“All done, Val,” said the makeup assistant, taking the clips out of my hair. Lyra was still being painted. She flashed me a thumbs up, keeping her face as still as possible.
“Break a leg,” I said, and grabbed my bag off the floor and my costume off the rack as I started for the stalls at the back of the room. They were just heavy fabric sheets that we could pull closed for an illusion of privacy, allowing us to change without the producers worrying about an invasion of privacy civil suit from a disgruntled, eliminated dancer.
The mirror on the back wall showed me smoky eyes, red, red lips, and a wig that desperately needed to be styled. I hung the dress bag on the hook and dropped my duffel on the stool that had been provided for my use. Then I yanked out the pins holding the wig to my head and pulled it off, revealing my spiky, matted blonde hair. Instantly, it was my own reflection looking back at me, and not Valerie’s. The bruised feeling in my chest remained, but it diminished, becoming easier to overlook. This was her world. She wasn’t accustomed to feeling like an outsider when she was in it. But it wasn’t mine.
If what I had to do tonight meant I got eliminated, or even banned from the theater, that wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t be losing the world I belonged in. Valerie . . . there was every chance she was about to have her last dance. I owed it to her—and to the part of my life she represented—to make it as memorable as possible.
It only took a few minutes to get dressed. I’d been slipping in and out of competition costumes for my entire adult life, and that process had always included putting on and properly affixing my wig. I’d be wearing this one for the rest of the night; it would see me through my solo, and through elimination, whatever the outcome of that happened to be. It was long enough to frame my face, with careful curls running down my back, while still being believably the hair I’d had since the start of the season. The audience would accept a certain number of extensions and styling tricks, but it was important to keep them limited enough to be believable.
The dress was less realistic. Bright red and mostly consisting of fringe, with no modesty panels to cover the wide expanses of bare skin at my right shoulder and left hip, it was the kind of thing my father used to call a “maybe.” As in “maybe you’ll get a knife under that, but I wouldn’t want to know how you managed it.” I gave my hips an experimental shake. The dress continued moving for almost two full seconds after I had stopped.
Strapping on the matching heels added four inches to my height. I stomped, making sure they were firmly on my feet, and gave myself one last, assessing look in the mirror. Valerie looked back, red-haired, red-garbed, and ready to dance with the Devil himself for the chance to own the spotlight. I smiled.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said.
Someone rapped on the wall outside my little cubby. “Five minutes, Miss Pryor,” called a voice—a wonderfully, frustratingly familiar voice.
I stuck my head out through the opening between the curtain and the wall. Dominic, who was holding a clipboard and wearing a headset, smirked at me. It was the slow expression of a man who is profoundly amused by what he sees, and it didn’t waver one bit as my eyes widened and my eyebrows climbed toward my artificial hairline.
“Five minutes,” he repeated.
“You’re here,” I said, pushing the curtain open and stepping into the changing room. It was still a bustle of activity, but none of those people were paying any attention to us: they all had their own roles to play, their own tasks to accomplish before they could take their turns upon the stage.
“I am,” he agreed, allowing his eyes to travel the length of my body. I’ve never been a tall person, but the amount of time he took made me feel longer than the Mississippi River. I blushed. His smirk widened in answer as he reached up and tapped his headset. “It struck me that no one would notice a man who seemed to have a purpose, especially since you’ve been so beautifully careful to keep me away from their cameras. This way, I’m closer and better prepared to react to whatever might happen.”
“Let’s hope whatever happens is something that can be dealt with before it eats anybody.” I reached up and touched the lock of hair that fell across my forehead, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “How do I look?”
“Like a thousand fantasies harbored by those unfortunate enough not be married to you,” said Dominic. His smirk faded into something almost rueful. “I prefer you blonde, as it happens. But you have no idea how much I want to lead you back into your dressing room and remove that deceptive rumor you enjoy pretending is a dress.”
My cheeks reddened, the color mostly hidden by my thick foundation makeup. For once, I was grateful for the pore-clogging necessity of a “game face.” “I’ll take you up on that later, when I’m not dancing for my life. Right now, I need to hit the stage.”
“Break a leg,” said Dominic, stepping out of my path.
I paused long enough to shoot him a feral grin. “If I do, it won’t be mine.”
His laughter followed me down the hall to the stage door.
Anders didn’t speak as we took our positions at the center of the darkened stage. It might have been awkward under any other circumstances, but here—me in fringe and lace, him shirtless and wearing tight satin pants, my knee pressed to his hip, his hands wrapped around my waist—it seemed only right. This was the dance floor. This was the closest thing I’d ever found to holy ground, and if this was going to be my last dance, I was going to kill it.
The music began, high bell tones warring with a sultry backbeat for dominion over the air. Anders’ hands tightened, pulling me closer, and I pressed myself against him as Karissa Noel began to sing.
