the black wing pounces on them, tearing them to pieces. The long sharp feather-knives cut through skin, muscles and bones. Blood flows. A loud scream shakes the room and wakes me up. I got up hungry, broken and completely exhausted. Like today.

Do these people survive after meeting that other me? I don't know, and in the end, what difference does it make. After all, these are just dreams…

"No, Dad. I don't have those dreams any more," I looked at him askance. Will he swallow my bold lie or not? It seems this morning I didn't scream, so there's a chance.

"I see," Dad took a sip from his coffee mug. "And do you wear the camel thread?"

Look at that, it worked. But it's better not to risk it twice in a row.

"I forgot to put it on yesterday," I admitted honestly. "But don't worry, I'm grown up now, no one will jinx me. And to this silly institute-of-modeling-who-knows-what, I'll go with the thread, so be it."

"I was just going to ask you…" Dad said cautiously. "When you're packing for St. Petersburg… leave the camel thread at home."

* * *

The "Sapsan"⁶ train was running briskly on the rails. The information display steadily showed "130 mph". We had already covered half the distance. Another half, and I would arrive in the city on the Neva⁷.

The further I got from Moscow, the more confident and free I felt, the wider the wings behind my back spread. And, for some reason, the hungrier I became. I had already devoured the sandwiches Mom had lovingly packed for the trip, and almost finished the tea from my thermos.

Maybe I'm nervous?.. I had only been to St. Petersburg once before with my parents when I was about three. I think we were visiting some distant relative of ours, Aunt Bella, but I don't remember anything anymore – neither about her, nor about the trip, nor about the city. I'll have to discover everything anew.

It's actually surprising why they let me go almost five hundred miles from home alone so easily, and even without amulets? To an unknown institute, to a dormitory – aren't they afraid for their only daughter at all?..

I clutched my backpack strap tighter and, resting my head against the cushion, closed my eyes. Well, I'll try to solve problems as they arise. No catastrophe has happened yet. Yes, I won't be studying at the Veterinary Academy because I'm being urgently, literally forcibly sent to some LIMBO, without being properly explained anything. But no matter how strange all this is, I'm not going to jump off the train. When I arrive, I'll figure out what kind of institute it is and what they model there. And for now, I'll try to relax as much as possible. Maybe even take a nap…

The forests and plains flickering outside the window now spread out before my inner vision from a different angle. From above – as if I'm sitting not in the soft deep seat of the "Sapsan", but on the roof of the railway car. The wind tousles my dark hair. Wait, is it hair?..

The field of view expands, the picture on the sides spreads wide, as if I'm rising above the ground. Here are small blue lakes glistening in the sun. Here are tiny villages. Apples are already ripening on the trees in the orchards. Here, spotted cows mill about on a large pasture. And here's a noisy high-speed highway running to the north. Cars glide along the dusty heated asphalt like on oil, trying to catch up with our train. My gaze also glides forward. It rushes somewhere faster than all possible vehicles. There, in the distance, something scarlet looms, and it beckons me. I tense up like a string.

Could it be that I will finally satisfy my hunger! Where is he, this person radiating the red glow? Whatever he's planning, I'll stop him!

Or maybe I won't stop him. Because there are no people here – not a single living soul. The red matter drifts lonely over the ground above wrought-iron fences and tilted crosses.

It's getting cold, and I slow down. My black shadow circles anxiously above the road. Who could think to run a highway so close to an active cemetery!

A barely noticeable silhouette suddenly appears out of nowhere in the middle of the highway. Right now there are no cars yet because a couple of miles from here, a traffic light is glowing red. But very soon it will switch, and the impatient driver will joyfully accelerate his steel horse with all his might, unaware of the danger. The road is smooth – perfect for racing. When he arrives here, the speedometer will already show a hundred per hour, if not more. Seeing a ghost on the way, he'll mistake it for a living person, get scared and brake sharply. He'll turn the wheel, roll onto the shoulder and crash into a thick lamppost with a colorful funeral wreath. It seems this case is far from the first one here…

"Go away!!!" I shout.

The picture spins in a "spiral." I descend. Sharp black edges shatter the ghostly silhouette, for seconds it collapses like a cracked mirror, then gathers again and again. I'm getting angry. The feeling of hunger becomes unbearable.

The feathers ruffle, blur, change shape. Now my body flows like incense smoke. For a moment, fire flashes as if someone struck a lighter. There's a hiss. The flame, absorbing the phantom along with the red clot of its energy, goes out.

And suddenly – very close – the screech of brakes. Damn! The smoking wing rushes upward. In an instant, I soar above the trees as if pulled by an invisible fishing line.

The roar of the engine falls silent. A powerful car with a horned ram on its shiny logo stops half a dozen feet from that very lamppost with the wreath. The driver, unfastening, gets out to look around. He thoughtfully surveys the peeling spikes of crosses in the cemetery, then raises his eyes upward, but he can't see me anymore – I'm too high.

The lucky guy sighs. He leans against the wide hood of his big ride and takes something out of his pocket. A lighter clicks – this time a real one – and a long cigarette begins to smoke in his fingers.

Are you serious, man?! I just saved your life, by the way – and you immediately shorten it with a dose of nicotine. "Cool"! You don't have to thank me…

The stuffy resinous smell is felt even at a height of a hundred feet. My breath catches. I take a deep gulp of air and, unexpectedly for myself, open my eyes.

"Miss, are you alright?" it was the hand of the train attendant in a white glove that landed on my shoulder. "Did you have a nightmare? Would you like some tea?"

Okay, I get it, so I was screaming in my sleep again.

"Coffee would be better," I blurted out hoarsely. "And a sandwich. Thanks."

Chapter 2: Déjà vu

After leaving the station, I opened the link with the institute's address that Dad had sent me in the messenger. The map marker was placed on the building of St. Isaac's Cathedral⁸. Strange. It must be some kind of mistake, right? Surely an institute can't be located inside a tourist attraction?..

While I was waiting for clarification, my trolleybus arrived, and I decided to "walk" along Nevsky Prospect at least this way – looking at it from the window. My suitcase is small but heavy, it's difficult even to lift it into public transport, let alone drag it on foot for several miles. In short, I took a free seat at the end of the cabin, pressed my bag against the wall, and now was gazing around, studying St. Petersburg.

A series of shops, restaurants and hotels gave way to a bridge over the Fontanka River with restless bronze horses⁹. It occurred to me that these four horses could well symbolize the four years of bachelor's studies that await me and my coursemates. At first wild – untamed – steeds, like students, gradually become more obedient, well-shod, and a spark of understanding appears in their eyes.

Again a string of boutiques, a small park, Kazan Square drowning in the tender rays of the "golden" hour, and now there's another river under us – the Moika this time – and then buildings of amazing beauty flickered one after another. I was so engrossed that I didn't notice how the trolleybus turned. A little more, and I would have missed my stop!..

The place next to which the map marker stood was on the opposite side from the main entrance to St. Isaac's Cathedral. I had to walk back and forth several times before my eyes distinguished stone steps leading down, and behind them – a dark red oak door.

It's probably some technical utility room, but maybe at least there they can tell me if I've come to the right address or not. My hand touched the old brass handle, and the creaky door opened, inviting me to descend a few more steps lower. There was someone there, in the room, I felt it, but I didn't dare to step over the threshold.

"Hello!" I shouted into the darkness of the doorway. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm looking for the institute… LIMBO… do you know where it is?"

"Open your eyes!" came the response. Our concierge, Aunt Betty, had such a voice when she suspiciously interrogated unfamiliar guests. "Look at the sign! What does it say?"

I stepped back. How could I not have noticed! To the left of the entrance, on a gray marble pointer, the engraved letters shone in gold: "Leningrad Institute of Modeling B…"

The inscription broke off there. Someone had pried out the right upper nail, part of the spotty stone was missing, and the sign was slightly tilted downward. Just think – it turns out that there are vandals in cultured St. Petersburg too. It seems I won't know until the end what exactly I'll be modeling here…

"So, this is where I need to be," I exhaled quietly and entered, closing the door behind me.

"Do you have a pass?" the doorkeeper even looked like our Aunt Betty. The same curly, heavily bleached hair and thick gaudy cat-eye glasses covering half her face. The booth where she sat was illuminated from inside with a dim yellow light, but beyond this "guardhouse" nothing was visible. The corridor was drowning in darkness.

"A pass?.. Oh, no. I'm new."

"So you didn't attend the preparatory courses. I see, a failing student. Fi-ine," the woman reluctantly rose from her well-worn seat. "Come on, first time I'll let you in with my pass, but then you should ask for one to be issued at the dean's office."

In the faint gleam, a white card with a shiny round logo flashed. I didn't have time to see what was depicted there. A green light lit up in the darkness, and the security guard pushed me forward.

I stepped into the abyss and immediately stopped – my ears were suddenly so blocked. As if I were flying in an airplane that was gaining altitude, or in a high-speed elevator rushing to the top of a skyscraper. My head spun. Hands tried to feel a wall to hold on to, but there were no walls. Neither on the left nor on the right.

"Well, come on, be bolder," the old woman grumbled discontentedly. "Walk. One, two, three. No need to linger here in the corridor. Inhale, exhale. Swallow your saliva – that's all. Look at you, such a delicate flower!.."

Out of fear, I screwed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, I almost fell again. The huge hall was flooded with bright warm light. Sunbeams passed through the tall, completely glass dome of the cathedral and played with glare on the wrought railings of stairs made of yellow metal, on the stand with the lecture schedule, on the spines of books standing on top of the shelves in the open library.

Hmm. I'm not an expert in architecture, of course, but it seemed to me that from the outside, the dome was still golden, not transparent. How did they achieve such an effect?!..

While I stood with my head tilted back, the "concierge" disappeared. Turning around, I saw two tightly closed iron doors behind me, and in front of them – a turnstile with a magnetic lock. Without applying a pass, you can't get out of here, and I don't have a pass, so I'll have to go search for the dean's office.

Despite the non-academic day, the institute was full of students, mostly upperclassmen. I was almost certain they were upperclassmen – too bold and self-confident. I nervously rolled my suitcase past them, while they, giggling, whispered to each other in low voices:

"Ohhh, the recruits are pouring in!"

"Tough as always!"

"Well, hold on, they'll show us now!.."

Ducking my head between my shoulders, I approached the information stand. The hall on the institute map was hard to find. It turns out I was now conditionally on the second floor. There was also a first floor – that one, apparently, completely in the basement. And the third – where the dean's office I needed was located.

Dragging a suitcase up the wrought-iron spiral staircases is a dubious pleasure, so first I decided to rest a bit. Especially since a soda machine was very conveniently placed near the passage upstairs. Bright drinks of all rainbow colors bubbled in transparent glass bottles: lilac-violet, sky-blue, light-blue like forget-me-nots, emerald-green, sunny-yellow, orange and… red. Like blood. No, like the red matter that I failed to taste twice today.

It seemed there were more bubbles in the soda than liquid, but my throat was so dry from the excitement that I was okay with this "oxygen cocktail".

Applying my mobile to the window, I tried to pay for a bottle, but the contactless payment didn't work. I tried several times and only then saw that there was no network here. The fancy new phone – Dad's gift for graduating school – had turned into a dead brick. Maybe something was wrong with the roaming?..

I had to take out a plastic card, but it didn't work either. As if to spite me, the thirst only got stronger. I poked the chip at the sensor, twisted the card this way and that, then inserted it in all possible variations into the receiver, but the machine, sneezing haughtily, each time spat it back into my hand.

"Let me buy it," a voice suddenly sounded from behind.

A lanky disheveled guy moved me aside. His overgrown hair – light brown, slightly shading greenish – fell on his face when he started rummaging through the pockets of his denim jacket. Finally, what he was looking for was found – a blue card with a golden logo. Exactly the same one I had seen with the woman at the entrance, only hers was white, not colored.

The machine's holder clanked, the long-awaited bottle plopped into the dispensing window and a second later was already in my hand. Unscrewing the sharp metal cap from it, which normal people pry off with openers, I drained the contents to the bottom in one go.

"Look what she's doing," someone from the old-timers noted, staring at me from afar.

"I'm starting to be afraid of them," his buddy answered with a chuckle. "We didn't drink red orgone in our first year…"

"And what, won't her head spin?!"

What are they talking about? I had to turn the bottle in my hands, examining the labels. There's no marking about alcohol content. It's not even an energy drink. Sure nothing like that can be sold in an institute!

I threw the empty vial into the trash can next to me and turned to the guy:

"Thank you," I smiled and held out my hand to him. "Let's get acquainted. My name is…"

Adjusting the large travel bag on his shoulder, he raised his yellowish, honey-colored eyes:

"I know. Your name is Niki. You've already said that. And in general, all this has already happened…" his black pupils contracted to small dots, and then stretched into two narrow slits, like a cat looking at bright light.

I froze in amazement, the handshake never happened. A chill ran down my spine.

"It's called déjà vu…" I bleated weakly.

"Jake!" suddenly came from behind our backs. "Here you are, you snake! Stop scaring people!"

"Hi, Charm. You know I don't do it on purpose."

"Oh, I wish my eyes didn't see you!" spinning the keychain with the Audi logo on her index finger, the girl blew a big pink bubble of gum with her plump lips and shook my hand that was frozen in the air. "Hey, friend! We're coursemates. And this guy, alas, is also with us."

Smiling sweetly, she adjusted the perfectly straight strands of red hair, highlighted with lilac on one side – to match the color of her contact lenses. Then she turned on her sky-high heels and, leaving a trail of sweet, candy perfume behind her, clicked up the stairs.

"That's Liz Charm," the guy with yellow eyes, now quite human-like, explained grimly. "The daughter of a local 'big shot'. We studied together in the preparatory courses. I mean, I studied, and this vixen only pretended, because in fact she had already been in her first year before."

"Another… déjà vu?" I clarified cautiously.

"Ha, no. Time loops have nothing to do with it," the guy again leaned his card against the soda machine. This time a blue drink came out. "She was simply held back for a second year."

"Is that even possible in universities?" I was sincerely surprised.

"Actually, it's not. Especially at LIMBO. But this witch," he glared maliciously after her, "is above the law. And you… you're heading to the dean's office, right? Come on, I'll help you carry the suitcase."

Chapter 3: Twin Flame

I was turning the red card in my hands, examining it from both sides. The front was engraved with the words: LIMBO. 1st year. Group "P". On the back, a golden circle shimmered with a dragon and a bird inside. The two beasts, mirrored, faced each other like yin and yang. The dragon – or rather, a long serpent with legs – mercilessly bit its own tail. The peacock – like a mythical firebird – aggressively spread its lush wings, engulfed in flames. Between them, a compass and a square intersected in the shape of a diamond, and in the center sparkled the sign of infinity – a figure eight turned sideways.

"Hey, Niki, let's go for a walk!" a bold voice pulled me out of my meditation on the hypnotic symbol glowing in the sunset light.

Startled, I tucked my new pass into my pocket and looked out the window. Third floor – not too high, but the whole street was visible.

Our dormitory – a beautiful old building with columns and carved windows, painted white, green, and gold – was located quite close to the institute. You only needed to walk through St. Isaac's Square and turn left at the monument to Nicholas I, into the courtyards.

"There's an interesting spot nearby on a roof," Lizzy waved to me. She was standing near a peculiar forked lamppost that resembled either a mast or the scales of Themis. "You can see the whole city from there! You'll love it!"

The words trembled on the evening Petersburg wind like a magical spell. Indeed, how could I not love a place from which the entire city was visible?..

I looked at my half-unpacked, lopsided suitcase. Well, I could sort out my things later. Besides, no one else had been assigned to the room yet, so my mess wouldn't scare off any roommates.

"Coming!" I shouted, throwing on a windbreaker. In the hallway, I instinctively glanced in the mirror hanging by the entrance, and it seemed to me that my already too pale blue eyes had grown even paler, while my dark hair, on the contrary, had blackened, becoming like the wing from my dreams. I shuddered, but chalked it up to fatigue or the tricks of the dim dorm lighting.

