The Dance (18 page)

She swung around and bumped into Janell. “Drink up, Melanie. You wouldn't want to spoil our celebration, would you? The evening has been perfect so far.”

“What?—I think—I don't think I can stay much longer.” She finally got the sentence out.

“What's your hurry?” Anne said, leaving Hank's side. “I wanted to congratulate you, too. To Melanie.” She raised her goblet. “I've never seen such perfection.”

Melanie had no choice but to take another sip. She relaxed further. It was wine. She wasn't used to drinking wine. That's why it made her feel so strange.

Nicol took Melanie's goblet and placed it to her lips again. “To our new friend. And many celebrations.”

“To my lovely dancers.” Madame Leona, wearing a stunning black velvet cloak, its hood resting on her shoulders, proposed a toast, holding her own goblet high. She stood on a half-moon raised dais centered at one end of her studio. “You were perfection. The most beautiful, most talented, best prepared dancers I have ever offered. My heart swells with pride.”

Melanie felt Leona Turva's words, her tone of voice, her praise pull her in. All the fear gathering in her chest, her whole body, her mind, left her. She experienced a hypnotic need to worship this woman who had helped her achieve the high standard she knew she had reached in her performance. Her left hand still held her drink, but her right hand slipped inside her costume and pulled out the medallion she wore. The metal, the stone, pulsed, alive in the palm of her hand, like a second heart giving her life on a higher plane.

“Tonight is a special night over and above the ballet success you have already achieved. A singular honor is yours. I came here to prepare you for that honor.

“You are the chosen.”

Melanie found herself responding to Leona's words, knowing exactly what to say. “We are the chosen.”

“The cycle is again accomplished.”

“The cycle is again accomplished.” Seven female voices repeated Leona's words.

“You are seven.”

“We are seven.”

“They are seven.”

“They are seven.”

“They have taken from the moistness of the waves.”

“They are seven from the sea mist.”

“They have taken from the richness of the soil.”

“They are seven from the center of the earth.”

“They have taken from the brightness of the stars.”

“They are seven from the universe.”

“Their time is now.”

“Their time is now.”

Melanie felt the silver goblet slip from her hand into another. Free, her hands lifted, reached skyward. Her feet raised to pointe position. She was ready. She was perfection. The time was now.

From the upper recesses of the room, a veil of mist crept into the air, smelling of fresh ocean breezes. Overhead lights dimmed, replaced by spots of silver, blue, and sea green. In each corner of the room, a small table crouched, miniature shrines where a huge candle flamed, flickered, reflected light off the silver tablecloths. As the fog surrounded them, wrapped them in wispy lace, seven dancers frozen like ice sculptures waited.

Time did not exist until Melanie felt his hands surround her tiny waist and raise her into a perfect lift. Bending backward with the grace of a reed in the sea wind, she lay over his shoulder, sliding until one satin shoe touched the floor, and he spun her around.

A bar of music, one note vibrating, held them captive long enough for Melanie to study her partner.

He was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen. His dancer's body was tall and supple. Muscles in his arms and legs, his bare chest, did nothing to mar the smoothness of his satin skin. Dark brown eyes smiled, and she was pulled into their depths, recognizing his pleasure at being with her. His hair was the color of a new fawn, thick, slightly curled, and falling just to the midpoint of his long neck. His tights were the deep red color of her gem stone of alexandrite. Again she raised her fingers to grasp her medallion, which lay centered between her breasts.

She belonged to him. There was no emotion to the thought, just a knowledge that came to her. And he belonged to her for the evening.

The music began, at first slow, melodic, then swelling to wash over her like ocean waves that created a rhythm inside her. She knew the dance as if she had practiced it forever, since time began. She knew his touch. They moved as one, as partners who had performed this ballet for all of recorded millenniums, and perhaps before that, before time was of any importance.

When Bryan and Seth arrived at the Blue Princess, the theater slumbered. It was as Katherine Clark had said, silent and deserted.

“Melanie is here. Don't ask me how I know, but she's inside there, someplace.” Bryan led the way to the front door.

