“See you down there later then.”
His lips maneuvered into a strained smile as he crossed the rooftop. Then he was gone, leaving only his memory behind.
“Alexia!” Chloe called again. This time impatience coarsened the smoothness of her voice.
“Coming,” she replied as quickly as her slowed reflexes would allow.
Even through her drunken fog, Alexia’s legs stiffened as she drew closer to the roof’s edge once more. Leaning against the railing, Carrie and Chloe painted a sight as stunning as the city beyond. Chloe’s hair swirled up in the wind like shining strands of black ribbon. Now and then, one passed over her face. Her dark features were emphasized in the sensual lighting. Carrie stood as an angelic contrast at her side, making Alexia feel as though she were intervening in a mystic meeting between the divine and the unholy.
“Want one?” Chloe asked, pulling a pack of slim cigarettes from her handbag.
Alexia usually stayed away from smoking, a vice of many professional dancers she knew. But she couldn’t bring herself to refuse the offer from Chloe Monet. She took one with a slurred “thanks” before the pack was shifted to Carrie, who politely refused.
The tip of their cigarettes burned the same color that the city glowed below. Chloe inhaled deeply before puffing out a white cloud of smoke.
“Enjoying the party?”
Alexia felt the prickling of a blush rise on her cheeks. Wasn’t that obvious?
Without waiting for a response, Chloe strode on. “Carrie was just asking me about Leo. I thought you’d appreciate my opinion of him too.”
There was a twinkle of amusement in the depths of her black eyes, like she was winning at a game no one else knew they were playing.
Alexia’s reply was careful. “Of course.”
Not following anyone’s timeline but her own, Chloe took another drag of her cigarette.
“He’s a decent guy. Marque’s best friend since childhood. Very selective about the girls he pursues, so you should be flattered. Seems like you caught his eye with one look.”
Her boyfriend’s best friend. So that’s the connection.
Alexia waited in vain for something else of relevance to cling onto, but Chloe offered no further insight.
After a long pause, Carrie asked, “And what about Pierre?”
Alexia understood her hesitation. Pierre was Deborah’s plaything for one night; they all knew it.
“I believe…how do you say it…Pierre and Deborah are cut from the same cloth. They both do as they like without caring for the thoughts of others.”
“Deborah does care,” Carrie countered. “She just expresses it differently.”
Chloe replied with an “agree to disagree” shrug to move the conversation along. Despite being wrapped in thick layers, Carrie shuddered shortly after. Alexia couldn’t tell if she was cold or just pretending to be.
“I’m going to join the others,” she said, looking at Alexia with a telepathic stare that requested her to come downstairs as well.
Pretending to be cold it is. Well, two can play at that game.
“I’ll be down in a bit,” she replied, intentionally overlooking Carrie’s cue.
Alexia took a deep drag of her cigarette to avert her rising guilt as Carrie left. Unaccustomed to the toxic fumes, she rattled off into a coughing spasm.
Chloe’s laugh cut her deep. “You don’t normally smoke, do you?”
Alexia shook her head.
“Well, that’s a good thing. They’re bad for you, you know?”
Angling the cigarette’s trail of smoke away from her face, Alexia replied, “So I’ve heard.”
The silence that followed was piercing. Alexia scanned the rooftop to find that they were alone. Even though delusional, she hoped that Chloe had wanted to stay behind to spend time with her. Reason countered she was just finishing her smoke.
As if reinforcing the latter, Chloe’s eyes drifted from Alexia to the rooftops beyond the railing. Securing her hands on the waist-high bar, she leaned her shoulders over the nauseating drop to gaze out over the street below.
It was torture for Alexia to refrain herself from grabbing the back of Chloe’s coat and yanking her back.
Are you crazy? she wanted to scream.
But Chloe straightened herself a moment later, exiting the jaws of death as swiftly as she had entered them. The lines of her face were twisted with mischief when she turned back at Alexia.
“What to play a game?”
“Not if it includes heights.”