As a piece, “Corrupt” was about the singer leading her subject astray, wooing him away from the path of righteousness he’d always tried to pursue. It was hard to listen to it without thinking of Dominic, and the way I’d led him away from the Covenant. Maybe he would have grown apart from their teachings without me—stranger things have happened—but it would have been disingenuous to pretend I hadn’t had anything to do with it. I was the one who’d opened his eyes. If he’d chosen to admit what he saw, that was on him. That didn’t mean I hadn’t been a part of things.
So I danced. I danced for Anders like I was dancing for my husband, and I knew Dominic was watching me from somewhere offstage, and I knew he would know where the heat in my eyes and the tension in my flexed calves came from. Anders responded to my commitment by matching me beat for beat. When I spun, he was there to jerk me into his arms; when I dropped into a trust fall, he was there to catch me. For the first time since the start of the season, we danced like there were no barriers between us, and all it took was a fight so bad that we might never be able to rebuild our friendship.
There would be time to worry about that after we had both survived tonight’s elimination. (In more ways than one. I was still concerned about staying on the show, no matter how much I might wish I weren’t: it’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime. And if either one of us got cut, I was going to be fighting for our lives in a much more literal sense.)
The dance ended with Anders submitting to me, dropping to his knees at my feet. His chest was heaving, shining with sweat in the lights. I mimed snapping his neck, and his body collapsed to the stage as the music stopped. Smirking, I turned and strutted toward the exit, the riotous applause of the audience putting a little extra wiggle into my step.
Halfway there, Brenna appeared, putting an arm around my shoulders and turning me around as she steered me toward the judging table. She was grinning, holding out her other hand as she beckoned to Anders. The lights shifted, going from performance-bright to something more subdued, and I saw the audience for the first time since our dance had started. More than half of them were on their feet, applauding their hearts out. Marisol was in the second row, her pinky fingers in her mouth, whistling ecstatically.
My legs were shaky and my heart was pounding f
rom the combination of adrenaline and exertion, but with that much applause ringing in my ears, it was easy to square my shoulders, raise my chin, and walk confidently beside Brenna to the marks on the stage that showed us where to stand while we faced the judges.
. . . the judges, who were also on their feet. My eyes widened, my mouth going dry at the sight of Lindy standing, Lindy applauding like she wanted to transcend the limitations of flesh striking flesh and become a whole drum corps all by herself. She dropped back into her seat, talking fast, like she wanted to be absolutely sure no one else was going to get a word in before she had her say.
“Valerie, I have always, always been hard on you, and I know you’ve hated me for it. No, don’t deny it—I know what it means when a girl smiles at you with eyes like ice. Well, honey, this, tonight, was the reason why. You were transcendent. For the first time in all the times I’ve seen you dance, you moved that body of yours the way I’ve always known you could.”
Lindy was known for yelling. Sometimes she got so close to the microphone when she did it that the feedback became physically painful. Not this time. Her voice was low, earnest, and utterly without bullshit. She sounded like she meant every word.
“I pulled for you to be in the top twenty of your original season, because I knew you had the potential to be amazing. And I’ve ridden you as hard as I could, because I knew you weren’t living up to that potential. Tonight, I saw that potential become reality. It was worth waiting for. Don’t make me wait for it again.” She started to sit back in her chair before apparently remembering Anders was there. Lindy leaned forward again, focus shifting to him. “Anders, you were clean and solid. Your footwork was good, and if Valerie managed to outshine you, it was only because she finally decided to wake up and start dancing like she should have been dancing from day one. You were both great tonight.”
She glanced at me one more time, and her smile was brief but more valuable than diamonds. Lindy approved of me. Maybe the world was coming to an end after all.
Clint said something complimentary and excited. I wasn’t really listening. Half my mind was taken up with reviewing what Lindy had just said, while the other half was scanning the theater, looking for signs of danger.
The audience was liberally dotted with heads in various shades of gold: the dragons had kept their word and infiltrated the place. I couldn’t see Dominic or Alice, but I knew they were there, sticking to the shadows and ready to move. My counter-charm was cool where it was taped to my inner thigh, despite the fact that I was sweaty and overheated. That was good: it meant it was still working, and I was still sharp . . . or as sharp as it was possible for me to be when I was dizzy from the lack of oxygen and trying to keep my professional smile plastered in place.
Someone was going to get eliminated. Someone was going to get attacked. It was on me to stop it from going any further.
“Valerie, Anders, you have no idea how disappointed I was when last week’s show put the two of you in the bottom,” said Adrian gravely. He leaned forward, looking between us. “But after seeing this, I have to say you deserved to be there. The fact that you could have been dancing like this, and chose not to, is disgraceful. You should be ashamed of yourselves, and you should be aware that if you make it through this week’s eliminations, I’m going to expect much, much more from you. I always thought the two of you were brilliant dancers. Now I know that you are artists, and I will not allow you to return to your previous ways. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes, Adrian,” said Anders and I dutifully.
Adrian suddenly grinned. “Then I can forgive you. You were both brilliant tonight. Be proud of yourselves. America is going to remember why they loved you in the first place.”
Brenna hugged us both before going into her spiel about voting and keeping us on the air. I mugged and grinned for the cameras, but I wasn’t really listening. Somewhere in this theater there was someone who wanted me hurt, and I had no way of knowing who it was.
