Dance of Fire (9 page)

‘Come on,' Geo hollered from a block away, yanking her back into reality. ‘Let's see what's happening!'

Vanessa caught herself and stepped back, realising what she had almost allowed herself to do.

‘We shouldn't lose them,' she said, and squinted into the distance as Geo and Svetya ran ahead.

Justin brushed the hair from her face. ‘No,' he whispered. ‘We shouldn't.'

The street ended at the river, with a flight of steps that led from street level down to a flat area alongside the water. In front of a row of darkened boats, a ring of firelight flickered with the shadows of street performers.

‘Hurry up, slowcoaches!' Geo cried.

Without hesitating, Justin took Vanessa's hand in his own, and they ran, catching up to Svetya and Geo, who lingered at the edge of a large crowd.

‘Everything's good, yeah?' Geo asked them.

‘I forgot my scarf at the restaurant,' Vanessa said quickly. ‘But I'll go back for it tomorrow.' She arched her neck to see over the crowd of onlookers. She could just make out a series of torches lying in a circle on the pavement, their flames flickering in the wind. A troupe of dancers flashed through
the dim light, thumping their feet against the pavement. ‘What is this?'

‘Nobodies,' Svetya said, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. ‘Amateurs.'

Vanessa had seen street dancers before, but nothing like this. There were seven of them, five men and two women. In spite of the cold, the men were shirtless, and all seven wore brightly coloured harem pants and leather sandals. They ­circled the pile of torches, their hands linked, stepping in perfect synchrony. A wider ring of torches highlighted their performance space. A man stood in the back, beating a tall teak drum.

Watching them made Vanessa shiver and push her hands deeper into her coat pockets. ‘How can they stand the cold?'

‘Keeps them moving, I guess,' Justin said.

As the drumbeat picked up again, the dancers pistoned their legs up and down in unison. They chanted across the piled-up torches in a call-and-response that got faster in time with the drumming.

Then suddenly the dancers were clapping and turning ­cartwheels over the flames, leaping into the air and flinging themselves back the way they'd come, as if gravity couldn't hold them.

A lean, muscular man climbed on to another dancer's shoulders, resting his feet on either side of the man's head. Then he leaned down and replaced his feet with his hands, kicking his legs in the air.

‘Bloody perfect!' someone in the crowd hollered as the audience clapped its approval.

‘I've never seen anyone dance like this,' Vanessa said, awed. ‘It's more acrobatics than anything else. But . . . wow.'

‘You guys go ahead,' Justin told Svetya and Geo. ‘We're going to stay and watch.'

After the others had gone, Justin slipped deeper into the crowd, pulling Vanessa with him until the outer ring of torches were flickering at their feet.

One of the women swept by, her arms clinking with bangles and bracelets, her skin glistening through holes in her raggedy pants. She stopped and picked up the two torches in front of Vanessa, then twirled them around her body. Her black eyes lingered unblinking on Vanessa's for a moment, blank and depthless like a wild animal's gaze.

Then the woman arched her neck and raised the torches above her head. With a swift bend of one arm, then the other, she plunged the fire into her mouth, swallowing the flames with a hiss. Behind her, the others did the same.

In a moment there was only one torch left, sputtering alone on the pavement.

Silence, followed by applause and catcalls from the crowd.

Justin's breath was warm against the back of Vanessa's neck. ‘What did you think?' His cheeks were flushed pink with cold, his blue eyes as wide and clear as a winter morning.

‘It's like nothing I've ever seen,' she told him. ‘Thanks for making me stay.'

Justin let out a laugh. ‘
Making
you stay? If only I could. Every time I look at you, I think how devastated I'll be when you finally decide to leave.'

The drumming began again, and the audience cheered, their claps and shouts echoing into the London night. Behind Vanessa, the torches had been lit again – she could see the firelight's reflection in Justin's face, could hear the chanting from the circle.

Gently she ran her fingertips down the rough calluses of Justin's palm, imagining him grasping her waist, his fingers tangling in her hair, his lips pressing against hers. She turned back to the dancers.

