Chapter 5 Sacred Things Profaned #2
"I heard she writes letters to an imaginary friend," a third voice adds, dripping with mock concern. "How sad is that? A whole made-up person because no one real can stand to be around her."
The words land like punches to the pit of my gut.
Like fists.
Like the truth I try not to think about—that maybe they're right, maybe S.W. isn't real, maybe I've been pouring my heart into a void that was never going to answer back.
Forty-seven days.
No response.
Maybe he's dead…or he forgot…or…he never existed at all—
I giggle.
The sound escapes before I can stop it—high and bright and just unhinged enough to make all four of them take a step back.
Good.
Be scared.
You should be.
I don't say anything. Don't look at them. Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing how deep their words cut.
I just keep walking.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
The back exit is ahead—heavy metal door leading to the outdoor area behind the dance building. I push through it, stepping into air that smells like rain and concrete and the promise of violence.
The sky is cloudy.
Not just cloudy—dark. Heavy grey masses rolling in from the east, blocking out what little afternoon sun might have filtered through. The air pressure has dropped, making my ears feel full and my skin feel tight.
It's going to rain.
Of course it is.
The universe wouldn't let me have a nice day. That would require something resembling mercy.
I frown up at the clouds, calculating. My costume can handle light rain—the corset is treated leather, the tulle will dry—but a serious downpour would ruin everything. Would ruin the audition, the one chance I have at something resembling escape.
Please, I think, bargaining with a god I stopped believing in a decade ago. Just hold off for a few hours. Let me have this.
"Seraphine!"
The voice comes from behind me—adult, authoritative, vaguely familiar. I spin on my toe, the movement instinctive, and find one of the dance advisors approaching from the building.
Ms. Chen.
She's one of the kinder ones—one of the few staff members who looks at me and sees a dancer instead of a diagnosis. Her face is drawn, worried, carrying the expression of someone about to deliver bad news.
My stomach drops.
No. No, no, no—
I skip over to her anyway, because stopping would mean acknowledging the dread already pooling in my gut. The movement is bright, cheerful, completely at odds with the panic building behind my ribs.
"Ms. Chen!" I chirp, bowing my head in a gesture of respect that's only partially sarcastic. "What can I do for you on this delightfully ominous afternoon?"
Her lips thin.
"Where are you going?" she asks, instead of returning the greeting.
"Rehearsal." I gesture vaguely toward the main campus. "With the judges. For the audition. The thing I've been preparing for for months? The possible escape from this nightmare?" I'm talking too fast. I know I'm talking too fast. "It's today. Three o'clock. I was just heading over—"
"You didn't get the news."
Statement, not question.
The dread solidifies into something cold and heavy in my chest.
"What news?"
Please no. Please, please, please—
Ms. Chen sighs. Her eyes dart around—checking for observers, maybe, or just avoiding my gaze—before she steps closer. Her voice drops to a near-whisper.
"They're trying to postpone the auditions. Cancel them entirely, for some students."
My shoulders sink.
I feel them go—the careful posture I've maintained, the straight spine and lifted chin—collapsing inward like a building whose supports have been knocked out.
"Oh no," I hear myself say. My voice sounds distant. Wrong. Like it's coming from someone else's mouth. "Don't tell me this has to do with being packless."
The silence is answer enough.
"Fuck." The word comes out flat. Defeated. "Fuck."
Of course they're taking this too.
First the letters.
Now the auditions.
What's next?
What else can they possibly strip away until there's nothing left of me but rage and violence and the empty shell of a girl who used to dream of Juilliard?
"Listen to me." Ms. Chen's hand lands on my shoulder—warm, grounding, the first non-violent touch I've experienced in days. "We've rescheduled. A selective few auditions, including yours. It's not cancelled. Just...postponed."
Hope.
Fragile, dangerous, stupid hope.
"When?" I ask. "Where?"
"Three days from now." Her voice is low, urgent. "But the location is... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"It's between Dead Knot and Savage Knot sectors." She pauses, letting that sink in. "You'll have to go through the forest to get there."
The Dead Forest.
The words echo in my skull like a death knell.
I know about the Dead Forest. Everyone knows about the Dead Forest. It's the buffer zone between sectors—a stretch of woodland where academy rules don't apply. Where the "survive or be killed" mandate of Ruthless looks like fucking tea party etiquette in comparison.
No rules.
No restrictions.
Anyone can kill or be killed, any time, any way.
