Наталья Соколова – LIMBO (страница 6)

"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.