The Deception Dance (6 page)

A waiter walks through an open door, carrying a stack of several
plates, that are covered in foil; he sets them in front of me.
Nicholas hands the waiter a credit card and gestures to my leaning
tower of appetizers.

I wave. "Wait, the other girl, Chauncey, is paying for this.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem.” Nicholas brushes it off
with a wave of his hand.

I crane my neck to glance around for Chauncey;
she’s gone. I would offer to pay but I don't have even close to
enough for the appetizer pile.

I stare down at the
tower of wrapped plates and sigh. I’m never going on a
date
with Chauncey again. I bet she’s thinking the exact same thing
about me, right this second.

Day Four (continued)

I opt to sit in the front seat with the driver,
not wanting to fight for Nicholas or chance sitting next to Chauncey,
the ‘dine and ditcher’. After a few attempts at
conversation, I realize that the driver, Alberto, doesn’t speak
English and would rather not try.

The city lights flash by. I concentrate on nibbling the top plate
appetizers, not wanting to look at the oncoming headlights or notice
the chaotic way we’re weaving through them. I have no idea what
I'm eating, but it tastes a little like tuna.

We pull to the curb and the driver announces, “Distillerie
Babilonia.”

I smile and thank him.

"Leave your food in the car, Raven," Chauncey calls from
the back seat.

The driver nods, so I do as she says.

After passing a number of clusters of men and women dressed up for
the night, some of who call to me or Chauncey, we enter the
Distillerie Babilonia. The music thumps deep in my body and is
enforced by the flashing neon lights. I don’t like techno
music, but I find my body swaying to the beat of the subwoofer.
Chauncey tells us she's heading to the "little girls’
room," which just sounds sick to me, and instructs us to meet
her at a group of sleek leather couches along the far wall.

When we reach them, Nicholas sits down right next to me and says into
my ear, "Please, never do that again.”

I try to raise one eyebrow, but they both lift.

“Leave me in the back of a car with your friend, at her mercy,”
he answers to my questioning look, grabbing his chest. His voice
sounds raw and high pitched, “I felt like a little fish, caught
by her octopus arms.”

I can’t help it: I laugh. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be, my innocence took a real hit this evening.”
If Nicholas's smile is unguarded, it is nothing to his laugh; he has
a laugh that would make half the people in a crowded movie theater
turn around. Even though the techno music makes us shout to be heard,
a few inches from each other, a couple cranes their necks to see
Nicholas, as he's laughing, which only makes me laugh all the harder.

And that's how Chauncey finds us, buckled forward, eyes streaming
with water, laughing.

Standing ten feet away, the glare she gives me sobers me right up.
“I’ll get drinks,” she announces, then turns on her
heal.

Nicholas wiggles his eyebrows. He has to yell to be heard over the
music, "Oh, she’s mad.”

“And you’re making it worse." I shake my head but
I'm still smiling.

“I can’t help it; she scares me. I’m using you for
protection.”

I turn to examine him. My face muscles are sore. “So, what's
Sweden like? We're not going there.”

"You should, it's paradise in the summer. Sweden has green
rolling hills, old windmills and churches, farmland everywhere. I
often hop rocks along the ocean-side for kilometers.”

I ask, “hop rocks?”

“Jump from one boulder to the next, keeping up momentum so you
don’t fall. Sometimes I’ll swim in the North Sea with
jelly fish, or...”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” I laugh. “Don’t
you get stung?”

He leans in close. "No, you just don't swim with the black
ones.”

Chauncey walks up.

I jump away from Nicholas.

With precise movements, she hands us each a tall shot glass filled
with brown liquid. I stare at mine with trepidation; I’ve never
taken a shot before, never drunk anything stronger than wine. I lean
and pass mine to Nicholas: "Here, you take mine.”

Chauncey narrows her gold-painted eyelids. "What, you’re
not drinking that? I bought the shot for you, that is so...”

Nicholas hands me back my shot and I take it. The alcohol burns my
throat. I hold my breath to keep the liquid down. I’m not
giving Chauncey another reason to hate me, not when we’re
spending another two and half months together.

They both smile at me and take theirs.

