A few minutes later, she finished unrolling the all-too-demure yoga pad and stood up. It should not be so hard to find something that large, dammit. Still, all she needed was an hour.
Izmir’s Curse working magic through her on Earth, indeed. Alekhsiy had simply given her some unique jewelry.
She plopped the dance-inspired exercise DVD into her Mac. The drive hummed and lights rippled. She backed up and widened her stance, then stretched her neck.
“Good morning, ladies! And gents!” Danae’s old friend Karen chirped in her best award-winning and money-making voice. Equally perky music rolled through the speakers.
Danae waved back through the mirror. God grant that all dancers do so well in retirement.
“Now, we’ll take this first stretch very slowly,” Karen cooed enthusiastically. “And, one.”
Danae bent over a split second later.
That was odd. She knew this music very well and she was supposed to hit that move exactly on the beat.
“And, two.”
Danae was even slower. Worse, her arms were awkward, angular sticks, instead of gracefully floating into the air as thousands of hours in the studio had taught her.
She began to watch every move in the mirror, just as she had in Miss Wilson’s School of Ballet when she was five.
She was music—and when music came to life, so did she.
“Three and four. Don’t you feel better now?” Karen cheered.
“No, because I could dance better when I was four years old, bouncing on the sofa for my parents!” She could feel the music but she couldn’t express it at all—and that ravaged her soul.
She threw a pillow at the wall. Then she stalked off to hunt more DVDs.
Four exercise routines later, she slid down the sofa and onto the floor.
Dancing was magic. Period. It always had been, even before it saved her life and sanity after her family was killed. She could feel it in the air, draw it out of an audience, catch it in her bones, and weave it into greater things than herself.
She was a dancer.
But dancing now felt like lifting an elephant when she used to blow feathers, or being lost in blackness when once she’d painted stars.
The man who loved her had taken everything she had, everything that had kept her happy, everything that had kept the darkness away. Now she truly was completely, utterly alone.
Danae buried her face against her knees and wept.
Alekhsiy rotated his arm to remind his muscles exactly how much true armor weighed. His hauberk had apparently decided it could no longer pretend to be knitted silk, which was probably safest, and had resumed its true metallic heft. An arrow or one of those small, heavy darts called bullets couldn’t have pierced it.
But the change meant his body needed to remember all the little details about fighting, starting with armor’s heaviness and the sweat. The spell would help somewhat but not completely, lest he be noticed as an oddity.
Most of the knights here were very observant. Some of them had combat experience, too, which could make them more interesting during a duel. All of them were gathered in a loose enclosure, where they could see far too much of each other’s preparations. At home, they’d have been neatly sequestered in separate tents.
None of that mattered, so long as he reached the finals and Turner. All he needed to do was kill that brute and he’d save Torhtremer and Danae. He’d left her safe and Torhtremer protected, however bitter those wards.
A muscle jerked in his cheek and he started loosening up his other arm.
There’d be no other woman for him, ever. The brazen hussies here at the gymnasium, snuggling against the fighters to have their picture taken, had made it very clear they thought him fair game with her gone. His rod had been more flaccid than sea grass and his stomach had all but retched. He’d quickly sent those chits on their way.
The stands here at the gymnasium were half full, although he’d been promised crowds would swell later in the day and the great arena that night would be full to overflowing for the finals. The crowd’s chatter was friendly now, filled with rustles and soft exclamations when one knight or another was pointed out.
Mistress Nora watched from there with young Evan, who was holding his own very well in the tae kwon do tournament.
“Your sword, sir.” Colin bowed and offered Ice Wolf, which was stretched across his palms. He was dressed in scarlet and gold tunic and leggings, which matched Alekhsiy’s uniform. Wonder of wonders, he’d scrubbed until everything visible shone and now acted with all due seriousness, despite the eager glitter in his eyes.
