Chapter 11 #3
Her retreating steps click against the thin hallway carpet and my whole complexion explodes in deep crimson. I’m not even sure she meant it as a compliment, with her narrowed gaze and caustic voice. But my heart skips in my chest anyway because I am deeply pathetic.
“Come along, princess. Let’s not be late for the ball.”
Colored halogens slice through clumps of boisterous revelers swarming the dance floor.
It doesn’t take me more than two seconds to find Delilah through throngs of people.
The madame is tucked into a silver dress shining with rhinestones; it barely covers her ample bosom and ends midthigh.
Teensy stilettos punish her feet, chocolate tresses upswept and dotted in silver stones.
Despite my deep cleavage and relatively short-hemmed dress, she makes me look like I emerged from a convent.
She spots us almost as instantly as I spot her, painted lips widening in greeting.
“About time you two showed up. I was starting to think you started your own celebration.” Delilah hands me a glass of blush pink punch, and a sparkling water to Taylor, whom she nudges with her elbow.
“You were right. She chose the blue. Taylor picked out the dresses for you and was certain you’d go for the blue. I guessed green.”
I smirk at Taylor over my glass. “Well, the last time I wore a green dress to a party, it didn’t end so well.”
“You didn’t die,” Taylor reminds me.
“And you came away with the most valuable item in the Northeast.” I fling what’s left of my hair over my shoulder.
“I have paid dearly for it every day since.”
Delilah peers between us, the chandeliers’ lights glinting off her rhinestones. “Now, what will it take to get you out on the dance floor, Taylor?”
Taylor shakes her head. “You know I do not dance.”
“Dancing is not her thing.” Our eyes meet as I recall our ballroom conversation with a bit of nostalgia. How much simpler life was when all I knew about Taylor was that I wanted her? “Just because she can doesn’t mean she likes to. She is insistent about that.”
“I am stunned you were paying attention,” Taylor deadpans.
“Trust me, you had my attention.” I finish off my drink with a long sip. “Because, fortunately for you, I love to dance. Matter of fact, I think I’ll go find someone else who does.”
“Steer clear of strangers near the punch bowl.” Taylor plucks my glass from me as I stroll out into the thick of the dancers.
When I enter the dance floor I’m swept into the strong arms of Mason, who twirls me around like I weigh nothing.
My body relaxes doing an activity so familiar to me it might as well be breathing.
Mason is an excellent dancing partner, and it isn’t long before we attract a sparse crowd.
He knows when to dip and pause, when to let my hips gyrate on his leg, and when to run his hands down my back.
A sultry bachata envelops us, requiring intense concentration and relentless touching.
Curling my body around his in the most suggestive manner I can, I let him twirl and pull me back like a spinning top.
Strains of Spanish guitar peter out and the dancers around us clap.
“I think I’ll cut in,” a pretty woman says, and plants a claiming hand on Mason’s shoulder, who looks quite delighted to see her.
I extricate myself. “By all means. Thanks for letting me borrow him.”
Not long after, I am dancing in the arms of another young man.
We drink as we dance, lifting glasses from waiters who weave in and out of the dancers.
Hours roll by, and the raucousness of the party reaches a high.
The heat of the room stifles us, and my current dancing partner brings us to the edge of the dance floor for air.
Taylor converses with a handful of soldiers, her back to the dance floor. An inebriated Faith stumbles into her, and Taylor sets her right with a warm smile. Faith arrests Taylor’s stabilizing arms, yanking her away from the soldiers, toward the dance floor.
“Come on, grumpy,” she slurs, tugging petulantly. “You’re, like, such a bump on a log tonight. You haven’t had one drink. Haven’t danced one time. Not one time!”
“I don’t want to dance, Faith.” Taylor eyes my partner and me before looking back to her friend. “There are plenty of others who would love to dance with you.”
Faith rolls her eyes and shakes her shimmering red hair. “I don’t care what they want, silly. I want to dance with you before you leave and I never see you again.”
Taylor sighs. “You will see me again.”
“Says who? You always say the future is a privilege. Blah blah blah.” She tugs on Taylor’s hands again. “Please? One time? Come on, Super Taylor.”
It’s incredibly cute to see Taylor’s resolve crumble beneath Faith’s pleas.
