Magic, New Mexico: In Graves Below (Kindle Worlds)

by Carol Van Natta

  As if her disgruntled thought conjured him, St. Peters strutted into the room, followed by Denise right after him. She couldn’t be dissuaded from walking on their elderly marley dance floor in her spiked heels, despite the "no street shoes allowed" at every entrance. Her tailored blue silk business suit flattered her plump figure.

  “I know it’s the last rehearsal night before you move into the theater, and you’re busy,” said Denise, “but I wanted to share two pieces of good news. First, both Saturday performances are already sold out. Sunday is half gone, and opening night only has about twenty seats left.”

  The dancers clapped and cheered. A full house of close to three hundred added awesome energy to live performances.

  “Riya, could you come up front?” Denise smiled.

  Riya tried to play it cool as she walked up front, but she couldn’t control the little spring in her step. Finally, her hard work was about to be rewarded.

  “The second piece of good news is that we have a new sponsor, the Spencer Emerson Foundation, to underwrite the choreography costs. So, not only do Riya and Jonathan actually get paid”—she paused for the titter of laughter—“but it means we can afford for Jonathan to stay with us all week, through the final performance.”

  Riya’s stomach went sour. Not only was she still in limbo as far as the artistic director position, but she and the other women in the company would have to put up with a full week of Mr. Snooty McGrab-Hands, as Whitney had so eloquently named him, instead of just for opening night. Riya hastily plastered a smile on her face and returned her attention to Denise.

  “…foundation representative wants to meet our choreographers tonight at eight. It’ll only take a few minutes, but he’d like to put faces to the names.” Denise smiled at everyone. “Keep up the good work, everyone, and let’s make it a great show.” At least they’d convinced her to stop saying “break a leg.”

  Denise turned to leave, and St. Peters crossed to Julia, a short, big-breasted woman with explosive dance energy. St. Peters hadn’t given up trying to talk her into appearing topless for a brief segment in his “Spring Awakening” piece, despite Julia’s repeated refusals. Riya had already turned him down flat. She stayed long enough to make sure Julia didn’t need support, then followed after Denise, who was headed to her office.

  “Denise, do you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” said Denise. Even in heels, she was shorter than Riya by a good six inches, with artfully colored auburn hair that she wore in styles designed to give her more height. She was always impeccably dressed.

  “I was hoping to hear something about the artistic director position you offered. It’s been over two months now, and I’m putting in a lot of extra hours.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry about that.” Denise smiled apologetically. “I keep pushing the board because we need that position filled, but they keep getting sidetracked by the crisis of the moment, and they never get to the rest of their agenda. The board chair is a nice man, but he doesn’t know how to run a meeting.” Her expression said she’d whip them into shape if she were in charge.

  Denise took the plastic lid off a small cheese tray. “Getting Jonathan to stay is a lucky break for us. He’s great at publicity.” She crossed to the credenza and pulled out four wine glasses. “I have big dreams for this company. Maruaway is poised to really make a splash.”

  The board had hired Denise six months ago because she’d promised to make good use of her New York arts-world contacts, and she’d delivered in spades by landing several new big donors and St. Peters. She was working on getting underwriters to bring in an A-list Russian choreographer for the company’s annual holiday concert of Modern Fairy Tales.

  “I hope so,” said Riya. She could take or leave being in the spotlight, as long as she got to dance and choreograph, but the rest of the young and talented company deserved their chance to shine. “I’d like to help make that happen.”

  Denise sidled closer. “Then can I give you a word of advice?” She glanced at the open door, then lowered her voice. “Be nice to Jonathan, because he could really help the company. He talks about you all the time, how he’d love to nurture your talent. I think he’s very attracted you.” Denise smiled and winked. “It’s so hard for straight men to get ahead in the dance world.”

  Riya didn’t know whether to be appalled that she was all but being asked to sleep with St. Peters for the good of the company, or to laugh outright at Denise’s cluelessness about how little sexual orientation mattered to professional dancers. Talent, integrity, and hard work mattered far more.

