When cynical addict Rodion Popov makes a deal with the Devil and wagers his soul, his life takes a turn for the demonically surreal. Thrust into a city of shapeshifting sinners and chaos spirits, he must complete five tasks at the Devil's behest in...
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☨ THE DEVIL COMES TO ANGELOVSK 01: The Cat in the Cupboard ——————————————————
Sasha Demchuk was the best vint dealer south of Daniil's Descent. That was the praise whispered on the streets of Angelovsk, in its slums and steel factories, in the coal dusted alleys of the rail yard district. The addicts who bought from him didn't have a reason to go to anyone else; his stuff was pure, cooked right in front of clients, and handed over for little money and even fewer words.
Fewer words meant fewer rats, Rodion reminded himself as he crossed the Prospekt and ducked into a dimly lit alley littered with crumpled newspapers and cracked syringes. The streets were full of informants foaming at the mouth over the chance to report crime to the militsiya or volunteer squads. Sasha had to be careful and keep his customers clean like his product. That's how he'd become the best: he'd dealt wisely and outlasted his competition.
Rodion shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. Bitter winds had been rolling off the River Rusalka for the past week, freezing the city into submission. His khaki fish fur afghanka offered little protection against the cold, but it was the best, and only jacket, he had.
He straightened up when he stepped out of the alley onto Sasha's street. A group of street gang members, six boys of about fourteen to twenty, passed around a cheaply rolled cigarette on the corner. Two swaggered towards Rodion after he passed through the light of a flickering street lamp. Their comrades, recognizing what he wore on his back, heaved them away. Rodion smirked. His afghanka served him better at home than it ever had in the mountains of the country it was named for. Whether acting in respect or out of fear or both, nobody, not even criminal groupies, messed with afghantsy.
He turned his back on the boys and glanced up at the row of shuttered apartment windows. As he strolled, he counted them, stopping when he came to number thirteen and ducking into the nearest entrance. The housing authority clerk had passed out on the lobby bench. Rodion tiptoed past her like he always did, taking the stairs instead of the lift to Sasha's apartment. At the door, he performed the coded knock. Seconds later, Sasha emerged from the darkness to clasp Rodion's hand and pull him in for a slap on the back.
"About time I saw you again," he said, flashing a smile checkered with metal replacements. "Come in."
Rodion shut the door behind him, hiding any passerby's view of Sasha's apartment. All the lights were off, the windows and curtains cracked to let in fresh air. There was a primus stove set up on the floor between two tattered sofas and peeling yellow wallpaper all around. The stove was a pinprick of glow in the middle of the room. Beside it were two spoons stolen from the communal kitchen and a hollowed out copy of Dead Souls.
"Want it for here or to go?" Sasha asked. He crouched and cracked open the book, pulling out a packet of tan powder.
