Kings of Midnight: Book One of The Midnight Saga

by J Q Anderson

  “Please take care of him,” I muttered.

  “Good-bye.”

  Back in my room, I sank into the mattress, buried in a mix of despair, exhaustion, and uneasy anticipation as my heart broke all over again. I closed my eyes, and a myriad of images of my time with Sebastián played in my head. In the midst of all the adversities we faced were so many happy moments. My chest ached as if my heart had been ripped out. Nata eventually lay beside me on my bed and hugged me silently while I cried. I finally let fatigue win, and the darkness swallowed me.

  I woke up physically restored but drained mentally. The adrenaline from the upcoming performance surged strong in my veins. I was in New York, dammit. Away from the Palacioses and the constant danger around them.

  Later in my dressing room, I plugged in my phone to create a relaxing mood. I was in my first costume, a meticulously embroidered, soft pink work of art created for the Rose Adagio of Aurora’s sixteenth birthday. I was finishing the last touches of my makeup when a soft knock on the door startled me.

  “Come in,” I said.

  In the mirror, I watched a stagehand walk in, carrying a huge bouquet of tea-colored roses.

  “These just came for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He placed the flowers on the dresser and scurried out. My heart woke. Sebastián? A little white envelope was clipped to the top of the bouquet. My pulse raced. Funny how hope could be a terrifying thing. I swallowed the emotions crowding my throat and, with trembling fingers, unclipped the envelope and pulled the card out:

  We’re so proud of you. You made it!

  We wish we could be there.

  Merde,

  Mamá, Papá, Sofía, Javi, and Sabrina

  The letters blurred as the last of my hopes faded. I looked up at the ceiling, pushing back the tears. Anger and hurt filled me. Move on, dammit. It’s over. I straightened my back. Madame was right. As much as Sebastián’s rejection hurt, I had to pour it all into my performance. I would make Federico proud, and I would put Madame’s hesitations about me to rest, for good.

  At the stage wing, a dancer from the corps fastened the back of my bodice as I bounced on my feet to stay warm.

  “You look perfect, Camila. Merde.”

  “Thank you. So do you. Merde.”

  “Camila, Marcos, five minutes,” the stage manager announced as Marcos stepped in from behind.

  We waited, listening to the music as I marked my steps in place. Marcos reached for my hand and squeezed it. Our eyes met and he grinned.

  “We’re going to kill it. I just know,” he said. “Let’s do this. Merde.”

  The overture began, and the familiar melody of Tchaikovsky’s magnificent score filled the air. I took my first step and was immediately immersed in the performance. Marcos was an incredible partner on stage, making every transition seamless. His hands were strong and his movements confident. The world around us disappeared, and it was just the two of us on the stage, moving in perfect synchronization as only our bodies knew how.

  Time flew by and I willingly got lost in the story, a world where everything was beautiful. As I whirled into a triple pirouette, my muscles burned with fatigue and ecstasy. My heart drummed against my ribs and I smiled, entrapped in that moment of happiness.

  In the third act, Marcos and I danced the grand pas de deux for the wedding scene. It was enchanting, and everyone in the cast looked radiant, the costumes magnificent. We became the story, and it wasn’t hard to leave the real world behind. We had worked so hard for this moment. This was why we forced our bodies to endure the constant pain, why we stayed late for endless rehearsals and said no to anything that wasn’t ballet. This was why. And to us, it was worth it.

  I took my last step and closed my eyes as the audience burst into applause. I blinked in the blinding lights of the stage, and the magic felt suddenly empty. Sebastián wasn’t in the audience. No, no. I told myself everything was perfect. This was all I needed, all I ever wanted.

  The last dancers took their bows, and Marcos held my hand as we bowed in unison. It was an amazing high. We had just performed on the New York stage. The applause continued even after the curtain fell. Then Marcos and I stepped out to the deafening cheers for one last bow. I pointed my left foot behind me, extending my arms to my sides as I bowed in a final grande révérance. The audience stood, cheering bravos while they showered us with flowers. Federico came on stage and handed me an enormous bouquet of flowers, kissing my cheek softly.