  “I’ll, uhm, keep that in mind,” Riya said with a weak smile, then hurriedly changed the subject. “I’m not exactly dressed for a meet-and-greet.” She looked down at her threadbare and faded “Mechanoid Rebellion” T-shirt, which only partially hid her screaming yellow sports bra. Her favorite flame-patterned leggings had a hole in one knee. She knew her wavy hair was escaping from the sloppy bun at the back of her head, and its navy-to-turquoise color wasn’t exactly corporate.

  “You’re fine. You look like a working dancer.” Riya couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or not.

  St. Peters arrived just as Denise was glancing at her watch. He was dressed like an artist’s conception of a poet, with black leather pants and high-heeled boots, an off-white puffy-sleeved shirt, belted at the waist, and a long, red silk scarf around his neck. All he needed was long, flowing hair and a pretentious British accent. Riya turned away for a moment, because he took his look very seriously, and she knew she couldn’t keep the amusement off her face. He was handsome, with chiseled features and sparkling blue eyes, and a dancer’s tight physique, but his personality killed any possible attraction.

  Riya was saved from having to “be nice” by the arrival of the Spencer Emerson Foundation representative, who turned out to be Spencer Emerson himself. He was a distinguished man in his late forties, with a silver hairline beginning to recede at the temples. He and St. Peters were about the same height, only a couple of inches taller than Riya. Emerson was dressed like he was about to step onto the red carpet at the Academy Awards. His Italian shoes alone probably cost more than she made in a month. Who dressed like that on a Monday evening in Denver?

  “Spencer Emerson,” he said, holding his hand out, his smile wide, almost crocodilian. “You must be the renowned Jonathan St. Peters.”

  St. Peters grinned, clearly flattered. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shook Emerson’s hand.

  Emerson turned to Riya. “Love the hair. And you are?”

  She smiled. “Riya Sanobal.” She shook his proffered hand and instantly regretted it. For the few moments their skin was in contact, she felt a flood of nausea, like she was coming down with the flu, and thought she was seeing double. She snatched her hand back and quickly sat in the farthest chair to shore up the shields that hid her magic. Her minor abilities and not-quite-human nature weren’t noticeable except to high adepts, but Emerson seriously creeped her out.

  Riya watched Denise subtly flirt with the man while pouring the wine, and St. Peters bask in Emerson’s interest in how he came up with such innovative and varied choreography. They didn’t seem to think anything was wrong, even though Emerson’s smile looked like it was operated with strings. When Emerson asked about her artistic inspirations, she mumbled vapid, beauty-contestant platitudes about history and nature programs on TV.

  “Oh my, look at the time,” said Riya, standing quickly. “I really need to get back to rehearsal.”

  Denise shot her a deeply annoyed glance, but Riya ignored it. If the board couldn’t be bothered to make her artistic director, then Riya-the-hired-choreographer didn’t feel obliged to suck up to either Emerson or St. Peters.

  At close to midnight, Riya was more than ready to climb into whichever was closest, a hot shower or a soft bed. Fortunately, she’d managed to wolf down the sandwich she’d brought, so at least she wasn’t hungry, too. She’d just finished helping pull the cover over the studio
piano when Whitney looked toward the door and muttered a curse. “I love you like a sister, Riya, but blood will be spilled if I have to spend another second with Mr. McGrabby.” St. Peters stood at the door, hands on his hips, an impatient look on his face.

  Riya picked up the two bags at her feet and handed Whitney’s to her. “Go on with you, then,” she said, affecting a broad Irish accent. “I can’t afford the bail money.” She winked.