Justin wrapped his hand around hers and pulled her close, until she could feel his chest rising and falling behind her. She leaned into him, and for the first time in a long while she felt her worries about Margaret and the competition extinguished by his touch. If only life were simpler and they actually could be together . . .

A man strode into the centre of the circle, his bare chest gleaming in the torchlight. His bronze skin was streaked with paint and sweat, his head shaved except for a thick braid that hung down the centre of his back. He held the single torch in front of him.

‘We need a volunteer,' he said. ‘Are there any dancers in the audience?'

Before Vanessa realised what was happening, Justin had raised her hand into the air. ‘No,' she told him, pulling away. ‘I don't want to –'

But it was too late. The bare-chested man had already whisked her into the circle, his hand closing around her wrist.

‘You'll have fun!' Justin called. ‘I promise!'

All around her, Vanessa heard drumming, chanting, the sound of the dancers' bracelets clinking together as they circled her. The pungent smell of their sweat filled the air. A part of her wanted to leave, to run back to Justin, but another part suddenly felt free.

‘Just follow me,' the man whispered over the music. ‘You'll be fine.'

The thump of the drums grew louder, taunting, coaxing her to keep up. She straightened her spine and watched as the dancers tossed the torch over her head, their voices calling out for her to catch it.

She let her feet take over, allowing herself to be carried away by the rhythm.

With every flash of firelight overhead, she spun, following the torch, her feet propelling her around the other ­dancers, her hair whipping across her face. Her moves were wild, unchoreographed. There were no steps to learn, no positions to hold – only the stamping of the dancers around her, and the drums reverberating through the ground like a ­heartbeat.

Her body moved almost without her knowing, and she found herself leaping up just as the torch passed over her head, the flames flickering like glowing locks of hair. Her fingers wrapped around the handle.

The crowd roared its approval. Someone screamed, ‘Nice catch!'

Landing, she swung the torch and tossed it to one of the dancers.

The crowd applauded again, and she laughed and swung herself back into the dance. She was actually having
fun
.

As she did, she met Justin's gaze. Flushed with exertion, she threw her jacket to the ground, letting the cold breeze hit her skin.

‘Come on,' she called to him. ‘Dance with me!'

Justin stepped forward and grasped at the thin fabric of her shirt, his hands circling around her back. She let her body soften into his, letting his hand guide her back into a low arch. The crowd sounded watery, as if echoing from a parallel world. The night around her melted into light and faces, the expressions of those around her hollow and foreign.

All except one. Justin's.

There were more cheers. Vanessa laughed and looked up at the sky. Her heart was racing, life pulsing through her veins. She felt free and joyous. This was what it should be like to dance. This was what she loved. The dancers flitted on all sides like sparks around a flame. She let the wind carry her, her long hair tangled around her face, her feet finding their way back to Justin while the crowd whistled and whooped.

She leaped up and caught the torch again, then waved it in a circle, illuminating the faces of the other dancers. As she spun, faces in the crowd came into focus: a young bearded guy in a porkpie hat; a mother and father with kids on their shoulders; two teenage girls linking arms and –

She dropped the torch. The crowd went silent. The dancers around her slowed.

‘What's wrong?' Justin asked, taking her hand.

One of the other dancers, her face streaked with paint, picked up the torch and approached Vanessa. ‘Are you OK?'

But Vanessa barely noticed, for in the flicker of the torchlight, someone else had caught her attention: a pair of familiar metallic-grey eyes.

Across the circle, he still looked just as beautiful as he had in New York. And just as dangerous. He could be here for only one reason: the demon.

‘Zep,' she said to Justin. ‘He's here.'

‘Where?' Justin followed her gaze just in time to see Zep turn away, fading into the crowd. Without another word, ­Justin ran after him.

Vanessa grabbed her jacket and followed, dodging well-wishers in the audience. Far away, she could see Zep fleeing up the steps, Justin close on his heels, horns honking as they dived in and out of traffic. One car swerved, its tyres squealing.

