We were still standing there, smiling at each other, when Marisol pushed through the door behind me and reentered the studio. “Good, you’re both here,” she said. “We’re going to take it from the top. I want to believe you’re going to leave the stage and head straight for the nearest broom closet to conceive your love child.”
Broom closet. “Marisol, did we cut way down on the janitorial staff for this season?”
The choreographer turned and frowned at me. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t see as many people in the hall as I was expecting when I went down to craft services for a cup of water.”
“We have the same staffing levels as always,” said Marisol. “You must have been lost in your own little world. Hopefully, it was the world of dance. Now come. Show me what you’ve learned.”
We assumed our starting positions. Marisol hit “play” on our backing music, and for a little while, I did what my grandmother had told me to do: I danced, and I trusted my friends and allies to keep an eye on the situation.
This was almost over.
Twenty
“There ain’t no drug in the world like the siren song of the stage. Once you’ve tasted it, you’ll always want more, even when you know it’s killing you.”
—Frances Brown
The Crier Theater, the following Thursday afternoon
DANCERS RACED DOWN THE HALL, glistening with sweat and smelling of hairspray. The army of makeup assistants that had wiped away our vampiric pallor and fake blood after the opening number was behind us, getting ready for the rush that would follow the requisite introduction sequence. Sometimes it felt like Dance or Die was a series of sprints disguised as a dance show.
Anders beat me to the stage entrance by a few seconds. He stopped there, waiting for me to catch up. Then he grinned. “Season two for the win, right?”
“Season two for the win,” I agreed, looking over my shoulder to where Pax and Lyra were getting into position. Pax flashed me a thumbs-up. I could see the pale metallic gleam of the counter-charm around his neck. We’d done everything we could to make this safe. It was all down to chance now.
“Jessica and Reggie!” announced Brenna, from the stage. The last two dancers from season one ran out to take their places under the lights. Jessica raised one leg in a high, perfectly vertical extension, showing off her muscle control, while Reggie executed a series of standing flips that would have taken my breath away if I hadn’t seen him do it a hundred times before.
They ran for the back of the stage, beginning the lineup, as Brenna called, “Valerie and Anders!”
We ran to center stage, where Anders executed a quick tap step before grabbing my hands and allowing me to go into a series of fast, supported turns, ending with my weight on my right foot and my left leg shifted to the side in the classic “I am a sexy tango dancer” pose. We let go and joined Jessica and Reggie at the back as Brenna announced Lyra and Pax.
“Nice turn,” said Jessica, sotto voce, as we clapped for my season-mates. “What, you couldn’t figure out how to stage a wardrobe malfunction?”
“Says the girl who starts every show by announcing the color of her panties to America,” I replied. Lyra ran up next to me. Malena and Troy took the stage.
“Shut up, Jessica,” said Lyra automatically.
Jessica glared daggers.
Emily—the third remaining dancer from season three—took the stage with Ivan from season four. He’d originally been partnered with Raisa, whose body was lying in a circle below the theater, alongside all the other dancers who’d left us. Seeing Ivan sent a chill down my spine. This wasn’t over. This was nowhere near over, and if it didn’t end tonight, two more people were going to die. Two more people I knew would die—and it was going to be my fault.
Ivan danced like he had no idea his former partner was dead, and when he ran back to join the rest of the male dancers at the rear, leaving Emily to fall into line with the girls, they were replaced by Lo and Will, who had been dancing together since the beginning of season four. She was elegance personified; he was strength and languid grace. It was lovely to watch them, but it was also terrible, because it drove home the fact that they were the last: all four dancers from season five were already gone and waiting for their graves.
“These are your girls, America,” called Brenna, as the music signaled us to strut to the front of the stage. The lights were near-blinding, but I squinted through them, smile firmly in place, as I scanned the audience for dragons. Blonde heads were dotted throughout the rows. It was hard to tell whether that meant Brenna’s Nest was in attendance, or whether there had been a run on bleach at the local salons.
I hoped for the former. I hoped I was surrounded by saurian cryptids wearing human disguises. Because we needed all the backup we could get.
“And here are your boys!” The male dancers joined us in the strut for the front of the stage. We interwove, finding our partners and striking our poses as the music ended and Brenna’s jubilant voice announced, “It’s your top twelve!”