Center of Gravity (Marauders Book 3) (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

My Leg?

-o0o-

I opened my eyes, and it was so terribly hard. I didn’t know where I was, and for a second I panicked. Then I felt the pain surging through my entire body, and I forgot completely about the panic. I could hardly move without feeling as if I was being torn to pieces. Carefully looking down, I saw my left leg propped up in a cast. It seemed to cover my entire leg, from my ankle to my upper thigh. I lifted my hands and saw the drip needles.

That’s when my hearing slowly came back, and I heard the machines’ rhythmic beeping. The next thing I noticed was a man’s voice.

“Miss Dob... Dobror... Miss Anna, can you hear me?”

No surprise there. People were never able to pronounce my last name—Dobronravov. I couldn’t answer him, though. I tried, but my mouth was too dry, and then I felt sleepy again. It was impossible for me to keep my eyes open. After a few attempts to stop it, I gave up and closed my eyes.

-o0o-

“Anna, love, can you hear me?”

This time I couldn’t open my eyes at all; it was impossible. I finally settled on nodding while trying to find some saliva in my mouth. I knew this voice, and I wanted to do what she asked, since it was my aunt, Irina.

“Zvezda, you need to open your eyes, honey,” she continued. “Please open your eyes for me.”

I managed, and even through the blur, I could see her smile. I knew her smile so well; I’d seen it at pretty much every important moment throughout my life. She leaned forward, holding a straw in front of me. Trusting it was water I opened my mouth to accept it.

“Careful, Anna. Not too much.”

“My leg?” I asked as soon as my tongue seemed to be able to form words again. It was more of a slur, but she understood.

“Anna, I’m so sorry.” She shook her head, and I saw the tears in her eyes.

I didn’t need to hear anymore. It was pretty obvious. I could clearly remember the cast covering it, so it was at least broken, probably more, but I had no memory of how I’d ended up here—what had happened. But my leg was broken, and in combination with Irina’s tears I knew what it meant. I would never dance again. I laid my head back down and fell asleep feeling the tears running down the sides of my face.

-o0o-

Both my parents and my aunt Irina started and ended their careers as dancers at the ballet in Phoenix. It had been the base for the American side of the family since the mid twentieth century. I grew up in a small town just outside Phoenix, in the very same apartment that both my aunt and my dad had grown up. My parents wanted me to have somewhat of a normal life, so I was in a regular school until I was fourteen.

When I was twelve, my parents moved to Spain to work as choreographers. At first they wanted to take me with them, but having already been promised that I’d be allowed to apply to the School of American Ballet when I was fourteen, I refused and instead stayed behind and lived with Irina for the last two years. It didn’t matter much; the four of us had always lived together, and I was as close to her as I was to my parents. More importantly, she was my main trainer. I went to regular ballet schools of course, but my morning and evening training was with her. Then, at fourteen, I applied and was accepted at the School of American Ballet, and consequently moved to New York.

Irina stayed behind to become the ballet mistress at the Phoenix Ballet, and during school holidays I went to stay with her.

At eighteen, I joined the corps de ballet at the New York City Ballet; it was a dream come true. I was a soloist at twenty and already at twenty-two a principal dancer. I had it in my blood, and I’d danced for as long as I could remember.

But it was all over now. I knew it. There was absolutely no question about it, and no matter how long I’d danced, or how much I would train from this day on, I wouldn’t dance again. It had been months since I’d woken up that first time, and nothing anyone had said since had made me think anything but that my leg was ruined forever.

I watched as the doctors started to remove the cast. They had warned me about what I’d see, but once it was all gone, both Irina and I took a deep breath. My leg had not just been broken, it had pretty much been crushed and there had been damage to my hip as well, which had caused injuries to both my femoral and sciatic nerve.

In short: I should count myself lucky if I would ever be able to walk properly again, and not even that was very likely.

But no warnings had prepared me for what I saw. There were scars all over it—like a street map of angry red lines covering it from my mid calf to my hip, and I grabbed Irina’s hand while trying to hold my tears back.

I still couldn’t remember the accident, and according to the doctors it was quite possible I never would. I would actually prefer it if I never did, since it didn’t seem like a memory worth preserving.

I’d been hit by a cab. I’d been in a hurry since I’d missed my bus, and I’d missed my bus because I’d forgotten to turn off the coffee machine and had run back inside to do it.

I’d managed to catch the second bus, but when I ran around it to cross the street after I got off, I hadn’t paid attention and had been hit by a cab at full speed. If I’d simply left the coffee machine on, or had gone off at the back of the bus and rounded it with full view of the street to my left—which is what one is supposed to do—I would’ve been fine. And instead of looking at the mess formerly known as my leg, I would be at rehearsals for Balanchine’s The Four Temperaments.

I’d always known being a dancer was something that would end somewhere in my late thirties, or early forties if I was lucky. It had never been a long-term solution, but I had always figured I would still be able to do some dancing, at least work with dancing—maybe teaching. Judging by the state of my leg, that wasn’t going to happen. Ever. Like they’d said, I should count myself lucky if I could ever walk properly. I would, most likely, limp my way through the rest of my life.

Later that night, I was back in the bed with a new soft cast covering my leg. It felt just as good; I didn’t want to see it. Irina was sitting next to me, just like she’d done from the very beginning. She stroked the hair out of my face.

“I called your parents. They’ll be here in a few weeks.”

They were busy with their work, I knew, and I understood. She seemed scared I wouldn’t, so she continued,

“They want to be here, you know that, but they’re in the middle of training for the new—”

“Irina, it’s okay, I understand. Shouldn’t you be in the middle of training for the next performance?”