It had gotten colder outside. The first streetlights were coming on. We walked along the Neva embankment, sipping cocktails from tin cans – this time not from the institute's vending machine, but from the nearest store that only serves those who had already turned eighteen. Liz, having stayed back a year, had recently celebrated her coming of age and took advantage of it.

"On the last day of vacation, you absolutely have to get drunk," she confidently objected when I tried to refuse. "There's no freshman initiation for students at our institute. Alcohol is strictly forbidden. So consider this the only evening you can spend like a normal person. You didn't go to the prep courses, did you?"

"No, I… My parents only told me last week that I'd be studying here."

Liz suddenly slowed down. She put her can on the wide parapet of the bridge and leaned over, looking at the restless waves below.

"I see, they dragged it out until the last minute. And they never spilled the beans? Didn't tell you what you'd be?"

"No," I repeated, "they didn't say anything. I don't even know the full name of the institute."

"Well, you're not alone in that," the redhead chuckled. "Sometimes I think no one knows it, including my dad who stuck me in here."

"So the sign's been broken for a long time?"

"Ha, the sign!.." a steamboat rumbled below in a deep bass, passing under the Palace Bridge, and Lizzy paused, then suddenly smiled and pulled car keys from her pocket. "Listen, let's not talk about that. I wanted to take you to the roof, remember? Let's go!"

It seemed this wasn't her first time driving while tipsy. Thankfully, we didn't have to drive far, I didn't have time to get scared, and the only traffic cop we encountered at an intersection didn't smell trouble from afar.

We spent the whole evening and even part of the night sitting on the roof of a tall building, from which a panoramic view of St. Petersburg opened up. My savvy friend's bag held a few more cans of cocktails, which we used to keep warm while admiring first the city lights, then the drawbridges, and later the stars.

We chatted about all sorts of nonsense. About school, about parents, about pets, about where we go on summer vacations. That's how I learned that Lizzy's father is a deputy in the local council who sent her to the best boarding school near Peterhof¹⁰ since she was four, hoping to raise a prodigy. That her mother was – surprisingly – an astrologer, and had prophesied a special destiny for her only daughter since childhood. That they have three generations of cats living with them – all black, without a single white hair. And in summer, the whole family travels to places of power. They'd already been to the Solovki islands, the Krasnodar dolmens, Lake Baikal, Altai, and even the Valley of Geysers in Kamchatka.

After the third portion of cocktail, the topics changed. Liz became curious if I had a boyfriend, and since I didn't – if I had ever had one.

"Yes, there was one guy," I answered as casually as possible. "We were friends since fifth grade. Everywhere together, we even agreed to go study at the Veterinary Academy for the same faculty. We spent the last six months preparing for admission – meeting at his place or mine – and poring over textbooks, every evening, no days off…"

"And did you get in?"

"Yeah. But in August, after all the exams, I saw him with another girl. At first, I thought: must be his sister. He'd said a relative from the south was supposed to visit them. And this girl was all tanned… But when they kissed, it dawned on me that she was no sister."

Throwing the empty can off the roof with a swing, I added bitterly:

"So maybe it's good that I didn't end up going to any vet academy, but moved here, far away from him."

"Strange you didn't cut that bastard," Liz darkly concluded. Her tongue was stumbling, but from her tone, I understood she wasn't joking or exaggerating. "Should've cut him!"

Then she complained to me for a long time about her boyfriends, of whom there turned out to be so many that by the end of her story, I was already confusing their names. She said she specifically sought out various freaks – each "prettier" than the last – to fray the nerves of her perpetually work-bound father, but it always ended up with them fraying her nerves, not his – they would mock her, "ghost" her, leave her heartbroken. It doesn't seem, though, that her self-esteem dropped after all these burns and breakups.

"You know what, I believe…" she suddenly said, leaning back and resting on her bent elbows. "I believe that somewhere out there, in the future, my person is waiting for me. Our paths are just tangled, but one day we'll definitely find each other… Well, what about you?"

"What about me?"

"When are you going to look for a new boyfriend? Just don't say you're planning to stay a maiden forever now!"

"How did you know that…?" I flushed hot. The cold air wafting from the distant river turned into molten lava.

"I can spot virgins from a hundred miles away," Liz shrugged. "They – I mean, you – have too much orange orgone."

"I don't…"

"Listen," the redhead interrupted me, fidgeting impatiently. "My Mom told me long ago that to find a truly worthy man – your kindred spirit, your 'twin flame' – you need to go out at night, in the last, darkest hour before dawn, find the morning star in the sky and make a wish on it! I've tried many times, but either it's cloudy in Petersburg, or there are white nights¹¹, or Venus is in retrograde… In short, it never worked out, but now look how clear the sky is! We have a chance!"

Smiling, I quieted down and pretended to really be studying the stars, although I actually had no idea what Venus looked like or where to find it in the night sky. I'm not ready for a new relationship yet, so I'll probably just use the beautiful legend as an excuse to be silent. Besides, I was shamelessly drunk, and in such a state, it's better not to talk much, so as not to blush the next day.

At some point, it suddenly seemed to me that one of the stars near the horizon began to flicker more brightly. It filled with either pink or scarlet light. Blinked a couple of times. Expanded – or did my vision just go out of focus?.. And then it seemed to "swallow" me in a bright sparkling flash – and immediately went out.

My heart pounded faster. Where was it? Somewhere over there, by the spire of the Admiralty¹², but now the sky in that direction is pitch-black. Empty.

No matter how much I searched again for the source of the raspberry light, no matter how much I turned my head right and left, I didn't find anything similar. For some reason, I felt anxious, even a little creepy.

"I have to go!" I blurted out, jumping up. Swayed. With a groan, I held onto the antenna on the roof.

"L… let me drive you to the dorm," Lizzy struggled to extract the Audi key fob from her leather jacket pocket – it got caught on the zipper and, pulling harder, she seemed to have torn off its ring.

"Uh, no, thanks," I squeezed out. "I'd rather walk. To get some fresh air."

My heart was beating like crazy. I was shivering. Zipping up my jacket to the very top, I headed in the direction where the bright star had recently been glowing with mystical light.

* * *

"Please, don't touch me!"

"'Please'? Ha! Magic words don't work here, baby!"

Oh, I should have accepted Lizzy's offer after all. Walking alone at night in an unfamiliar area of an unfamiliar city was clearly a bad idea. Or is that stupid Venus to blame? Well, it sure did set me up with a guy – or rather, four of them!

Spitting out his cigarette, a shaved thug got out of a rickety, completely tinted car to face me. Three of his cronies lowered the squeaky windows and, grinning, stared at me from inside. In the narrow alley between two old buildings, the path wouldn't allow us to pass without bumping shoulders. I stepped onto the road, hoping to quickly slip by, but baldy grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the car:

"Where are you rushing off to! Come on, I'll give you a ride!"

"No, thanks. I… get carsick," I blurted out.

Guffawing like a horse, he breathed a foul stench in my face and pressed me against the wall of an old brick house:

"Then let's do it here."

He's probably drunk, like me, only for him, it seems, this state has already become a habit. The bald man's head clearly wasn't spinning, and his brazen face easily read: "I'll do whatever I want with you, and nothing will happen to me for it."

"Get your hands off!" I shouted to attract someone's attention. Alas, useless. The windows of the residential building didn't face the alley, and there were no passersby at such a late hour anyway.

"Don't yell, you idiot!" the pupils of his bulging eyes unnaturally narrowed with anger. Or maybe he's not drunk, but high?

"Let go!" I tried to wrench free, but our struggle was short-lived. Baldy clicked the blade of a folding knife and put the tip to my throat. Now it was scary to even breathe, let alone move.

Well, that's it. How many times in my dreams did I save the world from people like him and his friends, but now there's no one to come to my own rescue. I shouldn't have gone anywhere at nightfall with that Liz. I should have just gone to bed!

A sweaty hand went under my skirt. Scratching me with a hangnail, it squeezed my thigh. Dirty fingers reached higher. I wanted to scream, but no, I can't scream, or he'll slit my throat. This one, judging by his eyes, is out of his mind – he might do it.

The asphalt under my feet went wavy and flowed, like heated air. Everything became somehow unreal.

"Is this your girlfriend?" suddenly came from behind our backs.

The hand with the knife eased its pressure slightly, and I was able to turn my head. In the unlit end of the alley stood a person in black. The face was impossible to make out in the darkness – only the outline of a silhouette. Tall, shoulders not very broad, but standing out against the athletic narrow waist. Something resembling a rifle – or even an automatic weapon – hangs diagonally behind his back. Could it be a policeman?! Or maybe a soldier? A SWAT officer? Well, or at least an athlete?..

Thoughts raced quickly through my head. But what difference does it make, really! Whoever he is, the main thing is that he's armed, which means he'll save me! My heart beat joyfully in my chest, my knees trembled from the weakness that came over me.

"Are you dating?" the night passerby insistently repeated his question.

Baldy again didn't answer. Just a few seconds of silence was all the dark figure needed to correctly assess the situation. Or did he finally notice the knife?

The person stepped out of the shadows into the lamplight. With an artistic hand wearing a silver signet ring, he adjusted on his shoulder… no, not a rifle, but just a violin case.

A sigh of disappointment escaped from my chest. Damn! Now everything is definitely lost!

"I'm not with them…" I whispered with just my lips and indicated with my eyes toward the car, not really hoping, however, that one refined musician could cope with four deranged bandits.

"I see," his voice sounded calm and imperturbable. Even, as it might seem, with a note of boredom. "Listen, I advise you to let her go. Don't risk it. Leave."

Dark brown eyes seemed black in the gloom. Long ashen hair was tied back in a ponytail, revealing shaved temples. A black fitted jacket. The collar of a black shirt was cinched with a black tie, over which hung a silver chain. An earring or even a couple in his ear – one ring above another. How old is he?.. He's clean-shaven, so it's hard to tell his age. Maybe around twenty.

Yes, definitely. Probably some kind of elegant Petersburg student-nerd. Heading out early for classes at a music college or institute. Heading out, but won't make it… Now I became scared for him too, prickly goosebumps ran down my spine.

It suddenly got colder. The rising wind drove a heap of brown, already autumn-dried leaves to our feet. Far behind the houses, in the east – where the first strip of dawn appeared – thunder grumbled discontentedly.

"Can you hear well? Step away from her, and no one will get hurt."

"Bros," the thug turned to the car, "what do you say? Looks like we've been declared war!.."

The musician took the violin case off his shoulders, leaned it against the flaking wall of the building. The thunder rumbled closer now.

"Put away the knife. And everything else too."

Only now did the bald guy zip up his jeans and hoarsely guffawed:

"Or what? You'll play me a funeral march?"

I seemed to have completely stopped interesting him. Spitting, he turned away from me and kicked the violin case with all his might – so that it flew a couple of feet and, hitting with its lid, fell. The locks opened, and a thin bow with a gleaming black handle slipped out. It rolled along the dusty asphalt to its owner and froze next to him, like an obedient animal.

Oh, you shouldn't have tried to save me, pretty boy! Come to your senses and make a run for it – yes, take those very fashionable feet in pointy "Cossack" boots with chains in your hands and run – or they'll carry you out of here feet first in a canvas bag!..

The blade of the knife sliced through the air. So close – one more step and the psycho will gut him. But the musician only regretfully looks back at the violin and sighs.

To hell with the violin! Guy, don't be stupid! Run!

My tongue seemed stuck to the roof of my mouth and wouldn't obey. I was swaying. A hot wave passed through my body from heels to head, my legs turned to cotton, I couldn't feel them at all, like in a dream. And just like in a dream, a sharp black wing flashed in the air.

Oh, how I wished all this would indeed turn out to be a simple nightmare!

"You'll be fiddling your next track in hell!" the bald man sneered haughtily and signaled to his companions with his free hand.

"They've all heard me there already," the violinist replied, unfazed.

Idiot, he's even cracking jokes!

Lightning flashed nearby, striking a lamppost and severing the wires. The lights went out. The battered car doors slammed as three sturdy guys jumped out. In the first rays of dawn, several knives gleamed and a baseball bat cut through the air. Baring their teeth, the thugs rushed in a pack at the lone black figure.

"Stop!!!" I screamed, shaking. The echo hit my ears like a sharp blade. The wing appeared again for a second, twisted and tense, obscuring my vision, and then vanished.

Cursing, the musician darted sideways. He dropped down – or rather fell into a crouch – and grabbed the bow from the ground. He jumped up sharply, slashed it through the air like a rapier… and suddenly blood sprayed in all directions!

The knives clattered onto the asphalt. The wooden bat rolled along the sidewalk, quietly tapping. Clutching his throat, the bald man wheezed. He managed to run back to the end of the building but quickly exhausted himself and leaned against the fence. Scarlet sprays gushed from his slit throat. His pals writhed on their knees in convulsions. One held his stomach, and the other two – what was below. Their clothes were torn to shreds, and everything underneath as well.

It can't be! This violinist, he… what did he do?! Took down four men with one swing of the bow?!

I tried to get a better look at the strange weapon, but didn't have time. The silver ring flashed, the case latches clicked. After carefully putting his instrument back, the musician slung it over his shoulder again and calmly took out a long cigarette in an agate mouthpiece from his breast pocket. A lighter flared up. A suffocating smoke drifted through the air, similar to the smell of rosin. Just like in my previous dream.

His neatly trimmed nails darkened, and on both sides of his palms, finely outlined circular wounds the size an apple appeared. Blood ran down his fingers, but he seemed completely unaware of this and wasn't surprised at all. Taking a few unhurried drags, he raised his eyes to me. It was fully dawn now, and I realized I hadn't been mistaken. His eyes weren't brown. They were black. Absolutely black.

"I did warn them…"

Suddenly I felt sick. My head spun even harder, my breath caught. The giant black wing with its pointed feathers finally blocked out the light completely. From the sweetish smell of blood, from the acrid smoke that penetrated to the bone – hell! – from the mere thought that the victims' wheezing had quieted down and I was left alone with this creature, I felt ill.

"Don't come near!" I wanted to shout, but couldn't squeeze anything out. My body went limp. I slid down the wall and lost consciousness.

Chapter 4: Two Symbols of Infinity

I woke up on a bench near the dorm. Sitting up, I adjusted my skirt and looked around. No one was there. It was seven o'clock, and the students were still sleeping in before the first day of classes. Hopefully, nobody saw me lying here drunk with my backside exposed.

My right hand hurt. Opening my palm and bringing it to my face, I noticed a deep cut right in the middle that hadn't healed yet. No, not unnaturally round like that musician's one, but quite ordinary – just a line an inch long, still oozing blood.

Strange. I don't remember where I got hurt so badly. Maybe while fainting, I tried to grab onto something sharp or cut my palm on the asphalt?

And the violinist? And the junkies with knives and a bat? Was all of that… a dream?!

Touching my temple with trembling fingers, I groaned aloud:

"What nonsense…"

And immediately interrupted myself. It's not nonsense at all, I need to drink less! Of course, it was just a dream. And even the plot is familiar. Again a gathering of criminals, again a flash of red matter that I took for the "morning star", again a sharp black wing…

Maybe I shouldn't have left the camel thread at home after all?

Come on, Niki, pull yourself together. You'll think about it later, but now you need to go to the dorm. Look in the bathroom. Dress in something decent and official. Put a bandage on your hand – it should be somewhere in the suitcase. You can also write to your parents that everything is fine with you, but without details…

The second bed in my room was still empty. I unhurriedly unpacked my things, hanging some in the closet, folding some in the drawer. Then I went to take a shower to wash off the remnants of the nasty dream, washed and dried my hair. Typed a message to Dad, then to Mom, received congratulations on the first day of autumn, and started packing my bag for classes.

When I remembered about the cut and found a bandage in the first aid kit, it was already too late. The strange wound had healed, leaving only a deep white scar.

* * *

"Why do you look so stunned?" Lizzy's coquettishly lined eyes studied me attentively from behind contact lenses – this time green ones. "Headache?"

"What?.. Oh, yes. Headache."

