The Dance (2 page)

“I'll swear I haven't. Unless I can get Mom's car, I swing off the bus in front of the theater, go in, come out, catch the bus back home in the same place. I've peeked in the windows, but I've never been inside.”

“All right. I'll trust you.” Bryan accepted the wager.

He could feel the ribs on the cold doorknob through his gloves. Pushing the heavy door open, they had taken only two steps into the shop when a tiny jangling sound from over their heads announced them.

“I win!” Melanie laughed. Only Bryan would know that her merriment wasn't real.

“You knew you would. You cheated.”

Warm air, smelling of hot radiators and fresh incense, brushed Bryan's nose. After he closed the door it settled all around him, heavy and slightly musty. He took off his gloves and unbuttoned his jacket.

The shop was poorly lit, and little light came from outside since thick clouds and the snow had dimmed the afternoon. It was larger than he had anticipated, with part of the shop branching off to the right.

A painted plaster dragon crouched over the front door. It breathed incense from the snout. Its black marble eyes stared down on them contemptuously. Melanie giggled and clutched Bryan's arm, pretending to be frightened.

They gazed at a shelf of books, old and collectable. But the titles weren't what he would have expected:
The Truth, Judas Underground, Devils Past and Present, Guide to Herbal Healing, Magic and the Maya
. Not your run-of-the-mill library fare.

“Oh, I've read them all,” Bryan said, acting disappointed and turning away, enjoying Melanie's laughter, even though he heard the nervous catch in it. “
All
right.” He turned a corner. “Mother will love these.” That was their story. They were shopping for a Christmas gift for Bryan's mother.

Where the shop doglegged to the right there was another room, different from the rest of the shop. Long and short swords shared a wall on the right with overlapping tapestries. Framed oil paintings and sketches were spread across the center wall. Shelves of colored candles lined the wall opposite the swords.

“Bryan, look.” Melanie pointed at a stuffed owl in flight, going nowhere on an elevated platform. In the corner below the owl sat a tilted, convex mirror, the kind used to watch customers.

Melanie had meant for him to see the owl, but he was more aware of the mirror. He had the creepy feeling that someone was watching them explore.

The walls of the room had been designed to simulate grainy, unfinished stone. Bryan rapped twice on the sword wall and found it was plaster board. A curvy, snake-like dagger clinked, vibrating at his knock.

One painting in particular caught Bryan's eye, initially because of the ornate frame. It went so perfectly with the painting, Bryan could easily believe that the painting and the frame had grown old together over the years, or perhaps centuries.

#ARTH-37: ORIGINALLY FROM THE VILLEFORT COLLECTION, PARIS, 1874. THIS IS MADAME DE BECLIER, ALSO SISTER JEANNE DES ANGES, SAID TO HAVE BEEN POSSESSED BY DEVILS IN 1633 IN THE URSULINE CONVENT AT LOUDON, FRANCE. IT IS PROBABLY THE FIRST COMMISSIONED WORK OF BATISTE D'ALGORET, PAINTED IN 1621.

The picture was a study in blue. The nondescript background behind the young, pretty face was a very dark shade of blue, the plain garment and cap a clean, grayish-blue. The eyes were a blue so light and vulnerable as to give the whole face an ephemeral quality, making Bryan imagine she might vanish if he reached out and touched her cheek. Without meaning to, surprising himself, he started to do so.

“You can't have her.” Melanie jerked his hand back. “I'd be jealous all the time.”

“I—” Bryan felt his face heat up. He felt silly.

“She is a witch. Look at how she captivated you in seconds.”

Bryan laughed, knowing he was blushing. He stepped back, inadvertently brushing the wall with the painting. To his surprise, the surface was cold and damp, real stone.

“Anyway, did you see the price?” asked Melanie, still talking about the painting. “You can't afford that picture. Let's go back and look at the jewelry. Your mom would rather have jewelry.”

Bryan felt a shiver run over him, probably from the shock of the wall's surface. This place was spooky. And didn't anyone work here? He followed Melanie back into the main room.

Somewhere, violins were playing on a radio. The melody sounded like a Strauss waltz, but as Bryan was about to place it, the music was shut off. Thick maroon drapes covered a wide doorway behind the cash register. They parted in the middle, revealing an old woman in a black dress. She stood motionless and stared at them, her square face in a frown, as if they had disturbed her. Didn't she welcome customers?

