Erin Kellison: Shadow Fall

Adam, there’s another traitor at Segue, Custo said.

But Adam didn’t signify he heard the warning. He fell on his knees before Custo’s chair.

Adam! Listen to me!

The trees grew to maturity, their boughs forming a dark tunnel to God knows where.

Adam!

Custo looked back, one last time, into mortality. His body had been cut free and Adam was struggling to haul it to the bed, his face contracted with rage and grief.

Not necessary. Not worth it. Never worth it. But, of course, Adam couldn’t hear him.

The blackness shuddered, shade upon shade. Something was coming.

From the deep, a gleam of silvery metal arched into a wicked crescent moon. A scythe. The harried shadows parted and a figure emerged, wrapped in a cloak of blackness. Shad-owman was partially hooded, but his face caught starlight. His features glowed with fantastic beauty, but his eyes were wells of loneliness. And no wonder—his was an existence filled with solitary, grim work. Custo couldn’t blame the tortured soul for stealing a human moment to love, even if that moment had allowed a demon into the world to raise an army of wraiths. If anyone could find a way to kill the demon, it was Adam and Shadowman’s daughter, the banshee Talia.

I have to warn him. Please.

Shadowman was immovable, his expression as unforgiving as stone. Hand gripping the scythe, he slowly swung out his arm, as if opening a gate to oblivion.

Death. Then Hell. Custo gathered what was left of his courage, clamping down on the naked quake of fear at his core. No sniveling allowed.

He moved out of pain and into uncertainty, the tunnel of sharp branches lengthening to a bright point of light. Probably a white-hot fire to burn at the blood staining his soul for eternity.

On either side of the dark path, whispers. Eyes flashing. Magic gathering to lure strays from the way. The tunnel led to a primeval shore where a narrow skiff waited to carry them across a gray channel toward a high, great gate. The light of the surrounding walls shifted through the varied spectrum of the rainbow, at once blue and yellow, then azure and verdant green.

There must be a mistake—even Spencer knew the truth.

Shadowman delivered him to the gleaming portal, which opened in welcome. The light was blinding. A song of piercing joy rose to cheer an addition to the Host.

Custo turned to Shadowman, but Death was gone.

So not Hell. Worse. A cosmic joke. A bloodied soul to be numbered with the angels.

He was a liar, a murderer, a thief, but never a hypocrite. He didn’t belong here.

The shining gate closed behind him, clanging shut like a Sunday church bell.

Custo braced his hands on the spectacular surface. There had to be a way out. A way to open the gate and a way to warn Adam.

Custo banged a fist against the entrance.

Or if not, good people died every day. Death would be back eventually, and damn if Custo wouldn’t be ready.

ANNABELLA stepped en pointe into a soft arabesque, arms lightly crossed over her breasts, head bowed in a ghostly whisper of submission. With her arching movement, the skirt of her long practice tutu created a silent white wedding bell in the front mirrors of the studio. The moment stretched as the ethereal strains of Giselle filled the room. The first eerie whine of the strings…the second…

One soft breath and she inclined her weight forward just as her partner propelled her into a seamless lift.

“Stop. Stop. Stop.” Thomas Venroy hit his cane against the floor for someone to shut off the music. The artistic director communicated almost everything with that sharp rap of his cane. In spite of the hugging, humid heat of the studio, he wore dress slacks and a button-down shirt. His nearly bald head was covered by a weak gray comb-over.

Annabella relaxed out of position, chest heaving, her hands braced on her hips. The air was stale with old sweat, but no one would think of opening a window to let the chill air in to cramp their muscles.

She looked over her shoulder at her partner, Jasper Morgan. He’d taken advantage of the break to snag a towel from his bag to wipe himself down. The rest of the dancers who made up the corps lounged on the barre or sat on the floor along the back wall of the studio. They’d been at this for over five hours, but tomorrow’s dress rehearsal would be more about staging and costumes than fine-tuning the movements. The time was now. She’d stay all night if she had to—this was her debut as principal. Her Giselle had to be perfect, even if the company was only doing the second act for the gala performance.

Jasper flung the towel over his shoulder and crouched on the floor. Probably to stretch his back—hers was killing her, too. When she got home, she’d swallow a bottle of ibupro-fen, take a hot bath, and bawl like a baby. But not now. Not with people watching.

“Annabella,” Venroy said from his stool at the front mirrors, “your shoulders are full of tension. You are supposed to be a wili. A ghost. Like a puff of smoke.”

Tension. Right. She was freaking stressed out of her mind.

She squared her shoulders. “I’ll do better,” she said. “My concentration slipped, that’s all.”

“Anna.” Venroy waved away her words. “You’re tired. Jasper is tired. Go home and—”

“No,” Annabella cut him off. She winced at her sharp tone, took a deep breath, and pleaded, “I need to get this right. I’ve almost got it. I can feel it. One more time.”

Venroy frowned. One of the girls in the back murmured diva, but Anna didn’t turn her head. What they thought of her didn’t matter, not really. She’d given up her life for ballet; she didn’t expect anyone to start inviting her to slumber parties now.

She glanced down at Jasper. “Please?”

Jasper groaned as he stood, but he balled his towel and threw it to the side of the room. He’d been a principal for more than two years already, and he was just as invested in this performance. At six feet, he was the ideal height to partner her. His blue-and-blond good looks always showed well onstage, not to mention that he sure knew how to fill out a pair of tights. Too bad he was gay.

Jasper’s grudging support had her spirits rising. She looked back at Venroy in question.

“Oh, all right. One last time.” Venroy’s gaze shifted to the dancers at the back wall. “Be ready.”

Annabella backed up to her starting position again and waited for the music to begin. One last chance for “perfect” before the big night.

Deep breath. Shoulders relaxed. Ready.

The soft music slid again from the CD player, and she let the ribbons of sound guide her. She glided through the intermediate steps following the pas de deux, the touch of her pointe shoes nearly silent on the floor.

She threaded the discrete movements together so that her step-step arabesque became the haunted shift of a forest sylph. She shed Annabella and let the magic of the ballet take over. Let the dance transform her into the ghost, the wili, of Giselle.

The arabesque. A breath. And Jasper’s strong hands were at her waist to skim her body through the ether.

He set her gently on the forest floor, near her grave, then stepped forward to embrace her, to capture the spirit of his love. Too late, too late. The two-timing Prince Albrecht broke her weak heart and she died. Now he comes at midnight to grieve for her.

“Lightly! Don’t forget your arms!” Venroy called.

Annabella corrected the angle of her port de bras so her arms were tentative, the tilt of her head mournful.

She floated back, on tiptoe, stirred by an errant breeze through the darkened trees.