Chapter 21
21
We’re here. As the crowd presses toward the exit door, I lose sight of Georgie, but when I spill out onto the train platform, I find Michael and Kaylie.
At the sight of Michael’s tall form and floppy hair, adrenaline shoots through me. He’s wearing a dapper wool suit, the jacket open over a Beatles T-shirt. I’ve grown used to seeing him in his long professorial jacket and dress shirts, but now he looks more like the guy I met in Italy. More boyish, so if I squint, those inconvenient few years between us can almost melt away. I haven’t seen him since our trip to visit Hilde, and suddenly I’m nervous. I’d been holding on to my righteous indignation, but now I can’t quite remember why I’m supposed to be mad at him.
“You look beautiful,” Kaylie gushes at me. Her hand is lightly grasping Michael’s arm, and he gives me a small smile. Did they come together? And, like, as friends together or together together?
The wave of people pushes us into a cavernous station with high ceilings and walls covered in frescoes. I don’t know exactly where we are, but it’s somewhere in Italy, near Venice.
“Remmy!” Kaylie breaks from us and rushes toward a figure in the distance. When she reaches him, he grasps her in a fierce hug. Once he releases her, she excitedly drags him to us. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come!”
He’s lean with pale skin and short hair the same copper as Kaylie’s.
Kaylie is babbling with excitement. “… just a short train ride away from New York City, and yet I have to travel halfway around the world to see you!” As Michael embraces the newcomer with clear affection, Kaylie turns to me. “Ada, this is my brother, Remmy.”
Did she just say he lives in New York City? I’m burning with curiosity about how a Maker—from a family of Valkyries, no less—could live in my city. How come Kaylie has never mentioned it? I have so many questions, but he’s quickly pulled away by more Makers who are excited to see him.
Between Remmy and Hilde, I’ve now met two people who left Maker society for the provincial world, both of whom seem to still be welcome among the Makers. And based on that conspiracist Cicero blog, there might be others out there. Maybe they’ll be my people one day when I leave. Because that is the plan.
“Finally, I found you!” Georgie says, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward my very first Carnevale.
Everything I’ve been told about Carnevale pales in comparison to the real thing. We’re in an enormous underground hall packed with people. There are numerous stages around the room, each with a performance going on—music, dances, acrobatics. It’s a spectacular, reverent dedication to art.
Most people have donned their masks, so I take mine out of my pocket. It’s a simple sunburst design that covers my eyes and nose. Georgie’s is shaped like a cat face.
We get sucked onto the central dance floor and become part of the vibrating crowd. Here we’re not aberrant recruits; we’re part of something larger.
We stop to watch Mbali, who has joined other members of the Matriarchy of the Isles––all wearing serpent masks––in a hypnotic ceremonial dance. Next to them is a choir, each member splashing paint of a different color onto a giant tapestry as they sing a complex harmony that starts to take visual shape on the joint painting.
Whooping shouts and cheers direct our attention to the main stage at the front of the hall. Two dancers—both Valkyries—have begun a ballet. A spotlight illuminates their shirtless, lithe figures; one has deep mahogany skin, and the other is tan and covered in tattoos. Both dancers wear bird masks and are clearly favorites of the crowd. The music is harsh with a strong bass line, thumping percussion, and electric violin. The dancers are precise and elegant, all rippling muscles and breathtaking speed. With a dramatic drum roll, their wings unfurl, and the dance rises into the air.
There are more whoops and cheers as another figure leaps onto the stage, tears off his dress shirt, and joins the dance. It’s Remmy, Kaylie’s brother. He’s magnificent, spinning on the stage while the others dance hovering above him.
Remmy leaps into an impressive grand pirouette that has the crowd roaring even louder, and then he slows, his body stretched low to the ground, and I have a clear view of his back. There are wings on Remmy’s back, but not like the skin and bone wings of his sister or the dancers above. His are elegant angel-like wings drawn in ink on the canvas of his shoulders and back. The tattoos are beautiful, but they are sprouting from two parallel patches of red, angry scar tissue. And I have no doubt what once grew from that ruined flesh. I wonder in horror what must have happened for him to have lost his wings, but the beauty of his dancing drags my attention away from his back.