His father was training another squire and Alekhsiy had barely hesitated before accepting Colin’s services. He certainly needed a servant who would stay alert to the goings-on in this strange competition.
“My thanks.” Alekhsiy bowed equally formally and buckled his beloved sword on. His father had forged it for him when he’d been given his officer’s commission. Its constant reminder of his father’s love had often steadied him during those long, early years when he’d been young and terrified, and dared not show his doubts in front of his men.
Fire Wind, his axe, hummed quietly from its pouch on his weapons belt. It had come from the Dragon Mountains so long ago that no man knew the date. But it was deadly and implacable in the Realm’s service.
The knights were warming up on one side of the platform, while the unarmed fighters prepared on the other side. Each team was readily identifiable by their heraldic blazon and colors. Kyle had chosen Torhtremer’s green and gold for Yevgheniy’s Spears, surmounted by the entwined dragon and tiger of Torhtremer’s great seal.
Turner’s team, The Northern Wastes, wore black and white parti-colored tunics, so irregularly assembled they seemed an attempt to dissuade the eye from following them. None of the other men talked to them.
Alekhsiy settled Ice Wolf on his hip, making sure no ungainly folds marred his surcoat’s smooth display of Torhtremer’s great seal. Let the enemy know who hunted him.
Kyle rounded the corner along the trail from the unarmed warriors, his face so expressionless it was harder than his helm. Trouble haunted his footsteps.
Alekhsiy stepped into his path. “What brings you here with unease riding your shoulder?”
“Hamish is confined to his hotel room with the twenty-four-hour flu.” Kyle scowled.
“That’s stupid!” Colin protested. “I saw him at breakfast and he was fine.”
“Whose task was he performing?” Alekhsiy demanded. “And keep your voice down.”
His harsh voice made the stripling’s eyes widen but he obeyed. “He was talking to the guy who’s always with Turner. Called Harrison, I think,” he whispered.
May he roll in Chaos’s razor-sharp bed for eons to come in exchange for interfering with honest sport!
“Shit.” Kyle punched his fist into his palm. “I don’t have another unarmed fighter.”
“Will you accept a wrestler?”
“It’ll be Greco-Roman style.”
Alekhsiy nodded. Surely the gods would be good to him and guide him in whatever manners were necessary.
Kyle’s eyes lit with hope before he pursed his lips. “You’re heavy combat. Do you have the energy to do both?”
“Yes—and I can’t be bribed.” Alekhsiy put all his determination into his voice.
“Very well, I’ll tell the marshals. Colin, see about finding him some gear, in case he didn’t bring any.”
Danae paced back and forth across her hotel room, her costume’s skirt flapping against her trouser legs like pieces of shattered resolutions. The snug torso had long, tight sleeves and an ankle-length skirt, which was slit up both sides to her hips. Straight trousers were tucked into brocade boots, which matched her torso’s lapels. Everything was made from a symphony of flame-red silks, supposedly because she came from the distant Phoenix Court.
But even this example of Larissa’s superb handiwork couldn’t make her feel any better.
She’d tried to start a short story and ended up logging off her Mac in disgust. Nothing was happening for her. She couldn’t even think up a decent epithet for a minor villain.
Maybe something would change after she got some sleep. Yeah, right.
A knock finally sounded on the door and she leaped to answer it. Maybe now she could leave this prison. She wasn’t quite frustrated enough yet to tempt fate by strolling through GriffinCon alone.
“Hi, Sasha!” But the two people standing behind him made her brows snap together. One cop in uniform and another in civvies? Badge or no badge, she could smell a cop.
“Danae, this is Detective Lena Davis”—she nodded to the lady in neat khakis—“and Officer Bill Fuhrman.”
She gave the uniformed dude a polite smile before looking back at Sasha.
“Can they talk to you for a few minutes? I’m afraid this will be official Atlanta police business.” Sasha definitely had on his cop’s face.
“Sure, come on in.” Her blood thinned to an arctic crawl.
