It was worse than she thought. The sun had not been rising, it had already risen. It was directly above her head as she stumbled out, blinded by the light. Frantic and impractical, for there was no way Giry would allow her to join after being so ridiculously late, she nonetheless made a way for the studio.
Luckily, she was still in her post-workout clothes, though ragged and covered in dust. It wouldn't be too hard to fling on the leotard and toe-killing shoes on the way. Sprinting behind a corner, she paid no mind to the man emptying his trash down the alleyway.
She stripped hurriedly, pulling her loose hair back into its familiar bun. The clothes from her bag reeked, but she was a bloodsucker to the other ballerinas anyway, why not add 'smelly' to the long list of insults. It was the far least of her worries. Things like this could get her scholarship revoked.
The pedestrians cocked foppish eyebrows as she ran recklessly. With dark shadows masking her bright eyes and sweat-stains marring every inch of her, they assumed she was demented. Only a few blocks away, she could see the white building ahead as her feet pounded the cement. The familiar windows and columns came into view.
Skidding to a halt in front of it, lungs in a deadlock, she grasped the elegant, silver handle and pulled with all her might.
It did not budge.
Confused, she tried again and again.
She took a step back, contemplating throwing a trash bin through the glass, when she saw the simple piece of white paper fluttering casually on the door. It read (in several languages):
"Closed for the day. Pipe burst."
In disbelief, she read it several times and then finally turned around stoically and began walking away. Now she had witnessed two instances of divine intervention.
Not even giving a thought to Rurik (again), she lumbered. The adrenaline spike crashed down, and she didn't know if she could make it to the hotel. Ignoring the stares of the bag boys and managers, she clunked her way to the Scribe, mind shutting down. Tunnel vision, her dragging feet led her back to the room blessedly, where she threw her bag down and collapsed on the bed, instantly falling asleep.
A clear, incessant rapping rattled her out of dreams. Coming out of an unladylike snore, she growled and squinted. She was still lying horizontally, her feet hanging off the bed.
Another knock sounded, this time with the added:
"Nadya?"
Realizing that Rurik was standing outside, she rolled to a standing position and waddled toward the door. Not even caring that she was a disheveled mess, she yanked it open.
At first, his eyebrows rose in surprise. She looked as if she had been dragged through the streets. He stood, probably a foot taller than her, looking down with an odd expression, one she was too exhausted to dissect.
"Hey Rurik," she mumbled, giving a yawn. "What's up?"
After another moment of staring, he gave an uncomfortable cough.
"Ah," he began, and it was probably the first time he seemed human to her. "Are you well?"
She nodded vacantly, longing for the lush bed that was beckoning to her. She motioned for him to come in as she headed back to it, not done.
"Sorry," she said sleepily. "I just needed a nap. Had a long night."
Like an unsure puppy, he tailed her. Sighing contently as she curled once more upon the mattress, she only made a vain attempt to keep up conversation. He sat with her at the foot of the bed, clear worry in his eyes.
"Nady," he said after asking the required, proper questions of health and weather. "How long were you asleep?"
She hadn't given it much thought, and she certainly wasn't giving it much now.
"I dunno," she grumbled into the pillow, lids half closed. "What time is it?"
"9 p.m."
She took in this information superficially, not really absorbing it.
"Then, I guess it's been..." she calculated slowly."10 hours?"
She said this with such a cavalier attitude—he didn't know what else to say. She seemed intent on sleeping more, and so he wondered if he should leave her to it when her eyes snapped open.
"9 p.m.?!"
A little frightened, he nodded.
"Crap!" she groaned, slamming her face down into the cushion.
"What's the matter?" he asked, hand reaching out. "Are you hurt?"
Moaning into the soft, cushy pillow, she took a minute to accept the reality that she would not be able to make it to the Opera House tonight, it was certainly closed. Realizing how she must look, she sighed and turned her head.
His hand was still awkwardly hanging in the air.
She bit her lip, hoping her lying skills were up to par.
"No, no, I'm fine," she replied in a much calmer tone. "I just forgot to run an errand, that's all."
