Welcome!

If you're new here, I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Natthefantastic, avid reader and Red Queen megafan. (If anyone would like to challenge me on that, you'll lose.) I discovered my passion for writing when I wrote my first RQ fanfiction, Bleeding Crown, and since then, I have been honing my craft.

I'm also a dancer, and one day this idea for a fanfiction brilliantly popped into my head. I haven't been dancing for long, so I'm no professional, but I still deeply enjoy it. I thought it would be interesting to combine two of my favorite activities, writing and dance together. However, you don't have to be a dancer to read and enjoy my fanfiction. I'm not going to be including tons of technical stuff only dancers would know, but rather focus on the broader parts of dance.

Enjoy! And as always, please star my chapters, as well as comment on your likes/dislikes/input.

Summary

Mare Barrow, street felon by day and wistful dancer by night, one day finds herself with a job at Manhattan's most prestigious dance academy, owned by the notorious Calore family, after a lousy pickpocket attempt on the academy's own Tiberias Calore.

Quickly, she jumps from being a low-level intern to one of the most elite dancers at the studio through sheer luck and a fall from the stage rafters. Along the way, she meets fellow dancers that can be half-trusted, such as the blue-eyed Maven Calore and the outcast technique instructor, Julian Jacos, and tenfold the enemies.

As the seventeen-year-old climbs up the levels of social class, she dances a dangerous game of love and betrayal as lies are told and secrets are revealed. The gang Mare belongs to, The Scarlet Street Fighters, and the Mafia led by the Calore clan are brutal enemies, and the girl, simple as the blood in her veins, is caught directly in the middle. Mare soon discovers that the Calore family not only has a passion for dance and theater, but an obsession for power and money. And what better way to attain riches than with murder and backstabbing? As the young dancer soon discovers, it seems the Calores control everything.

Including her own life, if she allows it.

Summertime in this part of the country brings humidity with it.

The soles of my worn shoes have learned it all too well these last weeks, spending countless hours trekking the avenues of New York. It's a shame I had to give up my bike to Kilorn for his daily commute to that swanky seafood grill downtown, the fact of which, continues to instill confusion in my family. It's a half-joke at home that Kilorn has some kind of blackmail over his boss.

My sister Gisa and I went our separate ways a couple blocks ago, as she headed further south to her favorite store-I always forget its name-in the Garment District. I've offered to go with her, but she always refuses. There must either be a cute boy working there, or else, simply the youth-sparked intrigue of wandering through the expansive streets alone.

I can't exactly blame her when I certainly wouldn't want her trailing me in Times Square. It must be around noon, judging by the sun and the growl rolling in my stomach. I'd call it quits for the day, if not for the rush of businessmen approaching the building I lean against.

My brothers, Tramy and Bree, never say anything about how I collect the money thrown on the dinner table every night. Though they know, as well as my parents and Gisa. And every night, my sister scoffs with her annoyingly beautiful face and Dad turns his head, as if ignoring what I do will make it any better. Mom used to try, encouraged me to go ask Mister Whistle for a job in the miniature grocery store below our tenement; but even with Will, I won't stoop so low as to ask him for a job. I already get a salary from him, when I trade my pickpocket scores in for money.

The men clad in their thick jackets move slowly for my taste, but I can't blame them either. It must be ninety-five degrees outside, and my skin threatens to break out into a sweat under the scarlet red hoodie I've drawn onto myself. A few minutes of burning in this zip-up will be worth it though, and I'm not taking chances. If I do run into any keen-sensed victims, my hood will obscure my face.

They move closer, closer, distracted amongst themselves and pricey phones, totally and utterly oblivious to the threat standing in plain sight, merely a forlorn teenager.

Or so they think.

Just as the barons cross the street opposite me, I replicate their movement, beelining for their pockets. This area of town is a favorite of mine, for the ever-present chaos. People bustle to and fro, always looking somewhere other than at the people around them, whether that be the approaching stores or gigantic screens anchored to buildings.

Like a surgeon with hearts, my fingers are nimble and calm as I brush past the men, taking a quick glance into their coat pockets before fishing into them.

I have a phone and a twenty dollar bill when the walk sign morphs back to an angry red hand. With luck, the two men won't notice until they reach into their coats to pay their luncheon bills.

Subtly walking in the other direction, I feel a lick of bitterness shiver across my spine. Rich and blessed men, adorning their fancy coats and having their meals prepared for them unblinkingly. I don't think I can remember when my family last ate out or wore clothing that wasn't secondhand. Not since Dad got his legs blown off, I'm sadly sure of.

Thanks to no one other than the very men I steal from. It's always the rich, with abounding money that enables murder and getting away with it. In this case, Dad was caught in the crosshairs of their little wars with one another, seemingly endless, walking home on the street.

That was over ten years ago, when I was small and missing my front teeth and incapable of holding back my river of tears when Daddy came in through our warped apartment door in a hospital-issued wheelchair.

