Chapter 1

I’d love to say the day began the way it usually did—with a morning run in the park and a cup of scalding Americano from the coffee kiosk by the park exit… but no.

The day began horribly!

 I hate Mondays. For some reason, Mondays are when the worst things happen to people. A dog bites you out of nowhere, urgent business pops up, or unpleasant people cross your path. One day you simply wake up and realize everything has gone sideways. The illusion of peace has vanished, stability has cracked, and now you’ve fallen out of the Matrix and are dangling over an abyss by one hand while your own shriek tears through the air above you: “Help!”

That was the scream I woke to, drenched in sweat, because in my dream an enormous fish that looked like a black cat was chasing me and trying to eat me. The cat part made sense: the night before, I’d met a gorgeous yellow-eyed creature outside my building and decided to pet it. But fish? I couldn’t stand fish. And I was categorically opposed to that kind of surprise appearing in my life.

As if I needed that!

I know what fish dreams mean. Babies and nesting. But I don’t have a husband, and my boyfriend—the one tied to me by work, infrequent boring sex, and plans for the future—wasn’t prepared to act on those plans for at least another fifteen years.

So what I should have done in the dream was catch the fish, smack it on the belly, say, “Swim away, bream, from me to some other dream,” and release it back into the water. Except how was I supposed to do that when the thing was the size of a shark and had nearly eaten me?

In the end, I slept three minutes later than usual and didn’t hear my alarm, which had never happened to me in my life. Tangled in the blanket, I fell out of bed and nearly stabbed my cheek with my toothbrush while trying to catch up with my schedule and make it to my morning run—the one I took in the park on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays regardless of season or weather.

 
Always took. Just not this Monday, when I ran out onto the little path and unexpectedly twisted my ankle. On perfectly flat ground! Me, Angelina Vetrova! A successful young lady used to walking steadily in high heels and confidently driving her Porsche. Which, by the way, I had earned with my own brains and hard work. Known to everyone around me as driven, I suddenly dropped out of the race like a complete loser, skidded across a half-frozen puddle, and landed face-first in a pile of leaves dusted with snow.

I spat leaves out of my mouth. Fine. These things happen. I got up and bravely hobbled to the coffee kiosk for my hot Americano… but the coffee ran out on me.

That is not a joke. It ran out. On me. At the coffee kiosk!

Ha! Complete madhouse.

“Fine, then what do you have?” I gave the young guy on the other side of the window a stern look.

He was staring at me suspiciously, so I had to calmly peel a leaf off my forehead.

“Tea? Hot milk? Cocoa? Just make me something already, if the country is having an arabica shortage!”

“Unfortunately, I can’t. My machine broke,” the vendor answered guiltily. “But there’s cola in the fridge. Want one?”

In my thin windbreaker and workout leggings, I was starting to freeze, and my teeth ground together in irritation:

“Are you kidding me? Cold cola? Very funny. It’s early December!”

The guy in the kiosk, however, was not kidding and hurriedly shook his head.

“N-no. I would offer you a hot dog, but you never buy those…”

“Today I will!” I dug in my heels all at once and pressed my lips together. “Give me one!”

I took the hot dog the young guy held out to me, paid, and hobbled back toward the path, intending to return home. What kind of rotten luck was this?

I took a bite of the hot dog, had just finished chewing, and was about to sit down on a bench because I felt the pain in my injured leg when the hot dog was treacherously… stolen from me!

A huge black cat shot out of the bushes, snatched the hot dog from my hand, and raced away with it, shamelessly carrying off my hot breakfast.

“H-hey… Stop! Where do you think you’re going?! Give that back, it’s mine!”

Of course, I had no intention of finishing the hot dog after some strange cat. I wouldn’t have finished it after a cat I knew! But today everything was going in the most outrageous way imaginable, the puzzle of my normal life had fallen apart, and I came up with nothing better than tearing after the thief.

“Stop, you shameless beast!”

I bravely managed a limping sprint to the middle of the path… gasped, cried out, and, tripping over someone’s broom, fell face-first again into… That’s right! The same familiar pile of leaves.

What kind of crap was this?

What idiot had piled it up here?

 
This time, I got up more slowly and spent longer spitting things out. I wanted to clench my fists and murder someone out of sheer frustration. Preferably this very pile. Which I did as soon as I was upright. I swung my good leg and kicked the leaves in every direction. Let’s see it try to be a neat little mound now.

I was just about to hobble home when, at that exact second, a piercing whistle sounded behind me and someone’s voice shrieked at full volume:

“Help! Police! Over here! Hooligans in the park!”

What, hooligans? I lifted my head. The park was a respectable place for public recreation and culture. It had firs and oaks, and squirrels jumped around in it. Mothers walked there with their children. In other words, a run-in with criminals was exactly what my morning had been missing.

Still, I got curious and had practically turned toward the shout… when someone rudely whacked me in the back of the head with a broom.

“Ow!”

Twice!

“Stop it! Are you out of your mind?!”

“Take that, you rotten little menace! Take that!”

“Stop this immediately!”

“Step away from the pile, hooligan. Or I’ll give you such a lashing you’ll turn into a swamp hag on the spot!”

What?!

A tiny, vicious old woman stood behind me with a broom clutched to her chest, her sharp little eyes flashing angrily as she tried to get at me with it. (Apparently, she was the local groundskeeper whose work I had just destroyed.)

I jumped back and pressed my back against a tree, ready to defend myself, but the police officer was already right there.

Stocky and short, he gave a loud cough, stepped in from somewhere off to the side, and touched his palm to his uniform cap:

“Sergeant Leshenko!” he introduced himself with dignity. “Forest District, Thirteenth Police Precinct!” Pulling an ID from his pocket, he waved it in front of our faces—mine and the old woman’s—tucked it away, and drew his bushy brows together. “You called?” he asked importantly.

“No!” I shook my head, stunned and sensing trouble. The groundskeeper, however, tattled at once:

“I called, sonny. I most certainly did! Just look what this young lady has done. Ruined all my work… Neurotic little thing!”

“Look who’s talking, Baba Yaga!” I shot back. My mood was disgusting. Especially after she’d knocked my hat off and mussed my hair with a broom.

Besides, no one had ever called me that before!

“What is your name, citizen?” the police officer asked sternly. He turned away from the old woman and looked at me reproachfully.

“Angelina Vetrova,” I answered with dignity, the way I was used to answering.