Buying it, she felt relieved when he retracted his hand, although his expression was still cautious.
"Are you sure you're alright?" he wondered again.
To prove it, she shifted to a seated position, and started straightening out her clothes, adjusted her bed-head.
She couldn't believe she hadn't realized it had been night for hours. The fake illumination of the outside city had kept away some of the dark, but it still shaded the eggshell walls, threw everything into a slanted relief.
Squirming shadows rose and fell on the lush, champagne carpet and covered half of the large, queen-sized bed. Surprisingly, the lamp on the nightstand was on next to her, which split the bright white comforter in two. In fact, the entire room seemed two-faced, with the side closest to the open windows in a permeating gloom and the other half still brightened fairly well.
For a moment her thoughts went to the small, mirrored room. That, too, had a dualism of night and day to it. Well, when the candles were on at least.
Rurik gave a polite throat-clearing, which whisked her out of her strange recollections.
"Yup, good as new," she finally replied and then she smiled apologetically at him. "It's just been a really long day."
He hummed empathetically, and scooted closer to her. A part of her wanted to recoil ever so slightly, but she shot the feeling down. She must really be on edge…
So, she told him about her crazy morning, changing the subject.
"A pipe?" he asked. "How odd."
"I know right?" she nodded and wrapped her arms around her knees. "Must have been pretty bad for Giry to cancel."
"Yes," he agreed, perceptive. "She is very strict. But she also seems to be hiding something."
"What do you mean?" Nadya asked, confused.
He grinned reassuringly.
"Not anything dangerous," he comforted, seeing her anxiety. "Just from what you told me yesterday about her reaction to the Palais Garnier."
She had almost forgotten. It seemed dream-like in comparison with what happened later that day.
"Oh, yeah," she said, chewing her cheek. "That was weird. I've never seen her so angry."
"And you say it was because of a room?"
Trying to keep her face calm, she nodded stonily. Rurik could not find out about the voice. He would wrap her up and send her to the loony bin for sure. So she merely said:
"Uh-huh."
"I wonder what she saw," he continued, lifting an elegant hand to his chin, completely unabated by her lack of response.
Nadya shrugged, looking intently at her wrists as she did. It was clear she didn't want to talk anymore about it, and he presumed that her weariness had finally gotten the best of her.
"Well, I suppose I'll leave you to get some more rest," he announced, an impish grin intact.
She felt terrible for keeping a secret from him, but every part of her screamed that no one could ever know about the voice singing songs in her head.
Lifting her gaze to him, she gave a little smirk and a nod as he stood.
"Thanks," she squeaked. "See you tomorrow?"
In response he tenderly walked toward her, leaned over, and planted a soft kiss on her brow, his fingers gently holding the sides of her face.
"Of course, little Nady," he whispered, his breath caressing.
Hardly breathing, she only stared wide-eyed as he turned away and closed the door soundlessly behind him, leaving her. After a few moments, she lifted a baffled hand to her forehead, right where he kissed it, trying to preserve the fading touch of his lips.
Frustrated and elated by his reciprocation, she fell over sideways, cheek smooshed against the sheets, gazing at nothing.
It felt as if she was living a double life. In one, she was almost normal. She had a tight schedule, a potential boyfriend, and was living her supposed dream. But, in the other, she was pursuing a radically different course. It took place in the dead of night, in an ominous corner unknown to all. It carried foreshadowing omens and warnings, an eccentric nightmare.
From the outside, one would think she should be running away from it. But, in fact, she was doing the opposite—and doing so without any guilt or remorse. It was illogical, but it had captured her very soul.
It was the classic mind versus heart phenomenon. She had promised the angel she would return, but would it be easier to stop now, before she hurt Rurik? Her chest clenched at the thought, and she quickly swept the idea away.
Why couldn't she have it both ways? Why did she always have to choose? If she could just keep the secret, she could have it all, right? Hadn't she done the same thing with her father? Her mother still didn't know.
It would be just like old times, she assured herself naively as she entered another round of sleep.