She stepped aside and held the door open. It was always best to cooperate with the police—but how much should she tell them? Alekhsiy, the bastard, wasn’t here. Still, she wouldn’t mind screwing Turner over.
“You can take a seat in here.” She led them to the sitting room and waved her hand at the overstuffed sofas and chairs. “Coffee, anyone? Maybe some tea? Or there’s some fruit juice and soda in the minibar? No? Okay.”
She settled herself in the armchair, careful to take a position of power. She’d learned while she was still a teenager not to look helpless in front of the authorities lest they try to take more of her life than they already had. Thank God, this was the most respectable costume of the bunch. Some dance wear could really raise eyebrows in the Bible Belt.
“Do you want me to stay?” Sasha hovered in the doorway.
A friend at court, especially somebody who knew the law? For the first time, her blood ran warm. “Sure.”
They both looked at the two local cops. Davis silently consulted with her partner, then nodded. “Why not? We’ve already spoken to you a little bit about this.”
What the hell? She’d half-expected a follow-up visit about last night but what else could they mean?
Sasha dragged over a chair from the small dining table, spun it around, and straddled it beside her.
“How can I help you, Detective?” Danae asked politely.
“Last night you witnessed a shooting and series of fires at the hotel’s parking garage.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you know what caused the incident?”
“I believe a man may have fallen on his back and dropped his gun, which fired some shots into the sky. That spooked some folks, which caused a general ruckus.”
“Do you remember what happened before he fell?”
Drat it, now things became tricky. If she said Alekhsiy had hit the guy, wouldn’t they want to put him in jail? She hesitated. “I, ah . . .”
“Miss Livingston, I understand your desire to avoid the media.”
Huh? Avoid the media? She blinked at the detective. Why did he bring that up?
“But if we’re to protect you, we must have all the information. We know that an armed individual approached you specifically, saying he wanted to talk to you.”
Well, no, he said Turner wanted to talk to her. Something must have been garbled along the way, which wasn’t really surprising.
Danae became aware her mouth was hanging open. “Yes, he had a gun,” she agreed in little more than a whisper.
“He was actually carrying a Steyr AUG A3 assault rifle. Those are deadly weapons, Miss Livingston, capable of firing more than eight hundred rounds per minute.” Eight hundred? “The Atlanta police department will not tolerate them on their streets, especially not in the hands of obsessed fans.”
“Fan?” They thought this was about a stalker? Danae clapped her hand over her mouth and huddled back into her chair. Thoughts were difficult to come by.
Sasha patted her on the shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am.” Detective Davis’s eyes were luminescent beacons of sincerity and sympathy. “Interpol told us about the stalk ings last year in Europe and how you alone, of all three prima ballerinas, bravely went ahead with the ballet’s premiere.”
“I wasn’t brave!” Danae burst out. Red herrings were one thing but she wasn’t about to take credit for something she hadn’t earned. “I was scared to death.”
“But you still danced, even after the other girls bowed out,” Sasha said very quietly, as if speaking to his newborn child. “Your performance made you an enormous target since it had been publicized for months.”
“Look, that was the last ballet Rocker J ever choreographed.” She swung to face him and willed him to understand. “He was out of the hood and he understood bloody, sudden death. He happened to be at the dance camp when my folks were killed and he was the only one who knew how to reach me. He was my mentor, my buddy, my best friend in the dance world.”
She was starting to get teary. Damn, that was bad. She blinked rapidly until she could trust her voice again.
“So, yeah, I performed his final ballet at its European premiere. What of it?”
“The assault rifle is Austrian and not very common in this country, Miss Livingston,” Officer Fuhrman said gently. “Interpol has been unable to locate your stalker since his threats.”
“Yeah, well, everyone thought he was just a loony bin who’d found better things to do.” She looked at the cops again. Why did they keep carrying on about stalkers, for Pete’s sake?
