In the yellowish light of the street lamp, her face looked almost human — only her long ears, sticking out mischievously to the sides, betrayed someone else’s blood. She took a drag on her cigarette, exhaled thick smoke to the side, as if it were a camouflage ritual, and covered her gaze with her eyelashes for a second.

A draft from a damp gateway brought the smell of wet asphalt and diesel. She raised the collar of her raincoat, checked the fastening of her briefcase. Inside were two things that were incompatible with each other: a neatly bound volume of Lenin, written by hand, and a ritual book of shadows, no less handmade.