What I don't like about the institute is the entrance. First, there's the rude copy of Aunt Betty at security, and second – this strange, dark tunnel. Every time I emerge from it into the bright hall, I feel terrible. My head feels pressured, my ears ring, cold shivers run down my spine, and my arms and legs go numb…

On the way to the assembly hall on the third floor, I almost got lost. The corridors branched and meandered, and it was all too easy to miss the right turn, especially if you were in a hurry. I only sighed with relief when I saw the main landmark – a large portrait gallery. As I scurried along the red carpet, past and present leaders and teachers looked at me appraisingly, first from portraits, then from old black-and-white photographs. One of the first rectors, it turns out, held a count's title, and in the forties many professors took part in the Great Patriotic War and were captured in military uniform with medals.

The wide and tall panoramic windows of the assembly hall let in a lot of light. It streamed across the stage, flowed down the steps onto the old parquet floor, and jumped with sunbeams onto the backs of plastic chairs painted in three different colors: red, blue, and white – matching the Russian flag.

The teachers were seated in the front row. Most had already taken their places, but two elderly professors remained standing, talking animatedly. I couldn't help but stare at this pair, who were complete opposites of each other. One of the old men – balding, in a rumpled sweater, with a disheveled beard – was vividly and energetically proving something to his companion. A textbook character, a classic mad scientist. The other – a short, silver-haired grandpa with a pleasant smile – looked more like an aristocrat. Neat haircut, clean, ironed white suit, and the same white, elegant cane. He listened to his comrade so attentively that he even closed his eyes and only occasionally nodded slightly in time with the conversation.

At first, we took seats in the back, but one of the amusing pair – the one with the cane – seemed to catch my gaze and waved for us to move closer. I got a red chair, Jake got a blue one, and Liz sat on my other side on a white one.

The podium with the microphone was empty. The person who was supposed to give the ceremonial speech was running late. Students were chattering happily, discussing something probably very important. Only the first-year students modestly huddled together and kept silent.

"Oh, there he comes," Jake elbowed me in the side, "John Doe. Our rector. It's about to begin."

Stroking a wrought copper key hanging on his chest over his jacket, a middle-aged man was solemnly approaching the stage. For several moments I examined him, alternately averting my eyes and focusing again – and each time I experienced a strange feeling that I initially couldn't describe.

What is wrong with this man? He seems quite ordinary: a simple fellow, of average height, neither thin nor fat, soft unremarkable facial features, stylish but inconspicuous suit, confident gait… ah, got it! He's somehow too ordinary. Probably, if you needed to draw a portrait of an absolutely typical, average man, it would be him. Not a single memorable characteristic – no matter how much you look, nothing remains in memory. Except maybe for that strange key…

Meanwhile, Mr. Doe stepped up to the podium and clicked his finger on the microphone several times, checking the sound:

"Kids! May I have your attention. I'm glad to welcome all of you within the walls of our institute! And especially the freshmen. This year we have a very interesting and promising intake. All the newcomers are exceptionally capable children. I'm sure that here they will receive everything needed to reveal their talents, and in the future will please us many times with their successes," the rector made a small pause, scanning the hall with colorless eyes. "So, I wish you a productive academic year. You will succeed. And now I am pleased to give the floor to our esteemed colleague, who from today will be, so to speak, bringing the light of reason to your unformed minds. Let's welcome him! Latecomers, please don't make noise, come in quickly, take your seats! Professor Bartholomew Wordsworth really doesn't like it when students are late!"

"Wordsworth… who?!" I whispered.

"Bartholomew," Jake whispered back, pointing furtively at that very nice old man who had immediately appealed to me. "Our Philosophy professor. The strangest of them all. I don't know why he's giving us guidance this year…"

Mr. Doe left the stage and headed somewhere to the back rows, while the silver-haired grandpa, barely noticeably bowing in response to our ragged applause, was slowly climbing up the stairs. Mr. Wordsworth stepped softly and unhurriedly, measuring each step like a stalking cat. Halfway up he even stopped, as if tired. Smiled. Cast an absent gaze over the hall – and that's when I understood why he was walking so slowly and strangely. And why he had listened to his colleague with his eyelids lowered, not looking at him at all. The professor's light gray eyes were covered with a cloudy white film in which the pupils were lost, as if in snow. The old philosopher turned out to be blind.

Just think, he's climbing onto the stage alone, without an assistant, feeling for each new step with the toe of his shoe!

I jumped up from my seat and flew to him:

"There are three more steps here. Take my arm!"

"Students from group 'P' can be spotted right away!" the old man smiled again, placing his shriveled wrinkled palm on my shoulder. "But don't trouble yourself, girl. Sit down. I'm quite independent."

Something in my chest tightened and ached with sadness. I immediately felt even twice as sorry for him.

Approaching the podium, the old man turned off the microphone. His slightly lisping voice carried quite distinctly through the hall without any speakers:

"As you know, I'm a philosopher. And I could philosophize to you for a long time about the dualism of this world, about light and darkness, about immortal angels and demons… but I won't. I won't. I'm too lazy. And you wouldn't believe me anyway. It's easier to just show…"

He unbuttoned his jacket and reached into the inner pocket. There's a projector hanging from the ceiling, and a large white screen behind the stage. Maybe grandpa is looking for a flash drive with a presentation? Or has he forgotten his speech, and there's a cheat sheet written in Braille? But what is he going to show then?

The gun in his hands appeared unexpectedly for everyone. The muzzle, aimed at us, flashed in the air with a tiny black hole. The bolt clicked nimbly, the trigger clanged, and a loud shot echoed off the walls of the assembly hall.

He could have missed, of course. That's what I was hoping for, as I opened my eyes, squeezed shut with fear – he's blind, after all, so he couldn't have aimed. And yet he did not miss. Jake jerked and grabbed his chest with a hand cramped with pain. A bright scarlet stain flared up and began to spread on my new friend's white shirt. The guy quietly wheezed, curled up and fell forward, hitting his head on the next row of seats.

Jumping up, I recoiled. Stumbled over Lizzy's legs, stepped back and pressed my spine against the wall between two windows. Someone from the freshmen screamed, someone dove down under the chairs in panic, hiding from the crazy professor, someone tried to run out into the corridor, but the hall door turned out to be locked, and they only helplessly pulled the handle, shouting "Help!". Only some of the newcomers remained in their seats and for some reason started laughing. Especially Lizzy, who laughed the loudest of all, to the point of tears. But the senior students weren't affected at all. They neither panicked nor laughed hysterically. It seems one of them even yawned.

A barely noticeable bluish smoke and the smell of gunpowder was floating through the hall. I was shaking. I'd heard about crazy students who shoot up institutes, but for a teacher himself to do such a thing… And why isn't anyone stopping him? Why aren't they taking the weapon away?!

"Ah, damn it!.."

It was Jake who suddenly took a halting breath and groaned in annoyance. Putting his hands on his knees, he rose. The strands of his hair, stained with blood, left long red streaks on the white back of the chair in front of him.

Coughing, he spat out the lead bullet into his hand and clenched it in his fist, hiding it from surprised eyes. Then he exclaimed resentfully:

"Mr. Wordsworth, why is it always me when something happens?! You could have at least warned me!"

"Didn't I warn you, Jacob Brittlegill, that the one who got the lowest score in my subject during the preparatory courses would be severely shot? Did you think I was joking? Philosophy, young man, is a serious science. It doesn't tolerate humor!"

"Why the shirt though!" Jake hissed, poking his fingers into the torn hole. "It is… it was brand new!.."

"Jacob Brittlegill's shirt took the enemy bullet for a reason," the old man said ironically, addressing the hall. He smiled again, but I no longer liked his smile. "The ability of each of you, my dears, is both a gift and a curse. And here I'm not just saying pretty words! Truly, he who heals others from mortal wounds will one day be mortally wounded himself. He who is surrounded by blue orgone inevitably encounters not only miraculous recovery but also incurable injuries. The healer and the sick are intertwined as one between the spirals of his DNA. Do not seek human logic here! It is present in what was said, but your current split, dual mind cannot comprehend it. However, do not worry. Everything will be fine. We will deal with your mind a little later – in my classes."

With these words, the teacher suddenly shifted his clouded gaze to me. His white eyes didn't see me and, at the same time, he saw me:

"And who are you, my dear?"

"My… my surname is Antipova," I squeezed out with difficulty. "Nicole Antipova."

"Remarkable composure, Nicole!" the professor exclaimed. "But why, pray tell, are you looking at me like that?.. Sit down, little bird. Hey, and you, lazybones and truants, have you fallen asleep down there on the floor? Stop lounging around, get out of the trenches. Open your notebooks and write down the schedule for today – today you'll have five classes: Biology, Chemistry, Law, Geography and Art History."

"E-excuse me," a voice came from under the chairs, "what did you mean by all this? That our Jake… is like an angel? That's why he's immortal?"

"If we express it in the generally accepted – I mean, among humans – paradigm," the professor pedantically corrected, "then he's more of a demon than an angel. But these are all conventions, young man. In fact, there are no angels and demons, and never were. But there are phoenixes – winged creatures that command fire and air, and ouroboroses¹³ – the serpents who rule over water and earth. Yes, yes, these are the two divine creations depicted on your student cards."

I collapsed back into my chair, stunned. I barely made it – my legs gave out.

"Two eternal entities!" the philosopher continued to proclaim pathetically. "Two symbols of infinity, of boundlessness, which we will discuss more than once! The crawling ones were later dubbed demons, and the flying ones angels, but this isn't quite correct. In reality, the two immortal races simply divided the world in half. Without war, without disputes – and from then on each carries out their own service. There is no and should be no confrontation between them. And in our age it is even absolutely normal if a phoenix and a serpent become friends – like these two – and even sit together at the same desk!"

He waved his hand in our direction. Jake turned to me and measured me with an appraising look. My classmate's eyes had become serpentine again – thin and elongated. I shuddered.

"Some of you have already learned the truth about yourselves," the professor, clasping his hands behind his back, was now pacing back and forth across the stage. "From your parents or from your benefactors – it's not so important. And of course, I also contributed my bit – those who attended my preparatory lessons were laughing the loudest just now. Others were less fortunate. They have yet to meet their hidden 'self' and go through the stages of denial, anger and bargaining. I suppose it won't come to depression. Yes, dear students of groups 'P' and 'S' – that is, those who were given colored passes – at this moment I'm addressing you. I hope you believed me and won't conduct experiments on yourself, testing your ability to be reborn from dust and ashes. If not – I suggest not delaying and doing it right now in front of the whole audience. So to speak, to consolidate the material covered. There are still bullets left in the gun."

The first-years, blinking fearfully, looked at the podium where the matte-black Makarov¹⁴ gun with a brown plastic grip lay.

"No volunteers. Wonderful. You are much more perceptive than the previous intake."

"And those with white passes," asked Lizzy's neighbor, the guy who a minute ago had screamed the loudest, "group 'M'. Who are they?"

"In order to help you, the imperishable ones, cope with your uncontrollable, difficult-to-subdue nature, our institute – LIMBO – was formed. Here you study shoulder to shoulder, in the same cohort, with mages – that is, essentially, with ordinary, mortal people who pass on secret, metaphysical knowledge from mouth to mouth as a family heirloom. You will recognize them by their unique, telling surnames, which they have inherited from father to son and mother to daughter since time immemorial. Remember them! Unlike you, whose immortality is, so to speak, an accidental mistake of nature, it is the hereditary mages who will later head, following their ancestors, a special FSB department, in which the best of the eternal ones will work in service to the Fatherland!.."

"And what will happen to the worst?" squeaked a short girl from the back row.

"You don't need to know this at all, young lady. Your business is to study diligently and listen to your teachers. We, unlike phoenixes and serpents, are not immortal, which means we're spending our precious time with you slackers. Please be so kind as to value it."

"Could you tell us what the letters 'BO' mean?" another pressing question came from a freshman.

Mr. Wordsworth, as if in passing, rubbed the face of his wristwatch with his fingertip:

"I would like to chat with you more, ladies and gentlemen, but I cannot. The show is over. See you tomorrow at the lecture."

He descended from the stage much more nimbly than he had climbed it. Hobbled between the rows. Opened the window frame wide, as if it were a door, and fearlessly stepped outside.

The first-year students started shouting again. What is he doing! It's good that our third floor is actually the first above ground, otherwise such a reckless act could have ended badly.

"He'll get himself killed one day," Jake muttered, shooting a glance toward the open, tapping against the wall, wooden frame.

I couldn't tell whether the guy was worried about the philosopher or, on the contrary, wished for him to get himself killed sooner. Taking off the copper key from his chest, the rector unlocked the assembly hall door, and the freshmen, making noise and jostling, ran away.

* * *

Well, at least now it's clear that 'BO' doesn't stand for Business Objectives.

I walked down the corridor between Jake and Liz, hugging my briefcase to my chest. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to put it on my back right now. It seemed like I really had wings there. More precisely, just one – but sharp as a thousand knives.

"BO is for Bonkers," the guy grumbled irritably, as if reading my thoughts.

Or for Boundlessness?.. Wait a minute, what does this mean… If the baldy had stabbed me yesterday in the alley, nothing would have happened to me?!

No way, that's nonsense. The crazy old man must be raving. Or maybe it's just a prank? Some kind of theatrical performance for freshmen before initiation? And my dreams about flying are just a coincidence?..

"Guys, what do you think about all this?" I spoke up, emerging from my thoughts.

"I think that today after classes we need to get wasted again," Liz blurted out.

"I'm in," sighed Jake 'the Snake' still rubbing his fingers on his chest where the bullet had recently hit. The blood stopped flowing surprisingly quickly. Although, what am I talking about. There must have been some kind of capsule with red liquid hidden under his shirt. All the liquid leaked out, and the show was over.

"What did he promise you?" I was itching with curiosity. "An automatic pass? Ha, or rather, a pistol pass?!.."

I laughed, releasing the tension:

"By the way, about the pistol. You put the bullet in your mouth beforehand to spit out later, that's clear. But if the weapon is a mock-up, how did such a loud shot sound happen and where did the smell of gunpowder come from?"

They both stopped and looked at me synchronously.

"Niki," Jake finally said, starting to unbutton his shirt. "This isn't a prank."

"Okay, Gill, wait," Liz hastily interrupted him. "That's not a sight for the fainthearted, and our phoenix doesn't need it. You understand? Let her just get drunk with us one last time on the first of September. Like a normal person! You'll have plenty of time to scare her later…"

Chapter 5: Straight to HELL

"Niki," Liz poked me in the back with a pencil, "have you heard that girls are disappearing around here?"

The Biology classroom was dark – the light from the windows was blocked by the branches and leaves of plants. The teacher – an unremarkable quiet middle-aged woman in a beige sweater and thick glasses – was especially fond of monstera and palm trees. On the windowsills, like in a dense tropical forest, real thickets towered. And there were also many cats of various colors freely walking around the classroom, jumping on chairs and desks, rubbing against students. Ginger, gray, tortoiseshell, tabby, black with white paws, and of course, pure black.

One cat looked plumper than the others and walked slowly – she seemed to be pregnant. When she jumped, not without difficulty, onto the teacher's desk and lay down right on the gradebook, Ms. Alexis, smiling modestly, didn't chase her away to take attendance. She only mentioned, for some reason, while gently stroking the fluffy cat, that soon second-year students who received C grades on their summer exam would face a retake. It turns out that in LIMBO you get immediately expelled for an F, but C-s are allowed to be retaken if you don't accumulate more than five of them during your entire studies. I didn't listen to the rest.

"What do you mean 'disappearing'?" I turned to Liz. "From where? And to where?!"

"From the dorm. And where to – nobody can tell you that. None of them have been found yet…"

Interrupted by our chatter, the Biology teacher sighed. She was silent for a bit, trying to regain her lost train of thought, then adjusted her ponytail of dull blonde hair – for which I privately nicknamed her "Gray Mouse" – and continued speaking. Something about that for "S" group students her subject is one of the core ones, and at the exam, unlike others, they will have to complete not a theory test, but a complex practical task. This did not apply to Liz and me, so after being quiet for half a minute, we got back to our conversation.

