Shadow Fall (2 page)

A gray wind lashed through the room just as Adam kicked in the bedroom door and plugged two bullets in the wraith’s head. She went down with a wide-eyed thump, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, die. That was her trade—a life of monstrous soul feeding in return for immortality.

Adam and Spencer spoke with angry gestures, but the words foundered on the hiss and whip of the crowding shadows. Spencer ducked out of the room when Adam caught sight of the ruined body in the chair.

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.

Chapter One

A
NNABELLA
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.

“Yes! Don’t let Jasper catch you!”

Jasper blurred in her vision as she took a light run upstage. If she looked at him, really looked at him, she’d lose the moment. The magical transport between here and the Otherworld. Her blood sparkled through her thrumming body, tingling at her fingertips in the sweep and twist of each extension. Darkness crowded the corners of the story, a forest of magic replacing the barrier of the studio walls.

“That’s it! Beautiful, Anna!” Venroy raised his cane. “Ladies, be ready!”

The music rose and her wili sisters poured from the tree line, circling her like a cauldron of mist before forming two straight lines at the edges of the clearing, arms crossed over their breasts, heads bowed, eyes hollow and downcast as in death.

The music hesitated, and then a single violin sang, the melody rising in tempo, yet still queer in tone. She sprung into a series of backward moving leaps, feet quick, body light, then prepared for her diagonal cross—

She brought her gaze up for her pique turn.

A pair of wide-set yellow eyes peered back at her from the murk of the imaginary trees. Feral eyes.

Her breath caught. She blinked hard and shook her head. She forcibly relaxed:
Shoulders down. Concentrate.

The music rose—her cue—and she began her lightning-swift, traveling turns. Her feet were busy, fast with technique, while her upper body all but floated through the air. She was the ghost of a lovelorn girl; gravity had no power over her. She was as fluid as water, as dense as atmosphere. Magic and midnight alone could claim her.

A low growl rumbled through the wood…From the whip of her turn, her gaze found the yellow eyes again and now the hulking shadow of a wolf, crouched to spring.

Her balance shifted, faltered. Her foot slipped out from under her and…she fell with a body slap to the studio floor.

Wolf.
Heart pounding, Annabella skittered away from the now-empty corner of the room. Her gaze darted around the studio, the lights suddenly bright and harsh. The wilis dropped their positions and shuffled out of line.

Anybody see that?

Their interest was fixed on her.

Just me then.

The thing was gone, as was the dark forest, evaporating into her imagination.

She finally brought her attention to Venroy, who was pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed.

Embarrassed heat swept over her. Maybe it
was
time to go home.

Mortal. Trespasser.
Woman.

Bright like fire. Dancing like flame. A threat.

Her fecund scent burned in the hunter’s nose. Earthy, musky, sweet. Hunger curled in his belly. His teeth sharpened for flesh.

The mortal light flickered, then doused, but the smell of her lingered. Drew him. He stalked the boundary of Twilight, his paws silently picking through the layers of Shadow to search her out. He cocked his head to sniff.

This way. The hunt was on.

“Anna, I’d like a moment,” Venroy said. “The rest of you are done for the night.”

Annabella pushed herself to standing. Her hip and elbow finally registered the ache of the fall.
Just great.
She shot a quick glance to the corps, who were leaving in twos and threes. A couple months ago, she’d been one of them. When the lineup for the new season had been announced, she’d had every expectation of being in the long line of wilis for the classical component of the schedule. Certainly not in front of them, as the lead.

And it had all started with those fateful words, “Anna, I’d like a moment.”

This time she didn’t think it would be good news.

Chin up. Dress rehearsal was tomorrow—she was Giselle whether they liked it or not. She strode forward. She prayed Venroy would keep his voice low. Falling on her ass was humiliating enough. Having the whole studio hear his rebuke would be too much.

Venroy’s expression softened. “You are worrying me, Anna. I wonder if you were promoted too early. Too young. Your technique is strong, but others are equal, some better. You certainly work hard, but everyone else here does as well.”

Her stomach turned. She didn’t want to hear the rest.

“And you have talent. Undeniable talent.” He shook his head. “I am not talking about aptitude. I am talking about
the gift.
When you dance, the story comes alive. Do you know what I mean?”

“I know how I feel when I dance.” Her voice was thick.