  “You were magnificent. Well done,” he whispered in my ear. Bright moisture swam in his eyes.

  I grinned, ecstatic, standing on top of the world. Marcos squeezed my hand, his own happiness stretching across his face.

  “We were amazing,” he said. His tender hazel eyes were warm as he brought my hand to his lips. This was us. When we were on stage together, there was nothing else.

  The back hallways buzzed with energy as the cast congratulated each other and scattered to get ready for a big celebration night in New York. Nata intercepted me backstage and pulled me into a tight embrace.

  “You were perfect! I wish you could’ve seen yourself from the audience. You were magical, Camila.” She blinked the tears and I couldn’t stop mine.

  “Thank you. It felt incredible. I can’t believe it’s over.”

  “Oh, it’s not over. You get to do it again the day after tomorrow. And again, and again, and again.”

  Marcos appeared, then we stepped out into the frosted evening, and a shower of flashes exploded as a group of photographers crowded around us. Marcos wrapped his arm around Nata’s and my waist, and we posed for the hungry cameras.

  “One of you two,” a reporter said. “The prince and princess!”

  Nata stepped aside and Marcos pulled me closer.

  “A kiss! Come on! Kiss her!” another voice shouted. Before I could blink, Marcos wrapped me in his arms and kissed me hard on the mouth, bending me backward like that famous New York photo of the sailor and the nurse. Another steady stream of flashes exploded. Unwrapping myself from Marcos’s arms, I pushed away from him and turned to Nata. I ushered her toward the curb, away from the photographers.

  “What the hell was that about?” I blurted.

  “He’s just playing along. Reporters love portraying the principals as real couples. It’s part of the show. It sells.”

  “Well, I don’t like it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Of Sebastián…”

  “He’s in the hospital because of me. What’s he going to think when he sees a photo of me kissing Marcos? It’s cruel and totally insensitive.”

  “Cami.” Nata held my hand and squeezed it. “Stop tormenting yourself about that. You’re in New York! And Sebastián’s got more important things to worry about.”

  Marcos caught up as we hailed a cab. “Ha. That was fun, eh?”

  “Marcos don’t do that again,” I said as Nata scooted into the back seat.

  “Ah, c’mon. It’s all a show.”

  I frowned. “No, okay?”

  “Lighten up, Cams, will you?”

  During the cab ride to the dinner, Nata showed me all the photos she had taken before the performance: people dressed in their finest attire, the glow from the Lincoln Center fountain, the imposing light fixtures decorating the theater, the red carpet, selfies with the dancers drinking champagne. Everyone was smiling, and I was glad she had done it so we had memories of all this.

  “Ah…our princesses and princes are finally all here. We can toast!” Federico stood from his seat at the head of an endless table. It was always strange to see him and Madame outside of the theater environment. Everyone filled their glasses and raised them. My cheeks burned and I quickly took my spot next to Nata and Marcos.

  “You’re cute when you blush.” Marcos winked, handing me a glass of champagne.

  “To the company,” Federico said, raising his glass.

  “To the company,” everyone replie
d in unison. Champagne flutes clinked as the cast relaxed after a long week. Waiters appeared from everywhere with trays filled with different kinds of food: Korean barbecue, Thai curries, pasta, grilled seafood. I had never seen such variety before. It all looked delicious, but my stomach was the hub for all my tension, and it wasn’t budging.

  First Cast danced again the following night, and again, Marcos and I sat in the audience. I couldn’t get over how different it was to watch from there. You didn’t see how difficult everything really was, all the things we worried about when we were on stage. Nata and Diego made the variations look beautiful, easy, effortless. I was blown away that these people were my friends, my family, and from the audience, I could fully see how talented they really were. I felt proud of being part of the Colón company. Tears welled in my eyes. Marcos smiled at me and wrapped his arm around my back.