"The dorm, as you know, is just two steps from the institute!" the redhead whispered. "But they leave their evening extra classes, swipe their passes at the turnstiles, and that's it."

"When did this start?"

"Since March they disappeared once a month. On the new moon. On the twenty-ninth day! Do you understand what that means?"

"No," I answered honestly, shuddering.

"It's the Satanic day!" Liz exclaimed, making big eyes. "Most likely, they're being sacrificed! There are rumors that it's someone from 'our own', because with our level of energy protection, no outsider could simply get inside! And certainly they wouldn't have learned the personal info about the missing students that only the rector and teachers know…"

"Hey, Charm, stop distracting!" Jake interrupted in a loud whisper. "I can't hear a damn thing Ms. Alexis is saying. You can gossip during the break."

"Anyway, Niki, just be careful there, okay?"

"But I'm… kind of immortal? And seemingly with superpowers?.."

"Ha! They know who they're dealing with. They'll tie a camel thread around your throat – and goodbye to your abilities."

"What do you mean?!"

"And also, they can draw a seal…"

Jake hissed again and gave us both a contemptuous look. His yellow eyes flashed angrily in the dimness of the classroom. So as not to piss him off, I finally turned away, opened my book to the first section, and immediately winced.

Almost the entire page of the textbook showed a red, haughty-looking camel with two humps, gazing at the viewer from under half-closed eyelids.

* * *

In short, Biology turned out to be not quite Biology, and the camel – not quite a camel. Among mages, the fluffy "ship of the desert" is considered an ancient archetype and an important occult symbol. The energy formed between the two humps of this animal, as between two poles of a magnet, "grounds" and locks a person in the limited dual world into which humans fell after the Fall, having tasted the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. An amulet made of camel hair destroys any witchcraft and makes it impossible: in the grounded physical reality, neither magic, nor regeneration, nor immortality simply exists.

The innate abilities of phoenixes and serpents can also be weakened by juniper resin smoke or dried and powdered mandrake root mixed with the juice of "nightshade" berries, also known as belladonna. However, these ingredients are extremely difficult to find nowadays, and it's even harder to find a chemist who would agree to work with them.

Speaking of Chemistry – it also turned out to be not quite Chemistry. We were told something about the types of primary elements – earth, water, fire, air, and ether. About sulfur and mercury, representing male and female principles. About the "sacred coitus" – the union of the sun and the moon, good and evil, left and right brain hemispheres, the phoenix and the dragon – to generate the Great Unity, that is, a state in which a person is capable of anything.

The teacher was a slender lady in her forties with a bright red mane of hair loose on her shoulders. When she sat at the desk, from afar it looked as if chemical reagents had exploded on the lectern and a fire had started. Perhaps not only her appearance is explosive, but also her temperament – I thought apprehensively. So this time I honestly tried to listen to the lecture, although the information was still very difficult to comprehend.

Transmutation? Tincture?? Alchemical androgyne??? I had a solid A in Chemistry at school, but here in the first few minutes it became clear – I can immediately forget about school knowledge. It seems the teacher said just that, but at first I didn't believe her – I think, all of them say that. And now I understand that she wasn't joking at all.

The course program was divided into two parts: the first semester was given to students for internal alchemy – changes in thoughts, feelings, perception of things, lifestyle; and the second involved working with solid matter – that is, external alchemy.

"So, we'll be able to turn pebbles into gold?" Jake couldn't hold back.

"Theoretically, yes, Brittlegill. You will."

"And practically?"

"And practically, I advise you to start small, since gold is the most dangerous element of the entire periodic table. Not mercury, not arsenic, not lead – no. It's gold. It generates greed and avarice inside the cauldron of an immature neophyte, and these two vices, as you know, are death for the soul. Like an ever-hungry fire, they will destroy all your achievements of the first year, and you'll have to start the transformation from scratch. Is that clear?"

"Clear," he sighed. "Getting rich won't work."

"It will work, Brittlegill. But true wealth has nothing to do with gold."

Jake, who during the break told us that he and his mother live very poorly and he's been scraping by on various part-time jobs since he was fourteen, wasn't impressed by Agatha Asher's answer. He continued to sadly examine his torn, stained shirt – probably calculating in his mind how many more hours he would have to work as a courier or dog walker to buy himself a new one.

I didn't have time to go to the cafeteria after the second period and thought I'd have a snack during the next break, but in Law class, they killed our appetite by showing us a thick code that we would have to study and memorize by heart in six months.

Although, if you believe the lecturer, we were lucky in this regard, and the ancient sets of rules were even more voluminous and confusing. The teacher proudly boasted to us of her collection of legislative acts and commentaries on them – so impressive that when I entered the classroom, I first thought I had mixed up the rooms and ended up in the library.

The walls of the room were stacked with books up to the ceiling. Many of them looked like real rarities: ancient, time-cracked bindings with ornate signatures in old or even magical languages.

"These are not just rules," the thin old woman with a gray bun on the top of her head was pontificating from her lectern. "This is the story of how phoenixes, serpents and humans learned to coexist peacefully, live and interact together without interfering with each other…"

In ancient times, people obeyed the immortals in everything, relying entirely on their will as the voice of heaven, but nowadays the situation has changed. "Peaceful coexistence" meant that it was the phoenixes and serpents who obeyed the laws written for them by humans. And even teaching at LIMBO is only for humans – eternal beings are by no means allowed in the educational process. I wonder then how people like us can be useful to the special services?..

"Ms. Williams," I raised my hand. "I have a question. Tell me, will we be taught here to kill people?"

"Nicole, you're going straight for the jugular," the granny tsked. "It's fine with me – the criminal code has tempered me – but it's better not to bluntly ask such a question to other teachers."

"And yet?.."

"You will we be taught here not to kill people, Miss Antipova. Moreover, what does our first commandment say?.." she adjusted her thick-framed glasses and answered herself. "That's right, 'Thou shalt not kill'. Therefore, remember this: any of you who, intentionally or accidentally, kills a mortal human, will immediately be sent from LIMBO straight to HELL."

"To hell?"

"Not to hell, but to HELL," Ms. Williams emphasized these letters with a special intonation, making scary eyes. "To the Highest Enforcement Lawkeeper League of the FSB. In other words, behind bars."

"And what sentence do they give to people like us for murder?"

"Article 1286 paragraph 33, my girl."

The silence in the classroom was replaced by the noise of rapidly turning pages.

"Life imprisonment!" someone breathed out from the back row.

"Well done, Mr. Witchman. You've earned a plus in the gradebook today."

"And five pluses – is that an A?.."

"Wait a minute," I interrupted my classmate. Witchman's pluses didn't concern me at all. "What do you mean life imprisonment?! We're immortal!"

"That's the point, Miss Antipova. That's the point. Therefore, accustom yourself to self-control from a young age, study His Majesty the Law, and be careful."

The smell of my favorite soup, which reached my nose from the lower floor, didn't help the situation. During the next break, I didn't go to the cafeteria again. Though Jake shared a sandwich with me – with cabbage, dill and soy cheese. He turned out to be a vegan – he hasn't eaten meat or milk since childhood.

So as not to offend my new friend, I crunched on the bland sandwich. The tension inside was growing proportionally to the increasing lack of understanding of what was going on. This probably isn't a joke or even a bad dream – although with each new lesson, I wanted to wake up more and more.

The Geography teacher's classroom resembled a pompous museum hall where an exhibition of fantastic creatures based on paintings by either Bosch or Dali was taking place. From every painting and sculpture, monsters were looking at us: demons, dragons and snakes, people with animal heads, animals with human heads, many-armed and many-legged creatures, many-eyed and many-headed, armed to the teeth, dancing, fighting, devouring each other or copulating. Many of them were depicted so realistically that it seemed they were about to come to life at any moment – jump off their pedestals or step out of the canvases.

Jake whispered that the geographer's hobby is to search all over the world for artists and sculptors who were "lucky" enough to come face to face with unusual creatures and capture them in their work. Most of the masters paid a high price for such a portion of inspiration – many lost their minds, and a few even took their own lives. And, I think, I could partly understand them.

After we spent the whole lesson drawing a contour map of the lower astral world, everyone became dejected – even the tireless Jake the Snake. Sighing over the atlas, the guy was scratching with his pencil lead, meticulously copying the hierarchy of entities: demons, devils, succubi, possessors, parasites, restless spirits, larvae… There turned out to be a great multitude of them in the lower astral – as if useful minerals on the map of Russia, and by the end of the lesson, they had sucked all the strength out of us.

The teacher – a tall, thin man with a big nose – at the very beginning of the class apologized and said that he urgently needed to step away for an important matter. He gave us the assignment, then sat down at the teacher's desk, folded his hands, closed his eyes, took a deep breath – and no longer reacted to anything. He probably really went very far away – to another city or country, or even to another planet – and couldn't hear us from there. He didn't return even when the bell rang with a muffled chime, and the students jumped up from their desks with relief.

"So, instead of Biology, we have Bioenergetics…" I mused aloud, tossing aside my pencil. "Instead of Chemistry – Alchemy, and instead of Geography – Astral Travel. And it's even clear why we need Law – to subdue the rebellious immortal spirit. But why on earth do we need Art History?!"

"And as the fifth period, no less," Jake grumbled discontentedly, stretching his back. "Some kind of mockery of students! Hey, what if we…"

"Let's at least go see what the classroom looks like," Liz quickly helped me stuff my things into the bag and pulled me down the corridor, away from Brittlegill.

However, no matter how hard she tried to get rid of him, when we went up to the third floor to the right classroom, the guy had somehow already made it there. His yellow eyes with narrow pupils sparkled brighter than usual:

"What if we blow it off!" Jake blurted out joyfully, meeting us at the threshold.

Well, definitely The Tempting Serpent!

"The offer is attractive, of course," I carefully replied, dropping my bag on the nearest desk. "But to start the first of September like this, with skipping…"

"You know, Gill is right in some way," Lizzy unexpectedly agreed. "Last year we didn't have such a subject at all. Clearly, this is some kind of crap to fill the norm of hours. And the introductory lesson is always boring, we won't miss anything interesting."

"Liz, do you want to be left in the first year for the third time?" I chided her.

"Well, do as you like," Jake exclaimed heatedly, waving his hand, "but personally, I'm exhausted to death! I'm going to the dorm to catch up on sleep!.."

I opened my mouth to remind him that an immortal, with all his desire, cannot get exhausted "to death," but then from the corridor came a gloomy:

"You can sleep when you're dead."

Well, well! Could it be that the teacher of the nobody-needs Art History came earlier than usual?! And even caught the truants red-handed! What an awkward acquaintance it turned out to be…

"Get to the classroom," a cool, I would even say indifferent voice, but so authoritative that it's impossible not to obey. "Now."

Everyone fell silent. The chubby girl behind even stopped crunching chips and hid the rustling bag far away. The would-be truants tumbled into the room as if blown in by a gusty wind.

I recognized him – even before he entered. The smell of withered leaves, an approaching thunderstorm, and sweet-sour fresh blood burst into the spacious hall. Everything around flowed in hot waves, like last night, and I almost lost consciousness again.

More than anything in the world, I was afraid that my nightmares would start coming true.

Chapter 6: Twelve Spirals

Why did I even decide yesterday that he was a student?! Now, with one-day stubble showing on his cheekbones and chin, he looked older.

His "Cossack" boots thumped loudly on the floor. After forcibly seating the failed runaways at the desk – right in front of him – the tall blond with shaved temples took down a dense narrow case from his shoulder that widened toward the bottom. He pulled out a daily planner in a black leather binding. Sat down. Removed a gel pen with brown contents from the cover and squinted, studying the students. His eyebrows and eyelashes were darker than his hair, and shaded his eyes in a special way.

I involuntarily lowered my gaze and shifted my attention to his hands. The nails are ordinary, light, short-cut. There are no bandages, plasters, or scars on the wrists – in short, not a single hint of recent wounds.

"Let's start with the essentials: no one has ever managed to forge my signature. I mark attendance myself. I fill in the gradebook exclusively with red ink," he paused, then added with a smirk. "Actually, I prefer the blood of virgins, but given the current shortage, I have to use more accessible alternatives."

His heavy gaze fished me out from the mass of students and seemed to catch me on a hook. Nodding slightly, he smiled an imperceptible smile that was understandable only to me.

"Yes, you also sit down," he threw out as if in passing. Classmates who hadn't yet taken their seats obediently complied – as in a courtroom. After a few moments, I finally forced my stiff legs to bend and sank down at the desk by the door – as if planning to run as soon as yesterday's murderer turned away.

"So," when everyone was seated, the musician calmly leaned back in his chair, twirling the red pen in his hand, "I am that very Art History teacher. The new, useless subject that you will all have to master perfectly by the will of fate. My name is Leo Black."

The silence was finally broken, a murmur spread through the auditorium.

"If you already have questions, ask them aloud."

"Is it true that you're a professor?" someone suddenly squeaked.

"What makes you think that?" he scanned the hall and in two counts identified the speaker. Musical hearing, probably.

"Well, it's written in our schedule," a girl from group "M" cautiously explained. "Under your surname."

"Mr. Doe flatters me," the teacher coldly chuckled. "Any other questions?"

Everyone fell silent again. In complete silence, the pages of the gradebook rustled:

"Well then, let's get acquainted with you. What composition do we have here?.." his index finger with a heavy pentagram ring slid down the list of students. "Wow, five phoenixes in the cohort. Accept my condolences. Does anyone from the feathered ones know how many DNA spirals they have? Adamson?"

"Six."

"Becker?"

"Four."

"Edwards?"

"Seven."

"Kirk?"

"Three."

"And I have nine!" Jake proudly shouted, jumping up.

"Brittlegill, sit down, no one asked you. So, Antipova, what about you?"

"Me…" rising, I faltered. My voice sounded quiet – about to disappear completely.

What are they even talking about?! What spirals? And why so many? Shouldn't a human have just two of them?..

"I don't know," I forced out.

"You have…" he froze for a couple of seconds. His glassy, motionless coal eyes pierced me through. It immediately became so cold and uncomfortable inside – as if I'd returned home where thieves had broken in during my absence, ransacked and turned upside down everything that had been so carefully and meticulously arranged on shelves and in cabinets, and then fled through the window, leaving it open. I even shuddered.

Having finished rummaging through me, Mr. Black arched an eyebrow and concluded with a sigh:

"You have all twelve."

There were whistles in the classroom.

"I doubly offer my condolences. Liz Charm, especially to you. You were unlucky to be held back a year. The previous group was much calmer."

"Come on, Mr. Black, you're exaggerating," the redhead seemed to have finally relaxed, realizing there would be no telling-off for the attempted truancy. Blowing a large pink bubble out of her gum, she copied his nonchalant pose. Well, at least she didn't put her feet on the teacher's desk. "Actually, Niki is a cool girl. We've already made friends!.."

* * *

After classes, a long black Mercedes with special license plates and a personal driver came for Lizzy. Or was it a bodyguard?.. Looking at the muscular young man, whose shoulders barely fit in the sleeves of his formal suit, I was so confused that even forgot to say goodbye or ask what had happened to her Audi. Had she crashed it last night?..

Brittlegill, incredibly delighted by his classmate's departure, dragged me to Alexander Garden to "refresh". He was in no hurry – it turns out he's from Petrozavodsk¹⁵, so he also lives in the dorm.

We were sitting on a bench strewn with rustling golden leaves, and in front of us, bright drinks were sparkling in glass bottles, full of bubbles. As last time, mine was red, and the guy's was blue. For several minutes we enjoyed the silence – after the bustle of the school day, we just wanted to catch our breath. Then I finally asked:

"What is orgone?"

"They told us about this in the prep courses. In short, it's life energy," a bottle opener appeared in Jake's hands, and he skillfully pried off the metal caps one after another. "Fuel for the soul. It's called differently in different traditions: aura, qi, prana. Orgone is the Western term. We can buy one portion a day from the vending machine with our cards. Sometimes students need to quickly restore their strength without 'special effects' – like today, for example… Drink quickly! In the physical world, it almost immediately loses its power."

