Dance of Fire (26 page)

Suddenly Vanessa
did
understand. She could almost see Enzo's hand against the small of Margaret's back, his lips pressing against hers under the hazy lights of a dance studio. She didn't know what had happened to her sister, or who to believe, but there was – as hard as it was to admit it – a chance that her sister was truly gone.

Tomorrow Vanessa would dance better than she ever had before. She would channel all her sadness and anger, her confusion and frustration, and perform as if her own life depended on it.

That's what Margaret would have wanted.

‘You're right,' she said at last. ‘Someone has to stop them. It should be me.'

Enzo reached out and squeezed her shoulder, then stood up. ‘Svetya will be back any moment,' he said. ‘I think it would be best if you keep what I've told you to yourself.'

Vanessa stared down at her hands, clutching the diary and the ring, then looked up at Enzo, paused in the doorway. ‘Dance for Margaret,' he said. And then he was gone.

The girls' floor was empty by the time Vanessa left her room the next morning, since most of the dancers had been elim­inated by now. Svetya had given her a curt nod before rushing off. Vanessa understood – her roommate viewed her as competition, always had.

Margaret's gone
, Vanessa thought as she headed downstairs. She'd had a restless night's sleep, unable to get Margaret's last diary entry out of her mind:
What kind of life can I have? . . . After all, no one truly knows who I am any more
. Margaret must have felt so alone, so scared – not totally unlike how Vanessa felt now, with the demon out there, hunting her. What kind of life could she have if it was still in this world, if it always wanted her?

The answer was clear: if she wanted to have any sort of future, she needed to get rid of the demon – once and for all. She'd do it for herself, but also for her sister. Enzo was right.

Only five other girls were left: Svetya, Maisie, Ingrid, Paul­ine and Evelyn. All of them were incredibly talented. Vanessa would have to dance perfectly if she wanted to win – there was no room for error.

As she pushed open the door that led backstage, she looked out and saw that the house was completely full.

‘We will now begin our final round, the contemporary solo,' she heard Palmer Carmichael announce to the audience. ‘The twelve remaining dancers will each perform a routine set to the music of a contemporary composer of their choice. We will be judging creativity and innovation, as well as technical execution and grace.'

He paused. ‘The first dancer to perform will be Justin Cooke.'

Vanessa ran down the corridor, pushing through the ­dancers warming up in the dressing room.

Svetya was over by the wall in a deep hamstring stretch. ‘You are still here?' she said. ‘I thought you quit.'

Geo called out from beside her. ‘Stop trying to psych her out, Svetya.' He looked at Vanessa and blinked. ‘Happy last day! Are you ready?'

Vanessa nodded. ‘As ready as I'll ever be.' She rushed up to Geo and gave him a quick hug. ‘You'll be fantastic,' she whispered.

‘So will you,' he whispered back. He winked at her and continued stretching.

Vanessa pushed forward past Maisie and her eager gaze, past Ingrid and a British teammate who'd been eliminated in the second round.

‘Vanessa!' Pauline called out. She was standing still as one of the stage managers zipped up the back of her costume, a gorgeous lavender tutu and a white leotard embedded with crystals.

Vanessa gave Pauline a quick peck on the cheek just as the lights dimmed and the music for Justin's solo began. She found a spot in the wings and looked out on to the stage.

The melancholy notes of a piano filled the performance hall. Justin lowered his head to his chest and waited as the chords repeated. His costume – navy-blue tights and a form-fitting white long-sleeved top – accented his sculpted torso perfectly. With each beat he lifted his head an inch, as if someone were winding him up, controlling him from behind.

Vanessa knew this music from an album her father sometimes listened to: Philip Glass's
Façades.
The cry of a clarinet rose over the piano, shrill and haunting, like a voice screaming in the night. Justin's body jolted to life.

The music pushed him across the stage. As the notes of the piano multiplied, like dozens of chanting voices, Justin's pace quickened, the music whipping his body into a state of barely controlled rage.

