by Lust, April
She owns an enormous plot of land she’d acquired years and years ago from our great grandmother. They emigrated from Italy, claiming the land for their own. My mother had covered the entire lawn in enormous statues of Roman Gods and Goddesses. Venus carries an enormous clamshell in her hands, and Jupiter can be seen in the corner holding a lightning bolt. My father’s been out of the picture since my infancy, so it was just my mother and I spending time together.
I was over there to take some time off from the club in Brooklyn. There had been a series of violent attacks on the Renegade Reapers from Abram’s men, but no one had been killed—yet.
While I was grilling some steaks, my mother walked off into the garden to grab some fresh vegetables. She picked up gardening from her mother and her mother before that. They spent most of their lives on farms. Living in America is fine for my mother, but I know she misses having expansive plots of land to grow produce. New York is not the place for that.
I kept telling her to move, that it wasn’t safe around here. I told her she should move out West and leave this life behind. Sure, I’d miss her, but she’d be safer. It’s too dangerous now, especially because of who I am. And that day was the perfect example of why none of us are safe.
Everything seemed to be going fine in that moment. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, and the steaks were sizzling on the grill. I’d purchased expensive wine from a vendor I sell coke to, and he’d gotten me a really great bottle of ‘67 Merlot. There were flocks of crows casting strange shadows on the patio. I stubbed my toe on one of the exposed bricks as I was barefoot, but it didn’t even bother me. This was back when I’d gotten my first tattoo, an enormous raven with a crown made of bones on my left shoulder blade. I was just in the middle of flipping over one of the steaks when I heard my mother’s scream.
“Ma?” I shouted out.
When she didn’t answer, I felt my heart begin to pound ferociously in my ribcage. Anxiety slithered through my body like a snake, strangling my lungs until I could barely breathe anymore.
“What happened?” I called out again, walking cross the patio towards her. Thankfully she was alive. I’m not sure what I was expecting—a broken finger maybe or a cockroach too large for her to handle. Unfortunately, it was something much more demonic.
She came running back to the house, her cheeks bright pink with worry. Her dress was smeared with dirt and her hands were covered with a bright red substance I assumed was raw tomato. Then I realized it was blood.
“What happened?” I growled, grasping her by her frail shoulders. She fainted in my arms, her body dropping to the ground like a soggy eggplant.
I rushed through the statues, their pale eyes shaking me to my core. It was as if they knew something terrible had happened, and they were just waiting for me to realize it. Their cement hands mocked me. I wanted to punch them over and over until they shattered.
When I found the body, I noticed his head was missing, and it was nestled among the tomato plants. The rest of his body was half-buried in the ground. I knew in that instance, when I first saw his body in the ground, that I would stop at nothing to get revenge on Abram. How dare that sonuvabitch come here to where my mother lives? I balled my hands into fists and shoved them deep in my pockets. That asshole was going to pay. I couldn’t believe the fucker – it was like he wanted to get caught! Killing one of my men and leaving the body in my mother’s garden, what the fuck was this man thinking? After that, my mom refused to speak to me.
The worst part is, those aren’t the only people of mine he’s killed. He’s also shot and drowned two of my other men, dumping their bodies by the East River for me to find. Of course, the police couldn’t care less about the whole situation. They think it’s just another gang war, and that we should quit fighting with each other or else they’re going to raid us or jail us or something.
They can’t take any more of my men away, so I make sure I’m careful to not arouse suspicion around the cops.
This is exactly why Natalia is so important for our operation. She needs to be on board with everything I’m doing so I can find and kill her father. And what kind of father doesn’t want his daughter? From what I’ve gathered, he practically left her by the side of the street in the slums of Russia. She was dumped in a shitty, overcrowded orphanage, until she was adopted by her American parents.
I’ve actually been to a few of her performances, though I’ve never watched any of them up close. No, I exist in the sidelines of the Nine Muses Dance Company, slinking around the top floors and selling drugs to the bourgeoisie of Manhattan. I might have passed by her once or twice, though she was always in costume. The first time she was dressed as a parrot with an array of rainbow-colored feathers adorning her body and back. The next time she was a crow, slinking around the halls while searching for her manager, Patty.
Of course it was her. Who else could it have been? She was the girl with the incredibly high cheekbones, curvy thighs looking like they were sculpted by a reincarnated Michelangelo. To ask her about that now would be criminal.
Did you see me? I was the man wearing a black trench coat, crew cut, black boots.
Those with keen eyes would have known I didn’t belong. But the rest would just assume I was another partygoer dressed for the occasion. Even though I could’ve said I was clad in black to blend in with the crowd, the reality was a little darker. My pockets were crammed with pills and tiny little knives. They didn’t look all that dangerous, but I knew how to wield them for more than just pleasure.
