Tear You Apart (9 page)

Viv looked down at herself: at the water dribbling down her legs, the wet pajama shorts sagging from her hips.

“I can’t go to the club like this,” she told the guard. “How do I get home?”

“Traffic’s flowing one way right now. Into the underworld, not out. If you want to go to the club, you get in one of those boats.” He pointed to a row of gondolas at the shore. “Other than that, you’re on your own.”

Viv stood and stared at him as he turned his back on her. “So I’m stuck here?”

The guard didn’t bother to answer.

Sighing, Viv wandered down to the boathouse. The boatmen wore silver double-breasted jackets like the guards, but they looked like they wore them under duress. They stood together, all slouching in a deliberate way, eyes half-lidded and
bored. Half of them were smoking. God—they reminded her of Henley’s friends.

One stepped out of the group and sauntered down to the shore like he was doing her a favor. He outpaced her, then stopped and turned back. “You’re really going to wear that?” The other boatmen laughed.

“I’m not going to take it off,” she said acidly.

He shrugged and steadied the gondola while she boarded. “You must be new. Otherwise you’d have heard about the dress code.”

“Silver?” She really wished he would stop talking.

“Silver for us every night. But yeah, silver’s tonight’s theme for the guests. They like themes. Helps to identify the outsiders.”

He grinned at her as he started to row, and Viv turned her face away so he wouldn’t see the burn in her cheeks.

Outsider
—she’d never been an outsider. Not in any way that mattered. And she didn’t like being made to feel like one now.

The silver forest bordered the lake on three sides. Globe-shaped lanterns hung from the trees and cast a golden glow on the water’s slowly rippling surface.

The underworld was all shining and dark, bright metal and heavy shadow. On the far shore, hills of black rock repeated into the distance. There was no horizon, just a point at which everything turned to darkness, like the world around them had been rubbed out.

The palace stood on a rocky crag overlooking the lake. Below it, nearer to the lake, was the nightclub. There were no windows and, like the best nightclubs, no sign telling you
what it was—but Viv’s heart beat faster when she saw it. The gleaming black walls reflected the lake and the forest like mirrors made of obsidian.

When the boat bumped to a stop, the boatman held it steady so Viv could climb out. Her bare feet met rough stone and she winced, taking slow, careful steps as she made her way up the hill to the club. There had to be a smoother path—a ways off, other guests were approaching the club with far less difficulty—but the boatman had let her off
here
and she figured it would be just as much work to cut across the rocky hill as to go up it. So she went up.

When she rounded the top of the hill, she saw an old beggar woman standing outside the club, picking her teeth with a sliver of bone. Her face was withered but her eyes were sharp and bright.

A fairy
, Viv thought.
Waiting to test me
.

Well, she wasn’t going to walk into that trap.

“Took you long enough.” The old woman flung her toothpick to the ground. “All this time and that’s how you’re dressed? I was told you’d need help, but I’m not a miracle worker.”

Viv forced a tight smile. “It was kind of you to wait so long.” Being rude to a fairy was one of the biggest mistakes you could make. They loved baiting people—then dealing out “just” punishments when you told them off.

“Damn right it was. Can’t imagine why someone would want
you
all dressed up. You’ve got no figure to speak of—your ass is as flat as a squashed cockroach.”

That was a new one. “Sorry. I don’t know, either. Someone hired you?”

“You think I’d bother with you for free?” The old woman fished a thin gold wand out of her sleeve, and Viv stiffened as the fairy aimed it at her.

It wasn’t like she’d never had magic used on her, but she’d been an infant then. It was different when you were old enough to know what was happening.

A flare of heat started at Viv’s hips and moved up her chest. When she glanced down and saw that her pajamas were burning away, she let out a startled cry—but the fire didn’t burn her. Her pajamas blackened, then crumbled to ash. And then the ashes swirled in the air like they’d been caught in a cyclone, and re-formed as a black velvet dress studded with pinpoints of light: blue-white diamonds whose glow faded and blazed, twinkled and winked out, like stars. It was as if someone had made a dress out of the night sky.

The stones she’d been walking on rolled up around her feet, coated her heels and her toes; then with a burst of heat, they transformed into high heels made of black glass.

The old woman came closer, scowling. “You couldn’t be bothered to dry your hair?”

“I almost drowned.”

The fairy touched her wand to Viv’s forehead. Heat flared again, and Viv’s wet hair unplastered itself from her head and neck and settled onto her shoulders in silky black waves. Cold metal teeth sank into her scalp. She glanced at the reflective black walls of the nightclub and saw that her now-dry hair was crowned with a tiara made of stars.

“That’ll have to do,” the fairy said. “Try not to embarrass yourself in there.”

“Thank you,” Viv said, managing an awkward curtsy on the stones.

The old woman groaned like that had
not
reassured her, then started down the hill toward the shore.
Thank god
, Viv thought. She’d made it through the trial unscathed.

There was no one guarding the entrance so Viv slipped into the shadowy alcove that led to the door. She wondered who had arranged for her to have the dress.

Wondering made her clumsy. She stumbled on her way in, one of her ankles almost twisting in the black glass heels, and she had to grab hold of a man’s arm to keep from falling. He glared at her, dark gray brows furrowing—and she apologized and clunked away, every wobbly step making her nervous, every glance around the room making her feel less like she belonged.

Everyone else was wearing silver—it was the dress code, just like the boatman had said. And they all seemed to know one another. The dancers pressed close together, spun in unison, and traded partners like what happened tonight happened every night.

The floor was made of glossy black tiles and the walls were black mirrors. Silver disco balls spun light onto the dance floor, turning the room into a dizzying swirl of reflected light—like scattered moonbeams, or sped-up raindrops.