“Well, it does…but it’s nothing that would put you at risk of falling.” Chloe’s grin turned sinister as she spoke.
Alexia didn’t respond.
“I’ve played it before. It’s fun,” Chloe insisted.
Alexia shifted her gaze back over the city, which had suddenly developed a foreboding edge. Something in the amber lights had shifted, transforming Paris into a fiery hell that beckoned them.
“How good is your aim?” Chloe asked, her voice like an enchantress luring Alexia into a dark netherworld.
“It’s…okay.”
“Perfect. Come over here.”
Without realizing it, Alexia had been slowly backing away. Five feet of space now distanced her from Chloe. Gulping down the lump of fear in her throat, Alexia dared one step forward. Then another. And another. A devilish wind picked up the closer she ventured, and by the time she reached the edge, her hands were clutching the rail like her life depended on it. The cold of the metal bar seeped through the fleece lining of her gloves, piercing her skin like nails. Summoning the courage to lift her eyes over the rail, she followed the direction of Chloe’s gaze to the street eight stories below. Pedestrians were reduced to figurines from the height, although there were few of them braving the glacial temperatures.
“I call this game Luciole.”
“What does that mean?”
The words had come out strangled, Alexia’s voice breathless from fright.
“Ah, good question! See, it makes more sense in English. A luciole is a firefly.”
There was no time for Alexia to contemplate all the possibilities her mind was spinning off. In one swift motion, Chloe raised what was left of her glowing cigarette, aimed it at one of the people below, and sent it sailing through the dark night. Alexia watched in horror as the glowing ember plummeted closer and closer to the targeted individual, instinct telling her to scream, Watch out!
But she said nothing.
The cigarette landed directly on the person’s head, and their arms came up in a frantic swoop to brush it from their hat.
“Get back,” Chloe hissed as the victim’s head tilted skyward.
Alexia didn’t have to be asked twice. She retreated from the railing with disgusted horror, never wanting to return. None of these sentiments, however, were expressed by Chloe. Her face merely shone with contempt.
“I’m quite good at this game, aren’t I?”
Alexia didn’t reply, sinking further into her shame the longer they stood in silence. Little did she know, they weren’t standing idle. They were waiting. Waiting for the coast to be clear. Once it was, Chloe skipped back to the railing.
“Come on, Alexia, it’s your turn!”
Hearing her name come from Chloe’s lips had an unusual effect, seeming to dilute the profound repulsion she’d felt for Chloe only a moment before. It rolled off her tongue in a sacred string of sound, like each letter of her name had waited a lifetime to be spoken by Chloe Monet, and Chloe Monet alone.
The hypnotic effect coaxed Alexia to approach the railing with the help of the fallacious excuses she was frantically bringing to mind. This was Paris, after all. Everyone smokes. Cigarette butts must get thrown out of apartment windows all the time. So what if a bit of aiming was involved?
Someone’s hair could catch fire! Her conscience retaliated.
But Chloe called to her again, dispelling the thought with gentle encouragement.
“Go ahead, Alexia. T
hat one, there.”
With her morals inhibited by the inexplicable desire to please Chloe, Alexia tossed her cigarette over the edge. Her conscience took the reins at the last second, twisting her wrist before the butt was released, and the smoking missile plummeted off course. It landed in an area of road void of any human targets.
Chloe’s scoff smothered Alexia’s brief sense of victory.
“I hope your dancing is better than your throwing,” she said. “I’m bored with this game. Let’s go inside.”
Alexia nearly fainted from shock when Chloe wrapped a delicate arm around her, pulling her across the rooftop toward the staircase door. When they reached the apartment this time, she no longer felt she had to enter for a peek inside Chloe’s world. Alexia was already in it. And what a thrilling, twisted world it was.
CHAPTER 4
The wind showed no sign of letting up the following morning, sweeping through the narrow Parisian streets with intent. Alexia wrapped her scarf higher around her cheeks until only her eyes were visible above the line of wool. The cold was doing nothing for her headache. Even though she’d brushed her teeth twice that morning, tangy whiffs of alcohol kept surfacing from the depths of her stomach. The smell brought her to a standstill several times on the journey to the Opéra Magique, afraid she would lose her breakfast all over the charming streets.
