Chaos Choreography (InCryptid, #5)(43)
But first I had to survive rehearsal. Our choreographer was a punk rock Tinker Bell that I suspected of being a succubus, although I didn’t have any proof. Artie would have known in a second—Lilu always recognize their own kind—but as that would have required getting him out of his basement and bringing him to a rehearsal space full of sweaty females, it was never going to happen.
(None of my cousins are exactly what I’d call “normal.” Cousin Artie was the winner of our private weirdness armada, being a reclusive half-incubus comic book nerd with a supposedly secret crush on our telepathic cousin Sarah. I say “supposedly” because everybody in the family knew he was in love with her—everyone except Sarah, who somehow managed to be as oblivious as he was. For a couple of really smart people, they could be remarkably dense sometimes.)
The thing about working with anyone who can be described using the phrase “punk rock Tinker Bell” is that they’ll work you to death while exhorting you to “dig a little deeper” and “reach your true potential.” Sasha was the sort of natural disaster every dancer dreams of working with, right up until they get the opportunity. After an afternoon in her studio, I was exhausted, and my dreams were a lot more focused on the idea of smothering her with a pillow. Not to death. Just into a peaceful unconsciousness from which she’d wake in a year or two.
Rehearsal finished at seven o’clock, and we dragged ourselves out to the town cars, where we collapsed like so many boneless puppies. I wound up with Lyra half in my lap. She had more experience with the steps Sasha was drilling into our heads, but that just meant she’d been expected to master more, faster, while the rest of us were forgiven for our occasional bouts of clumsiness.
I needed to go see Dominic. My legs felt like they’d been hollowed out and filled with cicadas in place of the bones. The thought of running across the rooftops of Los Angeles made my stomach flip.
“Is she a robot?” asked Anders. He’d allowed his head to flop backward, apparently lacking the strength to hold it up any longer. “You can tell me. She’s an alien robot, here to soften us up for the invasion. Let’s destroy her.”
“I don’t think she’s a robot,” said Pax.
“But she doesn’t sweat. Have you noticed that? She throws us around like we’re toys, and she never sweats. I think she’s a robot.”
“You’re a robot,” said Lyra.
We all fell quiet, considering her words with the seriousness that only comes naturally to the truly exhausted.
“Nah,” said Anders finally. “But Jessica’s probably a robot.”
The argument about whether Sasha or Jessica—or both—were robots occupied us all the way back to the apartments, where we rolled out of the town car and slouched dolefully toward the stairs. Halfway there, Lyra perked up.
“Dibs on the shower,” she said, and broke into a run.
Lyra was the first to reach the apartment, with the rest of us close on her heels, clamoring about our need to use the shower before she did. She unlocked the door, and the four of us virtually fell inside, where we stopped, all of us, and stared at the woman sitting on our living room couch. She was writing in a leather-bound journal, looking utterly relaxed.
She wouldn’t have looked out of place in the new edition of Tomb Raider: early twenties, with short, ragged blonde hair, cut-offs, and a tank top. Tattoos covered the exposed skin on the left side of her body, wrapping around her collarbone and running partway up her neck. The family resemblance between her and me was unmistakable, even with my wig.
She raised her head. We picked ourselves up off the floor. I started to open my mouth and froze, unsure what I was supposed to call her. “Grandma” wasn’t going to go over very well with my companions, or be something that I could readily explain.
Fortunately, she solved the problem for me. “I was wondering when you’d get home,” she said, and stood. “Sorry to break in like this, but the security guys were starting to give me the stink-eye for sitting on the curb. I had to come over the wall or risk being arrested.”
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Anders, pushing himself forward, putting himself between her and the rest of us. I don’t think protecting Pax was the goal, not from the way he positioned himself directly in front of Lyra, but he was gallant enough to stick an arm across my chest, barring me from the potentially dangerous intruder.
Well, not “potentially dangerous.” She was my grandmother. She was definitely dangerous.
Alice grinned. It was a wry, lopsided thing. My grin would look like that if it ever got dragged down a hundred miles of bad road, and through more than fifty years of fruitlessly searching for my one true love. I’d pass, if I had the choice. No one should have to smile like that.
“I’m her sister,” she said. “My name’s Elle.”
“You have a sister?” said Lyra, head whipping around as I suddenly became a lot more interesting than an intruder in our living room.
“You have a punk rock sister who picks locks?” demanded Anders.
Pax didn’t say anything. He was the only one from my season who knew about my family, and when I glanced back at him, I could see him running through the possible candidates for the role of “Elle.” He reached his conclusion while I watched, turning white.
“Oh,” he said.