Plush black velvet benches lined the walls but Viv didn’t want to sit down. She needed to find the person who’d invited her so she could find out what this was all about. The problem was she didn’t know who she was looking for.

Viv grabbed a drink from a waiter and sipped it while she circled the room.

She recognized a few Cursed, but no one she knew very
well. A blonde princess stood with her arm raised like a falconer’s, a long-tailed blue bird perched on her wrist—the two of them seemed to be carrying on a conversation. A ballerina was trying to coax a one-legged soldier off a bench. She would do a graceful leap, her feet propelling her as if she weighed no more than a paper doll—and then she’d hurry back to him, take his hands in hers, and urge him to join her.

At the center of the dance floor, eleven beautiful girls danced with eleven underworld princes. The girls wore slinky, silver dresses slit to midthigh or full skirts that puffed around their hips like storm clouds. The princes wore suits the color of cold steel, and silver sashes that signified their rank, in case their royal bearing wasn’t enough.

At the edge of the eleven couples, a twelfth girl danced on her own, cutting a tango without a partner, her teeth biting her lip instead of a rose. She looked desperate—but all the girls looked desperate. Like they didn’t want to dance, but something inside compelled them.

The girls wavered between laughter and sobs; they clung to their partners and then held them at arm’s length. And their moods changed at different times, like the stars on Viv’s dress—this one flaring brightly, this one winking out.… One would burst into tears just as another shouted a song request to the DJ. It made Viv feel sick. She didn’t want to play audience to their torment. She wanted to get away from them.

Hurrying across the room, she downed her drink. The sweet liquid left a parched feeling in her throat.

So those were the Twelve Dancing Princesses. She’d seen them a few times, at a diner in the morning: their eyeliner smeared, their shoes broken, and their stockings torn. And
she’d always thought they were lazy, trashy party girls. They went dancing, they spent all night every night dancing, and they bought a lot of shoes. What a
hard
life. What a stupid curse.

She was rethinking it now.

Facing the wall, she could see the stars sparkling on her dress, the dancers shifting like shadows in the background. The fantasy of the underworld. But when she looked at herself, she saw an outsider—and she wondered what she was doing here. At home, she went through the motions. Every day was a twisted variation of the one before. She fought with Henley, or she clung to him. She hid from her stepmother. She went to the beach, a party, a club, a café. And every day she waited for her fate to be decided, while other people’s lives changed.

Tonight was different—but she didn’t know what to do with it. She was staring at her reflection, trying to decide, when she noticed a young man behind her, close and getting closer.

She whirled to face him and almost went skidding out on the glass shoes. He caught her before she fell, and one of the stars went floating off her dress like a snowflake.

“Careful,” he said. “This floor isn’t made for glass slippers.”

He was her age, maybe a little older. Black hair, underworld-pale skin, dark gray eyes.

He held her like he was used to having a girl in his arms. He danced here often, maybe every night—she was sure. He had an ease about him, like he was a regular, but he was ignoring the dress code. He wore a black tuxedo, not silver like the rest of them.

“I don’t think any floor is really made for glass slippers,” Viv said. She felt short of breath from the shock of almost
falling—and hot, like she was blushing all over, but she didn’t know why.

His smile, which had started out smooth and welcoming, got wider. “No, you’re probably right.” He checked that she was steady on her feet, then let her go. The heat faded like a shiver.

When he stepped back she saw a silver sash peeking out of his pocket. A signet ring flashed on his finger, imprinted with a crown.

He was an underworld prince. And he was the only person, besides Viv, who was wearing black instead of silver.

“Did you invite me?”

The prince’s smile broke free again. “I did. Do you mind?”

She wasn’t sure what to say.

“I don’t get it.” She gestured to the crowd of dancing princesses and princes, and the twelfth princess in particular. “Don’t you have a princess already?”

“The Twelve Dancing Princesses curse isn’t mine.”

“Then … what
is
your curse? Why am I here?”

“Why are you here?” He leaned in, so close she could see the silver flecks in his dark gray eyes. “You’re here because I got tired of waiting for you to die.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

VIV’S PULSE POUNDED IN HER SKULL. Her mouth felt dry and the words came out shaky. “You can keep waiting. Because I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.”

She started away from him and he followed, the two of them weaving through the crowd of dancers. Running was impossible when every step in the glass shoes threatened to send her sprawling. She finally stopped to pry the mini black glass coffins off her feet and flung them under one of the benches.

Barefoot, she kept going until she was out of the club, then at the edge of the hillside, her feet aching like every stone gave her another bruise.

There were no gondolas on this side of the lake. No way back, except—maybe through the forest? Who knew what was in there. But it was better than swimming back.

She started down the hill, picking her way carefully across the rocks—and the prince in the black tuxedo appeared, one of
her black glass slippers in his hands. Guests crowded into the alcove behind him, eager to witness the drama, and the prince turned sharply and ordered them inside. He seemed agitated; he held the shoe awkwardly, like it was the wrong prop—an embarrassing fairy-tale symbol of
the girl who got away
.

Once they were alone, he said, “You didn’t have to run out like that.”

“Stay away from me,” she warned, backing down the hill.

He matched her step for step. “Vivian, please. Will you let me explain?”

“No. I’m leaving.”

When she reached the lakeshore, she turned and saw that two of the gondolas were halfway across the lake, each carrying two passengers. The prince raised his arm and signaled to the boatmen, who then began to row the other way.

Viv tried to make another signal—a
get back here
wave—but the boatmen ignored her. The prince let the glass shoe fall to the ground, and sighed. It was too thick to shatter.