“In two weeks.” Irina took a deep breath. “How do you feel about Greenville?”

That’s where I grew up. In what was now Irina’s apartment in Greenville. It had been in the family since the forties; at times it had been empty, but had always been owned by the Dobronravovs since the building was built. Mom and Dad had moved there when I was born, and Irina had come to stay with us when I was three.

“Feels like a good place for a break,” I finally said.

Not like I had much of a choice, and it didn’t really matter to me. At the moment, I wasn’t even capable of going to the bathroom by myself. Irina had room for me, my old room, and it was private. As private as a room in someone else’s apartment could be.

“The town has changed since you left.”

“Yeah. Sure it has,” I chuckled. “You know, I used to come back for most holidays—as in just last Christmas. And unless it’s been a remarkable change in just a few months, it’s just as it was when I was fourteen.”

She gave my forehead a kiss. “Remember what your dream was when you were a kid and spent hours training in our practice room?”

“To be a principal dancer in the New York City Ballet,” I mumbled.

“And no matter what happens, you reached one of your life goals. People grow to be eighty without doing that or even working for it the way you did. Never forget that, Zvezda.”

“Spasibo, Tetya.”

We didn’t speak much Russian, just words here and there. Like my nickname,
zvezda
, which meant star. ‘Tetya’ was aunt, and on occasion some swearwords sneaked in, too. Mom had always spoken Russian with me, though, since she was born there, so I knew it fairly well. At least a lot better than Dad and Irina did.

“You’ll be fine, my love. You life hasn’t ended, and you have a new interesting future ahead of you.”

-o0o-

The first year after moving back to Greenville was a lot about adapting and learning basic things again. I cried a lot, but slowly my new situation became manageable.

At the end of that first year, I walked into a tattoo parlor in Phoenix. It had been recommended to me by my physical therapist, Brett, who’d said that no matter which one of the artists I ended up with, I’d be in good hands. I was met by a heavily tattooed and pierced woman somewhere in her forties.

“Hi,” I said. I was nervous. I had no idea how these things worked. “I have a vague idea for a tattoo, and I’d like to talk to someone about it.”

“What kind of a tattoo is it?”

“Well, that’s what I need some help with. It should have something to do with dancing, maybe ballet shoes, or... I’m not sure.”

This was probably stupid. I should’ve had a finished picture, but I just wasn’t sure. The research I’d done made me believe it was better if the artist told me what was possible and what wasn’t. Since I didn’t know much about tattoos, I figured it was for the best.

“Anna?”

I turned and for the first time noticed the other person behind the counter—a young girl with purple hair. I had no idea who she was, and she must’ve noticed my confusion.

“I’m Violet Baxter... or it was Warren, you used to—”

“Of course! Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”

Violet was Lisa’s baby sister. Lisa and I had been friends through school. Mainly since I had my dancing and didn’t have time for anything outside school, and Lisa’s best friends were two brothers she knew through the biker club her dad was in. The Baxter boys, as my parents used to call them with a huff, were infamous in school, and the younger one was the same age as Lisa and me.

Lisa hadn’t shared any classes with him, so she’d hung with me at school a lot. She quite often helped me with my homework, since she was smart, and I didn’t care much about it.

I smiled at Violet. “You grew up.”

Violet had always been a quiet little sister who hung around and… drew. Was she a tattoo artist? I quickly did the math in my head. She couldn’t be more than twenty-one.

“You work here?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered, and I noticed her looking at my cane.

My parents had bought it for me when it had become evident that I was most likely going to need one for the rest of my life, or at least for a really long time. It was beautiful; black with a silver handle and engraved flowers in an Art Nouveau style—Russian, of course.

“As a tattoo artist?” I asked, and she nodded. “Since when?”

“Since I was sixteen,” she smiled. “I loved drawing and this is a way to make living art.”

“This might sound rude, but are you any good?”

It was half a joke, since she still seemed very young, but if she were an artist, it would be a comfort to have someone I knew doing the tattoo. Also, I had let Violet watch me practice a couple of times. She’d said she wanted to try to draw dancing. She couldn’t have been more than twelve, but the drawings had been beautiful.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Don’t let her fool you,” the pierced woman said with a laugh. “She’s not
good
. She’s extremely good. Wins prizes all the time. If she can schedule you in, you’re a lucky woman and in
very
good hands.”

I noticed Violet looking at my cane again, and I figured she was uncomfortable with asking about it, but that turned out to not be the case.

“Dad told me you were in an accident. I think your aunt mentioned it to him when they met.”

“Yes,” I tried to smile. “I’m sort of stuck with this, but I’m fully healed. This is as good as it gets.”

“Okay. It’s just that, we don’t ink unless…”

“I know,” I said. “I did some research.”

“And it’s not a good way to cover scars,” she said looking rather uncomfortable. “At least not scars that new. They need to have healed a few years and preferably faded.”

“I know, and frankly you’d have to tattoo most of the leg, but I want it on my good leg.”

“I’m so sorry about the accident. I can’t imagine…” She gave me a weak smile. “It must be as if I lost my hands.”

It hit me that she probably understood better than most, and that’s when I decided I really wanted her to do it for me.

“Thank you. If you think you could squeeze me in, I’d love to have you do it. I’ll be in the area for a while, so there’s no hurry.”

“If you come to the back we can see what we can come up with, and if you like it we’ll make an appointment. I need to know what you want so I know how much time we need.”

When she came walking around the counter, I almost fell over. She was pregnant! I had no idea how I’d missed it to begin with, but she had a visible bulge on her belly and the rest of her body was quite skinny, so she had to be pregnant. I did the math again. And yes, she was twenty-one, I was sure.