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 middle of summer.

Squinting from the bright sun reflecting in all possible glasses, I watched a black tinted Volga3 drive 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?"