“Frau Voska,” Melanie said. “I didn't know you worked here. Is this your shop?”

“You know this woman?” Bryan whispered. “She looks like a refugee from ancient Russia.” Even at Melanie's greeting, the woman didn't smile. And she said nothing.

“We came into the shop to look for a Christmas present—for Bryan's mother. Something unusual.” Melanie spoke as if she were apologizing for disturbing the woman. As if she had to explain that a shop usually expected customers. Especially during the holidays.

“Look, look.” Frau Voska waved at them. “I get you help. Do not take down the swords.” She looked right at Bryan. “I have to get the ladder to put back the hooks.”

“I won't touch anything, I promise.” Bryan held up both hands and whispered again to Melanie when they were alone. “Who is that, anyway? Mother Russia?”

Melanie punched Bryan, holding a finger to her lips. “Mother Germany.” She whispered, too. “She's the dance master at the ballet school. I guess she works here as well.”

“She's a dancer?” Bryan raised his eyebrows.

“She was once. A very famous ballerina in Germany before the war.”

“What war? World War One? You won't look like that someday, will you, Mel? Promise me. Otherwise I may have to curtail a lot of daydreams I'm having about us.”

“I can't promise anything. Serves you right for thinking those kinds of thoughts.”

“I can't help myself.” Bryan pulled Melanie into his arms and for a moment held her green eyes captive. She twisted away.

“If Leona isn't here, my plan isn't going to work,” Melanie whispered when Bryan joined her, staring into the glass cases of antique jewelry.

“Good,” he whispered back. “Let's leave.”

The music, now a piano sonata, began again, the volume muted.

Bryan rubbed the chin of a huge gray pouf pillow curled on the counter in front of him. The cat looked at Bryan, squinting blue eyes, and started to purr. But she leaped to life, jumped off the glass case, and disappeared at the sound of a voice behind them.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“Oh!” Melanie stepped backward into Bryan, making him catch his balance to support her. “Madame Leona.”

“Do I know you?” the woman asked, her words formed with a slight accent.

She was tall, an inch or so taller than Melanie, but she had the same slim dancer's body, even though she was older—forty maybe. Her eyes were dark, intense, and captured Bryan's for longer than he felt comfortable. He felt partly drawn in, fascinated, by her. But another part felt as if he was trespassing, that he was violating Leona's personal space by entering the shop.

Despite his feeling, Bryan continued to stare. Leona's hair was drawn severely back into a bun on the back of her long neck. Her face reminded Bryan of Egyptian or Greek beauties he'd seen in paintings. Perfectly oval, it framed high cheek bones, a Roman nose, a strong chin, and full lips. An aura of confidence surrounded her, confidence in her beauty, herself, secure in the knowledge that she was in charge here.

“I—I'm in your dance school,” Melanie stuttered. Bryan had never seen her so ill at ease.

“Of course,” Madame Leona said, but Bryan felt sure Leona didn't recognize Melanie. “You are in the advanced class.” The woman had perfect posture, perfect poise.

Melanie nodded and focused her attention on the case before her. “We need some jewelry for a special gift. Oh, look.” She pointed, relaxing again, her attention on a necklace. “That, Bryan, how about that? It's lovely.”

Madame Leona brought out a medallion on a silver chain, holding it gracefully in hands with incredibly long fingers.

The center of the medallion, a brilliant red stone, was circled by seven silver gargoyle-like figures. Bryan thought them rather grotesque, even though delicately carved. On the back of the disc was a panther, its head held proudly.

“I love it,” Melanie said softly, obviously captivated by the piece now that she'd gotten a closer look.

“Then I'll buy it for you for Christmas. I don't think my mom would like it.”

“I'm sorry, it's not for sale.” Madame Leona took the necklace away swiftly and set it back into the case.

Bryan pretended anger. “Then why did you show it to us?”

Madame Leona shrugged, unaffected by his reaction. “Why didn't you try out for my class, Melanie, and the ballet?”

“I did.” Melanie said, and Bryan could feel her tense up. This was why they were here. “I wasn't good enough. I didn't make it.”

