Chaos Choreography (InCryptid, #5)(103)
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!”
The crowd went wild. Malena, frozen in a dip next to me, whispered, “You got a plan?”
“Try not to die,” I whispered back. Then the lights were on Brenna, who was introducing the judges to the audience, and it was time to form our line across the back of the stage, falling into position and waiting to hear our fates.
It was the usual three judges tonight: Adrian, Lindy, and Clint, waving and smiling while they were facing the audience, but reverting to all business as they turned back to Brenna. She was saying something about how the cut from top twelve to top ten was always one of the hardest, because we’d all worked so hard and come so far, and didn’t the judges agree that it would be better if we could all stay forever? It was a spiel I’d heard from her before, and only the fact that she was genuinely sorry to see any of us go saved it from becoming saccharine.
Malena’s hand found mine and squeezed. I glanced her way without moving my head. None of us were smiling now. Silence and solemnity were the order of the night when it was time to learn who was in danger and who was guaranteed another week on the dance floor.
Brenna finished talking to the judges and drifted back, accompanied by the spotlights, to speak to the dancers. “Hello, my darlings, hello. Don’t you look splendid tonight? What am I saying, you always look splendid. You know what time it is, don’t you? Oh, I hate this part.” She had two small envelopes in the hand not holding her ever-present microphone. They could have wired the whole stage for sound, but preferred the illusion that this was a smaller, more intimate sort of show. I’d never had a problem with that. We wouldn’t have been able to whisper among ourselves if the place had been fully wired.