Mutilated, but with the kind of smile pasted on his face that parents put on for their children. Fake and lying.

There was an explosion. He hardly talks about it. I hardly know what happened or why, only that it was their fault.

I try my best to saunter across the street, to act like I have no reason to run, even as my feet itch to pick up the pace.

"Hey!" Someone calls from behind me, and despite the wafting heat, the hairs on my arms rise. Behind me, two men-coincidence, I think not- sprint at me, and in a split-second decision, I start into a sprint of my own. I could play it out with a different method, let them grab me and burst into fake tears... optimistically, they'd let go without searching me, out of pity.

But, no. I'm already tardy for lunch with Kilorn at his workplace.

Neon advertisements flash at the corners of my vision, and the impact of the pavement with every step stings, though I don't let the minor annoyances slow me down. Forty-fifth street is alive with action, even in the middle of the week. In New York City, it always is. Yellow taxis are prominent in on the street, along with buses painted with more advertisements, and if I do indeed have luck on my side, maybe one would stop for me at the right place and I could hop on without attracting attention.

But that's a fool's hope. Luck plays by its own set of rules.

I run at a breakneck pace, but no one says anything, let alone blinks an eyelash. The locals are so used to this sort of thing, and tourists are trying to follow along. However, their state of oblivion doesn't help with pushing through their ranks, no easier than walking through water. "Excuse me," I grumble over and over mechanically, but it hardly suffices. Shoving is more effective.

There's a slight reprieve in the crowd, and I use it as an opportunity to glance backward, only to find one of the men, tall and lean, closing the distance, while the other is probably trying to find a cop. A twenty dollar bill and a new phone is nothing to them, but they can't let street scum have a win.

Buildings around the Square and in downtown Manhattan are sleek and modern, never decorated with those handy flaws and cracks I'm fond of. If I were in a chase through my neighborhood, I'd have these idiots running around themselves in a matter of seconds. Not here; the buildings are too tall, too perfect to attempt to scale. "Dammit," I say, but that doesn't reduce the muscle I have from all those years of dance, years of memories that I usually repress. The point is, that I can run faster than anyone else on this block.

Grace, I didn't lose either, and I navigate the masses with comfort now as it's thinning. I swerve the corner that intersects this street with another, filled to the brim with scents my mouth waters at. I don't complain, don't have a reason to complain at my mother's cooking when she does good with the resources she has. But she hasn't gone to culinary school and doesn't have a functional microwave.

More, useless bitterness.

The man that was on my heels has dissolved into the crowd, though it doesn't take a genius to guess what's happening. They're going to try to cut me off, catch me off my guard using a different route. Though these days, I'm never off my guard.

Instead of turning the block and doing what they want, I dart out into the traffic just as a green light turns on for the adjacent path. My heart might skip a beat if I could say that I hadn't done this before.

Crossed New Yorkers and taxi drivers honk at me, their horns blaring in my ears so loudly they'll be ringing when I return home later today. It's not the first time I've been the cause of a traffic jam, either.

When I safely reach the other side of the broad street, I allow the breath I didn't realize was being held into the air. I avoided their trap, hopefully, cleaved a big enough distance between us that they'll never be able to find me.

But as I slow into a brisk walk...they're tracking me, using the stolen phone.

I curse at myself and slap my cheek, punishing my own stupidity as much as any sane one would. Of course, they're tracking you, Mare. My weary feet grind to a halt at the threshold of a Chinese restaurant, and I use the awning as a bit of covering for the moment. Though I know all too well that it won't do anything to prevent the power of GPS. Brushing my brown and gray-tipped hair from my face, I pull the drawstrings of my hoodie taught, and fumble for the 'Off' button.

"Stupid," I whisper, though I could scream the words and no one would hear me.

Kilorn must have blackmailed his boss. It's the only solution to this otherwise outlandish situation.

Before me rests an imposing sight that is at least twenty stories tall, made of steel, glass, and fury. In between shaky fingers, still brittle with self-loathing, I hold my money up to the sunlight and tuck it in my jeans before I can think twice. Kilorn wanted to meet here for lunch, to brag about what a great job he has, though I know they don't pay him anything special. I'm planning on ordering just a water and clutching my stomach until I can leave and go eat where the other patrons won't scoff at the way I hold a fork.

"Mare!" I whip around, throwing up a fist protectively. Instead of the anticipated police force the flowing money of the wealthy can buy, my gaze is met with Kilorn's sea-green eyes. I would giggle and call him ridiculous with that server's getup of his, if not for the distressed look on his face.

"What is it?" I ask, nearing him. I remove my hoodie and knot it around my waist, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I won't be as recognizable with it on.

Some sort of condiment is smeared on his left shirt sleeve and a smudge is in his tawny hair. "I underestimated..." he stops, searching for the right phrases in my eyes. "how cruel high-end employers can be. One screw up, they said from the beginning, and you're out. I tripped with a saucepan and that mistake exploded in my face. Literally. They fired me an hour ago." Kilorn bites out the rest of the words, barring his teeth and clenching his fists until they turn white.

