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?"