Despite the fact that he remains grounded, he’s flying, weaving a tale of loss that I feel deep in my gut. I never knew dance could tell such a story; I never knew it could touch me as music does or as brushstrokes do. But here I stand, completely undone.
Music from every corner of the room is crashing into itself, discordant and harmonious at the same time, rising into a glorious crescendo, and just as I’m sure my heart will explode into a million tiny pieces of grief, the two flying dancers lift Remmy off the stage and fly him above the crowd. As all the faces in the room lift toward the ceiling, the three dance together, the two Valkyries swing and toss Remmy between them as he soars in rhythmic, intricate flips and turns, a shooting star across the night sky.
Longing turns to hope, the whole room feeling it together, our bodies moving with the music. My sense of self dissolves into the crowd as the music echoes in my skull all the way to my teeth. It melts into my blood, rewriting the rhythm of my pulse, painting me as part of this communal masterpiece.
I am incandescent
a gust of evening wind
the last note of a song
the gasp between kisses…
Moments, or hours, or lifetimes later, I turn and find Michael beside me.
“There you are!” he says. I hardly hear the words over the music, but I can read his lips. “I wanted to see your reaction as someone here for the first time. Isn’t it amazing?”
I step closer to be heard over the deafening music. “It’s incredible!”
His face shines, all dimples and joy, and I can’t help but reach up and push the flop of hair out of his face. I would normally never dare, but the atmosphere of Carnevale makes it feel as if the rules are suspended for a whisper of time.
He laughs as it flops right back. “That’s a battle I lost long ago.”
Michael spreads his arms, lifts his face toward the ceiling, and spins. I laugh and spin with him, like the music will carry us away, until I careen into his body, dizzy and drunk on the moment. He grabs my hand and twirls me under his arm, then twirls me in reverse until the front of my body is pressed up against his. He releases my hand and loosely grips my waist. I put my arms around his neck hesitantly and look up at his handsome face, a face that makes me feel known, makes me feel home. He may have his faults, but he’s trying. And maybe I can help try harder because his people, all this surrounding us, is worth it.
As our gazes lock, our laughter dies down. Michael’s eyes glitter caramel and chocolate beneath his thick dark lashes. His Adam’s apple bobs, and I wonder what it would feel like against my lips. Guitar-calloused fingers skim my cheek, cup my face. I no longer hear the music or feel the shift of dancers around us. The only sound is the echoing thump of my heart in my ears.
Thump, thump.
The press of his tall, lean body against mine pulses warmth through me. I feel sexy and fierce and reckless. I tip my face toward his, and now our mouths are so close that I breathe in his shaky exhale.
Thump, thump.
I dig my fingers into his shoulders, and—ever so lightly that I almost miss it—he presses a kiss to my cheek.
Thump, thump.
So soft, like the wings of a butterfly passing by, and just as fleeting.
The touch is gone as soon as it began.
“You look radiant tonight,” he whispers in my ear, words tinged with a tender note of regret. And then he releases me and steps away, instantly disappearing into the undulating crowd. I’d almost doubt it ever happened, but the spot where his lips brushed my skin is branded with the sting of a newly inked tattoo.
The noise comes crashing back, and I’m standing alone on the teeming dance floor, my heart warring between excitement and disappointment, my body keyed up and frustrated.
I mentally clutch at the already fading memory. I don’t normally let myself want Michael, but I’ll allow it for the next few hours. Until I have to return to the reality of why I can never have him. Why I can never have any of this life.
Georgie breaks away from a nearby clump of dancers. “I saw that little dance with Master Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Promiscuous.” She yells to be heard. She swats at my arm. “How long have you been drooling over that particular slice of cake?”
“Drooling?” I respond, “More like starving.” I roll my eyes. “Forever, it seems.”
Her eyes are sympathetic but glinting with the conspiratory excitement of a good secret.
“That’s one dangerous dessert.” She eyes me meaningfully.
I groan. “You have no idea.” There’s no room for denial in a moment like this. I raise my arms out to my sides, languidly spinning around again. “I’m already so goooone….”
She laughs. “Well, I would not advise distracting yourself with His Highness Raphael VanJerkface, no matter how hot he is. I saw that eyeball moment on the train.” She looks at me knowingly. “And it definitely seemed consensual.”
“That’s probably even more dangerous.” I sigh, dropping my arms.