“Where else could they be?” Seth followed.

Every door was locked, of course. They ran to the antique store, but even had a window been left open, there were iron bars on every opening, a testament to some earlier owner's precaution.

Starting at the Arbuthnot, they made a circle of the entire building, trying every door, looking at every window. All of the main floor windows had bars, except two. These were small and must be the bathrooms on the main floor of the theater.

One of the windows was unlocked.

Bryan, with some effort, slid it upwards about a foot. “I can't fit in there, Seth. You have to try.” Bryan's upper body was heavily muscled from his wrestling. Not even in desperation, a state he was fast reaching, could he slip through the window.

“You want a miracle.” Seth studied the small opening.

“We have to get in. Try it,” Bryan pleaded. “I'll hold you until your feet touch.”

Seth let out a long breath that said he'd try. Slowly, he wiggled and slid backward into the tiny square.

“My shoulders aren't going to fit, Dorsey.” Seth came to a stop.

“Stretch out and wiggle, squeeze. You have to get in, Seth. You have to.” Bryan demanded that he try harder.

With his arms over his head, some tugging on his part, some pushing on Bryan's end, Seth finally squeezed inside. Bryan lowered him until he said, “Okay, I'll drop the rest of the way.”

Bryan let go and heard a thud and “Ooomph,” as Seth landed. “You okay?”

His face appeared at the window. “Yeah. The front door may not open without a key. How are you going to know where I am?”

“Start at the front, rap on the opening. I'll follow you around.” Bryan headed for the big double doors.

There were a couple of night lights at the entrance, but they hadn't seen anyone since they got to the Princess. A cop would be welcome if he'd buy Bryan's story.

Brian shivered and watched the street. It was totally deserted. Finally Seth knocked on the heavy wood and whispered loudly. “Go back to your right. We're in luck. The box office door unlocks from inside.”

Bryan scrambled down the steps and around the building again. Seth stood, holding a narrow wooden door wide, his flashlight beam like a welcome path.

Inside the hall, they ran quietly for the back of the building, then down two flights of groaning wooden stairs. There wasn't time to find the steps that didn't creak. Maybe no one would hear them from the studio.

Standing on the concrete floor at the bottom, they first tried the studio door, not expecting it to be open, but easy things first, Bryan thought. There was a mess of junk here. He nearly knocked over a rack with musty old clothing hanging on it.

What seemed to be a closet door was locked, but the wood looked flimsy. Bryan figured he could kick it in.

“Too much noise,” Seth whispered, guessing Bryan's thoughts. “I have another idea. Come on.”

To Bryan's dismay, Seth dashed back up the wooden staircase. He followed. Seth led the way behind the performance stage.

“Just as I thought. There's a trap door in the stage, for disappearing acts.” He crawled underneath, then into a larger opening where there was an iron ladder leading down.

Bryan followed, hating the dank, dusty closeness of the tunnel. “It only goes down one floor,” he said, disappointed. “Wait, over here.” He motioned to Seth.

They could hear music through this floor. A square of light outlined another trap door. It must lead into the studio. They were on the far end of the level above the basement.

Carefully, inch by inch, not wanting to make one sound, Bryan and Seth fit fingers into ancient grooves and then lifted and slid the small square of wooden planking from its pocket in the ceiling.

As if they'd paid dearly for balcony seats, they had a perfect view of the scene below.

They stared, spellbound. Bryan had no idea how long they watched, mesmerized by the performance.

Seven young women, dancers from Leona's elite ballet troupe, danced with seven partners. The men were perfect male specimens—tall, handsome, built with the lithe grace of dancers yet boasting strong and muscled shoulders, arms, legs.

Bryan spotted Hank before he could find Melanie. Her partner wore a blue leotard from waist to ankle, but nothing else. His chest was naked, his feet bare. The women wore the costumes from the ballet, but each man was clad in a different color—rose, jet black, jade, amethyst—Bryan guessed the color scheme. Their clothing matched the color of the gemstone in the dancer's necklace. So Melanie—

“Where's Melanie?” Bryan whispered, his stomach tightening, his heart thudding. “Red, her partner will be in red.”