Anders took my hand when we were dismissed, and we ran offstage together. I was starting to think that things were going to be okay between us when we passed the dividing line between “public” and “backstage,” and he dropped my hand like it had burnt him.
“You made me look like an idiot out there,” he spat, whipping around to hit me with the full force of his glare. “All that praise? Was for you finally getting your head out of your ass. Thanks a fucking lot, Valerie.”
“What did you want me to do?” I demanded. “I couldn’t phone it in. Not with elimination on the line. What the hell do you want from me? First you wanted me to dance like my life depended on it, and now you’re mad because I did! Make up your mind.”
“Elimination is only on the line because you couldn’t bring your A-game before you screwed everything up!” Anders shook his head. “I hope you get eliminated anyway. I want a new partner.”
He turned and stalked away, leaving me to stare after him.
There was a soft knocking to my left. I turned. Pax and Lyra were behind me, matching looks of concern and confusion on their faces. I sighed.
“Anders isn’t happy with being in the bottom,” I said.
“You think?” asked Lyra. “We watched you on the monitors. You were amazing.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You up next?”
She nodded, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. I realized with a pang that I might have made her situation a lot more difficult. I’d already decided I was going to have to walk away from this life again—and this time, it would have to stick. I couldn’t be Valerie and Verity; one of me had to give, and when you got right down to it, I liked Verity more. She had a family. She had a husband she loved, and who loved her in return. She had a colony of talking mice that would remember her forever. She had everything, and Valerie only had the dance floor. It wasn’t a hard choice to make . . . but Lyra didn’t have it.
Lyra was real. Lyra belonged here. And by dancing as well as I had, I’d put her in even more danger of elimination.
“You’re going to be amazing,” I said, putting every ounce of conviction I could into the words. “You always are, I mean. There’s a reason you beat me the first time, and you’re probably going to beat me again.”
“You really think so?” she asked. There was a pleading note in her voice that seemed almost alien when stacked against her usual unshakeable confidence.
“I absolutely do,” I said. “You’re one of the best dancers I’ve ever met. You can dance rings around anyone who thinks they can beat you. Now get out there and show America how much they screwed up last week.”
“You’re a good friend, Valerie,” said Lyra. She stepped forward, hugged me, and then was gone, letting Pax pull her toward the stage.
I watched them pass through the curtain that kept stage and backstage separate. I’d have to hurry if I wanted to get to the monitors in time to see them dance. I didn’t move.
A light scuff from behind me alerted me to the person approaching. I didn’t turn. Dancers walk softly, but they don’t walk that softly. I was about to meet either an ally or an enemy, and either way, I was staying where I was.
“Hey,” said Alice. “The halls below are deserted. No one’s gone in or out.”
“They wouldn’t need to before they had a sacrifice,” I said, finally turning to look at her.
My grandmother was in her usual gear—tank top, khaki shorts, boots that looked like they could wade through rivers of acid without being seriously damaged—and the moth-eaten tattoos on her arm and shoulder just drove home how much trouble we were in. Her arsenal of unusual weapons was all but depleted.
“I know,” she said. “How long before the end of the show?”
“About an hour.”
She nodded. “All right. Let’s see if we can get through it alive.”
Twenty-One
“Everything’s better
with a little extra boom.”
—Alice Healy
The Crier Theater, about an hour later
WE STOOD IN A RAGGED LINE across the stage, me between Lo and Lyra, each clinging to one of my hands with the bone-crushing strength of people who had everything to lose. Our heads were bowed, eyes half-closed against the glare of the stage lights and the tension in the air. Even the audience seemed to be holding its collective breath as we waited to hear from the judges. We’d changed back into the costumes we’d worn for our solos, putting our most iconic finery on display. The stage lights were hot, but I was freezing in my sequins and fringe.
“Well, Adrian? Have the judges come to a decision?” Brenna’s voice was as warm and professional as always, but I could hear the quiver underneath her carefully rehearsed question. If I got eliminated tonight—if I died—I would be taking the hopes of her entire Nest to the grave with me.
“We have. Valerie, step forward.”
Heart hammering in my chest, I let go of Lo and Lyra and moved into position, lifting my head high. I would not cry. I would not flinch. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. Instead, I was going to prepare for the fight of my life.
“Tonight you danced the way we’ve always known you could: with grace, power, and passion. You’ve been a remarkable, consistent technician from the beginning, but there have been times when it seemed as if technique was all you had. If you remain on the program after tonight, we’re going to expect this level of performance every week—and so is America. Honestly, we can’t be sure you have the stamina to deliver on our expectations. Valerie, step back.”
I stepped back.
“Lyra, step forward.”
The whites of her eyes were showing all the way around her irises as she stepped into position. Adrian’s face softened.
“The judges have discussed this, and I’m afraid we’re unanimous, darling. You’ve always been one of our favorites. You are an incredibly skilled, accurate, daring dancer, and your journey through this season ends tonight. It’s been a pleasure having you, but Lyra, you have been eliminated.”