His gaze sharpened. “How?”

“Different. Wonderful. But strange, too. Like the world loses its grip on me and I can fly. Does that sound crazy?”

“No,” Venroy said. “And yes. But that is ballet.” He grew serious. “We can cancel the
Giselle
portion of the opening gala and substitute it with something else.
Serenade
is ready.”

Her face burned. “I swear I can do this.”

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. There is no shame in saying you aren’t ready. We’ll simply make the change.” He stood and adjusted his pant legs. “But if you choose
Giselle
and become distracted like that during the performance, it will be your last as principal.”

The heat in Annabella’s face abruptly fell away. Her heart beat hard, once, registering his criticism and sending a fresh wave of mortification though her system. Her eyes pricked with tears. The very idea of Thomas Venroy disappointed in her made her chest horribly tight. She swallowed the lump in her throat and looked down at her shoes, concentrating on the worn peach satin so she wouldn’t cry. She was a grown woman, for Pete’s sake.

“What’s it going to be?”

There was only one answer. “
Giselle
.”

Venroy took her chin, raised her face to him, and gave her a little shake. “Anna, please. I believe in you. You shine so bright when you dance. Try to enjoy this moment.”

She was trying. She was giving this performance every scrap of talent and soul that she had. This was her dream.

Sighing, Venroy picked his folded gray-brown sport coat off the floor at his feet, gave it a dusting, and then shrugged it on. “Go home. Get a full night of sleep. Trust yourself that the performance will be wonderful. Once you are on the stage, in costume, you won’t be able to help yourself. Distractions will disappear. You will be Giselle, body and spirit.”

Will that wolf still be there?
She bit her lip so the question wouldn’t slip out. She swallowed hard again and nodded. She couldn’t have Venroy thinking she was losing it.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he led her to the studio door, and then gave her butt a pat to nudge her toward the dressing room.

Jasper was leaning on the wall outside the studio. “What you need is a good, hard screw.”

Annabella stopped and gave him a halfhearted smile. The sweetie had waited to see that she was okay. His towel was wrapped around the back of his neck, and both his hands gripped the ends. The rest of his fantastic body was on display under his sweaty tights and tank. Very impressive.

He grinned back at her. “You know, the kind that obliterates your mind and makes your body weep.”

She mustered a laugh. “You offering?”

“I would if I could, honey. You need it.” He took her hand and gave her palm a kiss. “But I think it would confuse my boyfriend.”

“Lucky guy,” she said and turned for the dressing room. It was common knowledge that Jasper and his boyfriend Ricky were as good as married.

Jasper released her hand. “Go find yourself a nice boy…”

“Ha!” she answered back, pulling open the dressing room door. A nice boy. He sounded like her mother. She had no time for nice boys. Or bad ones.

The dressing room door closed on, “…it works wonders!”

Annabella sidled by a group of dancers clogging the entry. If she hurried, she could be home in twenty minutes. The showers beyond hissed. Most of the dancers were in a rush, too, calling good-bye and squeezing past half-naked bodies. Anna dropped to the bench. She kicked off her tutu, hung it on a peg inside a locker, and then worked the knots of her shoe ribbons loose.

“Anna,” Katrina called. She’d been her friend since they joined the company together a couple years ago. They hadn’t spoken much since Annabella had been promoted.

“Yeah?” Annabella leaned back on the bench to see Katrina pulling a tee over her head.

“Couple of us are going out for a drink to unwind. You want to come?” While grabbing some jeans, Katrina batted away another girl—Marcia, by her slick French twist—who groaned at the extended invitation.

A drink. Some laughs. Like old times.

Politically, yes, she should go. She knew that. Katrina knew that. Judging by the slight hush, everyone in the dressing room knew that, too.

But…her body hurt, her mind was reeling, and she really, really needed a good cry. The last thing she wanted was for her mini breakdown to be alcohol induced and public. She’d probably start babbling about wolves with yellowy eyes and…No. Drinks were definitely not a good idea right now

Katrina read the answer on her face, gave a cold shrug, and turned away.

Annabella caught a couple of the looks shared by some of the other dancers. One mouthed the word
diva
—the second time today that particular label had been applied to her. The insult smarted this time.

Diva? She didn’t get it. Nothing about her had changed since her promotion to principal.