After taking a few sips, I froze again with the bottle in my hand:

"Why do they make it different colors?"

"It's not color, but the frequency of energy vibrations. It corresponds to the state people are in. In senior years, we'll learn to control all colors of orgone, but usually each person has some basic one that they transmit most often. Currently, green is most common in the world – it's radiated by those in love, or those who are yearning, grieving and depressed."

"Hm, are you sure? Those seem like very different states. I'd even say polar opposites. Love is one thing, but grief is completely different…"

"They're polar in the dual understanding of the world," Jake was showing off his knowledge. "But technically, it's all the same green orgone. It can just be used differently – conditionally speaking, in a negative vector or in a positive one. But in absolute terms – in vertical bars – it's the same thing. And if people knew the basics of energy, they could easily move from a state of grief to a state of love. They wouldn't need anything for this except awareness. They wouldn't even need to search for energy somewhere or convert it. It's already in their hands. And interestingly, the love will be just as strong as the grief was a second ago…"

At this point, he had to pause. A couple in love passing by was vigorously arguing about where they should watch a movie today – in the cinema with friends or at home alone. Keeping quiet for a while, Jake waited until they moved away, then commented in a low voice:

"And that's orange energy in all its glory. The girl wants to show off her new boyfriend to her friends, and he wants to get her into bed as soon as possible. So they argue. There'll be more to come: fire, passion, quarrels, jealousy. Couples who have little orange orgone live peacefully, but their attraction to each other has already faded. And those who quarrel fiercely, make up fiercely. Well, you know what I mean," the guy giggled modestly. "It's a pity that orange orgone runs out quickly. A year or two – three at most – and…"

He was interrupted again. This time, some compassionate old lady was loudly explaining to a schoolgirl with a red pomeranian in her arms that dogs are not allowed here. The spitz responded to the old woman with no less indignant yapping.

"And between these two – is it also fire and passion?" I smirked.

Brittlegill shot a glance toward the battle scene:

"Nah, this is already yellow orgone. The struggle for one's self and personal boundaries. Yellow energy provides strong defence at all levels, but at the same time – provokes starting a war."

"And if you don't defend yourself, then you won't have to fight? Two sides of the same coin, right?"

"Something like that," Jake drank his orgone to the bottom in one big gulp. "Whew! I'm so worn out!.."

A couple of blue drops fell between us on the bench, sliding down the neck of the empty bottle.

"Well okay," I muttered uncertainly, "what about the blue energy?"

"Blue energy is radiated by healers and the sick."

"The sick?! You mean to say that energetically they're equal to healers?"

"Yep. Both can have auras that extend for tens of yards – it's especially huge around terminally ill people."

"And what will happen if you pinch off some of that sick patient's energy? Or eat all his orgone altogether? Will he recover then?"

"Yes. That's exactly how I heal."

Jake smiled shyly and wiped his lips:

"I just love blue energy so much! It's the most delicious…" his eyes lit up in a special way. As if having taken a sip of alcohol, he burst into a long tirade. "People can't… don't know how to properly direct the power given to them. It accumulates and causes distortions in body and soul. That's where all the suffering and illnesses come from. We're used to thinking that diseases are given as punishment for sins, but in reality, there are no punishments from above. There is no punishing God. Here you go – take this energy, use it. Live. Vibrate. The heavier your burden, the stronger the potential hidden within you!.. Jesus Christ had such a huge blue aura that even numerous healings and resurrections of the dead didn't help him escape his own suffering. He didn't master his great power, and it poured out into equally great bodily torments. And there are thousands of such holy martyrs like him! This is what Mr. Wordsworth meant this morning in the assembly hall when he shot me. He didn't choose me by accident. The old man may be blind, but he sees orgone perfectly…"

The blood on his shirt had already clotted and turned from bright scarlet to brown. One might think the guy had smeared himself with chocolate or jam in the cafeteria, but I still shuddered when I remembered the beginning of today.

"I was very sick, from early childhood. Everyone feared I wouldn't survive," now Jake thoughtfully examined the green emblem of the pharmacy across the road – a wavy serpent entwining a cup with medicine. "In fact, that's how it was. I died at least a thousand times. As soon as one affliction retreated, another immediately pounced. Pneumonia, jaundice, measles, whooping cough, dysentery, sepsis… There was no end to them. Until at the age of seven, they took me to a village healer…"

A familiar story. I sighed. Painfully familiar, actually. And next, I suppose, there were amulets, camel wool, and all that?..

"The old woman told my mother," Gill continued pouring out his soul, "that I was actually a healer myself, and my illnesses were because I was rejecting my gift. Mom twirled her finger at her temple and said she was crazy. But I remembered. At that time, we had a hamster, he was going on four years old and started to wither and limp… I decided to try to heal him, although I didn't really know how, but I believed: since the old healer said so – then it must work!.. Long story short, I sat with him for an hour of two, staring at his cage. At the untouched carrot. At the empty wheel. And then – bam – everything happened by itself. The hamster no longer limps, eats well and is still alive. Have you ever heard of hamsters that live for ten years?.. Ha, me neither! Then I also healed the neighbor's cat that fell out of the window from the tenth floor, my classmate's dog that got into a fight with a pitbull on a walk, pigeons with broken wings and frostbitten feet… Later I switched to people, and with them, it was even easier. In general, five years passed when I suddenly realized that my diseases had long since retreated without a trace. I changed my vector, you see? The energy is still the same – blue, indigo – but the essence is so different. I mean, it differs in our usual world," he added thoughtfully.

"Is that why you don't eat meat? Because you're a healer?"

"Why do I need meat," he snorted. "I eat orgone directly, and meat is just de-energized rubber, there's nothing left there anymore. I love nuts most – they have more energy than a whole plant! But damn, they've become so expensive now…"

"I should buy him some nuts tomorrow," I thought to myself. "To thank him for the brief summary of the prep courses' content."

Having finished my drink, I threw the bottle in the trash:

"So it turns out that red orgone is radiated by both criminals and those who fight against them?"

"Exactly."

"But then how do I tell the good guys from the bad guys?"

"You don't. You'll distinguish the weak from the strong and the more dangerous from the less dangerous."

I suddenly remembered the incident on the highway leading to St. Petersburg and felt uneasy. What if that ghost on the road didn't want to kill an innocent person and didn't intend anything bad at all, but, on the contrary, tried to stop the evil?!

"Did you happen to see what kind of car our teacher has?"

"Which one?"

"Mr. Black"

"I did," Jake shrugged indifferently, "he has a Dodge. An off-roader. Why?"

"Just curious…"

Not knowing how to explain everything that had happened to me and whether it was worth explaining at all, I fell silent.

"By the way, what about you?" Gill suddenly looked at me sideways. "Are you yourself good or bad?"

The evening was sunny and warm, just like in summer. So where did this strong autumn… no, even winter cold suddenly come from?..

"I don't know," I mouthed, shivering as if from the wind.

Chapter 7: Devilishly Gifted

No roommate was assigned to share my room, but solitude no longer brought me joy. I felt uneasy and wanted to discuss what was happening with someone, but with whom? I couldn't talk to myself! And I couldn't write to my parents about this. Did they even know what was really going on at LIMBO, or had the admissions office spun them a tale about "business objectives modeling"?

What if this wasn't an institute at all, but some kind of cult?!

Late in the evening, I went online to LIMBO's official website, searched through it for a long time, and eventually found accreditation documents. Everything looked proper – as befitting one of St. Petersburg's oldest educational institutions. Beautiful shots of St. Isaac's Cathedral from different angles. Current news. Information for applicants. Photos of happy students at various social events. Academic life and students' sports achievements. Additional clubs with online registration: programming, foreign languages, fencing, calligraphy, archaeology and even piano lessons.

Clicking on our schedule, I was delighted to see that Art History was actually an elective! Next week on Thursday, we will have Astronomy as the fifth period, and then we can choose which of the two courses to attend. Can it really be that simple?!

I will sign up for Astronomy tomorrow, and Mr. Black and I will never see each other again. I won't have to tremble before him like a leaf, so I can forget this terrible evening as if it was a bad dream!

Tossing in bed, I fidgeted on the creaky starched sheet and sighed. Something told me I was celebrating too soon. Mr. Black is a mage, like all the teachers at LIMBO. Neither mages, nor phoenixes, nor serpents are allowed to kill people – it will result in life imprisonment. He is free now because I keep quiet, and there are no other witnesses. But I can speak up at any moment – and he knows this very well.

I won't get rid of him so easily. He will find a way to keep me constantly in his sight or, even worse, eliminate me as brutally and quickly as those four. I am trapped.

I slid off the bed – practically fell – and rushed to my mobile phone. I need to call the police immediately. No, better directly the FSB! Let them take him to their Highest Enforcement Lawkeeper League!

"FSB Russia helpline," a stern female voice stated crisply, without a hint of sleepiness despite the late hour. "Please identify yourself. Which city are you calling from?"

"Hello," everything inside me was trembling. "I'm calling from St. Petersburg, my name is Niki. Nicole. I study at an institute, and recently, before my eyes… before my eyes, a professor committed murder!"

"You're studying at LIMBO?" this question sounded more like a statement. "First year?"

It seemed the speaker quickly accessed a database and saw me on the student list. Or maybe, after today's shooting in the assembly hall, my call was far from being the first?..

"Hello? Miss Antipova? Can you hear me?"

Well, now she even knew my surname, though I hadn't mentioned it.

"Yes," I breathed weakly, answering all questions at once.

"I understand. For all issues related to the activities of your educational organization, you should address the rector of the institute or the curator of your cohort directly."

"Wait! This isn't what you think! I'm talking about the murder of a human! A living human, do you understand?!"

"Thank you for your call. Have a good day," the operator interrupted me with a rehearsed phrase.

The call ended. Damn it! I fell into the chair by the desk and buried my face in my open palms. She wouldn't even listen! What am I supposed to do now?!

After crying it out, I opened my messenger and wrote to Liz:

"Sorry it's late. Do you know who our cohort curator is?"

"We don't have one yet," the answer came immediately. "They'll appoint someone any day now. Why?"

"Oh, nothing serious."

"Some urgent matter?"

"No, it's okay. How's your car?" I hastened to change the subject. "Is it being repaired?"

"Just routine maintenance, but thanks for asking, birdie. Now you can sleep soundly."

Putting the phone down, I suddenly felt that I had indeed calmed down a bit. There was something in Lizzy's words that set her apart from an ordinary, simple girl. Some invisible but tangible force that gave weight to any phrase she uttered.

Soon my eyes began to close on their own, and I didn't notice how I fell asleep.

* * *

I disliked the History professor right away. A nervous man with a flushed bald head, an enormous belly, and tiny, greasy eyes. Sloppy, with a nasty, squeaky voice and no less nasty character.

His classroom turned out to be one of the most boring. Dusty empty shelves, a dull board smeared with wet traces of unerased chalk, a strange damp smell, and a lonely pot with a dried-up plant standing forlornly on the windowsill – that was the entire interior. The only notable feature was a huge antique clock towering above the entrance door. The minute hand ended with a serpent's head, and the hour hand with a half-open beak of a tongue-sticking bird. The second hand, curved in waves, moved across the dial with a creaking and sharp, annoying ticking.

Judging by his disgustedly pursed thin lips, the historian didn't consider students respectable people, so he didn't even bother to say hello. Slapping the gradebook on the lectern, instead of a greeting, he tediously drawled:

"The current time is 8 hours 59 minutes 2 seconds, and right now I consider it my duty to remind you that those who dare to be late to my class will, following my good old tradition, receive five F grades in a row!"

Yeah, a good tradition, indeed. I looked at the empty seat next to me and clicked my tongue regretfully. Jake would get in trouble again.

"Three such late arrivals per semester – and you're expelled," the professor's piggy little eyes kept checking with the second hand of the clock. "This isn't my whim, but natural selection! You won't have time to correct fifteen F grades before the exam session, no matter how hard you try. Yes, yes, and don't tell me later that it's because my lesson is the first on Fridays! Time is not garbage to be scattered about in minutes and seconds like that. And if you waste the time allotted to you, then be ready to end up in the dump yourself at the end of the semester!.."

The minute and second hands met at 12. The bell rang.

"So, let's begin. In my classes, we will learn to control time," standing up, the professor began drawing coordinate axes on the green board with a squeaky piece of chalk. "Time, I want you to note this right away, is not continuous, but discrete. Each fragment of time is not a point, as previously thought, but a segment. These segments connect the past with the present – these are the so-called wormholes. And you, my little worms, will have to learn to crawl through them…"

"I apologize!" the classroom door swung open, and a breathless Jake tumbled in.

My gaze automatically slid over the wall clock. 9:01 – and five more seconds extra. Anticipating the dressing-down that the time-obsessed historian was about to give my classmate, I squeezed my eyes shut.

"And right now I consider it my duty to remind you that those who dare to be late to my class will, following my good old tradition, receive five F grades in a row!" the professor suddenly spoke, as if on a recording, with the same rattling, belittling intonation as a couple of minutes ago.

The board was empty. The historian was sitting at the desk again and continuing to say what we had already heard, while Jake, squinting, leaned against the doorframe and touched his temple as if he suddenly had a migraine. Or more precisely, déjà vu?..

"…and if you waste the time allotted to you, then be ready to end up in the dump yourself at the end of the semester!" the professor paused, waiting for the bell to finish ringing. He looked at Jake, and then, once again, at the clock. "Young man, congratulations, you have the honor of being the first candidate for recycling. The current time is 9 hours 00 minutes and 11 seconds. You're late. State your surname."

Jake did not answer. His already narrow cat-like pupils just narrowed even more.

As if mesmerized, I watched the second hand of the clock, which, after stopping for a while, was now crawling in the opposite direction. First slowly, then faster. Sometimes smoothly, as if through butter, sometimes in fits – jumping through several marks at once.

Exhaling heavily, Jake plopped down next to me at the desk:

"Whew! Barely made it!.." he pulled a thick ring-bound notebook out of his backpack, opened it, and clicked his automatic pen. "Mr. Zauberstein, sorry for interrupting! Please continue."

Laughter erupted from the back rows.

The professor shifted his gaze from the face of the impudent student to the clock and, with slight surprise at his own words, enunciated:

"Be that as it may, the current time is 8 hours 59 minutes 2 seconds, and right now I consider it my duty to remind you that those who dare to be late to my class…"

I wasn't interested in listening to him for the third time. Leaning towards Jake's ear, I whispered:

"Gill, what's going on?!"

"You again, you snake?!" Liz exclaimed along with me, pushing him in the back from behind. "You promised not to do this anymore! My head is splitting from your tricks!"

"My own head is splitting," Jake snapped back, jerking his shoulder. "You know I don't do it on purpose…"

"Yeah, sure! You just didn't want those five F-s!.."

The bell rang for the third time. The unsuspecting clock once again showed exactly nine o'clock.

"It started when I was fourteen…" Jake explained in a whisper. "Time obeys the element of water, so it's usually easy as pie for serpents to control it. Same with me – I go to sleep, and the timeline unfolds at a different angle, in another dimension, turns into a point where the past, present, and future are connected into one. You can crumple time into a ball, like plasticine, or stretch it out like chewing gum."

"Young man! Your talking is interrupting my lesson and holding up the entire group! State your surname!"

The second hand jerked again and jumped back. The bell rang. This time somewhat hoarsely. Probably already tired.

"At first I could only do it in my dreams," Jake continued imperturbably. "All the guys were already having erotic dreams – while I was being tossed through wormholes. And tossed mercilessly – waking up, I couldn't immediately remember which century it was, or even which era. Instead of an alarm clock, I still have a flip calendar on my nightstand that shows not only the date and month, but also the year."

"Young man, you…"

The clock hands, jumping back to 9:00, completely froze. Only the second hand trembled slightly, trying to move.