  Whitney chuckled as she hugged Riya. “I’ll have a beer in your honor. See you tomorrow night.” She took off toward the alley exit door, apparently deciding she’d rather walk the long way around the block than go near St. Peters again. Riya couldn’t blame her. He had a habit of not-so-accidental inappropriate touching when showing female dancers how he wanted them to move. The only reason he left Riya unmolested is she’d cheated and used a little magic as a deterrent.

  Riya slid the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and gamely marched toward the door where St. Peters stood.

  He smiled engagingly. “Come to dinner with me tomorrow night before rehearsal. I’d like to talk about us collaborating on a piece that would really blow Spencer Emerson’s mind.”

  She was tired, and just barely stopped herself from saying she’d rather scrub the women’s restroom with her toothbrush. “It’s a kind offer, but I’ll be coming straight from work to the theater at five-thirty so we can start haul-in for the sets and costumes.” Her work tomorrow consisted of a free consultation at the rehab center, but she’d be damned if she’d stand up a wounded veteran for the dubious honor of dinner with St. Peters.

  He was undaunted. “How about right now? My hotel is only a mile away. We could grab a drink in the bar.” He touched her upper arm. Her little spell zapped him, and he pulled away fast. “Damn static electricity.”

  Riya smiled sympathetically. “The dry Denver climate does that.” She managed to turn the lights off and slip past him into the hallway before he could block her. She started toward the front door. He lengthened his stride to keep up.

  “Would you please stop walking and look at me for a minute?” He sounded sincere, almost pleading. Surprised, she did as he asked.

  He shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather coat. “I’m going to lay my heart on the line here,” said St. Peters. “Ever since I got here, you’ve intrigued me, driven me crazy, inspired my dreams. Made me want you. Exotic ethnic looks like yours are hot right now. You’ve got more talent than the entire company combined, and you don’t even know it. You could write your ticket to wherever you wanted to go—New York, San Francisco, Barcelona.”

  Riya couldn’t tell how much of that was real and how much was his best guess on what she wanted to hear. She’d had enough traveling to last a lifetime, and her “ethnic look” wasn’t a ticket to anywhere but a Bollywood music video. He definitely wanted something from her. She’d like to ignore him, but if he did have feelings beyond garden-variety lust, she couldn’t be that cruel. “I’m flattered, but we don’t really know one another.” She shook her head. “To be perfectly frank, you’ve been a jerk.”

  He rocked back on his heels and stared at the floor instead of meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry. It’s a defense mechanism. I feel very vulnerable around you, and I don’t know where I stand, so I…” He shrugged a shoulder.

  “Push before you’re shoved?” she suggested. It didn’t explain why he was rude to the others, but she was willing to cut him some slack if it would make it easier on rest of the company.

  “I guess.” He looked up at her. “Come to dinner, and let me show you the real me. If not tomorrow, how about Wednesday?”

  Riya sighed. “Maybe.” She held up her hand to forestall his response. “No promises. They don’t call final tech and dress rehearsals ‘hell week’ for nothing.” She started walking again. “Let’s see how tomorrow goes.” She gave him a weary smile. “I’m too tired tonight to do anything but go home.”

  He beamed. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Chapter 4

  Snug in her little apartment bedroom, after a quick, hot shower and time to think, Riya decided she might be to blame for some of St. Peters’ attitude. His towering ego reminded her too much of her ex-boyfriend, and he even looked a bit like him, though in much better shape. The Douche would have needed a shoehorn and a tube of lube to get his pudgy thighs and belly into leather pants.

  She’d also resented that the company was paying St. Peters five times what they were paying her, even though she’d choreographed two new pieces, plus selected and rehearsed the set pieces the core company already knew. She’d tried to keep her dissatisfaction to herself, but she may not have been as successful as she’d thought.

  On the other hand, she had no interest in him as a man. Not a single hormone stirred when he was close, and his smell was about as interesting as lettuce. She never realized how important scent was to her until she’d had that remarkably vivid dream a month ago, where the warrior shaman her subconscious had conjured up had smelled of pine, horses, and delicious man. From that day on, she knew she could never settle for anything less in a lover. Which meant she was probably doomed to a solitary life.