Alexia was still mulling over the conundrum of how she would get through practice in her state when her name was called out. The voice, worsened by her hangover, reached her in a loud, shrill note. Alexia winced as she turned. Kelly was running up behind her. Her jacket was only half-zipped, her head was hatless, and there was no scarf protecting her neck from the elements. As if immune to the arctic air, she approached Alexia with a carefree grin.
“Hey, I thought that was you!”
She looked as fresh as the air she jogged through, so put together, which filled Alexia with annoyed jealousy.
“Aren’t you freezing?”
“Nope. It’s like minus thirty in Toronto right now. Oh sorry, you guys use Fahrenheit, right? I think that equates to minus twenty or something. Anyway, this is like a spring day to me.”
Alexia raised her eyebrows incredulously under her hat, but the gesture was hidden from Kelly, who apparently only noticed how terrible she looked.
“Did you sleep last night? Eyes look a bit red.”
Crap.
“Not that much,” Alexia admitted.
What time had she gotten home? 3:00 a.m? After the rooftop with Chloe, the rest of the night—or morning—was a blur.
“How was the dinner?” Alexia asked, wanting to change the subject.
“It was great,” Kelly replied, tugging on the handle of the lion knocker as they reached the opera house. An inviting blast of warm air bid them welcome as they entered the foyer.
“I mean, you can’t go wrong with any of the food here, but it was especially nice to get to know everyone better. Initially, I thought the other dancers might be a bit stuck-up, you know? Being some of the best in their country and all. But they’re all so cool. Disciplined, of course, but still down-to-earth. No one wanted to stay out past nine.”
Wish that had been me.
Although Alexia didn’t really. If she could have gone back in time, she would have done the same thing all over again. Except with a few less martinis.
Kelly waved at the gentleman behind the reception desk as they passed.
“Did you end up going to Chloe’s?”
“Yup,” Alexia muttered, thankful her scarf concealed her tone.
“How was it?”
“Fun.”
“Was she a bit more talkative?”
Alexia shrugged. “She was chatty enough.”
Their conversation had reached a natural pause when they arrived at the dressing room. Alexia relished a few minutes of not having to think when Kelly got swept into conversation with the other dancers. As they trickled into the auditorium, Alexia lagged, sipping water in an attempt to dilute her raging hangover. She was just about to refill her bottle when the door opened. Chloe waltzed in looking as fresh as Kelly, her skin shining a sun-kissed glow, lips tinted a rich pinkish-brown color, and never-ending lashes as dark as the eyes they shielded. Alexia peeked at her own reflection in the mirror, hair ruffled like the ragged ends of an old mop, bloodshot eyes, and skin so dry it was cracking.
Stunning.
Chloe slipped off her coat. “How are you feeling this morning?”
She was turned to the locker so Alexia couldn’t see her face, but there was a hint of mockery in her tone. It caused anxiety to descend like a weight on her shoulders. Had she done something embarrassing that she couldn’t remember? The end of the night was so foggy…
“I’ve felt better,” Alexia replied in a small voice. “You?”
“I feel fine. Only had a few glasses. Didn’t want to be too hungover today.”
Of course, how sensible.
“I shouldn’t have drunk at all. Alcohol is a slippery slope with me. If it’s one, it’s ten.”
Chloe laughed. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Binge drinking is common for all Americans, no? It’s your drinking age that’s the problem. So much deprivation. In France, we grow up with alcohol so there’s no urge to control.”
The condescendingness of her tone cut like a dagger through the insecurities of Alexia’s temperament. Was her hangover toying with her head, or was Chloe being standoffish again? And just when she thought she was in the club…
As if proving this theory, Chloe finished changing and left the dressing room without waiting for Alexia.
There was a sudden sting in her eyes, and to Alexia’s complete mortification, she realized she was going to cry.
No way! Not today.
