“Yes, Lindy,” chorused the remaining ballroom dancers dutifully, me among them. It was no secret that Lindy favored the ballroom dancers—or that she’d come down on us like a ton of bricks if she felt we’d given her a reason.
(I never really had to give her a reason. My friendship with Brenna was enough to label me as a bad girl in her eyes. Lindy was professional enough that she’d never used it as an excuse to throw me under the bus, but during my season I’d been praised less than the other ballroom girls, a trend which was continuing into the present day. Oh, well. It wasn’t like I needed her validation when I had all of America picking up their phones to vote for me.)
“Brenna will be here in a moment, and then you’ll draw your routine for the week. We’ll do it twice, to make sure you have a style that works for you; once that’s done, you’ll go and meet with your choreographers.” Adrian looked around the group. “Any questions?”
I had one. Why aren’t you saying anything about the murders? But I couldn’t ask that without betraying that I knew more than I should have, and so I kept my mouth shut and stared at him, willing him to say something.
He didn’t say anything.
Brenna appeared with the hat from which we’d draw our “random” dance assignments. Someone hit the theater lights, recreating the diffuse theatrical lighting that accompanied the shows, and it was time to get back to work, no matter how much I didn’t want to. If I was going to find out what was going on, I was going to have to play by their rules.
Anders and I drew the quickstep, which meant a lot of hopping and running and incredibly rapid footwork, all performed while trying to recall Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse in their heyday. We were going to be dancing to “Candyman” by Christina Aguilera, doing a Tarzan-and-Jane concept routine, and since it was a dance built on energy and precision rather than complicated tricks or lift sequences, our choreographer didn’t need to modify it much to accommodate our skill levels. We spent the first two hours of the day warming up, learning the basic steps, and getting a feel for the piece. It was pleasantly non-hectic—something I knew wouldn’t last when we hit lunch and got our group routine assignments.
“Anyone mind if I duck out to powder my nose?” I asked.
Anders, who was currently flat on his back on the studio floor, breathing heavily, waved me off. Our choreographer flashed me a grin.
“Just hurry back, we’re about to start learning the fast part,” he said.
“Can’t wait,” I said, and slipped out of the room.
As soon as the door was shut behind me, my posture changed. Valerie was a dancer. She was graceful and loose and always ready to turn a simple motion into something profound. Verity—the real me—was all those things, but first and foremost, Verity was a hunter. Where Valerie walked like the whole room was hers to claim and conquer, Verity slunk, compact and poised to strike. Valerie posed. Verity attacked.
Sliding from one identity into the other was more difficult than usual, because I was on Valerie’s territory. The back halls of the Crier Theater belonged to her, especially in the middle of the day. Anyone could come out of a room and catch me outside my rehearsal and walking oddly. I couldn’t think about that right now. All my attention was on stripping myself back down to my training, and finding out what the hell was going on.
There was no smell of decay wafting up from the basement. I hesitated for a moment before I flicked on the light and started down the stairs. Halfway down, I froze.
The bodies were gone.
The floor was clean, all traces of blood washed away. The place would probably have lit up like Christmas morning under a black light, but the naked eye found nothing wrong. There was a scuff from behind me, like someone coming to a stop. I whipped around, falling into a combat stance, and relaxed as I saw who it was.
“Pax,” I said. “You scared me.”
“I scared you?” he demanded. “You just looked at me like you were going to rip my larynx out with your bare hands. I need my larynx. Those things take forever to grow back.” He looked past me to the floor, expression going from surprised to grim. “I figured you’d come here eventually. I’ve been checking every ten minutes or so.”
“That must be making Lyra super happy,” I said.
“Between the so-called vomiting last night and now this, she thinks I have food poisoning. I’m a ‘trooper.’” He grimaced. “The door was cracked when I passed it to start rehearsal, and I realized I couldn’t smell any blood. I checked the room as soon as I could get away, and found it like this.”
“No blood?” I turned back to the empty basement. “They can’t have cleaned it that completely.”