  She pulled on her nightshirt and turned out the bedside light as she slid between the sheets. She’d had other dreams before and since, but they were instantly forgotten. She remembered each and every one of the dreams with the shaman, the first one most of all.

  It had been late one evening, in her studio. She’d made an urban nest out of a converted warehouse, with her own private dance space on the main floor and her living quarters upstairs in what was once the office. For the dance company’s spring concert, she’d found an evocative, modern Native American composition that spoke to her, and after securing permission, had begun choreographing to it. She’d gotten stuck about halfway through and couldn’t come up with the right movements to match the mixed meter or how the music made her feel. She’d danced herself into frustrated exhaustion, and tried to use her magic to open a door for herself, the way she did with other dancers, or the amputees and injured people she worked with at the rehab center. It hadn’t worked, and she’d fallen asleep on her narrow downstairs couch.

  She’d awakened to a twilight world, where the colors were both saturated and muted, and the ground was both soft and unforgiving under her bare feet. The sky was unreal and yet familiar, as if she was looking through the back side of a fire opal, all red and blue and gray clouds and full of unfamiliar stars. The wind blew chilly, and she wished she’d brought her long, fluffy sweater, only to realize that she was already wearing it. She wiggled her toes and watched red jazz oxfords close over them, to go with black-and-red checked leggings she’d worn in the Christmas dance concert. To her delight, the turquoise ends of her hair were decorated with a variety of long, thin brown, turquoise, and red feathers. Her mother would be so pleased that something of her bird heritage was visible.

  She would have continued playing with her wardrobe if she hadn’t heard the sounds of a fight and gone to investigate, as one did in dreams, even though some part of her rational brain said it would be smarter to run away.

  The flat scrub desert morphed into an uphill climb with red, rocky outcrops, a surrealistic interpretation of the Native American Puebloan country of the Southwest. She slowly, carefully climbed a stack of rounded red rocks. She flattened herself on top, then inched forward until she could just see over the edge.

  Two creatures, knee deep in mist, fought with serious, deadly intent. One was so far from being human that it hurt to look at. It moved in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Deep, sickly green with orange splotches, its head and neck arose from the center of its chest. It had two dinosaur-huge legs with three-toed claws and a spiked tail, and two triple-jointed overhead appendages that looked too thin to deliver the powerful blows it was raining on its opponent.

  The other creature was much easier on the eyes, and riveted her attention. He looked Native American, with a dark braid of hair on one side of his head. The
other side was bare, except for the stunning, detailed, multicolored tattoo that she’d have liked to get a better look at. It seemed to be constantly changing, like the clouds her father used to create for her amusement as a child.

  The intricate designs trailed down his neck to his torso and the side of his left arm. He wore a short, beaded loincloth with a thin strap around his hips to keep it in place. She couldn’t see much of the front, but from the back, it showcased his beautifully rounded, very worthy ass. From the top of his thighs down, white and brown eagle feathers covered his legs, which ended in sharp, five-toed talons. He had an arrhythmic but graceful gait. Everywhere he stepped, the mist cleared.

  The compellingly attractive man was fast and agile, which was a good thing because the ugly green creature, which she decided was a demon, was about a foot taller and fought dirty, pinching, gouging, and spitting. Fortunately, the man had magic at his disposal. When the demon threw a handful of red dust at the bird-legged man’s eyes, the man spoke a few unrecognizable words that turned the dust into a cloud of gnats that swarmed the demon’s face.

  The demon stumbled and spat out words that caused the gnats to burn like tiny fireworks. “Why is your female here, shaman?” Its voice was high and reedy. “Can’t best me by yourself?” The demon circled to the left, and the shaman countered.

  “She’s your illusion, fear-maker,” said the shaman. She knew they were talking about her, but all she could think about was how sexy his voice sounded, deep and resonant.