"And that's just the beginning," Jake sighed, looking at the dial along with me. "Now if I don't get enough sleep, then attacks happen in reality too. It throws me either into the past or into the future. When I surface – I always say some kind of nonsense. Like with you when we first met. Or now with the historian. Well, why did I blurt out that 'Please continue' to him!.."

"Come on, enough already! You picked the worst class to stretch out!" Liz hissed from behind. "I don't want to see this swine for an extra five minutes! Hey, you hear me?! Better fast-forward to 10:30!"

Trying to calm down, the guy started drawing blue circles in the margins of his notebook. His drawing reminded me of a cluster of tangled time loops. Perhaps in one of these – at the tip of his ballpoint pen – we were all currently trapped.

"And the main thing is, no one can help me. Everyone just mocks me, like Charm. Or they say: 'Well, what did you expect, you have as many as nine spirals!'…"

"Gill!!!"

"Ah, fine!" Brittlegill sighed dejectedly, tossing aside his pen. It rolled across the desk with a loud clatter, but stopped at the very edge and seemed to rewind back. "Let's just start already."

The bell rang. The second hand moved from its position with a visible effort.

"So, let's begin," the professor came to his senses and rose from his chair for the umpteenth time. Chalk screeched across the board. "In my classes, we will learn to control time…"

* * *

Everything in the rector's reception area was typical. A typical brown cabinet, a typical gray chair, a typical beige desk – and even the secretary sitting behind it seemed utterly typical. Not a single distinguishing detail or facial feature. If a second later I was asked to describe her, I would not remember anything – not even the color of her hair.

"Is Mr. Doe in?" for a first-year student, I was showing remarkable determination. I was nervous, of course, but the break between classes was only ten minutes, and there was no time to waste. "May I see him? It's an urgent matter."

"Mr. Doe, someone's here to see you!" the middle-aged woman raised her gray eyes to me. Or were they green? Or bluish? Though they might have been brown, actually. Through the cathedral's transparent "ceiling", bright sunbeams fell on her face, and the light washed away all the colors.

"Susan, look how the weather has cleared up today!" this was the rector, good-naturedly peeking out of his office. "What a blue sky!"

"Yes, Mr. Doe, it's hard to believe we're in St. Petersburg!" the secretary laughed. "Well, it's not surprising, Mr. Black has arrived. He brought good weather with him, as always…"

"A great man!" Mr. Doe exclaimed, smoothing the large copper key on his chest, worn over his jacket. Then, finally, he looked at me. "And you, young lady, what brings you here?"

"I…" I stumbled.

"Well, let's not stand in the doorway. Come in, my dear, come in!.. Here, please, have a seat," closing the door behind us, he seated me in a deep leather armchair opposite his desk. "Now then, tell me. What brings you to me?"

My eyes aimlessly scanned the office. Letters of appreciation, diplomas, certificates – everything around was so densely hung with silver frames gleaming in the sunlight that it wasn't even clear what color the walls were painted. Or maybe there was wallpaper hidden behind all those laudatory papers?.. Shaking my head, I bleated uncertainly:

"I actually wanted to talk to you about Mr. Black. Something is deeply troubling me…"

"Oh, I understand your concern, young lady, I understand it very well! Yesterday you had your introductory lesson in Art History. I assume Mr. Black made quite an impression…"

"That's putting it mildly," I blurted out.

"Unfortunately, his subject is an elective…"

'Fortunately,' I corrected mentally.

"Therefore, alas, not everyone will be able to attend his excellent seminars, but don't worry. Your name is Nicole, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes, but I don't…"

"Don't worry, Nicole. Last evening, Mr. Black gave me a list of those students who will be automatically enrolled in his group first. These are the best of the best, whose special talent didn't go unnoticed, and you – yes, you – have the honor of being among these lucky ones!"

"Wait!.."

"A wonderful teacher," the rector went on. "Magnificent! Young, handsome, and most importantly – devilishly gifted! You're incredibly lucky to study under him, Nicole! And what a virtuoso violinist he is! Has he played the violin for you yet?"

"You could say that. He has."

Not the violin, though, but on my nerves, but that's almost the same thing. Now I see the rector and Mr. Black are thick as thieves – possibly it was Mr. Doe who dragged the "virtuoso violinist" here to work, and even made up the title of professor in the schedule. It's useless to tell him about the brutal murder. At best, he simply won't believe me; at worst, he'll snitch to Mr. Black, and once he realizes I've opened my mouth, he'll deal with me immediately. I need to seek help elsewhere.

"Mr. Doe, do you know why I don't have… this… what's it called… a benefactor?"

"That can't be! Every immortal has a benefactor. Your benefactor is…" taking the key from his chest, Mr. Doe unlocked one of his desk drawers. He took out my file, opened it, and rustled through the rough pages. "Let's see… Aha, here it is. Your benefactor is Bella Ionfield. But she's on maternity leave right now. As, however, she has been for the last thirteen years."

"Aunt Bella?!"

I immediately remembered myself at the age of three, and our trip with my parents to St. Petersburg to visit a "relative" from whom we hadn't received any news since that distant day. Her belly was noticeably rounded then. I think she gave birth to her firstborn a couple of months after our meeting.

"So Aunt Bella is my benefactor?!" I repeated, still not believing my guesses.

"If it's more comfortable for you, call her that, but still remember her surname – in case you need to communicate in person. For a mother of five children, the youngest of whom is only a year old, she's very kind, but as a mentor she is extremely strict…"

"Can you give me her phone number?"

"I can," Mr. Doe thoughtfully rubbed his finger on the golden statuette of a bird with spread wings above his desk. Either an eagle or an owl, I couldn't tell. "I can, but… I won't. Don't be offended, girl, she is on leave after all, even if it's maternity leave, and who of us likes to be disturbed while on leave? Wait a couple of years, her youngest son will go to kindergarten, and then she'll take care of you. You're not in a hurry, are you? Unlike Ms. Ionfield, you have an eternity to spare…"

The bell rang, announcing the start of the second class. I gulped air like a fish, mumbled "yes, thank you" and, smiling crookedly, slipped out of the rector's office.

Chapter 8: Clean Slate

As I ran down the corridor, my head started to ache. Maybe it was the aftermath of chaotic time travel, or maybe it was just stress. To make matters worse, the second lesson was Philosophy. What if this professor also shoots students for being late?

Fortunately, the old sniper's classroom was on the third floor, right next to the rector's office. Ready to apologize profusely, I flung open the door but couldn't utter a word.

The teacher's chair was empty. Only gray-white books were stacked in several piles on the desk, and above the old wooden podium hung a huge board with an obscene organ drawn in chalk across its entire width. Apparently, a message to the freshmen from their senior comrades.

The white-haired "dandelion" calmly walked along the rows, handing out textbooks to students. Look at that, he didn't ask anyone for help – doing it all himself. When the stack of ten books in his hands ran out, he returned to the desk and took a new one just like it. He noticed neither me nor the drawing that was causing stifled laughs and barbed comments here and there.

Oh right, he's blind.

I felt so sorry for him again that I almost forgave him for the gun incident. Instead of quietly taking a seat in the classroom, I took an eraser and started wiping the artwork off the board.

"Nicole, don't worry," the old man suddenly said in a creaky voice, without turning around. "Tomorrow, the second-year students will have to study the meaning of phallic symbolism in ancient Eastern mystical traditions. Let's consider this illustration an outstanding manifestation of their intuition. Please, sit down. I don't punish for being late."

A textbook landed on the desk in front of me – a shabby library book, probably printed back in the Soviet Union. The ribbed cover was once white but had darkened with time. No pictures, not even a publisher's logo. Only worn gilding on top spelled out: "Philosophy. 1st year". No author was listed.

"This textbook," the professor spoke up after returning to the podium, "was first compiled by my great-great-grandfather in tsarist Russia. Later it was republished by my great-grandfather, then grandfather, then father, and now you are holding in your hands the fifth edition, revised and supplemented personally by me. This book, like an immortal being wandering through eternity, will answer many of your questions. It will literally open your eyes! It will shed light on what you'll be learning here!"

The giggles in the classroom were replaced by the noise of pages being frantically flipped.

"Excuse me!" Jake was the first to speak up. "My book is defective. There's nothing here. All the pages are blank. Can I…"

Glancing into my textbook, he fell silent.

"Mine is also defective," came a surprised voice from the back rows.

"Mine too!.."

"The book is empty!"

The silence that fell in the classroom hit the ears no less than a gunshot.

"It's not the book that's empty, but your heads!" the elderly professor exclaimed pathetically. "Apologize to it – and open it again! Strive, study, thirst to know the essence! Ask, and its invaluable contents will be revealed to you!"

"But…"

"For our next lesson, I ask everyone to prepare a retelling of the first paragraph. Don't waste precious time, start reading right now."

The tall window – floor to ceiling – creaked. Nodding contentedly in response to some thoughts of his own, the philosopher tapped his white cane on the windowsill, stepped over the "threshold" and was gone.

"Mr. Wordsworth!.."

One of the phoenixes – Edwards, I think – jumped up and flew to the window. Getting tangled in the curtain, he crumpled it and threw it aside. Leaned out in surprise. Moved his head left and right. Scratched his crown.

The prof, apparently, had disappeared without a trace. Just as the letters from their family textbook had once disappeared. But were they ever there at all?..

The students split into those who really took on the absurd task and opened the empty books again, and those who decided to mind their own business. Someone crunched on chips, someone put on headphones, someone was chatting, someone was playing on the phone. I tried to at least pretend to be a decent student, but the white pages only drove me further into a panic. The philosopher was partly right. Such a clean slate was now in my own head too. I didn't know what to do.

It seems I have no choice. Yes, of course, my new friends will probably think I'm crazy and tap their fingers to their temples. Maybe our friendship will even end altogether, but I can't keep all this to myself anymore. Otherwise, I'll burst any day now.

Turning so that I could see both Jake, who was turning the textbook at all possible angles, and Liz, who was refreshing her eyeliner, I uncertainly began:

"Guys, I need to tell you something…"

Jake closed the useless book, and Liz snapped shut her pocket mirror. Both stared at me. My heart, anticipating the approach of something inevitable, began to beat very quickly, chaining my throat:

"The night before September first, I saw something very, very terrible!" I whispered. "Something I shouldn't have seen, you know?.. It's related to one of our teachers, and I can't figure out what to do now…"

The door slammed. Could it be that the philosopher had returned and this time, for variety's sake, entered the classroom like all normal people?.. Turning to the noise, I froze.

"Mr. Wordsworth, don't worry, I won't bother you for long," a cold, deep voice that had been haunting me for the past two days, both in my dreams and in reality, rang out across the hall. A pause. Then calmly. "Oh, what a wonderful coincidence, he won't bother me either."

Ascending onto the podium, Mr. Black adjusted his tie. The silver chain hanging over it clinked.

"Dear first-year students, I have a most unpleasant organizational announcement for you. From now on, we'll be seeing each other more often."

I think at that moment I didn't just stop breathing – even my pulse stopped!

Taking the chalk, the violinist started writing something next to the remains of the reproductive organ without embarrassment. My gaze slid over the back of his head. Over the ashen ponytail tightly bound with a medical rubber band. Over his earlobe with an earring on which an inverted Catholic cross swayed. Lower on his neck, under the collar of his shirt, he had a round tattoo hidden. Now I could only see a small half of it – the outline and sharp tops of what looked like either symbols or letters.

Squinting, I tried to "complete" the missing part of the drawing in my imagination, but Mr. Black barely noticeably shuddered and ran his hand over his neck, flattening and shaking off my gaze like an annoying mosquito. And then he turned to the hall altogether, demonstrating what was written on the board.

Tall, narrow, broken symbols – as if scratched with a nail on glass. No, this was not the Scandinavian alphabet, not runic ligature, and not even an ancient Latin spell. Plus seven, Moscow operator code, three sixes, thirteen…

"I strongly advise you to save my phone number. Call and text anytime, don't be shy. From this day on, I am the curator of your cohort."

* * *

Locking myself in the institute's restroom, I opened the window half-painted with gray paint, leaned out and eagerly took several deep breaths of fresh air. The mobile got a signal. My nail tapped on the screen, dialing a number from memory. The number that, by a disgusting coincidence, began with the same digits as Mr. Black's.

"Mom, I want to go home!" I burst into tears as soon as I heard the familiar "Hello?". "Get me out of here! They're all crazy!"

"Or maybe it's us, common people, who are crazy?" she replied philosophically and added. "Hang in there, daughter, it'll get easier in a month."

"A month?! I won't last a week here! What phoenixes, what serpents?! What immortality! Is this a joke? Or did you put me in a reality show? Or in an experimental madhouse?!"

"These people will help you."

"I don't need help!!! And our curator… he… he…" I was choking on tears.

"I'm sure you'll soon make friends with the curator."

"How much?.. How much did they pay you?!" I moaned. "They 'bought' me out, right? I don't believe you gave me up here of your own free will!"

Mom sighed:

"No one bought you out, Niki. Quite the opposite. Almost eighteen years ago, kind people gave you to me on credit."

"What?!"

"Having you was my only chance to have children. You see, Uncle Roman from the FSB – he…"

Not another word! I don't want to hear anything more! And especially – to know how Uncle Roman from the FSB was involved in the fact of my birth!..

The phone flies out the open window from the third floor. It will surely smash to smithereens.

Oh God, what if this is true?! If that "Volga" under our windows on that last summer Saturday morning wasn't a coincidence?

It turns out… I sat down on the cold tiles. It turns out that invitation letter to LIMBO was really brought by Uncle Roman?..

"Antipova, why are you throwing expensive devices around," Jake's voice came from outside. He knocked on the restroom door. "Take it back. And don't do that again."

"You caught it?!" looking out into the corridor, I stared in surprise at the phone, safe and sound. "How did you manage?!"

"Well, not that I managed… More precisely, yes, I did, but not on the first try…"

"You jumped back in time for it?!"

"About ten times. Until I caught it," he looked at me reproachfully again. "And it seemed that the headache was almost gone!.. Charm, don't stare at me like that! Well, I can't calmly watch the latest Apple models breaking!"

His long, stretched-out palm opened and handed me the "apple of discord". The yellow snake eyes with thin thread-like pupils flashed brighter than the silvery bitten logo.

"Jake, sorry," I touched his damp, cold hand, taking back the mobile. "I won't do it again."

"Uh-huh," the guy didn't seem to believe me much. "By the way, what did you want to tell us?..

* * *

"Listen, I don't even kno-ow…" Liz drawled thoughtfully.

We shamelessly skipped the third class after the long break. Went out of the institute to talk, and ended up sitting in the square opposite the Admiralty building. I told them everything, in the smallest details. The guys listened without interrupting. Jake was cracking the pistachios that I had treated him to in the morning, Liz was sipping orange orgone, thoughtfully looking somewhere ahead, through the monument to Gogol¹⁶. Both were silent, but as soon as I finished, they immediately "burst out."

"Mr. Black seems like a decent guy overall," Charm started arguing. "Well, informal, of course. With his own quirks. But at least he's not senile like Bartholomew. Not a bastard like Zauberstein. And he won't have PMS. Ooh, you should see how our Agatha loses it before her critical days!.."

Having dumped a pile of shells in the trash can, Jake interrupted her:

"Niki, are you sure all this was actually in reality?"

"I'm not sure of anything anymore," I groaned.

"Maybe you had a vision? What if you foresaw the future?"

"Past or future – it's easy to check," Liz took out her mobile and started flipping through browser pages with a long raspberry nail. After a portion of orgone, she noticeably became prettier. Her cheeks turned pink, her eyelashes lengthened, red strands coquettishly curled, and even the blue lenses sparkled in a special way, making her look like a doll. Guys in the park started throwing meaningful glances at her, then at me, then at Jake, trying to figure out whose boyfriend he was.

"We need to look at the news from the last few days," Liz explained in a low voice, flirtatiously smiling at another passerby. "Such a murder, if it really happened, reporters wouldn't have missed!.."

"He could have covered his tracks," I argued uncertainly and quietly, "hidden the bodies somewhere."