Long-distance weapons allowed.
Packs hunting for sport.
Omega bodies found strung up in trees, used as target practice, as examples, as entertainment.
It's a death sentence for someone like me.
A packless Omega, alone, trying to cross territory that's claimed by predators with nothing better to do than hunt.
"The Dead Forest," I repeat, tasting the words. Testing them. "You want me to go through the Dead Forest. Alone."
Ms. Chen's grip on my shoulder tightens. "I'm not saying it's safe. I'm saying it's the only option if you want this audition."
Do I want it?
Do I want it enough to risk dying in a forest full of monsters?
The answer comes immediately, instinctive, burning with the same stubborn spite that's kept me alive this long:
Yes.
Yes, I fucking do.
"I'll be there," I say.
Ms. Chen nods, something like respect flickering in her eyes.
"Five PM. Don't be late."
"I won't."
"And Seraphine—" she pauses, her expression shifting into something almost warm, "—Violet Martinez will be present for the audition."
The name hits me like a thunderbolt.
Violet Martinez.
The Former student of Hard Knot Academy and current chair of the International Alliance of Contemporary Dance Excellence.
The Violet Martinez.
Coming to see me.
"Try to be on time," Ms. Chen adds, a hint of smile playing at her lips. "First impressions matter."
"I—yes. Yes, absolutely. Thank you." I'm babbling. I know I'm babbling. "Thank you for telling me. For the rescheduling. For—just, thank you."
She waves off my gratitude, already turning to head back inside. "You're more deserving of success than half the prodigies who walk through our doors, Sera. Don't let them tell you otherwise."
Then she's gone.
And I'm standing alone in the gathering darkness, the clouds overhead growing heavier by the minute, a laugh bubbling up in my chest that's equal parts joy and disbelief.
Three days.
The Dead Forest.
Violet Martinez.
The giggle escapes—not the unhinged one, but something brighter. Realer. The sound of someone who's been handed a lifeline and can't quite believe it's not a trap.
I skip.
Actually skip, like a child, my tulle skirt bouncing with each movement as I twirl once, twice, three times—
Four times. Even number. Safe.
—before forcing myself to calm down.
Don't get your hopes up, the pessimistic part of my brain warns. Things always go wrong. People always disappoint. The universe has a grudge against you specifically.
But for once, I don't listen.
For once, I let myself feel the hope without immediately crushing it.
I decide to head home. The costume is going to get wet—the clouds are definitely about to open up—but I have plenty to change into. And maybe I'll spend the next three days practicing, preparing, making sure my body is ready for the most important performance of my life.
Three days.
I can survive three days.
I'm about to leave—already calculating the fastest route back to my townhome—when voices drift toward me from the other side of the building.
Familiar voices.
The mean girls from earlier.
"—can't believe she showed up in that outfit—"
"—probably doesn't even know we have rehearsal—"
"—so pathetic—"
I freeze.
Rehearsal.
The word catches in my brain, snagging on something I must have missed. Something I didn't hear because I was too busy trying to survive their mockery.
One of them rounds the corner, sees me, and stops. The others pile up behind her like a traffic jam of cruelty.
"Oh, you're still here?" She sounds genuinely surprised. "We thought you'd have run off crying by now."
I don't respond.
My brain is stuck on the word rehearsal.
"Where are you going?" another one asks, her tone dripping with false sweetness. "Don't you know we have special rehearsal today? At the outdoor dance room?"
My eyes dart to their attire. Dance clothes. Performance ready.
They're not lying.
Fuck.
I missed something.
Something announced in class, probably, during one of the moments when my brain was too full of cotton candy scents and calculus derivatives and the crushing weight of forty-seven days without a letter.
"If you'd paid attention," the first one continues, savoring every word, "you'd know. But I guess that's hard when you're too busy being crazy to function like a normal person."
They laugh.
All of them.
Sharp, cruel sounds that bounce off the concrete walls and burrow into my chest where they'll fester later, when I'm alone, when the darkness comes.
I nod slowly.
"I'll make my way."
"We don't care anyway." The ringleader tosses her hair—glossy, perfect, the hair of someone who's never had to wash blood out of it. "You could skip for all we care. Actually, please do. No one wants to see your freak show."
More laughter.
They walk away, a pack of predators who've decided I'm not worth hunting today.
I watch them go.
Count to four. Breathe. Don't cry. Don't scream. Don't do anything that gives them the satisfaction.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.