I’m still holding my breath, so I let it out. “Would you do that for me? Model? I mean, you don’t even know me—”
“I know what it’s like. To not be able to access your art. It hurts.” She grimaces then gestures to her left foot. “Last summer, an injury benched me for several weeks. I couldn’t dance. It was a dark time. The pain of the sprained ankle was nothing compared to that… emptiness. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” She pauses. “Besides, I trust Delphina.”
Delphina. She made a bully twice her size back down. The fact that she stood up for me makes Kamali think I’m someone worthwhile. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but Kamali offering to model is a gift I won’t refuse.
“It really would be a tremendous help if you modeled for me.”
She gestures down the hall, and I fall into step beside her. Her movements are graceful, even when she’s just walking. I try hard not to stare. After a few turns, I recognize that we’re in the ring that houses both my apartment and my studio. And probably hers as well, because I didn’t go far before stumbling upon it.
“It’s very kind of you to help me,” I say, “but I don’t want to take you away from your training. Maybe I can just grab a sketch pad from my studio, then we can go back to yours? You can dance...” I swallow, thinking about that. “And I can sketch.”
She nods. We’re silent until we reach my studio. I scan in and grab a half dozen pencils and a large sketch pad from the cabinet. After a quiet walk filled with itchy anticipation on my part, we arrive back at her studio.
She peels off her uniform. I busy myself with paying close attention to choosing a pencil, just to keep from staring. She slips off her shoes, but instead of dancing, she starts warming up. I give myself permission to watch, hand poised over the blank sketchpad. As she dips and bends, she’s entirely focused. It’s like I’ve ceased to exist… which is freeing. My hand whips over the page, catching a moment when she’s bent to the side, arms reaching like fluttering feathers. I flip the page and sketch another position. This time I focus on the lines of her muscles, detailing her slender but powerful legs. The lingering embarrassment at her near-nudity finally fades. I’m grateful for every curve that is revealed. That she holds nothing back.
I fill five more pages before she stops the warmup and walks toward where I’m sitting along the back wall.
“Do you want to see?” I ask, holding up the sketch pad.
“No.”
I try not to be crushed by that, but she gives me a small smile and ducks her head. I think maybe she’s embarrassed. Not of dancing nearly naked in front of me. But of having her picture drawn.
It makes me grin.
As she pulls up the holographic music controls from a panel in the wall, I ask, “Have you always danced?”
“Yes. Honestly, I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t dancing.” She carries on with the music selection then stops and turns to me. “You know, sometimes… I’m afraid.”
I’m riveted. “Of what?”
“That if I stop dancing… or if I can’t… that I’ll die.” She stares at her bare feet. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all.”
She looks up and gives me a small, uncertain smile.
It’s like a beam of sunshine. I hold up my hand. “Just… hold that. For a moment.”
She frowns, ruining it. “Hold what?”
But I still have it in my head. I flip over the page, sketching just her smile, like a delicate Cheshire cat beaming from the page. I grin. “Never mind. I got it.”
Curious, she drifts toward me, peering over the top of my sketchpad. I hold it flat against my chest, hiding it.
“I thought you didn’t want to see.” I hope she knows I’m teasing. My heart pounds, uncertain now whether I want her to see it or not.
She scowls at me, but it’s playful. “I want to see it when you’re done.”
My grin returns. “Deal.”
She nods and floats back to the music controls. Before she can start it up, I say, “You don’t have to worry about dying, you know.”
Her hand freezes midair. Slowly, she looks back to me. “What makes you say that?”
“I have a feeling about you. Winning, I mean.” I intend it as a high compliment, but her face shows no reaction. “Have you always wanted to ascend?” I add, wondering how long she’s been training for this one shot at literally being able to dance forever.
“No.” She turns back to the music player. Her fingers move then stop. The music hasn’t started yet. I’m about to apologize for saying the wrong thing, even though I’m not sure what it is, when she says, “Delphina convinced me to compete.”
Delphina. I have a small stab in my chest that I recognize as jealousy. I’m a little dumbstruck by that. How can I feel that way about someone I’ve just met? But it’s there, pulling at me with a piercing need to know: what exactly is Kamali’s relationship with Delphina? Are they… together? Or just friends?
When I don’t respond, Kamali peeks over her shoulder.
“She’s special to you,” I hazard, not sure if I want her to explain how.