Alexia darted to the sink, turned on the tap, and splashed her face vigorously. Thankfully, the shock of the water’s icy temperature was enough to freeze her emotions. Blotting her skin dry with a hand towel, she took a deep breath before striding out the door with her head held high.
“Alexia!” Mrs. Beaumont beamed on the other side, welcoming her into the sanctuary of the stage. “Wonderful, now we’re all here.”
Seeing Mrs. Beaumont’s face was exactly the comfort Alexia needed. It sent warm feelings of home radiating through every inch of her core.
“Take fifteen to stretch, and then we’ll take it from the top.”
Despite Alexia’s best efforts, she blundered more than once that morning. Her hangover was like a hurricane, headstrong in its resolve to bring her down. A number of times she shifted late, throwing off the whole visual sync of the dance, but worse was when she stumbled out of a fouetté turn. Not because she lost her balance, but because the spinning was so nauseating that she was sure she’d projectile vomit all over the floor if she kept turning.
The rest of the dancers were overly nice to her, believing she was still jet lagged. But their sympathy only heightened Alexia’s guilt. Although she accepted their kind words with gracious nods, inside, her conscience was clawing her raw.
When class was dismissed, Alexia waited until the last dancer had vacated the stage. She found Mrs. Beaumont reviewing notes in the first row of the auditorium.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Beaumont?”
The director eyed her with guarded surprise.
“Do you know if anyone has the space booked this evening? I’d like to stay back to practice if that’s alright.”
Mrs. Beaumont put down her pen, rising to her feet with a grace that justified her lifelong career in dance.
“I’ll check for you now…” But before she turned, added, “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Alexia. I understand the pressure you’re under to pull this performance together on such short notice, but you’ve been mastering the art of ballet your entire life. You know what to do. The only thing that’s standing in your way is your head. You need to let the stress of being perfect go…just relax. Just dance. Show this city the art that you love. If you do that,
they’ll love it and you in return.”
The words were effective in restoring some sense back into Alexia, and as Mrs. Beaumont slipped farther down the long aisle to the theater’s front entrance, she was left alone to process them. The longer she remained in the silence of the space, the louder her thoughts grew. It wasn’t just a hangover getting the better of her—something had crawled under her skin. Her eyes circled the gilded ceiling, resting on an angel in the mural. What was it about this place? Ever since her first time on this stage, she hadn’t been herself.
The answer came slowly, either from the depths of her subconscious or the angel above.
Chloe.
Chloe was the reason she felt this way—was performing this way. The principal dancer threw her off course; was a bad influence on her behavior, morals, and career.
Well, enough time had been wasted on Chloe. Not wanting to lose another minute, Alexia dove into the performance mindset she should have been in all day. With newfound determination, she arched her right arm over her head while hearing the accompanying music in her mind. She exhaled, letting her body float into the routine, executing the perfect amount of control without overriding the fluidity of each movement. With no one to distract her, she glided across the stage, falling further and further into herself and the symphony that played through her mind—tapping into something she hadn’t tapped into since arriving in France.
At the end of the number, Alexia was pulled from her trance by the sound of clapping. Startled, she glanced down to find Mrs. Beaumont beaming up at her.
“You’ve waited all this time to show me you can move like that?”
“I—”
“No excuses tomorrow,” the director cut in. “But if you still believe it to be beneficial, you’re free to practice for another hour. The receptionist assured me no one will disturb you.”
Alexia thanked Mrs. Beaumont, her blush dissipating as they bid each other goodnight. Wanting to keep her mindset in its current creative focus, she hurried to run through the routine again. She repeated each sequence she faltered on until it was drilled so deep into her muscle memory that not even the collapse of the building around her would tamper with her flow. By the end of the hour, Alexia had made more progress than she had the entire day. Sweat-bathed and panting, she retired to the dressing room, finding a spot on the bench to wait for her perspiration to dry enough that she wouldn’t catch hypothermia on the walk back.
Black Frost Winter: The Black Seasons Book Two Page 7