"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."