“I might have been mistaken. And I need another dancer.” Madame Leona studied Melanie, tilting her head down, as if looking over half glasses. “I remember you now. You were very talented. It was a hard choice. I'll expect you Monday at four.”

The woman turned and left the shop through the maroon curtain. Even if Melanie and Bryan were really shopping, the meeting with Leona was over. But it didn't matter. Melanie's goal was accomplished. Leona needed another student to replace Paulie. Melanie was going to be that dancer.

“Let's get out of here.” Bryan took Melanie's arm and pulled her to the front door. The
ding-a-ling-ling
of the bell was no longer cheery.

“Oh, Bryan—” Melanie spun across the sidewalk, her fear forgotten, elated by her success. “I did it! I'm sure I'm in the troupe. And, Bryan, that was Paulie's necklace.”

Bryan shook his head. “You don't know that for sure. There could be more than one. And I don't like this idea, Mel, I don't like it at all. I didn't like it before I met that woman. Now I like it even less. I don't think you should be in Madame Leona's dance troupe.”

“I don't care, Bryan. The only way I can really investigate Paulie's death is if I take her place. I'm a good actress. You saw me. Leona will never suspect me, and if I find out we're wrong, that Paulie's death was an accident, well—well—then I'll be on the next step toward my dance career. I can't lose.”

“I couldn't stand to lose you, Melanie.” Bryan took her in his arms again.

“You won't, Bryan. I promise I'll be careful. No way are you going to get rid of me that easily.”

Melanie could make all the promises she wanted. But now that Bryan had met Madame Leona, the woman behind all this mystery, he wasn't sure Melanie
could
keep her promise.

two

And the demon Tamiel sheathed his claws and gentled before her.

I
T WAS
M
ONDAY
, after what Melanie thought was the longest weekend of her life. She hurried along the sidewalk up Eighteenth Street, past shops that were only a blur out of the corners of her eyes.

She peeked at her watch. I'll be early, she worried. It wasn't even three-thirty, and Madame Leona had said four. She slowed her pace and transferred her dance bag from one hand to another. She guessed it would be all right to be early, but then it might be more professional to be exactly on time. She needed to act professional, and to dance her heart out—whatever it took to get in this troupe.

The sidewalk was dangerously slick with packed snow. That's all I need, she thought. The headline would read:
MELANIE CLARK FOUND SPRAWLED ON EIGHTEENTH STREET SIDEWALK WITH ALL BONES BROKEN
. She laughed at the thought, but it wasn't nearly as scary as what she might be getting herself into. If she was right, and Leona had something to do with Paulie's death, a broken bone might look good compared to what else could happen to her.

The heavy snow that fell Saturday night was melting in the streets. Cars sloshed along, throwing water from the curbs, which caused her to stop and go, dodging the spray.

When she finally stood in front of the theater, she set her dance stuff beside her. She forced herself to wait until she regained her composure.

Once inside the Lafayette, which is what she called it though it was now properly the Blue Princess, she walked towards the down stairway on the other side of the stairs to the balcony. It was cordoned off.

“Hello, Miss.” The theater custodian was coming down the stairs. He stopped his broom long enough to greet her and check why she was there. “Dance troupe?”

“Hi, Mr. Brandish. I hope so.” Melanie navigated around the nearest brass post with its thick maroon rope. After descending two flights of groaning wooden stairs, she stood on the concrete floor of the old basement. There was junk everywhere: boxes, play props, a rack of moth-eaten tailcoats and once-glittery costumes, more boxes, lumber, an old upright piano, and a huge mound of shipping excelsior.

The door to the studio was beside her to the right. She took a deep breath, opened it with a confident thrust, and stepped inside.

“Miss Clark. You are early.”

Frau Voska was standing right inside the door, like a guard. Melanie felt as though someone had knocked her aside with a battering ram. Her heart was beating a hundred miles an hour.

All she could think of to say was, “Thank you, Frau Voska.”

Terrific, she thought. I don't know if being early is good or bad. And there was certainly no way to tell by the tone of Frau Voska's voice.

At the bars were Laurie Roberts and Jean Whitney, who were also in her advanced class. They paused just long enough to give her a quick hello wave. Madame Leona stood at the far side of the studio with three girls that Melanie didn't know. She seemed not to have noticed her yet. Until now, Melanie didn't realize how weak her legs felt.