“Including bugging your room?” Sasha held up a few bits of plastic and metal in a clear plastic bag.
Shit. May the law never guess how those things died. And why the hell did she ever think of dumping them in a cop’s bedroom? She closed her eyes. “They’re dead ducks. Who cares about them, anyway?”
“We’re sending them to the FBI for analysis, Miss Livingston,” Detective Davis said calmly.
FBI?
“Interpol has also asked that we keep an eye on you.”
“What? What do you mean by ‘keep an eye’?” But GriffinCon was where she came for vacation. She’d grown up here and she got to keep a low profile in this madhouse, unlike everywhere else. This was fun and family.
“Nothing for you to worry about, Danae. They’ll have a guard with you twenty-four/seven, whether you’re here in the room or moving around GriffinCon. The FBI has a team on the way, too.”
“What the hell!” She sat up straight and glared at the other three. Traipse around GriffinCon, trailed by a cop? Or sit in my room with one outside the door? What a singularly joyless prospect!
“The lead suspect has been implicated in other crimes, some of which are very nasty, Miss Livingston.”
Oh, so now Detective Davis was turning on the implacable schoolmarm side of her officer persona. How could she get around it?
“If he’s on this side of the Atlantic and has become even more violent by using an assault rifle, then we don’t want to take any chances with your life. Do we, Miss Livingston?”
What was she supposed to say to that? Tell them they were wrong and Turner was the bastard actually out to grab her? Even if she could convince them, they’d still think she needed a guard because of the damned big gun Turner’s goons had used. Or they’d start looking more closely at Alekhsiy, the only other person to face the gunmen.
Shit, shit, shit.
“No, I guess we don’t,” Danae agreed, trying to be gracious. Maybe she could have her agent appeal to somebody higher up in the department, if she claimed her performances would be ruined. She didn’t have to mention she currently lacked any such dancing skills.
“It’s standard procedure, ma’am, whenever a celebrity’s life is threatened. Besides, our chief is a huge fan of yours. He asked me to make particularly sure you were well taken care of, since he had all your PBS performances on DVD.”
“Please tell the chie
f thank you, from me.” Manners, drilled into her since before she could walk, controlled her lips. Her brain was spinning somewhere else.
She was so thoroughly screwed. For the first time in her life, achieving a high point in the dance world felt like a prison and not a pinnacle.
“What do you want to do this afternoon, Danae?” Sasha asked. He probably read her better than the others.
She gathered her feet under her and stood up. There was only one thing really to do, especially since she’d already made a start on it.
“I’m going to clean up my room before I take a nap,” she announced firmly. She couldn’t change everything in her life but maybe she could take control of something small.
Her sole recompense for a nasty set of surprises was seeing his jaw drop.
Alekhsiy rocked from side to side, testing the balance of his soft new boots on the platform. Supposedly this style of wrestling matched his persona and Colin had performed wonders in finding him suitable gear. Even so, everything was unfamiliar to him, from the clothes next to his skin to any move the referee would consider legal or stop the match for.
They also guarded the road to killing Turner.
He still wished he could have apologized to Danae. Maybe if he had, she would have forgiven him.
The black-striped referee blew his whistle.
May the Red God of War grant cunning to my eye and havoc to my opponent.
He stalked his adversary, looking for his first opportunity to strike.
“Nice talking to you, Officer Fuhrman!” Danae escaped back into her room and kicked the door shut, hoping it sounded like a particularly enthusiastic automatic closure.
Two trips to the trash chute—how had she accumulated that much pure shit?—had proved Atlanta’s finest truly were determined to keep bad guys away from her. One cop at the door and another one down the hall left her stuck inside. She was more a prisoner of her own celebrity than what that godawful Izmir’s Curse had done to her dancing.
At least she could still enjoy music, even if she couldn’t dance to it. But the cops wouldn’t even let her savor fresh air.
Captive Desires Page 19