Dance of Devils (The Darkest Dance #4)

Chapter 1

brOOKLYN

When you’re poor, the days have a way of blending together.

They say time flies when you’re having fun.

But when your task for the next twenty-four hours, over and over on a hellish repeat, is merely to survive , time becomes the enemy.

It represents meals you have to source. Logistics you have to figure out…

where to shower, where to brush your teeth, where to pee.

Time is measured in long, terror-filled nights hiding in the back seat of your car, only half-asleep in case someone tries to break in, or the cops show up and start hassling you.

You have to figure out ways of staying creative and keeping the lies going. Find reasons for never inviting your close friends over to your place.

…Because you don’t have one.

It wasn’t always like this, of course. My life has never been mistaken for a Hallmark movie, and I doubt anyone has ever envied it, but at least it used to be a few notches above “living out of a 2001 Honda Accord”.

But that was before Mom died. Before my stepfather lost the uphill battle of trying to raise a kid who wasn’t his and who he’d only known for two years.

Before I got swallowed into the system and ping ponged from one horror-show of a foster home to another, until I turned sixteen and legally emancipated myself.

Before the banks and the less reputable “lenders” came calling about Mom’s debts and took everything, and life became one long, slow losing streak.

My money. My dignity. Finally, a year ago, my apartment.

That's when Pearl—i.e., my Honda—and I first became acquainted. And as much as I love her, she can be a real finicky cunt when she wants sometimes.

“Goddamnit, go , bitch,” I mutter, gritting my teeth and trying the ignition again.

When I was nine, I was in a particularly hellish foster home on Staten Island.

He was a monster—Mr. Morris, I mean. But on the plus side, Mrs. Morris played piano for a local dance school.

And as terrified as she was of her husband, she’d come alive when she was sitting at that piano, with the little girls in pink satin moving in perfect union at the barre behind her.

She took me with her one day—I don't know if it was a way of getting me away from Mr. Morris’s temper and day drinking, or if she really thought I'd enjoy it. But that’s all it took.

One day.

One ballet class.

I was fucking hooked .

And fourteen years later, here I am.

Living out of a nearly-vintage car notwithstanding, I’m doing awesome, professionally speaking. The Zakharova—the company I dance with here in New York—is recognized as one of the greatest in the world.

It’s tough, brutal work. But what dreams are worth it in the end, if it’s not challenging to get there?

The only problem is, ballet as a career pays sweet fuck all .

Add in the money I keep sending Derrick’s lawyer for the appeals process, and voila: my current living situation.

“Fuck off ,” I grunt at Pearl, jamming the key back in and twisting as I stomp on the brake pedal.

Pearl mutters and complains and possibly passes gas before she stops again.

Fuck .

I glance around. Mercifully, the quietish side street in Murray Hill that I’ve been parked on for the last few nights is devoid of walkers. I take a slow breath, glancing at the back seat, which has now been transformed back into a messy car from a cozy bed.

Pro tip: messy shitbox cars don’t get broken into or cased. Cars that look like someone’s living in them do.

I run a hand over the steering wheel and then pat it encouragingly.

“Girl, it’s been four days. You know the rules.

Time to move. I’m thinking Hell’s Kitchen for the next few nights?

Maybe West 46 th and 9 th, near the Galaxy Diner?

” I take a deep breath and pat the dashboard.

“And to do that, you need to clear off the stink face, get the sand out of your vagina, and start . Okay?”

I pump the gas pedal three times. No idea if that actually works, but I vaguely remember Derrick swearing by it when I was little. Then I take another breath, hold it, slip the key back in, close my eyes, and turn.

With a sputter and a violent belch of blue-gray exhaust, Pearl wheezes to life.

“That’s my fucking girl !” I crow. “That’s what I’m fucking talking about ! Who’s a sexy little bitch?!” I cackle like a lunatic. “You! You’re a sexy little bitch, Pearl!”

“Oh yes you are , girl!”

I jolt, whirling to see two guys in mesh tops and eyeliner, hand-in-hand, who are clearly on their way home from their night out at five-fifteen in the morning.

They grin at me with drug or alcohol-fueled smiles. The one with snow-white dyed hair untangles himself from his partner and cocks a hip.

“Yas! Pearl, girl, you are a motherfucking queen . Go get today, bitch!”

Okay, they think I’m Pearl, and that I was just giving myself the world’s cringiest pep talk ever in my shitty little car.

