Chaos Choreography (InCryptid, #5)(52)
“No.” Malena looked at me. “Maybe it’s over, huh?”
“Maybe.” I hesitated before saying, “Look, this Sunday, we’re going to head for the flea market downtown. You want to come with us?”
“What for?” asked Malena.
“You speak Spanish, we’re going to be buying a lot of knives, it could be a handy combination.”
Malena blinked at me. Then, slowly, she grinned. “It’s a date.”
“There you losers are.” Malena and I turned. Jessica was standing in the wings. There was a soft thump behind me as Lyra got her foot back on the floor. Jessica folded her arms, lip pushed out in a pout like the world’s biggest toddler. “Sasha said I had to find everyone to pay for being the one who stopped rehearsal, because now it’s my fault I got hurt. This is so unfair.”
“Thanks, Jessica,” I said. “We’ll be right there.”
“Whatever.” She turned on her heel and stomped away, hips swaying so hard that I worried briefly that she was going to dislocate something.
“What a bitch,” said Anders, stepping up next to me.
“That’s an insult to dogs everywhere,” said Malena. “She’s a—”
“Let’s get back to rehearsal!” I chirped, linking my arms with theirs and starting to march, Wizard of Oz-style, toward the others. The sooner we got back to work, the sooner we’d be finished, and the sooner we could find out what was really going on.
We didn’t find out what was really going on. Malena and Pax excused themselves enough times to get on Sasha’s nerves, but they failed to find any suspicious traces of blood anywhere in the building.
(Oh, they found blood: they found plenty of blood. As Jessica had demonstrated, it was impossible to have this many dancers in one theater without getting blood on every surface it was possible to get blood on. Bloody noses, scraped knees, broken toes, torn-off toenails . . . we were a slow-motion horror movie in unforgiving shoes, and we had trained our whole lives for the opportunity to demonstrate that yes, it was possible to accidentally bleed on the ceiling.)
I danced. It was what I knew how to do, and what I could contribute to the quest. As I danced, I watched the people around me, trying to decide whether any of my fellow contestants could be a killer. Lo moved with the grace and elegance of a striking viper. Did that make her capable of murder? Mac was strong, stable, and stoic, three things that made him a great ballet dancer, but could also make him a stone-cold killer, under the right circumstances. Jessica was a selfish, delusional brat who might do anything to get ahead. Even Sasha could potentially pick up a razor blade, if she thought that it would benefit her somehow.
By the end of rehearsal, I was a bundle of nerves, and we were no closer to knowing who our enemies were.
Once again, Malena rode back to the apartments with my season, compacting herself into the back between me and Lyra and smiling like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. The party was already going when we arrived. Someone had put chicken on the grill. We sniffed the air appreciatively, drifting in a group toward the smell of food . . . and stopped when we saw the woman at the grill, once again wearing her sensible apron.
“Chicken’s up,” said Alice, meeting my eyes and smiling. She thrust a paper plate at me. When I didn’t take it, Malena did. The chupacabra looked suddenly shy, like she couldn’t believe she was getting actual food from Frances Brown’s actual daughter. “Did you want a breast or a thigh, Val?”
“Breast,” I said automatically, before rattling off, through gritted teeth, “Elle, can I talk to you?” The words were sharp and staccato, with no pauses between them for breath.
“Of course!” she replied, and handed her tongs to Ivan, who had been hovering around keeping an eye on the grill, before grabbing two more plates of chicken. “Lead the way, O dearest sister of mine.”
I didn’t say anything, but my glare promised murder. Alice laughed, following me across the courtyard to her pilfered apartment. The door wasn’t locked. I held it open for her, and she followed me inside.
“I know what you’re going to say, and I promise, I did think this through,” she said, as soon as the door was closed. She turned to face me, smiled blithely, and handed me a plate of chicken. “I got caught.”
I blinked. “Come again?”
“I was sneaking back into my apartment, and I guess I timed things wrong, because the first town car pulled in before I could close the door. They asked what I was doing here, I said I was your sister and begged them not to report me, they asked if I had any useful skills, I said I was an excellent cook.” Alice shrugged. “Apparently, as long as I’m willing to run the grill, I’m not actually an intruder. Tomorrow’s taco night.”
“I can’t . . . you can’t just . . . oh, my God.” I sat heavily down on the couch, looking at the plate of chicken balanced on my knees. It looked tasty. My stomach rumbled. Dance is a sport, and it burns a lot of calories. “You’re sure no one looked like they were going to rat you out?”
“That Jessica girl didn’t look happy,” said Alice. “I promised to make fruit smoothies in the morning. That seemed to help. She doesn’t seem like the sort who enjoys waiting on herself.”
“No, I’m pretty sure she’d hire people to dance for her if she could get away with it, and thought she could get the credit.” I took a tentative bite of chicken. It was better than it looked. Stupid Grandma and her years of experience at cooking things over an open flame. I swallowed before asking, “Did you find anything useful, besides the location of the grilling tools?”