"Even if he, like a predatory monster, ate them," the redhead chuckled, "some evidence should still have remained! Blood on the asphalt – you say it was gushing like a fountain. The knives, the bat… The abandoned car, after all!"

"Maybe he swallowed the car too?" Jake smirked. "Like Godzilla."

Yawning, the guy put his arm on the back of the bench and sat closer, practically hovering over Liz. From the side, it looked as if he was hugging her, and the greedy glances in our immediate vicinity decreased. He was kidding, of course, but for some reason I still felt lonely and hurt. Two against one – did they conspire or what?

"I knew you'd laugh at me," tears rang in my voice again. "If you don't want to – don't believe it!"

"Let's assume it's true," Gill responded patiently. "So what? Well, he took out four drug addicts, and rapists at that – big deal!"

"He didn't get lost, stood up for you – good for him!" Liz echoed, but still moved away from Jake and even put her bag between them, as if hinting that it was useless for him to flirt with her. "The world will only get cleaner."

"You don't understand! They are the same people as you and me! Well… almost the same. You can't kill anyone – neither bad nor good! Because if someone crosses that line even once and commits murder, then they won't stop at anything afterwards and will continue taking lives – whether guilty or innocent!.. By the way, Liz, you recently said that girls are disappearing from our institute. What if these ritual sacrifices are also the work of Mr. Black?! Remember how he spoke yesterday about the blood of virgins?!"

"Nonsense," Lizzy shrugged. "It's just his image. Fatal hottie. I think he's already spoiled more than one virgin's blood…"

"Have you seen his tattoo?" I persisted. "I bet it's some kind of devil's seal! And all these satanic crosses in his ears and rings with inverted pentagrams?!"

"Well, actually, a pentagram might not be inverted," the redhead noted knowingly. "It depends on which side you look at it from – it's a circle after all…"

"I'm more disturbed by his car with the ram's head," Jake bent forward, removing his hand from the back of the bench. "The Horned Beast – that's a clear reference to 'Baphomet'. Though, if he only recently came to St. Petersburg, he has an alibi for the disappearances of the female students…"

"Hmm, not exactly," Liz suddenly became serious. She finally ran out of arguments in Mr. Black's defense. "Last academic year he was already teaching here. Ran a piano playing club. And this club, if I remember correctly, opened in February, and in March the first girl disappeared. Then, in August, LIMBO went on vacation, all the teachers and students left, and during the last new moon there were no victims…"

"See!" I exclaimed. "What did I tell you! Maybe he was hunting for me in my vision too, and those guys got ahead of him, for which they paid with their lives! Do you think he became our curator just by chance? And enrolled me in his group against my will – accidentally? Of course not! He's stalking me, waiting for the right moment!.. When is the next new moon?"

Now it was Jake's turn to go on the internet, but Liz stopped him:

"I know this. Mom always prepares for them in advance. In the twenties of September – we still have three weeks to spare."

"Great!" I rejoiced. "We have time, but we still can't delay. Let's write a collective statement to the rector right now to assign us another curator!"

"Whoa there, birdie, slow down," Liz took a pack of strawberry candies out of her bag pocket and rustled the wrapper. A sour-sweet berry scent wafted through the park. "Here, better chew on this. If Mr. Black is guilty of something, he hasn't shown his hand yet. We don't have any proof or evidence. Telling anyone now about what you saw in the future is pointless, but we'll keep a close eye on him, and the fact that he dared to become our curator won't hurt, but rather help us. We won't take our eyes off him now! Don't panic, we won't let anyone harm you! Right, Gill?"

Chapter 9: At the Speed of Thought

On the weekend, Liz dragged me to meet some guys. Two students from group "M", former third-years, now in their fourth and final year of bachelor's. Max, according to her, had been hitting on her all through the second semester while she was dating someone else. She wasn't interested then, but now that spot was open, and she decided to give the guy a chance. Why not? A tanned, smiling blonde with light blue eyes and broad shoulders – just like Ken from a dollhouse. But his groupmate Paul, whom they wanted to "match" with me, was almost the complete opposite of his friend: slightly pale, lanky, serious, with black hair, brown eyes, and judging by the dark clothing and chains, also into alternative subculture. He reminds me of someone…

"Listen, I don't think this is for me," I mumbled uncertainly, closing his social media page and shutting my laptop. "He seems a bit too… gloomy or something."

"Well, what do you expect, he's an experienced mage after all," Lizzy climbed onto my bed with her feet up. "A straight-A student, by the way. On track for an honours degree."

"That's great. But still, I wasn't planning so soon to…"

"That's what you weren't planning in Moscow, but here you'll have to!" Charm decisively interrupted. "The place itself demands it. Have you noticed that in St. Petersburg there are hundreds of prostitutes' ads on every pole? Such a high-frequency city vitally needs proper grounding! Otherwise, not only LIMBO but all this beauty will teleport along with us to the higher worlds – what will the tourists have to look at then, huh?.."

"What do you mean, higher worlds?!"

"Did you think we all fit inside the cathedral in the real world?"

"I suspected magic was involved, but…"

"Okay, Antipova, don't change the subject. Tell me instead, what are you wearing to the club tonight? This?" she waved first one hanger in the air – with my dark blue school skirt, and then another – with gray jeans. "Or this?"

Without waiting for an answer, she critically examined my tops and shoes. Considered something in her head. Grimaced:

"Nah, this won't do at all. Get ready, we're going shopping. Dad just gave me some money yesterday…"

* * *

The bouncer at the club entrance gave Lizzy's Audi parked nearby a heavy look from under his brows. Then he switched back to me and, flaring his nostrils like a horse, snorted:

"You sure you're of legal age?"

"Of course! She just forgot her passport, but here's her student ID, look!" Liz slipped a large bill inside and handed it to the security guard.

The banknote quickly disappeared. The hulk softened, even gave us a conspiratorial wink. Out of curiosity, he opened the ID and in the semi-darkness tried for a long time to read the name of our university:

"Leningrad Institute of Modeling B… What are you modeling? Huh, girls? There's an ink blot on the most important part… Alright," he finally took pity and stepped aside, clearing the way. "Have fun."

Following my friend down the steps into the darkness, I asked, trying to shout over the music:

"Do you have an ink blot there too?"

"We all have such ink blots," Liz waved her hand. "Relax, we didn't come here to think about studies. Oh! They're already waiting for us! Hi, Maxie! Meet Niki. This is who I told you about."

Ken in real life turned out to be even more tanned than in the photos. Flashing us a dazzling smile, he pecked Liz on the cheek and shook my hand. His palm was hot – the touch sent heat through me. An energy wave rose to my shoulder, circled around my body, and returned back.

"Very nice to meet you, Niki!" he finally let me go. "And this is my friend, Paul Warlock."

The second guy stepped out of the darkness and offered me to shake hands. This time no heat. The fingertips slightly cool, but without special effects.

"A phoenix, then?" he said insinuatingly, taking advantage of the fact that the current song had ended and silence briefly hung in the club. "Twelve spirals?"

"That's what Mr. Black says," I felt embarrassed.

"Mr. Black wouldn't lie. I heard he's your curator?"

"Since yesterday…"

"I see, I see," a soothing, calm voice. "I was thinking of choosing him as the scientific advisor for my thesis… But I'm still considering. Would you like something to drink, Niki?"

Max pulled Liz to the dance floor, where the next track had just started playing, while I was led to the bar against my will.

"Listen, I'm not sure. It's just…" I mumbled on the way. "We're not supposed to…"

"If you're not going to practice at night, then a little is allowed," having seated me, Paul ordered two cocktails from the bartender. "Here, you see, it's like with a car: if you've been drinking, you can't drive today. But tomorrow no one will forbid you. It's the same with magic. Well, to our acquaintance! I hope it will be… productive."

His gaze fell on my knees. I started and nervously adjusted my flared leather skirt with metal studs. I told Liz we should have taken something more modest and, preferably, longer! And now that I was sitting, it became indecently short!

My outfit clearly appealed to my companion, he kept glancing at me, studying the curves of my figure and lingered longest on my red and black checkered top. Or rather, on the deep neckline, where a super-push-up bra, borrowed from Lizzy, was pushing out a good half of my modest breasts. Well, at least I refused the red lipstick, despite the witch's protests! Otherwise, I would definitely look like one of those who put up ads on poles in the center of St. Petersburg.

To hide my nervousness, I grabbed my cocktail from the counter and took several large gulps at once. Paul stirred, his eyes released me and now looked at the dancers with boredom. I sighed with relief. Who would have thought that even a cool, almost indifferent gaze could be so scorching!

Liz and Max truly "lit up" the dance floor. They danced non-stop, probably for an hour – only taking breaks to take a couple of sips of water. Paul didn't like fast dances, but when they played a slow song, he did invite me. I didn't refuse. After all, maybe I'm too self-conscious, and it just seemed to me that he was looking at me in some special way?

In his embrace, it was serene and easy. The movements gentle and smooth – as if we were swaying on the surface of water. The closer I felt him, the more distinctly he "extinguished" all my fears and thoughts, it became quiet, as if I was somewhere in a deep forest on a cloudy, windless day or… in an old cemetery.

A strange association, of course, but I couldn't get rid of it. Total, unbreakable peace.

"How old are you?" he said in a low voice, leaning to my ear. His hand slid down my waist.

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen," his thin lips barely noticeably pressed together. "Still so young. What am I going to do with you?"

I became confused and for some reason started to justify myself:

"In December I'll already be eighteen and…"

"And the exam session will begin," Paul finished for me insinuatingly.

"Listen, what difference does it make… We just met today…"

His face softened, he nodded:

"Yes, of course, little one. You misunderstood me. I meant we won't be able to properly celebrate your birthday because I'll be cramming. I wouldn't want to fail at the finish line. But we'll figure something out. Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you."

This phrase acted on me like an injection of a sedative. I relaxed. My tense hands returned to his shoulders. The dance continued.

Later that night, following Charm's instructions, Paul went to walk me to the dorm "so that nothing would happen, since she likes to get into all sorts of trouble." For Max and Liz, the evening was just beginning: at the exit from the club, they got into a taxi after a juicy make-out session and left for one of their homes. The guys didn't even seem to have time to say goodbye. Paul thoughtfully watched the yellow car disappear around the corner, then sighed and offered me his arm – which was very handy because my feet were terribly chafed by the new shoes over the evening.

We walked along the deserted embankment past the drawn bridges. It had gotten much colder outside, and Paul threw his leather jacket over my shoulders, remaining in just a dark blue T-shirt. Glancing from the corner of my eye, I noticed that the air around him was somehow strangely diverging in waves and pulsating, as if from a heated object. Everything that fell into this anomalous zone was refracted and lost its color, acquiring gray-violet outlines. And a sparrow that flew by, after a couple of yards, even slowed down, somehow drooped, sat on the parapet of the bridge and didn't move anymore.

When a street lamp above us flickered several times and went out with a crack, Paul put his palm on my hand and said calmly:

"Nothing to worry about, I just… overdid it a bit. The energy got slightly depolarized. I'll be back to normal by morning."

"Maybe people like us really shouldn't drink alcohol?" I asked uncertainly.

"If you forbid me, then I won't anymore," he smiled, probably for the first time all evening, and actually for our entire brief acquaintance. "We're almost there. Will you kiss me goodbye?"

I stepped back, but he held me by the elbow and pecked me on the cheek himself:

"It's me who should be afraid of you, not you of me. Run along, little one. Sweet dreams. I'll call tomorrow."

* * *

All the next week I tried to learn to see orgone. I could see Paul's aura almost effortlessly when I was drunk, but nothing worked when sober. And although the Biology teacher claimed that our energy vision wouldn't open until the middle of the semester, I didn't want to wait that long. If I know what colors people glow with, I can guess what to expect from them. Including from Mr. Black.

Alas, the exercises from the textbook didn't help. After three days of constant training with stereo images, it started to seem that at this rate I would rather go blind – like our philosopher. Indeed, isn't that how the old man lost his sight?..

Complaining to Liz, I was upset to learn that I wasn't the only one.

"I've studied here longer than you and still haven't fully awakened," admitted the second-year witch. "At least, I can't 'scan' someone on demand. Sometimes I see spontaneously, but mostly only very strong auras. Just like you, by the way."

"I don't see any at all."

"You sure?"

"Of course. I would have noticed."

"What about our guard?" Lizzy pushed me down the steps leading to the checkpoint. "Let's go take a look."

Just the memory of "Aunt Betty" made me shudder:

"It's useless to 'look' at her," I cautiously opened the door. "It's always dark here, and she has a lamp in her booth and…"

"What color lamp is it, you say?"

"Yellow. Wait!.." I whispered, suppressing the desire to run back outside. "Are you saying that?.."

"I'm saying there's no lamp there at all!" Liz exclaimed triumphantly. "Finally you got it! Hello, Ms. Jenkins!"

Indeed, it was naive to think they would put an ordinary person as a guard at our institute. Holding my breath, I looked closer. Exactly! It turns out, it's not the booth that's glowing at all. There's no light source there – and even electricity isn't connected. But the space around is literally trembling, pulsating with yellow orgone!

However, this Ms. Jenkins must be incredibly powerful. Just like an atomic bomb! I shuddered. I wouldn't want to be in the place of an ill-wisher who decided to sneak into LIMBO by deception…

As for other successes in studying, things weren't going well. I could hardly concentrate on assignments in all subjects, except, perhaps, Geography. I had no problem preparing homework on astral travel and was looking forward to next Thursday. I hope that nice quiet fellow, eternally floating somewhere in the clouds, will at least briefly come down to earth today to give me my well-deserved A.

The exercise was called "The Ladder". You were supposed to leave the body on an exhale. Deep breath in – and long breath out counting to twelve. It's better to orient not by the second hand of a clock, but by the heartbeat – placing the fingers of your right hand on your left wrist. With each new beat, you have to imagine climbing a ladder with colored steps: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, purple, pink, white, gray, brown, black… Usually on the green step I ran out of air, on blue my pulse slowed down a lot, on indigo my chest felt compressed, on purple my head started spinning. On pink it became easy and carefree – like in childhood or even before birth. On white I heard chaotic male and female voices merging into one chorus – sometimes they talked, sometimes they sang, and sometimes they recited some scientific texts on various topics, interrupting each other. On the gray step, I would start shaking as if electricity was passing through my body. And finally, on black everything ended. It was as if I emerged from pulsating, humming dense water to the surface, where everything calmed down. The voices quieted, the vibrations ceased. The body remained behind – or rather, about twenty inches below. Further, theoretically, you could go anywhere, by the power of thought alone. The main condition is not to breathe anymore until the moment of return, otherwise you'll be "thrown out".

An ordinary person can last without oxygen for about a minute, a trained one – up to five minutes. A mage capable of entering the state of "samadhi" – up to two or three hours without damage to vital body functions. Phoenixes and serpents with proper training can withstand even longer journeys, but, as a rule, longer isn't needed. In the astral, everything happens instantly, at the speed of thought, and the speed of thought exceeds both the speed of sound and even the speed of light.

As a child, I did swimming, we practiced special breath-holding exercises in the water, so holding for forty seconds wasn't a problem. I think after another week I'll easily bring this time to a minute, and then to two, but for now what I can already do is enough. Today I just need to climb the ladder – get to the upper level, separate from the body and immediately return.

"Miss Antipova, please come to the board. This way, you're welcome."

Wow! And I didn't even have time to raise my hand! Probably, Mr. Walker felt that I had been actively preparing, so he called on me first.

Rising to the podium, I stood a couple of steps from his desk. Monsters and gargoyles looked at me inquisitively from the walls.

"Don't be shy, my dear," the astral traveler encouraged. "If something goes wrong, I'll help you. Please, begin."

I wanted to clarify what exactly could go wrong, but my gaze slid over the papers spread out before him, and I instantly forgot why I had come to the board. On top of the atlases and maps lay a fresh newspaper, still smelling of printing ink, on the first page of which the news headline was blazing in bold font:

"Four bosom friends went missing in St. Petersburg."