Taylor hands her drink off to a waiter and lets Faith lure her into the dancers with both hands.
The drunken escort walks backward, bumping into a few people as they close in around her.
I’m instantly entranced by the sight of Taylor having fun.
Eyes alight, posture relaxed, and a genuine, room-illuminating smile.
It’s like someone opened a portal to the past and I’m peeking into the Taylor who existed before I knew her.
Seeing her exhibit what little happiness she possesses stops me from cutting in to dance with her myself.
Faith wrests Taylor’s blazer off and tosses it away, covering a pair of involved dancers grateful for the privacy.
The redhead spins around, looping Taylor’s arms over her head until she’s snug in Taylor’s embrace.
I smile at them, and Taylor’s eyes crinkle back at me from over Faith’s shoulder.
And then, time stops. Like figurines in a snow globe, the world shakes around us, but we remain unmoved, frozen.
A gunshot. Screaming.
Faith raises her hand to her chest and pulls it away, tilting her head to examine the blood in confusion.
She swoons backward into Taylor’s arms, who lowers her gently to the ground.
Chaos breaks out. Dancers transform into soldiers.
I watch them wrestle the shooter to the ground, disarm, and restrain her.
Blinding lights flicker on with a loud clunk.
Faith lies in Taylor’s embrace, gurgling, her body convulsing in terrible shakes.
A crimson hole in her dress leaks blood down her torso, pooling on the floor.
“Someone get help!”
“No, nobody move,” Taylor says, voice choked.
She addresses the shocked crowd. “Go into lockdown. No one gets in or out until the hotel is cleared top to bottom. Apprehend anyone suspicious. Squads of four to each floor. Gutierrez, organize the squads. Appoint four people to the lobby, guards posted at every point of entrance until I give the order to be relieved. Dansin and Vasilev—hold the assailant in a room and let no one in.”
Whoever Gutierrez is, he immediately shouts names and people part the crowd to report to him.
Faith’s cough brings Taylor’s attention down.
She clutches at Taylor’s shirt, trying to find purchase on it, perhaps a desperate attempt to stay tethered to this world, smearing the fabric in ruby streaks.
Taylor makes no effort to stem the blood flow.
Instead, she leans close to her dying friend and delivers parting words.
Faith’s eyes lose focus. Her garbled breathing abruptly ceases with one hard inhale.
I watch her die. We all do.
Mason shoves away onlookers and crouches to lift the suddenly lifeless body of a recently alive Faith into his arms. He and Taylor communicate silently and she leads him out of the ballroom.
Delilah is not far behind, skittering in her heels to catch up.
I follow them into a room about a step below a triage unit.
Nothing fancy, but fully functional. Hit with the nauseating odors of bandages and disinfectant, I hold my hand over my mouth to prevent myself from vomiting.
Mason lays Faith’s body on the steel table in the center of the room as Taylor collapses into a chair.
Delilah stands near the doorway and converses in quiet tones with an Order soldier.
A few minutes later, a doctor arrives to check Faith’s vitals and confirms what we already know. She’s dead.
“I’ll have to prepare the body for transport,” the doctor tells the room.
Nobody responds to her, each of us turned inward to our grief.
I’m jerked back a decade, running from where my maids stashed me in the library to my mother’s room.
I’m watching the doctors click off the machines keeping her alive.
My father by her side, face red in anger and sadness.
He pleads with me to leave the room and I burst into tears and scream for my mother.
She doesn’t answer. I didn’t understand how she could be there one moment and gone the next.
The dissonance of death is in the sameness.
Nothing changes, yet everything is different.
“Transport?” Delilah pivots to face the doctor. “For what?”
“To the morgue in the hospital. We need this room for living patients.”
Delilah’s grief-stricken shock slowly fades to understanding. That makes one person in the room who agrees with her, based on the disconcertingly blank expression on Taylor and the anguished one on Mason.
“No.” I move forward and shake my head. “You are not taking her anywhere.”
“Excuse me?” The doctor levels a haughty look in my direction. “In the absence of kin, I decide what to do with the body.”
“Her name is Faith,” I say through gritted teeth. The woman cocks an eyebrow at me. “You are not touching her. You are leaving,” I insist. “This is the closest to kin she had, and they need time.”
“I am a doctor, and I demand—”