Chauncey stands. "I’ll get some more.” She hops away
from us, heading back to the bar.

“So how did you two end up hanging out together?” His
tone makes it clear how odd he finds our pairing.

“She’s my sister’s roommate; I’m trying to
like her.”

“How’s that going?”

The room shifts of its own accord. “What?” The lights
behind Nicholas swirl and focusing on his face is difficult.

“How’s befriending Chauncey going?”

I laugh and lean against the leather seat. "Terrible.”

“Do you ever wear your hair up?”

I stare at his beautiful face. His cheeks are flashing different
colors-- no, that’s the lights.

“May I?”

I nod, not sure what I’m agreeing to. He walks away from me and
behind the leather couch. He puts his hands in my hair and scoops it
to the top of my head, holding my head from falling off.

“Lovely,” his breath tickles my ear.

I turn toward Nicholas; he’s so tall, so I’m looking
right at his stomach.

He glances behind. "Do you want anything else to drink?”

“Water, please,” My words come out blubbery. Funny word,
‘blubbery.’

He stands. "Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

I sink into the leather and let my hand graze over the seat. Lifting
my head is hard because each time I do, the room spins. I laugh and
let my head fall to the side, resting on my shoulder. I’m glad
I’m sitting alone; I feel like a rag doll, as if I have no
bones. When Nicholas returns, I’ll tell him that I have no
bones. I slump over and let my face rest on the red leather.

No, I have to sit up. I press my hand down into the leather and push
myself to a sitting position. I can act normal. I nod to myself. I am
sober. I giggle.

“Raven,” Nicholas says popping into view, “Chauncey
left with a group of men.”

I’m perfectly sober; I can sit straight and nod.

“Don’t go anywhere, I’m coming right back.”
He leaves. Where’s he going?

I’ll just close my eyes for one second.

My eyes blink open. A man’s arm wraps around my shoulders. His
jaw juts forward, making his face horse-like.

“Bella,” he says.

“Bella, my ass,” I say, then slap my hand over my mouth
and blow a raspberry, laughing. I stand up, almost knock a table
over, laugh, "Oops!” I yank off one shoe, then the other,
singing, “One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, shut the
door.” Leaving my shoes, I squeeze between the bodies all the
way to the bar and yell, “Excuse me...”

The bartender doesn't pay any attention to me.

I shout, “Excuse me. I’m looking for this guy and this
girl. Will you help me find them?”

He doesn't even look over. I’ll just lay down my head for one
second.

"What?" I say, my lips pressed to the bar, "Who’s
shaking me? Why are you yelling? I don’t understand Italian.”
The bartender’s yelling; I have no idea what he’s saying.

Someone lifts me from the bar; I look back and see horse-face. He
has his hands on my shoulder. He says something I can't understand to
the bartender. The bartender, a tall blurry man, yells something.
Horse-face laughs and pulls me away from the bar.

“But, I don’t know you.” I squirm as his arm wraps
around my shoulder and squeezes. I’m having trouble walking.

“I don’t know him,” I tell a young woman in a short
dress.

The woman just shakes her head.

“Let me go, he’s not letting me go.” No one listens
to me; they all just walk by. I can barely walk.

He shoves me out a large metal door. I fall onto the cement. A man
helps me up, a different dark-haired man.

“Help, please help me,” I whisper.

He passes me to horse-face. He lights up a cigarette and says
something in Italian. Horse-face laughs again.

I beg over my shoulder, “help.”

The smoking man smiles and gives me a thumbs-up.

Horse-face drags me into another alley, and another alley, and
another alley. I don't even know which way we came from.

I fight and yell, but he doesn't have any problem dragging me, and my
words come out blurry, slurry. I whimper as glass cuts into my foot.

Maybe if I fall down and go to sleep, I can forget about all of this.

"Stop, leth me go," I yell, my words are slurred. I push
him, but he doesn't flinch.

Horse-face stops and shoves me into the wall.

My head smacks so hard, I think I pass out for a second.

When I open my eyes, Horse-face's face stretches, looking more and
more like a horse's. His chin, mouth and nose grow long, long,
longer, like a snout. But, his hands aren't turning into hooves, no,
their growing into claws, talons, like an eagle.