She laughs again. “You’re right about that.” She reaches for my hand and forces me to keep twirling. “But who needs guys anyway. Dance with meee!” She swings me around, hyper and elated, and we’re soon both lost in the music and the meditative beauty of the infinite.
Time passes in a blur. Eventually fatigue and thirst bring me back to reality.
Not long ago, Georgie danced away with a tall girl in a fox mask doing a ridiculously adorable Lindy Hop.
I head toward the bar in search of water and see Rafe making out with a different blond than the one he came with, no real surprise there. She starts to kiss down his neck and his gaze flicks up, meeting mine. He winks, then turns his face to kiss a boy pressed to his other side. The sensuality radiating from the three of them makes me blush and abandon my quest for a drink in my haste to get away.
I’m pulled back into the dancing milieu. A harp and flute ensemble is playing, and I twirl in time with the music, contributing to the spectacle by trailing small ribbons of sparks from my fingertips like Hypatia taught me.
I stop when two striking boys approach me. One I recognize as a beautiful member of Rafe’s entourage who is in my Sire lab and who I have avoided ever since he gave Georgie the stink eye in the hover park. The second boy—who is wearing a lion mask—has harsh features and is extremely tall; the top of my head doesn’t even reach his shoulders.
“Nice trick,” the tall boy says to me. “You’re a pretty thing to be dancing alone.” His accent sounds like a combination of British and French.
The beautiful boy from Genesis has an amber guildstone in his ear, but the tall boy wears no earrings. Instead, he wears a ruby ring on his hand, along with a bone ring. Blood Science and Avant Guard.
“We can keep you company,” the beautiful one says. I don’t like his mocking voice, and I don’t like the appetite in his expression. Maybe I would rather be alone.
“Thanks,” I say, “but I’m actually waiting for someone.”
The taller boy’s eyes are sharp and assessing. “Bram,” he says to his pretty companion, “why don’t you get us some drinks. I’ll keep this lovely lady company while she waits.” Bram smiles coldly and saunters away.
The tall boy gazes at me intently. “You don’t like my friend,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Maybe I don’t like you, either,” I respond.
“Well, I would certainly like to change that.” There is bite in his smile, but unlike Bram’s, it doesn’t bother me, and I let him pull me into a dance. His hand is large and cool, and as he holds me against himself, I marvel at his sheer size. He is lanky and slim, but so incredibly tall that I feel comically tiny. He’s very self-assured in the way he handles me, far too familiar for a stranger. One hand roams dangerously low down my exposed back, and heat floods my cheeks. “Well, isn’t that a pretty blush.” His hand moves lower still. Why have I not pushed him away? But after the disappointment of Michael’s earlier caution, a part of me craves this stranger’s boldness.
“I’ve never seen you around before. I thought I knew all the Sires in our small little world.” He’s telling me he knows I’m a recruit. I momentarily still from our dancing, but his smile and grasp remain inviting.
“Show me your lights again,” he says. I lift my fingers and let the shimmering ribbons sparkle between us. He runs his fingers through the lights and catches my fingers in his. “Beautiful.”
It occurs to me that, though I can’t deny I’m attracted to him, I don’t even know this boy’s name or anything else about him. But I like the way he holds me—like I’m something special to claim—and the way he looks at me, like he wants me. I feel the rush of being wanted deep in my belly.
Bram returns bearing a carafe of water. He hands us goblets and liberally fills them. I’m parched and overheated, and I gratefully sip as the tall boy’s brazen fingers skim up my spine. I like his touch a little too much, and I step away, not trusting myself. The long night has started to catch up to me, and I’m feeling drowsy.
“I should really go find my friend,” I tell the boys. Tall Guy takes my cup, handing it back to Bram.
“Just one more dance, pretty little light spinner.” It’s not a question, and his eyes hold wicked promises. He pulls me toward him possessively, and I know I should protest, but I don’t. I really am tired, and it feels nice to let him support my weight. I lean into him, my cheek resting against his chest, the top of my head barely reaching the open collar of his suede doublet. He lifts my hand and soft lips trail my inner arm, making a pleasant dizziness spread through me. With the slide of warm tongue against my skin, the music suddenly seems far away. A large hand strokes my hair as I lean more of my weight into his solid body. I close my eyes and drift off.