This may have gone too far.
When she left, he had sulked back to his lair in the bowels of the massive palace, unsure of what to do for the rest of the afternoon. Deftly climbing and jumping through vents and secretive tunnels, he supposed he would do what he always did: Compose.
Arriving at the familiar area, he sat upon the worn bench and put his spider-like fingers upon the keys. He began a complicated opus he had been working on, letting the intricacies of the music serenade him into apathy. But like a flash of lightning on an otherwise clear day, her face struck.
He fumbled, his concentration ruined. There she was, in his brain, as beautiful as ever.
How could he simply sit here while she was out there?
It was if she had magnetized him, and being apart was pointless, she would only drag him back to her. Rising up in frustration, he knocked the bench over as he did. He began to pace along the lakeside, on the cobbled stones.
Logic reminded him that patience was a virtue, one he should have mastered by now. Yet, intemperance roared its head. He needed more of her! Mere hours would never be enough.
It was madness not doing anything; his entire was beginning to catch fire. He had to put it out.
This was the main thought as he sprinted back the way he came, snagging a hoodie on the way. He knew exactly where she would be, for he had made it so. Another pang of shame gonged—he shouldn't have done that.
It was only a pipe! he defended.
It had been easy to follow her the first night as she went to dance practice at that detestable school, as if anyone sane could call it that. Protectiveness had surged within him when he realized what Hell she was enduring there.
Discreetly, he caught glimpses as he passed by vaguely. In one shot, it was summed up: She was despised.
The rest of the day he had leaned against the eastern wall, pretending to be a vagrant, in the blind spot of the windows and masked in the shade.
Throughout the entire ordeal of watching her avoid sabotage from the vipers, he knew he would have to retaliate.
When the place had emptied, he pick-locked the backdoor and entered with a rusted crowbar he found in the garbage. His potential muse needed a good day of peace.
He had made it back in plenty of time for their second meeting, not knowing when she would come again. Now, he was intent on having thirds, his gluttony knowing no bounds.
When he reached right under the floor's surface, he pushed a trapdoor up, and poked his head out. Usually no one was ever in this part of the Garnier, but it never hurt to be careful. When the cost was clear he jumped expertly out, and then placed the loose tile back into position.
Pulling a hood over his face, he thrust his hands into his ripped-jean pockets and strode stealthily away, joining the new crowd of visitors entering the harried lobby. Trotting down the steps, he assumed she would be coming this way any minute.
Americans were easy to spot; they didn't carry themselves in the same way. Crossing his arms, putting an easygoing foot against a bench, he waited.
It only took a few minutes until her saw her. He could practically recite every inch of her from memory. That thick, dark chocolate hair pulled sweetly into its familiar bun. It took an awesome amount of self-control not to rush forward and unfurl her imprisoned locks.
When she came into full view, he no longer felt any empathy for his previous actions. Her once illuminated face was drawn, a weight sat cruelly on her shoulders. Every step seemed to add to it. Again, he had to clench his fists, had to anchor himself so he would not burst forth and swoop her off her sore feet.
As she passed into the mouth of the Scribe, he pushed off and began to follow her. The bellman looked in his direction, but he hid behind a group of incoming people, and entered the historic building. He never lost sight of her, and hurried to catch her elevator, which was luckily packed when he got in.
Turning away from the annoyed businessmen, he tugged his hood further down, just in case anyone tried to catch his reflection in the metal.
Her floor seemed to be popular, for almost everyone unloaded. Standing to the side, he waited for her to pass him and then trailed. Again, fortune smiled on him, and she went down a completely empty hall, breaking off.
The scent of her wafted against his skin, and he dug his nails into his palm. He made sure to keep a good distance between them, even though she was probably far too tired to notice anything consequential.
When her door was on the backswing, he surged forward and caught it with his toe. With bated breath, he heard the oncoming thunk of her body collapsing onto the bed.
Looking around, he made sure the coast was clear before entering after.