  When we walked out to wait for Nata and the others, what looked like the same group of photographers from the previous night gathered around Marcos and me. Shit. Was this how it always was for principals? I had never gotten this much attention, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. A few months ago, I would’ve thought it was flattering, but now it felt invasive. I thought of Sebastián and how he hated reporters. Maybe the best thing for the company was for me to go along with the charade, but I really didn’t want people to think Marcos and I were a couple.

  Back in the hotel lobby, after another dinner with the cast, Federico waved Marcos and me over to a sitting area on the side.

  “I wanted to show you this.” He lifted the Arts section of the New York Times. “You two made the papers.”

  My stomach turned as I took the paper and stared at a large front-page photo of the two of us in Marcos’s dramatic kiss. The headline read: Love on and off the Stage: Buenos Aires’s Most Beloved Couple.

  “God,” I whispered, bringing my hand to my mouth in horror. “No.”

  “Yes,” Federico said, chuckling. “This is fantastic, Camila. Well done! It’s a great way for us to get publicity.”

  “Through gossip?” I snapped, unable to unglue my eyes from the paper.

  “Camila, it’s the New York Times! The people that matter to us, the people you’ll want to get exposed to as a performer, read this paper. The audience craves love stories. This is a great way for them to remember who you are.”

  I shook my head. Dammit, had Sebastián seen this already? From his room in intensive care? Get a hold of yourself.

  “What’s the matter?” Federico asked. “What do you care if people think you and Marcos are a couple? Believe me, any girl in the company would gladly play that role,” he said, grinning smugly at Marcos, who looked at me with an I didn’t do it expression.

  “I just…” I sighed.

  “Camila, sweetheart,” Federico said, caressing my hair. “Just go along with this. Have fun. The company can use the publicity. Just smile and hug Marcos for the cameras, okay?”

  I nodded slowly, thinking of what Madame had said to me at the restaurant. I couldn’t worry about this now. Worrying about stupid gossip would only be a distraction. Besides, Nata was right. Sebastián had more important things to deal with than my fake romance with Marcos.

  In the morning, Marcos, Nata, and I visited the studios of Manhattan Ballet. Andrew, their ballet master in chief, loved foreign dancers and had invited us to take a few classes with his cast.

  Marcos strode in like he owned the place, aware of the usual looks he got from both male and female dancers. Beside me, Nata moved with silent confidence. She was used to being surrounded by dancers of the highest caliber. Russian dancers normally were, having had to deal with the pressure from a very early age.

  Andrew had reserved some spots for us in the middle. I felt out of place as I peeled off my multiple layers of clothing, watching the Americans warm up on their portable barres. They looked more like Olympic athletes than ballet dancers. They were strong, athletic, muscular. No traces of the anorexic frames of ballet dancers that were popular in earlier years.

  During the break, a few principals invited us to a juice bar downstairs. They were friendly, but I couldn’t follow what they said because they all spoke quickly and had American accents. I had learned British English and never realized how different it was from the American dialect and pronunciation. Nata did better, though she didn’t engage in the conversations too much, and Marcos…well, he always seemed to manage just fine. I felt disconnected, and after the news about Sebastián, an elephant foot had settled permanently on my chest. I wanted to be there, in the moment. It made me angry that after dreaming of this for so long, part of me still longed to be back at home.

  When we arrived at the hotel in the afternoon, I was mentally and physically exhausted. Dancing normally took most of my energy, and now it was layered with worry, language barriers, and the constant social interaction.

  One night, Federico brought the principals along to a gala at a penthouse on the Upper West Side. I wore a gown I borrowed from Nata and thanked her incessantly as I glanced around. I would’ve never been able to afford clothes for an event like this. I thought of Sebastián, how he would easily blend in with this crowd, mingling with the guests, looking dashing in his tuxedo.

  At the party, we met Baryshnikov and famous actors like Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker. It was like being part of a scene in a movie, and I was ecstatic to be able to share all this unbelievable craziness with Nata. Like most ballet dancers, we had both admired Misha since we were kids, and now we were here, sipping champagne with him as he complimented us on our performances. It was beyond surreal.