Chapter 10: The Bloody Instrument

The photograph was black and white, but I could easily make out the faces of my nighttime acquaintances. I quickly skimmed through the news text: disappeared a week ago, police report filed, search operations initiated. The old car had been stolen but was found abandoned yesterday in the suburbs of St. Petersburg. The mother of one of the missing men gives an interview, describing what a good person her son was – he helped animals since childhood, studied diligently, led a healthy lifestyle, and had achievements in boxing. Yes, that same bald guy who had been shaking his phallic attribute in front of me turned out to be a dutiful mama's boy, and they were waiting for him at home…

I suddenly felt nauseous. I must have noticeably paled at that moment because the teacher asked, puzzled:

"Nicole, what's wrong? Did you not practice the exercise at home?"

"I… no, I…" I bleated weakly.

"You're unpleasantly surprising me. This is the first time I see a phoenix unprepared for a Geography lesson – it's your major subject, after all. I'll forgive you this once, don't turn pale. But I must warn you: if this happens again, I'll have to report your poor performance to your curator."

My voice immediately returned, and even color, judging by my flushed cheeks, rushed back to my face.

"Don't tell the curator!" I exclaimed. "I did prepare! Just a moment, Mr. Walker!.. I just need to… get in the right mindset."

A minute later, I did get my well-deserved A, but my mood was irreparably spoiled, and for the rest of the class, I couldn't think of anything except that newspaper. As if on purpose, Jake and Liz weren't called to the board, and right after the end of the lesson, the teacher stuffed the evidence into his briefcase along with the other papers and left – faster than I could tell my friends what I had read.

"You don't believe me again?! Let's catch up with him!!!"

"Antipova, quiet, don't yell," Charm stopped me. "I suppose that wasn't the only copy of the newspaper in existence. Did you remember its name?"

"No," I exhaled.

"Then we'll go to the newsstand today and look through all of them. Not now, but after the fifth lesson."

"I'm not going to Black's class!" I started trembling inside again. "I can't face him! Don't you understand?! This was real! He's a murderer!"

"But what if it's still a coincidence?" Jake asked quietly. "Well, they disappeared because they're drug addicts, they're just hanging out somewhere. Gone today – found tomorrow. In any case, I won't risk skipping Mr. Black's lessons now, and I don't advise you to either! Better tell me, did anyone read the first paragraph in his study guide?.."

* * *

Only by the beginning of the fifth period did I understand why almost all our girls had come to class today in miniskirts. Apparently, every self-respecting first-year female student considered it her duty to try to hook up with the young curator. Flirtatious whispers constantly echoed throughout the classroom. Legs in high-heeled shoes provocatively peeked out between the rows of desks.

Mr. Black seemed to notice none of this outrage. With a confident gesture, he removed the violin case from his shoulder and surveyed the room. From the female half of the group, his attention was drawn only to Lizzy, who was dressed modestly today and had even chosen humble hazel-brown contact lenses:

"Charm, what are you doing here? If my memory serves me right, you were sent to the Astronomy elective, following in your mother's footsteps?"

"Your memory serves you right, Mr. Black," she drawled in an angelic voice, jumping up from her seat. "That's correct, you didn't put me on the list, but I came anyway. I just really… really!.. want to attend your course. I'm not at all like my mother. I'm drawn to Art, you see? I feel it's my calling!.."

Mr. Black twisted his lips in a semblance of a smile. In my opinion, he barely held back from laughing sarcastically, but still pulled himself together and said:

"Well, Charm, if you've weighed everything carefully and this is your conscious decision…"

"Couldn't be more conscious, Mr. Black!"

"Keep in mind, I won't let you go back in the middle of the semester."

"I don't need to go back," Liz chirped enthusiastically. "I swear, I'll go with you till the end! I…"

"So be it," Mr. Black unceremoniously interrupted her. "Let's begin. Today we are to practice the technique of passive connection."

Sitting down at the table, he opened the gradebook and wrote in Lizzy's surname, then in a couple of seconds, as if in passing, marked the absentees with the red pen – without even doing a roll call. Had he really memorized all of us from just one time?!

"As you could have read in the first paragraph, if you had opened it, any work of art – be it music, painting, poetry, or sculpture – is a channel. Through it, you can connect with the author, living or dead, and get much more information than was initially put into their creation. The artist Basil Hallward in Oscar Wilde's novel 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' said: 'I can't exhibit the picture in an art gallery, because I've put too much of myself into it.' And he's not the only one. An author always puts their whole self into any work – entirely, without remainder. Such is the essence of creativity. This is what we intend to use to complete the assignment."

The case locks clicked. What a familiar sound! In Mr. Black's hands appeared a bow – that same one with the black stone handle – and then, a violin made of dark wood.

"Now you will listen to an excerpt from a work by a great composer and virtuoso violinist. Try to open the channel and establish a connection to his personality through the music, using the instructions provided in the first paragraph. Those who didn't deign to study the methodological guide yesterday have about two minutes while I prepare the instrument. At the end of the exercise, I will ask you to tell everything you were able to read between the notes."

Speaking of notes – he had no sheet music with him. Looks like he was going to reproduce the melody from memory. Amazing! Until this moment, I hadn't thought that he could actually play. I wasn't even sure his violin was real. Watching Mr. Black rub rosin on the reddish hair of the bow, I mentally shuddered. Could this thing, besides slicing people, really produce sounds from the strings?

"If you manage to establish contact, don't yell about it to the whole classroom. Keep silent. I will sense those who connect."

The musician stepped to the center of the podium and, standing halfway turned to the audience, lowered the violin onto his shoulder. Touching it with his chin, he closed his eyes. A bracelet jingled under the cuff of his black shirt, a silver cufflink gleamed, his hand with the bow fluttered upward… I instinctively recoiled back in my chair, squeezing my eyes shut. A nervous shiver ran down my spine, and only after the first sounds of music filled the air could I get a hold of myself. Phew! He's not going to kill anyone. At least not this time.

When his eyes are closed, his face becomes different – calm, serene, benevolent. Probably, he loves his violin much more than people. Heeds the melody, completely gone there, and disconnected from the real world. From under the sleeve of his raised arm, the edge of another tattoo is visible – also round, like the one on his neck, but this time he doesn't feel my inquisitive gaze on it. He doesn't notice anything at all, doesn't even hear the admiring whispers of his fan girls. And he certainly doesn't pay attention to the fact that a strand of hair is about to slip out of his ponytail and fall on his face…

Now the girls in the classroom were no longer whispering loudly, but quietly gasping. I chuckled to myself – they'll probably come to the next lesson without skirts at all.

Mr. Black slightly shook his head, removing the stray strand. Though not for long. Soon it again disobediently lay on his smoothly shaved cheekbone, and he gave up. His hand continued to flutter, gently moving the bow across the strings, the violin let out a slow melody that pierced the air with invisible threads. Well, how can you so mercilessly charm students! It seems they've completely forgotten what the assignment was. Even Liz – she also seems to have been enchanted. Leaning forward, propping her chin with her hand, barely breathing and almost not blinking, plump lips parted, eyes dreamily half-closed.

The "charms" didn't affect only me, on the contrary – they irritated me. I probably won't calm down at all until he puts away his bloody instrument.

To somehow distract myself from the frightening pictures that came to mind, I took a few deep breaths and tried to tune in.

My breathing stopped on its own – as during an astral projection exercise. Mr. Black's dark silhouette against the white board blurred, and then flowed along the contour in waves, spreading outward like the surface of a river into which a boulder was thrown. Only instead of a boulder, it was my gaze.

I looked at the classroom from somewhere far away and slightly above, and around me grew a coniferous forest. Huge, mighty, centuries-old firs and pines hid me with their "paws." Fresh air hit my face – clean and cool. I heard the murmur of crystal waters through which the silty bottom could be seen. I didn't understand where I was, but I no longer wanted to breathe. Now Mr. Black and I were separated not only by two rows of desks. There were thousands of miles between us, and with each new heartbeat, with each new sound of the violin trembling in the restless wind, I flew somewhere further and further…

The sound of applause knocked me out of my trance. The beautiful pictures disappeared, scattered into gray dull fragments.

"Alas, I cannot respond in kind," a deep haughty voice drowned out the harmonious clapping. "There are thirty-two students in the hall, and only nine connections. Not much. Miss Foreteller, let's start with you. Tell us what you managed to read?"

"The person who composed this melody," the chips lover began uncertainly, rising, "is already dead."

"You don't need to be a fortune teller to know that," Mr. Black snorted, putting aside the violin. "The piece is classical, written three centuries ago. I'm interested in the emotions put in by the composer. Who is this person, what was he thinking about, what was happening in his life?.. Mr. Healer, help your neighbor."

"Well… he was an extraordinary creative personality," the classmate blurted out, carefully hitting the bull's-eye, "and he was depressed because his genius remained misunderstood by the secular world."

"Yeah," Mr. Black demonstratively rolled his eyes and, sitting down in the teacher's chair, leaned back. "And you did connect, Mr. Healer, even twice, I felt it. Miss Witchley, you try?"

"The composer was gay," she blurted out.

"This is not Tchaikovsky¹⁷!" Mr. Black growled, reaching for the red pen. "Everything is clear with group 'M'. The rest of the mages will get F-s automatically."

"But!.. wait!"

"We haven't answered yet!!!"

"Why should we…?!"

The classroom drowned in indignant exclamations.

"Dear students," the violinist winced, "stop this circus. In the future, I hope none of you will dare to play this humiliating guessing game with me, and you will start working. Now let's move on to group 'S', who's brave? Mr. Brittlegill?"

"Well, of course," Jake grumbled, getting up, "if it's an execution, I'm always the first, as usual…"

"Louder, Mr. Brittlegill, don't be shy."

"I'm saying, he was ill, Mr. Black. Traumatic brain injury in childhood and as a result – insomnia. And after his father's death, he developed an unusual gift, he began to see spirits. It seems he tried to escape from his visions to a monastery, but it didn't bring him peace…"

"Now that's more interesting. Continue."

"I've said everything I felt. Sorry."

"The composer could project his consciousness out of his body and communicated with entities from the lower astral," a girl from group 'S' came to his rescue. "He was considered possessed."

"Larvae and devils visited him even during his years of seclusion in the monastery," her neighbor joined in.

"He is not the author of the work attributed to him," the yellow eyes of another snake flashed.

Not wanting to receive F-s en masse following the mages, the students began to "pull out" each other, gathering the necessary information in bits and pieces through time and space.

"And who is the real author then?" Mr. Black asked, almost mockingly. In response, the company just spread their hands. "Okay, sit down, Brittlegill, you've got 'C'. I'm not giving grades to the others, since it's not possible to confirm or refute these hypotheses using historical sources."

The students exhaled with relief. Someone slid down the back of their chair, someone stretched stiff shoulders, someone put a mint candy in their mouth.

"Antipova, now you. Surprise us."

My knees were shaking slightly. I wanted to hide, there wasn't enough air. A gust of wind caught me again, and I really did hide – there, far-far away, high-high above the moisture-smelling trees. How good it would be to actually fly away from here right now!

The image split. I saw two places at once and began to describe the second one in an emotionless, hollow voice:

"The old railway cuts through the dense forest. It bends and weaves between tall, dark green firs and pines that stretch endlessly. Cracked, wet wooden sleepers flash by in the window. Despite the heavy rain and gusty wind, the train rushes as fast as it can until it is stopped by a tree felled by the hurricane…"

Mr. Black raised an eyebrow. Then, frowning, he began to rub his chin.

"Somewhere far away, a large city is noisy, and next to it spreads a huge clean lake – like a real sea. But I'm not there. I'm flying over dark dense forests, besides which nothing can be seen, and if you expand the view higher and to the right, then further, beyond the forest, mountains will begin, and at the foot a small village of ten houses will spread out. Now there are ten, one old wooden and nine brick ones, but once there were twice as many, and later – only a single one. The rest were destroyed by a storm…" I paused and added uncertainly. "Should I continue?"

"Yes," Mr. Black exhaled. "I mean, no. Thank you, Antipova, that's enough. Sit down. B."

"Why not an A?" Jake chimed in.

"I can draw a map!" I exclaimed, returning to reality. "I don't convey small details very accurately in words, it would be easier to draw!.."

"No need," Mr. Black strictly cut me off. "I asked you to read the melody. The melody, Antipova, and what were you reading?.. You tune in well, but next time make an effort to hear the assignment correctly."

I felt a slap as if someone had painfully hit my hand. Or even my wing?! I was knocked out of contact, and couldn't connect anymore. A solid metal wall with barbed wire that suddenly grew around the podium reliably suppressed all attempts to open the channel again.

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Примечания

1

The KGB is the former name of the FSB (the Federal Security Service) used in the Soviet Union from 1954 until its collapse in 1991. It is the main security agency functioning as a combination of intelligence agency and secret police.

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2

Buryats are a Mongolic ethnic group native to eastern Siberia, primarily in the republic of Buryatia within Russia, known for their traditional nomadic lifestyle, Tibetan Buddhism, and distinct language and culture.

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3

"Volga" refers to a Russian automobile brand that was produced in the Soviet Union and later in Russia, known for its sturdy, reliable sedans and station wagons that were ubiquitous across the USSR and Eastern Bloc countries.

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4

Lubyanka is the popular name for the headquarters of the FSB (formerly the KGB) in Moscow, Russia.

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5

Leningrad was the official name of the Russian city of Saint Petersburg from 1924 to 1991.

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6

The "Sapsan" (Russian for "Peregrine Falcon") is a high-speed electric express train that runs between Moscow and St. Petersburg, covering the distance of around 430 miles in about 4 hours, making it a fast and convenient way to travel between these two major cities.

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7

The Neva River is a major waterway in northwestern Russia that flows through the city of St. Petersburg into the Gulf of Finland.

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8

St. Isaac's Cathedral, an imposing and ornate structure, featuring a grand dome covered in gold and decorated with sculptures, was originally built in the 19th century and now is considered to be one of the symbols of Saint Petersburg.

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9

The Fontanka is a river in Saint Petersburg, Russia, that flows through the central part of the city. The bridge over the Fontanka mentioned in the story is the Anichkov Bridge, which is famous for its four bronze horse sculptures created by the Russian sculptor Peter Klodt. The sculptures depict four stages of a horse being tamed, symbolizing the progress of a person's life from youth to maturity. These impressive equestrian statues are among the most recognizable landmarks in Saint Petersburg.

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10

Peterhof, a town of palaces and gardens commissioned by Peter the Great in the 18th century, stands from the outskirts of St. Petersburg.

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11

In St. Petersburg, due to its extreme northern latitude, the White Nights phenomenon typically occurs from around late May to mid-July, with the peak period being from June 11 to July 2. It is the period of nearly 24-hour daylight when the sun never fully sets below the horizon, creating a continuous twilight and virtually no darkness.

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12

The Admiralty is a historic building in St. Petersburg, known for its distinctive golden spire topped with a ship-weathervane, which serves as an iconic symbol of the city.

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13

In Greek mythology, an ouroboros is a serpent or dragon eating its own tail, symbolizing the eternal cycle of life, death, and rebirth.

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14

A Makarov is a Russian-made semi-automatic pistol designed in the late 1940s, named after its developer Nikolay Makarov, and widely used by Soviet and post-Soviet military, law enforcement, and security forces.

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15

Petrozavodsk is a city in northwestern Russia, the capital of the Republic of Karelia.

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16

Nikolai Gogol (1809-1852) was a renowned Russian novelist, short story writer, and playwright, famous for his masterpieces such as "Dead Souls", "The Nose", and "The Government Inspector", which not only satirized the social and political issues of 19th-century Russia but also incorporated elements of mysticism and the supernatural, making him a key figure in the Russian mystical literary tradition.

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17

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893) was a renowned Russian composer of the Romantic era, famous for works such as the ballets "Swan Lake" and "The Nutcracker", the "1812 Overture", and numerous works featuring the violin, including a violin concerto, sérénade, and other smaller pieces.

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