It’s not going to be easy to capture Natalia. I’m going to have to trail her wherever she’s going, then kidnap her under the guise of night. Luckily for me, I hear she and the others are going out drinking tonight. They’re going to head towards a restaurant nearby, so they can celebrate. I duck low in the seat, hiding from them as they pass by in an enormous cluster. As long as I stick close to them, I’ll have Natalia in no time.
Chapter 2 Natalia
The stage is covered in warm, bronze light. I’m twirling across the wood, making sure every step I take is with purpose. I’ve got the lead in the performance, and I’ve got to make sure my hard work pays off. The other girls in the ballet are just waiting to see me fail. They’ve been talking behind my back for weeks now, trying to figure out a way to sabotage me. Last week one of the younger girls tried to trip me when I was rehearsing my part. She didn’t succeed, of course, because I’ve had to deal with things like this since my youth.
I’ve had to deal with a lot in my life, especially the fact that I’m adopted. It was easier when I was younger, and unaware of the situation. My adoptive parents were my real parents. I told them I loved them, and they supported me as if I were their own. That is, until the dance classes began. My life went from simple to complicated in a matter of days.
Gone were the easy evenings after school. Instead they were replaced with dance classes that became more intense as time went on. I stopped finding time to relax and instead filled my space with dancing. I didn’t have a social life, but none of the dancers did. We were each other’s best friends and worst enemies. Before competing for a role, we’d all smile and wish each other the best. But when the casting list went up, we weren’t exactly singing folk songs in a group hug.
My adoptive parents found me in a broken-down home run by a nanny with dozens of babies up for adoption. I was so young when we first traveled to America that I barely even remember the plane ride. My parents were wealthy, and they brought me home to live in a nice brownstone in New York City. Since my infancy, I’ve been dressed in tutus and taught vigorous forms of dance. Dancing is the only thing in this world I know. There is no other thing on the planet that matters to me more than memorizing movement to lyrics, verse, the upswing of a cello. They wanted me to be their amazing Russian prodigy, which is one of the reasons they had me keep my original surname. They thought people would be more likely to cast a dancer with a Russian name because of Russia’s reputation for producing great dancers.
As a child, I mastered several forms before I realized I wanted to keep going in ballet. Hip-hop and swing were fine during middle school, but it is traditional ballet that really keeps me going. The storylines I must memorize, the way my body twists against my fellow dancers, fellow characters—it is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. I became inspired to keep going to the top. It makes my parents happy and that makes me happy.
When I was drafted into the dance academy that Patty runs, it was a dream come true. I could dance and make money to support myself, helping me move out of the house. I was also able to avoid attending college, at least in the traditional route. I exercise daily and attend physical therapy for my feet and back on the weekends. My body has become a machine. I can turn on a time, pirouette like a drill, and practically leap into the sky. Once, Patty joked that I was likely to heat up the stage in my wake.
I live for her praise. She’s the only one who can make me believe I’ve done well. I can always tell how it went at the end of a show by Patty’s smile – well, that and the way she comes up and hugs me at the end of each night.
Patty has a pinched nerve in her hip and can no longer dance. She still trains us in class, though she can barely pirouette without crying out in pain. Her hair is bright blonde and pulled back in a tight bun. She has sharp cheekbones and icy green eyes. She’s from Russia just like I am, and even though we share similar characteristics, I always feel gawky around her.
“I knew you could do it. My star,” she says with a warm smile.
I feel like my body is traveling into the depths of madness. I can’t remember the last time I got a full night’s sleep, or the last time my limbs and joints weren’t achingly sore. But it feels good to be on top, and I have to stay there. “Now what?” I ask, glancing around at the others. “Is it time to eat yet? Because I’m starving.”
“What? Is that all you think about, Natalia? Eating?” Patty sounds angry but the sides of her face twitch, revealing her inner truth. She’s entertained by me and my bottomless pit of a stomach. “Yes, darling, we’re going to eat soon. Don’t be absurd.”
I grin. “You’re the best.”
Patty smiles. “I know,” she says nonchalantly. “Now bundle up, Natalia. It’s cold outside. Can’t have you getting sick now.”
Outside, cars honk, ambulances wail, and snow falls in enormous fat clumps. It’s early evening, wintertime, and close to Christmas. Inside the warm theatre are women wearing skeleton masks and jet-black tutus. We’ve been rehearsing for months for a contemporary version of Swan Lake , though it’s a retelling featuring the Underworld. My manager is oddly obsessed with Greek mythology—and me. She’s currently gripping my waist as tightly as possible, announcing to the crowd how proud of me she is. I’ve just been inaugurated the principle ballerina of the Nine Muses Ballet company, one of the most prestigious companies in New York City.
In our newest version of Swan Lake , I am Odette, a queen from the underworld, cursed by Hades for trying to free Persephone from his clutches. I am forced to live life as both swan and human. Today my makeup is black and there are enormous teeth painted up the sides of my face. I look evil, carnivorous, a force to be reckoned with. My calves are perfectly sculpted and my muscles flex and flow each time I move. In this moment, I want to flex my muscles into wings and coax myself out of Patty’s hands. I want to fly away from all the paparazzi and the photographers to a quiet place where I can dance in peace.
