Page 68 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)

I peer into the steamy contents of my mug. If I were to try to speak, I’d probably break out in more tears.

“Mr. C has long anticipated the moment he won’t be able to recover,” she goes on sadly. “It’s not a matter of if, but when. You play such a role in that, Nevaeh dear—him spending his last phase of his life with you. The ballerina from his dreams.”

“I need to speak with my mother,” I choke out.

Ms. Poitier’s brows furrow. “Dear, you know the rules—”

“Please. She’s the only one that can make me feel better.”

The excuse works.

Ms. Poitier caves with a guilt-riddled sigh and grants me a five-minute phone call.

“I’ll be making more tea. Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” she warns.

I wait ’til she’s wandered off to the pantry before pressing the call button.

Mom answers with a drawn-out yawn on the third ring. I launch into what’s weighing on my heart.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, speaking fast. “I don’t want to anymore.”

“Baby, we’ve been over this. Youhaveto.”

Shaking my head frantically side to side, I pick at the nail beds of other fingers. “Mom, I’m telling you… I… I can’t do this.”

“You sound emotional. How many times have I ever told you that’s the worst thing you can become in this arrangement? You know what’s on the line. You’ve trained all your life. There’s no escaping it.”

“It’s too much.”

“Nevaeh!” she snaps. “I’m sick and tired of the theatrics. I’m not going to tell you again. What’s done is done. I don’t know what else you expect me to say. Nero’s not fooling around. Do you want that blood on your hands?”

We hang up on that guilt-ridden note.

Ms. Poitier notices the distressed expression etched onto my face the moment she returns from the pantry. She forgets about the teabags and kettle she’s fussing with and comes over to check on me.

“You look more upset than when you placed your call. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to break Mr. C’s once-a-week rule.”

A broken sigh works its way out of my lungs.

If only you knew…

TWENTY-ONE

Caelian

The doors flingopen and in spin a dozen small women. They flit across the floor with fast-moving feet and their delicate tutus. In just a few short movements they’ve captured the attention of everyone in the room.

The music’s chaotic. Violent strokes of a violin and heavy fingers slamming down on a piano. The more dissonant it becomes, the harder the frolicking women dance.

They leap from one end to another and whip in dizzying circles. If not for their grace even in the face of chaos, you’d think their dance was unplanned and spontaneous.

I sit among the roomful of nameless men, shrouded in shadows that hide our faces. No one cares to pay mind to the person seated next to them; no one gives a damn about anything but the performance happening before our eyes.

I tear my gaze away from the women’s chaotic routine and turn my head to the left. My body jerks in my seat.

The man seated next to me has no face. Where his eyes and mouth and nose should be is only a blank canvas of skin as if his features have been erased.

They’ve been blurred out—everyone’s has.