Which must look tragically pathetic, when I think about it.

I flash them a weak smile. “Thanks!”

“Make it the day you deserve, Pearl!” the other guy calls after me as I shift Pearl into gear and pull away from the curb.

The day I deserve . I’m not sure I’m a believer in karma or fate or any higher power, but if I was, I’d ask whoever the fuck is in charge what I ever did to get the hand I've been dealt.

Was I a serial killer in my previous life? Or the person who decided women’s pants weren’t allowed to have pockets?

Whatever.

I head over to Hell’s Kitchen. Unlimited, un-metered parking spots in New York are few and far between, and I’m not the only person out here living out of their car. So I want to get to my new location and score a spot before the morning rush hour starts getting insane.

“Hey.”

I start to get out of Pearl, and glance up to see a woman mean-eyeing me as she steps out from between two buildings. She looks close to forty, but in the year I’ve spent homeless in this city, I’ve learned that the streets age you. She might just be a few years older than my twenty-three.

Regardless, she looks pissed as hell.

“I was saving that spot.”

My brows knit. “Sorry?”

“That parking spot,” she spits. “My man is heading over with the van. That’s our spot.”

I force a politely confused smile to my face, even though I know exactly what she’s talking about.

“Well, I have to get to work, so?—”

She starts to laugh. “Please. I can spot people like me a mile away.” She steps closer, walking around the front of Pearl.

I’m still only halfway out of the driver's seat. “Let me give you some advice, sweet cheeks,” she says. “One, you’re trying too hard with that shit in the back.” She nods past me at the mess that I strew across the back seat when I’m parking Pearl.

“Normies walk by and see a shitty car. People like us?” She grins a rotten-toothed, meth-y smile. “We see something might be worth breaking into. Got it?”

I swallow tightly. “Got it.”

“Second piece of advice.”

Fear jolts through me as she suddenly flicks her wrist, revealing a vicious-looking switchblade. Her eyes bore into mine.

“Get the fuck out of my parking space.”

My shoulders sag.

Shit .

Twenty minutes later, I’ve miraculously managed to find another non-metered spot, but now the clock is ticking.

I wolf down a stale Pop Tart to ease my hunger pangs as I wait for the crosstown bus to hit up the nearest Fit World location.

The Mercury Theater, which houses the Zakharova, has a world-class gym facility in the basement. But I’m not at Fit World to work out.

I’m here for their shower and the bathroom.

And I’m not the only one.

Five-forty-five in the morning draws two distinctly different crowds to the budget-friendly, austere Fit World women’s locker room.

First you have the women who are actually here to work out.

But, this is Fit World , not a real, serious gym: people come here because it’s seven bucks a month for a membership, which gets you access to their thirty locations across the city.

No idea how the fuck they make money that way, but not my problem.

My problem is the second group of women who come here before six in the morning, i.e., people like me .

Most are great. The unhoused aren’t looking to start shit or draw any more attention to themselves than they have to. Invisibility is key to survival. But the health care system being what it is, many of them are also…well…

“Bitch, you go in that stall and I will fucking cut your tits off.”

I tense with one hand on the stall door open and whip my head around to glance behind me.

The woman is twice my size…which isn’t hard, but still.

She’s big. She’s terrifying-looking. She’s also muttering what might legit be spells under her breath as she sways unsteadily on her feet and gazes at me with unfocused eyes.

“You hear what I said, motherfucker?!”

“Yeah, I…” I swallow, feeling a few eyes in the locker room on me, though no one wants to get in the middle of this shit, and I don’t blame them.

The woman glaring at me is clearly mentally unwell. And while I empathize, I have no idea if she’s about to walk away and forget I even exist, or charge me and try to bite me.

“I just have to pee really badly,” I murmur, squeezing my legs together. “I’ll only be?—”

I back up until I hit the frame of the stall when she storms into my personal space.

“That is my fucking toilet!!” she screams right in my face.

“Okay, okay,” I blurt, edging out from between her and the stall and then ducking away from her, my hands up. “My mistake.”

“That’s right ,” she barks, shaking her head as she storms into the stall and slams the door shut.

One woman gives me a small, comforting smile and a raised brow as if to say “You good?” I nod. She nods back. Then we both return to our morning ablutions.

I pee, then rinse off quickly, brushing my teeth in the shower stall. I’ll wash my hair after rehearsal, before my shift at my other job. I could always shower before rehearsal, at the theater, but I don’t like to make a habit of it.