It’s not that I don’t want this position—I do. I’ve worked my whole life to gain this kind of notoriety, but I’m also tired. I don’t want to quit dance—of course not. But I want a quiet, stolen moment to myself with just me and the music. I long for the workout room’s enormous, shining mirrors covered in pink flowers like confetti, the floors glistening, dark hardwood. If I were alone, I would be able to perform my own moves, my take on Odette’s character. I’m planning on making the finale really daring. I’ve been talking to Patty on and off for the past month about how I want to really take on Odette’s character, a beautiful woman scorned and covered in feathers the color of ink.
Little did I know that my evening was about to get a lot more chaotic than I’d originally planned.
“Where are we going to eat?” I ask Patty after the applause has died down.
“We’re going to this little boutique restaurant called Mystic. It’s only a few streets over, tucked away underneath some enormous warehouse. Trust me, you’re going to love it. It’s so avant-garde, it’s insane.”
“If you chose it, I can’t even imagine what it’s going to be like,” I tell her, smiling a thin smile. Patty is obsessed when it comes to these dinners. We all sit at long brown tables, and aggressively talk to each other about muscular exercises and dance moves. It’s like the Last Supper of ballet.
There are around forty of us in total walking down the street in our tutus and toe shoes. I feel like a fallen angel dipped in taffeta being whisked away to a royal dinner. My friends come up to me one by one and touch my hands, my shoulders, congratulating me on a job well done.
Tonight, my dark brown curls are hanging low and my thin waist is covered by a soft sheath of fabric. I’m five-foot four, the perfect height for a dancer, with a small chest and firm backside. I’ve always been told that I have a tight body, and the compliments make me feel sexy. My large, almond eyes are dark brown, and my lips are painted deep red for my role. I wonder what the servers are going to think of my skeleton makeup. Maybe they’ll think I’m attractive. I’m convinced I look like a hyper sexual demon come to eat and screw all the birds and men of the land. Too bad it’s not exactly daytime appropriate. I like this look.
We enter Mystic from a small metal door that leads us down an enormous, dimly-lit hallway. We reach the room in which we’ll be eating, and it’s covered in dark washed wood, cherry-shaped lights, and large windows overlooking the street. From our vantage point, all we can see are the feet of men and women who are coming and going from work. Though Patty is treating us, she still wants us to eat healthy. She’s already ordered specific plates of food for all of us, as well as fifteen bottles of wine.
“Should we be drinking this much before opening night?” my friend, Rosie, leans over and asks me.
“Who cares?” I ask, drinking another glass of dark red wine. I need a break.
“You sure you’re going to be good for tomorrow?” Rosie asks. “You’re drinking a lot of wine.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, frowning at her. She’s my alternate, and probably wondering if she’ll be able to steal the spotlight from me tomorrow. If I’m entirely honest with myself, I think I might hate Rosie. If I somehow don’t make it into work tomorrow, I’ll probably hire an assassin to kill her. That’s how badly I’ve been lusting after the part of Odette.
Rosie’s jealousy is written all over her face, but I ignore her and pour another glass of wine. In front of me is a thick salad covered in baby clementine slices. There are green leaves and steamed artichoke hearts on small square plates in front of me. I swirl the dark liquid around in my glass, thinking about what I’ll do when I get home. First, I’m going to take a long shower, wiping the paint off my face. Next, I’ll stretch, and maybe dance for an hour in my studio. I’ll have to get up early tomorrow morning, so I can go for a run, just to make sure my muscles are in peak condition. I bought a new tube of cocoa butter for my skin, which is already soft and smooth.
“I want to make a toast!”
I hear Patty calling out, and I cower in my seat, hoping she doesn’t say something embarrassing. She’s already drunk, and we haven’t been here for more than an hour. She begins to talk about Nine Muses studio and how proud she is of all of us, our hard work and dedication to the many shows we’ve put on over the years. Suddenly I’m feeling depressed about my current situation. My parents are out of the country for the month and won’t be back in time to see the show.
They called me a few nights ago, gushing about the view from their
villa in Italy and talking about all the wines they’re going to bring back for me to try. The problem with our relationship is that it’s clear they never cared about me. They only adopted me so they could create a child prodigy. Most of the money we’ve earned from the shows goes to them and their vacations. I’ve got my own savings at the moment, and it’s enough to live on my own in the city. But it’s not enough money to make me feel better about my emptiness.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Rosie, excusing myself from the table. The other girls are so distracted by the dessert that they don’t notice me slipping away. I’m willing to bet they haven’t eaten sugar in months.
I walk out the back door and into the chilly city night, wondering what it is about New York that makes me feel so at ease. I know it’s notorious for being a dangerous city, but for some reason, I don’t feel that way at all. I feel like anything is possible tonight because the stars are shining so brightly and the puddles shine all the colors of the rainbow on the ground.