I had been looking through the shades of the eatery, my mouth ajar from staring at the food for too long. Ashamed after what Kilorn just revealed, I jerk my neck towards him and narrow my eyelids. "They fired you because of an accident?" I clarify.

"No." He shakes his head and crosses his arms. "This place hires employees for apprenticeship who come from good families, people who have connections that need an 'easy' job while waiting for a better one. This was supposed to be permanent for me. When I got this job, it was because it was Christmastime, and they were busy, and I told them I was a fast learner. This... incident was an excuse for them to get rid of me."

My fist bunches up again, like Kilorn's, and the bones within them harden, wishing to shatter the glass we stand outside of. They had no right to fire Kilorn, someone who actually has use for the money he's paid. No like those spoiled rotten kids who get everything. Everything. "What are you going to do?" I ask, praying for a response before I do something.

At first he's silent, and his mask that I easily peel off reveals deep turmoil and anger. Wild, unchecked anger, that if not controlled, is going to end very disastrously. "Kilorn Warren. What are you going to do?" is repeated by me, too loudly on the quiet street.

His black and white server's uniform is close fitting, and his heavy breathing is palpable. Prior to a protest from me, his fingers are intertwining with mine, and he's steering us down the street, dodging the few people that walk down it. "Come on," he says, making eye contact for a split-second, as we skim the edges of the buildings, marble and smooth metals.

We arrive at the corner of the building and are greeted by an old man perched upon a cracked wooden crate, a cigarette forming a gap between his lips. He offers a lopsided grin and a wave to Kilorn, ruffling hair that hasn't been tended to in days.

Kilorn returns the gesture but retains distance from the man. He pulls me to the other side of the street, and a quarter of the way up a set of shining stairs. The set of stairs leads to a bridge that extends over and across the street to a row of green trees.

He sits down, groaning, and pats the spot next to me, beckoning for me to sit. "Don't ask." Kilorn motions to the odd man across the street, who is still waving to us. For an area of Manhattan of these likes, it's surprising security from somewhere or other hasn't scared him off yet.

"Should I ask about that terrifying gleam in your eyes, then?" I query, deciding to stay standing, though my knees ache from the run across town.

His Adam's Apple bounces in his throat and he's up, probably to not feel small in comparison to a standing Mare Barrow. Not that I strike intimidation in the first place, with my staggering height of five feet, two inches. Kilorn, if he wiped that soft expression off his face that he forever carries and wore an article of clothing that wasn't flannel or blue jeans, might stand a chance of being scary.

"I'm going to enlist into the Scarlet Street Fighters, Mare," Kilorn says, and though he probably means to make it sounds harsh and unchangeable, it flops out as a mutter.

Kilorn and I have been friends for a long, long while. He's practically family, living below us in the apartment. And whether or not either of us likes to admit it, we seek one another's approval.

I have to grip the railing at my left to steady myself; otherwise, I might faint. I blink twice as if to clear the fog from my eyes, to see the world through a different lens, one that makes sense to me. I've heard tales-if they can be called that- rumors for sure, of what goes on in the Scarlet Street Fighter's domain. There isn't anybody I know who is involved with them, and the organization is so secretive the only place I've learned about them is from the news and fragments of gossip from busybodies on my street.

They target the rich and corrupt, from what I understand, but not without cost. Their members are killed at a horrifying rate, slaughtered viciously by their enemies. "Kilorn-"

"Don't say you'll handcuff me to the fire escape. No matter how hard you try, you can't preside over my life," Kilorn tells me and commences to climb up the bridge.

Nevermind, I suppose. No interest in my approval, now.

He skips every other step, but I pump my legs to keep pace with him. He won't have the last word in this argument. "I wasn't going to say that," I seethe, annoyed by how stupid he's being. Not stupid. Suicidal. "I'll handcuff you inside. Because if I left you outside, the neighbors would complain. Why do you want to do this?"

"Because it's the only way I can imagine I'll be able to make a difference in our lives. If I can't pay bills, I'll learn to fight."

"You? A warrior?" I scoff, not to offend him, but to make him mull this over. "The universe is more likely to make me pointe dancer again than your a warrior." I stop following, not interested in chasing him through all of New York.

I watch after him, climbing each stair with a heavy, maddening pound. The boy unlikely knows where he's going, only going that way to get me off his trail, away from his old work.

The slightest of breezes ruffles my hair, and I take a deep sigh, cherishing the fresh air that contrasts the stagnant heat.

Then I look down at the money in my hand, then the phone. This life is worth it for me, regardless of the constant peril I put myself in. I do it for my family. Kilorn would be doing it in anger, to make himself feel not completely worthless. But he won't be worth much of anything if the boy's dead.

I have to fix this.