It was uncomfortable at first, being there without her knowledge. Enthralled by her beauty, he nonetheless could not bring himself to retreat, standing as still as a statue by the nightstand. It was fascinating to him, every inhale and exhale, every flutter of her chest, and twitching lids. The more he studied her, the more obsessed he became.
Who was this perplexing creature who did not run at the sound of his voice? This woman who managed to swallow her fear and face the beast's roar?
They were only a foot apart. He removed his hood to get a better glance.
His entire face naked against the air was amazingly sweet, he so rarely didn't have something covering it. The deformed skin breathed, drinking in the bitter freedom.
Hours passed. His legs began to complain when darkness stole the sky. Heaving a quiet sigh, he assumed he would have to depart soon. Although she was still asleep, it was clear that it was not as heavy as when he first arrived, a sudden noise might startle her awake.
Silent as cat's paws, he crept toward the lamp and switched it on, needing just a little light to make an escape. Thankfully, her head was turned enough that she didn't notice. Sneaking away, he went for the door; however, as he padded, a knock reverberated.
Panic rose in his chest, he quickly searched for a hiding place.
"Nadya?" came an inquiring, Eastern-accented voice.
Dashing into a closet next to the entrance, he shut himself in and crouched, close to the ground, eyes narrowed. A second later, he heard her arousal. He could just barely see her through the splits as she trudged past him.
When the stranger entered, fury began to paint his vision a monstrous red. In his haste he had not realized that another cock was entering the roost.
How could he compete with that?
Strong, handsome, with a chiseled face that was completely offensive, any hopes of courting or even talking to the girl went down the drain.
"Hey Rurik…"
Why did that name sound so familiar? Puzzling it over, he paid no mind to the conversation they were sharing as the Russian entered. It came to him after a moment.
A critic! he decried within.
He had never liked critics—they were too devious for their own good. Using their pens as leverage, they arrogantly strutted around like they owned the art they wrote about. They never trained in it, never cared for it. They only read about it in books and then presumed they could make worthy judgments.
Like children…or parasites…he grumbled.
Now the situation was different. He could not leave her to be ruined by this man. Certainly, he would take advantage of her innocence and exploit her. He saw the way Rurik smiled, saw right through his boyish charm.
He also observed how completely unaware she was—smiling back at the wolf in sheep's clothing.
Poor thing. He will break her heart.
He didn't know how he would, but it was inevitable. Renowned critics did not just simply swoop random girls off their feet, there had to be a purpose, she was picked for a reason.
Scrutinizing from the shadows, he almost ran out when he witnessed Rurik's subtle attempt. He had been sitting contently at the end of the bed, but as she spoke, he moved noticeably closer.
It was obvious now. The boy was trying to get lucky. Everything fit: A naïve American girl, isolated by her colleagues, striving for friendship, and how coincidental that a handsome knight should appear as if out of nowhere, offering sympathy and a shoulder to cry on.
It was the oldest trick in the book.
How could she not see that?
Perhaps she did, for her response was shifting into a defensive position—her arms cocooning her as she pulled her knees into her chest.
The boy halted his advance, causing the man in the closet to grin approvingly at his muse.
After only a half-an-hour, the critic stood to leave. He sighed, thanking whatever higher power that the ordeal was over.
But it wasn't.
He could only stare as the Russian landed a cheap kiss on her unassuming forehead. Nostrils flared, he made a mental note to strangle the fool in his sleep. He then whispered something, and turned to leave, walking right past him. The door clicked closed, she lifted a hand to her head and then fell over onto her side.
Bastard…he swore.
Plans began developing in his head. What could save her from the critic's clutches? She was an unknown talent in the ballet field, and would remain so under the suffocation of the studio. The Russian would surely use and discard her without anyone blinking an eye. But the wolf could not do so if she broke free. A lamb alone was easy prey, but if it surrounded itself with watchful eyes, the game became infinitely harder.
An idea formulated. It would be difficult to sway her, but this would not stop him from his rescue.
Silent snores resonated. Now was the time to go.
He pulled his hood up and smirked underneath.
If he was to be an angel, he would be an avenging one.