Seth grasped Bryan's wrist in a gesture that said, keep still.

“There,” he breathed the word, but Bryan heard it.

The music of the dance had become more and more frenzied. Now it came to a complete stop, a dramatic pause. The dancer clad in red, Melanie's partner, stood in front of a raised dais. Both arms stretched over his head. Melanie was draped across his two large hands. She hung limp, possibly unconscious.

But it was not Melanie who held Bryan's attention. It was Madame Leona. Her floor length robe was black silk. On her head was a glittering crown, whose brilliants caught the lights, sending sparkles into the dim room like fireflies. The sleeves of her dress whispered a silken message as she raised both arms overhead.

And in her hands, long nails tipped scarlet as if already coated in blood, she held the dagger from the wall of the antique store—held it, waiting until Melanie's partner placed her on the dais.

nineteen

B
RYAN JUMPED BEFORE
he could think the situation through. He could imagine only Melanie being killed, Madame Leona slipping that curved, deadly knife into her heart.

Eyes that had been riveted on Melanie shifted focus as he hit the floor with a loud thud.

Surprise was his only advantage. Leaping forward, he covered the distance to where she now lay on the raised dais like a sprinter propelled by the sound of the starting gun.

He scooped her up, her limp body practically weightless, and darted back to where Seth crouched, back to the wall.

“That necklace,” Seth yelled. “Get it off of her!” As he spoke Bryan acted, snatching the panther talisman from around Melanie's neck. Bryan lay Melanie on the floor and stood in front of her, prepared to fight.

In the shuffle and confusion, Seth had grabbed Hank, who stood closer to them than any of the dancers. He flipped the chain from around her neck, throwing the medallion back into the mass of frozen dancers.

Perhaps the disc sliding across the room broke the spell, or maybe Leona's shriek released the rest of the dancers.

Bryan planted his feet and held his ground, looking for a way out. The fog had thinned enough to see around the dim room. One door led to Leona's office and possibly the antique store. If they went that way they could end up trapped.

At the main door Al Brandish, looking like a stately Viking warrior, stood guard.

They would have to fight. But not the handsome dancers.

The nearest male dancer, Melanie's partner, who had followed Bryan, shifted into his real persona.

Slowly, weaving with catlike grace, the demon surfaced. The upper part of his supple body became covered with shaggy golden hair. His own hair lengthened and, mane-like, surrounded his face, a face distorted, teeth forming into fangs, nose blunt, eyes turning yellow and slanting upward.

His hands and feet sprouted claws. He slashed out at Bryan, roaring like a wounded panther. Bryan had no choice but to attack, hoping for a wrestling hold—hoping his skills in that sport would come to his rescue now.

But the demon had superhuman strength. Bryan's nylon-covered down coat kept the razor-sharp claws from ripping into his back, but the coat shredded with a hissing sound. He threw Bryan off and sent him skidding across the polished floor.

Bryan didn't know when Melanie had moved, but he slid into her, knocking her off her stance. Shaking his head to clear it, he saw her recover quickly and kick out at a creature who had sprouted wings from his misshapen body. He had bird-like claws and short twisted legs. Screeching in a shrill voice, he flicked a forked tongue in and out of a lizard-like head.

“Help us, Bryan,” Hank yelled. She and Seth stood back to back, holding out medallions they had yanked from other dancers' necks. “They seem to be afraid of these.”

Two demons circled, threatening. Bryan froze, totally distracted, fascinated by the transformation of the handsome male dancers.

Hank's demon, still clad in the lapis blue leotard, sported three heads, a cow, a lioness, and one distorted, waxen face with pointed ears. His tail whipped back and forth like the warning of an attacking cat. He tipped back the center head and roared, issuing fetid breath, smelling of putrid, decayed meat.

Seth held off Anne's dancer whose head was now that of a snake. An overhead blue spotlight glinted off the fish scales that covered his upper misshapen body.

“Get to the door,” Seth shouted. “Where is Melanie?”