  Everyone seemed interested in my “romance with Marcos.” The women looked at him with starry eyes, some men with a mix of envy and admiration, others with lust. More photos, more reporters everywhere. And after a while, I no longer fought the charade. It was easier to go along, and it would all end soon.

  The next morning, we met Christopher, Manhattan Ballet’s new choreographer. A native of London, he was the ultimate principal dancer: strong, confident, and oddly, also straight. He strode into the class with his hair tied back in a messy knot. He wore torn jeans and a black sweater pulled up at the sleeves. His features were masculine and attractive, but not in the typical pretty boy way.

  I could immediately tell people respected him. The moment he walked in, the class settled. Everyone stopped the chatter and hurried to their spots.

  During class, Christopher stayed close to me and gave me minor corrections. His hands were strong but gentle. A chill ran through my back as his hands clasped my waist from behind, and his warm breath brushed my neck as he adjusted my form.

  “See? When you straighten your back, you show the beautiful lines of your neck.” He grazed the back of his fingers along my neck. I blushed and felt everyone’s eyes on me.

  After class, he waved for me to approach him. I told Marcos and Nata I would meet them outside and draped my towel around my neck.

  “Great class. Camila, is it?” he said in his perfect British accent. I blinked, doing my best to ignore the blush that rose to my face. What was it about him that unsettled me?

  “Um, yes. Thanks.”

  “You’ve got a very nice form. I would love to work with you sometime.”

  Was he joking? Me? But when our eyes met, he was serious. I blushed again. Up this close, his presence was even stronger. He had pulled off his sweater during class and was wearing only a fitted, black T-shirt. My eyes were doing a thorough inventory of his biceps and the roped muscles under his shirt. He smiled at my lack of response. Crap.

  “See you in class tomorrow?” he said.

  “Um, yes. Sure. Bye.” I turned, cursing myself inwardly for the idiot I was. Two um yeses in two sentences. Perfect, Camila. Way to make an impression.

  Outside the studio, Marcos waited for me while chatting with a couple of the American—female—dancers. When he saw me, he scooped me up and kissed my cheek.

  “Let’s go, princess.”

&nbs
p; The girls gave me a once-over: lucky bitch. As soon as we stepped out, two waiting photographers fired a steady stream of photos. This again. Marcos smiled and whispered in my ear, “Let’s give them what they want. It’ll be good for both of us. Yes? But I won’t do it if you don’t want to.” His eyes were warm, his expression serious.

  I gave him a skeptical look. But I needed to get over my constant longing for Sebastián. It was over. And if some stupid photos would help my career, so be it.

  I nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  He draped his arm around my waist and pulled me to him. Click. Click. We both smiled, leaning our foreheads together like a couple having an intimate moment. Then we grinned as we turned to the cameras. Click. Click. Marcos took my face in his hands and kissed me deeply on the mouth. Click. Click. Click. I closed my eyes and let him kiss me. It felt both familiar and foreign. Click. Click. For the first time, I wasn’t really fighting him, and the familiarity I felt for Marcos, my friend, mixed with something sexier that was Marcos, the man. When he broke the kiss, I blinked at him and he smiled warmly. Click. Click. The photographers thanked us and scurried away to get a few shots of Nata and Diego.

  “A few of the dancers said a hotel down the street has a killer happy hour. They’ll meet us there later for a couple of drinks,” Marcos said as we set off to get a cab.

  I frowned. “Marcos, Federico said—”

  “Ah, Cams. It’s just a drink. Hey, I could see us here, you know? In New York…”

  My mind drifted as he went on about how great this all was. I listened in a daze caused partly by the icy wind and partly by what I had felt when he kissed me. And…I had also felt out of sorts around Christopher. What was happening to me? Was this a subconscious attempt to get over Sebastián? Marcos seemed oblivious.