The music seemed to pulse through Justin. His anger was palpable, his feet thudding loudly against the floor, his fury spilling out of him and permeating every inch of the theatre. Usually so careful, so controlled, Justin was dancing with a fierce strength, a fearlessness that she'd never seen him display before.

Every time he spotted during a
piqué,
his eyes met Vanessa's. Every time the clarinet screamed through the speakers, he seemed to extend his arms towards her, as if pointing out her fate for everyone to see.

‘Poor girl,' a voice whispered in her ear.

Vanessa didn't need to turn around to know who it was. She recognised the sharp velvety scent of Ingrid's perfume.

‘If only you knew what was coming for you,' Ingrid said, her voice deep and syrupy. ‘You're going to lose. Or maybe worse . . . Who knows how this dance will end?'

‘You're right,' Vanessa said, annoyed. ‘No one knows how this will end.' Her fate wasn't already written down somewhere – it was under her control. ‘Oh, and Ingrid?'

The girl raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?'

‘Stop being such a bitch. It's not a good look for you.'

Ingrid's mouth twisted into a scowl. She was about to respond when a bookish-looking girl dressed all in black pushed her way up to Vanessa. ‘Vanessa Adler,' she said, ‘there you are.'

Vanessa recognised the girl, who was holding a clipboard, as one of the stage managers. ‘Yes?'

‘You're up in two, after Maisie Teller,' the girl told her.

On the other side of the curtain, Justin's music faded, and thunderous applause filled the theatre. Justin pushed through the curtains, his forehead glistening with sweat. The other dancers surrounded him, Geo slapping him on the back in congratulations.

As Svetya walked onstage, Vanessa slipped on her pointe shoes. She was already wearing her costume, an ivory tutu with a waterfall of coloured rhinestones embedded in the bodice. She wrapped the ribbons around her ankles, knotting them in a tight bow. And doing away with convention, she held up a
small pocket mirror and unpinned her hair from its chignon, letting it fall loose in red waves.

Svetya stood at centre stage. The bewitching notes of a cello electrified the room. Her eyes snapped open, as if the music had awakened her, and she crept across the stage, her legs long and feline. The sudden bursts of the cello lured her forward, each scratch of the bow sending her into an unexpected spin.

‘Shostakovich's First Cello Concerto,' someone said over Vanessa's shoulder. Geo stood behind her, his muscular legs bulging through his nude tights. ‘Svetya thinks he is one of the best composers of all time.' He laughed. ‘I don't agree. He is good, yes, but a bit too forceful for my taste.'

Vanessa laughed. ‘No wonder Svetya likes him so much.'

Geo gave her a vague smile. ‘It does capture her spirit, right?'

Justin approached and watched Svetya dance. ‘You can take her,' he said to Vanessa.

She was surprised he was even talking to her. ‘Thanks,' she mumbled. She couldn't shake the image of Justin dancing onstage, his body swelling with anger as if he were being taken over by a demon. ‘You were really amazing.'

‘Yes,' Geo agreed. He ran his hands through his orange hair and sighed. ‘Stiff competition for me.' He shook his legs out, stretching gently.

There were so many things that Vanessa wanted to tell ­Justin – about Zep and the cemetery, about Enzo and Margaret, the final diary entry . . . But maybe it was better this way, if he didn't know. He'd only try to stop her from doing what she had to do. How could she explain that rejecting him was a sign of
how much she cared for him? Her future had already been decided. Justin's wasn't – and if he faced the demon with her, she might lose him too. That was the problem with loving people: when they were gone, it hurt all the more.

Vanessa tried to go over her own music in her head as Svetya danced. From what she could tell, her roommate was doing a phenomenal job.

The audience erupted in applause, and Vanessa watched Svetya take a low curtsy, knowing her turn was coming soon. She only had to block the demon for a few minutes. It didn't seem so daunting when she thought about it that way. She would dance on her own terms. With no help.