She bolted after them. The cold bit at her lungs, each breath seeming to whisper,
Zep. Zep. Zep.

Justin had almost caught up to him when a double-decker bus pulled away from the kerb, its headlights casting yellow cones of light across the road. Zep leaped and pulled himself up on to the back.

Vanessa caught up to Justin, and together they watched as the old-fashioned tourist bus sped away down the street, Zep hanging off the outside and looking their way with haunted eyes as he was carried away into the night.

Chapter Six

By firelight, three men huddled over a tarnished lamp, swirls of black tattoos on their arms, a heavy book written in a foreign language open between them. Its cover was cracked brown leather, its yellowed pages covered in strange symbols.

The three men chanted, their voices a low rumble.

We invite you in. Enter our vessel
.
Take our offering. Make the stars fall until the night is black and bitter. We are yours. Enter our vessel. Take our offering.

The lamp on the floor was familiar somehow. She watched it tremble as its metal handles began to glow. The lamp shimmered, the air around it warping with heat, the glow reflecting off the men's faces until, with a metallic shriek, it burst.

An unbearable white-hot radiance swept over the three men, instantly incinerating them. A burning figure rose from
the ruins of the lamp, too bright to look at directly, as if it were made of molten metal.

It had no face, but Vanessa could feel it studying her. She felt naked under its gaze.

You belong to me
, it said, smiling,
as I belong to you. And soon we will be one again
.

Vanessa opened her eyes and sat up.

Outside, the first signs of dawn reflected off heavy grey clouds.

She raised her hand to her mouth, remembering. She could still see its eyes like coal, relishing her presence.

Across the room, Svetya murmured something.

‘What did you say?' Vanessa asked her roommate.

‘I asked if you had a nightmare.'

‘Sort of,' Vanessa said. She could still see the lamp rattling on the ground, could hear the men shrieking as they were burned, could feel in her bones the demon's threat: that they would soon become one.

Svetya threw off her covers and slid out of bed. Wearing nothing but a tight pair of shorts and a camisole, she sat on the wood floor and spread her legs wide.

‘What are you doing?' Vanessa asked, turning on her bedside lamp.

Svetya bent down towards the floor until her cheek was touching the wood. ‘Stretching,' she said, sitting up. ‘We have practice in a few hours.'

‘Oh,' Vanessa said, surprised. ‘Do you get up this early every morning?'

‘Yes,' Svetya said. ‘Every morning for at least two hours before class. Which is why I looked ace in the studio yesterday and you looked like you couldn't tell your arse from your elbow.'

‘What?' Vanessa fired back. ‘I didn't look . . . like whatever you said. I was jet-lagged.' She watched in silence as her roommate leaned forward over one leg, then the other.

‘I know about you,' Svetya said, reaching her arms forward. ‘You don't get pleasure from dance. I can tell.'

Vanessa wanted to be offended, but Svetya had a point. She'd been so distracted by thoughts of the demon that she hadn't thought much about what she needed to be doing: practising so she could win the competition.

Svetya's voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Is Justin your boyfriend?'

‘What?' Vanessa said, flustered. ‘I – I don't – no.'
Not yet
, she thought to herself.

‘He makes me laugh,' Svetya said. ‘I like that.'

Vanessa fidgeted with her sleeve, remembering how Justin had laced his fingers through hers, the feeling of his voice against her neck, the way he'd pushed her out into the ring of street ­performers without asking, because he knew she'd have fun.

‘I know what you mean,' she said softly. Last night, with the street performers, Justin had reminded her why she had fallen in love with dance in the first place. She held on to that feeling as she slipped out of bed.

It was time to get to work.

An hour later, armed with their bags of gear, Vanessa and Svetya walked to breakfast. Both wore leotards beneath their clothes, Vanessa in tights and leg warmers, while Svetya had opted for tight black jeans that hung low on her hips, her blonde hair coiled into a tight bun.

‘You should cut your hair,' Svetya said as they crossed the marble floor of the lobby.