"Get off me!" I scream, but it comes out, "Get'sha
off'a me!" I kick but my feet are stuck, tangled under me.

He raises one sharp finger-spear of his claw and stabs it into my
shoulder. Warm liquid splashes my neck and runs down my arm.

I punch his claw, or I think I do; he bats my hand aside and pins it
to the wall with another claw. With a snort and a big-toothed, horsey
smile he claws into my shoulder.

I think I scream, but everything is so fuzzy under the pain.

I blink and he's moved; he holds his bloody claw up, and it drips
onto my face. He turns his snout sideward to look at me from his
bulging horse eye.

I raise my hands up, as his claw slashes down, this time for my
cheek, but something flies into him.

I collapse as, suddenly, Horse-face is far away from me, with
something else in the alley. There are strange noises, as if there’s
fighting but I can’t see what’s going on.

I try to stand, to run, but my foot sears with pain and I crumple.

There's a screeching, a loud cry, then silence. Someone sighs loudly,
before clomping footsteps head my way.

I crawl away, dragging myself over trash and grimy paving stones. My
chin bumps the stones as I drag myself forward. The smell of old
garbage and pee (and worse things) burns my nose.

Somebody grabs me. I kick, but arms lift and scoop me up. A man holds
me like a baby. I look into his face to find it’s not
Horse-face. I recognize him and lay my head on his chest.

My words are a slurry
mess of syllables; I try to ask, "Missssster… Mister
Contacts?" Then I close my eyes and pass out.

Day Four (cont'd again)

Cool water drips down my cheeks. There’s some sopping material
on my forehead; it pulls away. I wipe the back of my hand across my
eyes before opening them. The first thing I see is my hand, smeared
with dirt, black dirt and blood.

“Good, you're awake, Raven,” says a male voice, with a
hint of an accent. “Drink this.”

I stretch my neck to look at the man, sitting beside me on the bed.
His features are familiar, as if I’ve been running over them in
my mind since I first saw him in the Forum. Mr. Contacts.

I grab my head, to check if there's a vice tightening around my
cranium, but don't find one. I rub my temples.

“Drink this,” he insists.

“Huh? What? What is that?” My voice comes out rusty.

“Something to make you feel better.”

My stomach muscles clench, as I sit up and turn to the man.

He leans against an ornate dark wood headboard. His gem eyes twinkle,
as the corners of his mouth turn up.

“What happened? That guy had...he had claws...”

“You we’re drugged, Raven. Someone you were with tonight
drugged you.” He caresses my face, as if he knows me.

“He stabbed me with a talon.” I touch my shoulder;
there’s a bandage taped over it.

“Perhaps he had a knife?” he says. “Could you have
seen a knife?”

I squint. "Drugged?”

“Drink this.” He offers the cup again. I think I can
trust him; no that’s stupid, I’m pretty sure you’re
not supposed to trust the man whose bed you wake up in after you’re
drugged.

He holds out a clear glass, filled halfway with a brown-tinged
liquid. He looks earnest when he says, “Please, you're not out
of danger yet. That drink will make you better.”

I grasp the glass with both hands, shaking, and take a cautious sip.
The drink tastes like gasoline smells; I cringe. Plugging my nose, I
swallow down a giant gulp of the sulfurous liquid.

He doesn’t touch the glass, but cups his hand under it,
gesturing for me to drink the whole thing. I hesitate, fingers still
pinching my nose, and then gulp down the rest.

He takes my empty glass and places it on the floor.

I keep my nose pinched, delaying when I’ll experience the full
taste of what I just ingested. "How do you know my name?”

“You told me, a couple of times. But, you did not tell me where
you're staying, so I carried you here.” His accent doesn't
sound Italian; it's really faint, Spanish maybe.

After I release my nose, I shake my head. I peer around his room, but
don’t even take in the details of the nearest painting before
that sulfurous drink burns its way back up my throat. My hand flies
to my mouth.

“Here,” he says, again scooping me into his arms.

I close my eyes and absorb his every movement, as he stands up and
carries me some distance, turns, carries me some more and places me
on a soft seat. He hands me a large metal bowl.