While Vanessa looked on, Maisie took the stage in a pale yellow leotard and skirt reminiscent of the American prairie. Her music matched her dress: the joyful burst of a fiddle, calling out like a rooster at dawn.

Vanessa recognised the piece immediately: Aaron Copland's
Rodeo.
It brightened the room, transforming the stage into a cornfield and the creamy wall beyond into an endless stretch of sky. Maisie soaked up the music, her steps light and capricious, her body brimming with hope. And then the music fell quiet, and Maisie slowed, twirling languidly across the stage like a cloud of dust billowing over an endless parched field.

Vanessa wasn't the only one stunned by Maisie's performance. Ingrid's gaze was fixed on the girl; she even gripped the curtain as Maisie landed her final leap and loud applause filled the theatre. Ingrid pressed herself back into the shadows as Maisie skipped off the stage, a delirious grin on her face.

‘Gosh, that was fun!' Maisie said brightly. ‘Good luck, ­Vanessa!'

And then Palmer Carmichael's voice boomed over the ­theatre: ‘Vanessa Adler.'

OK
, Vanessa thought. She took a deep breath and stepped on to the stage.
It's
now or never.

Two And A Half Years Earlier

From the Diary of Margaret Adler

May 20

It's over. And I've won.

I wish I could feel happy about it, but I only feel sick in my heart.

My performance was fine, I'm sure, but I thought it was mechanical. I cannot believe I won, cannot believe that I was truly the best dancer. I am certain that one girl from the Royal Ballet was stronger.

And yet I was the one given the scholarship. Strange.

‘It's official now!' Becky Darlington said again and again, smiling so hard I thought her teeth would pop out of her mouth. I wonder if she is one of them. I wonder if
all of them
are in on it,
twisted acolytes of some dark, evil religion. And, if Erik is to be believed, killers.

After the winners were declared, they made me and my male counterpart – Brendan Shaughnessy, from Canada – sit for a portrait with the entire company. As soon as it was over, I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

When I came out of the bathroom, all the members of the corps were there. As each one kissed the air around my head and said nice things, all I could think was,
Are you one of them?

It was unbearable.

Erik, Hal and I are off to have another stupid celebratory dinner, just the three of us. Maybe afterwards I'll know what to do.

Dinner was strained. Of course Erik went on about my grace and elegance and blah blah – shameless flattery. He still thinks I love him and am going to be his puppet, helping him destroy the evil dancers in the Royal Court.

The night before my final performance, we'd had it out. We were in a practice room going over my routine one last time, just walking through it and talking about possible pitfalls. ‘This rest in the music will be the only place you can take a full breath for several measures, Margot. Be sure to use it.'

‘My name is Margaret,' I blurted. ‘Margot Adams was
your sister
.'

He stared at me silently for a few seconds. ‘So Hal told you that.'

I nodded. Erik sat down, his back against the wall. ‘They killed my family, Margaret. And they meant to kill me as well.'

‘Who?' I asked, even though I knew the answer.

‘The necrodancers, as they're sometimes called. My family has been dancing for generations. There was a time when we were like royalty in the dance world. And my mother had all the makings of one of the greats. She joined the Royal Court as a teenager, after winning the competition.

‘Over the years, the dark faction tried to recruit her many times. She wouldn't join them, and at last she promised to expose them, so they arranged an accident. Everyone was in the car but me. In one night I lost my mother, father, brother and sister.'

‘That's horrible. I'm sorry,' I said, but he shook his head. ‘How do you know the dark dancers were behind it?'

‘The accident was suspicious,' Erik said. ‘The fire that destroyed the car burned hotter than a mere gasoline fire – three thousand degrees at one point. They were
incinerated
,
Margaret. There wasn't anything left to identify.

‘Afterwards, when I was dumb with grief and staying with relatives – I was only ten, mind you – someone broke into my family's house and ransacked it. The police said it was simple theft, and it's true, ­valuables were stolen. But thieves would not have taken all the paper records to do with the Royal Court. No, whoever robbed my family's house was after very specific things.'