Kamali turns to face me and crosses her arms. “She’s special to a lot of people.”
“Why?” I ask, although I have an inkling.
“You saw her.”
“She’s… inspiring?” I guess.
“She puts into words things I can only begin to think on my own.”
I nod. I can’t deny she has that power. Words are obviously her talent, or she wouldn’t be here competing with them. “Do you think she’ll win?” Suddenly the possibility that we might all win occurs to me. We’re all in different arts—drama, artem, storia. It could happen. And what would it be like to have forever to explore a relationship with Kamali? Or Delphina? Or other artists like them?
It sparks a fierce longing deep inside me.
Kamali hasn’t answered my question. She stares at me a moment longer, then turns back to her controls. “You ask a lot of questions for a painter.”
Before I can respond, music blasts into the room. She steps away from the controls to the center of the room. I’m still struggling for a comeback, wondering if I should shout over the music, when she starts to dance.
It destroys every other thought I have.
She moves constantly, leaping through space, one long, continuous dance made of a million tiny movements of beauty. I sketch furiously. Time suspends. I’m not sure how much of it actually passes, but my hand starts to ache. The pages flip by, consumed with sketched snapshots of her, capturing all the different ways she moves, stretches, leaps, and wrenches beauty out of thin air.
I’m a little light-headed.
I think I’m forgetting to breathe.
I shake out my hand, rubbing away the cramp, and I’m about to dive in again, when there’s a loud banging on the door that thumps over the music.
Through the window, I see… Marcus.
I am so busted.
I sprint to the door of Kamali’s studio, where Marcus waits outside with an expression that sends tremors through me. I try to open the door, but I can’t. It’s keyed to Kamali’s implant. Fortunately, my rush across the room has caught her attention, and she hurries over to open the door.
Marcus doesn’t come inside, just grips the doorframe. He’s traded his sheer shorts for a one-piece uniform that’s blue like mine, only he has the holo rings of the Olympics floating next to the airy fabric. His clothes obscure the coloration that must be raging across his chest, but it spills out the high collared neck and creeps up to stain his cheeks the color of spilled blood.
“Marcus, I can explain—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand. Cyrus is behind him, looking contrite. But it’s not his fault I’m not in my room or my studio and I’m hanging out with another agonite. Marcus motions me out of the room, giving a suspicious glance to Kamali that makes me want to jump to her defense.
But I don’t.
“You have
a visitor,” Marcus says quietly. “Your patron is waiting by your studio, but since you’re not there, there’s no one to let her in.”
“Lenora’s here?” My voice pitches up. I shoot a look at the sketchpad in my hand, hanging open with detailed drawings of Kamali’s body in every possible pose. I quickly flip it closed and shoot an apologetic look to Kamali.
She’s coolly taking all of it in.
“I have to go,” I say, lamely.
She nods.
I leave with Marcus, keeping pace with his too-fast stride down the hall toward my studio. Cyrus catches up. After a moment of silence, he and I both try to speak at the same time. We stop.
Before we can try again, Marcus cuts in. “I warned you about distractions, Eli.”
We round a corner. “She’s not distracting me.”
He gives me a look like he can’t decide if I’m lying or simply stupid.
I briefly consider telling him the truth—that she’s my inspiration—but that feels strangely personal. Cyrus is right: the ascenders have their own motives, and there’s no telling what they are. Whatever Marcus’s reasons for sponsoring me, I don’t want it to affect Kamali in any way.
“I doubt you know who your true friends are, Eli,” he says. “Or your enemies.”
We turn another corner. Lenora stands outside my studio, half-way down the hall.
Marcus drops his voice. “Don’t put me in a position where I have to defend your actions to the Olympic Board.”
“I’ll do my best to keep you out of trouble,” I say, sarcastically. Maybe he knows about the incident in the Lounge. I remind myself that ascenders tend to know everything. Thompson must already be on his radar.
We arrive at my door and Lenora’s side.
“I’m sorry I’ve been away, Elijah.” She’s as beautiful as always… and dressed up again, this time as an angel not a conquistador. Her dress is fashioned from gossamer, a dozen sheer layers arranged like rose petals around her body. Her coloration pulses through at the sleeves and chest, where the layers are thinnest—she’s flushed pink with excitement. A golden shimmer skims up to her cheeks, adding an otherworldly touch.
“I would have been here sooner…” She gives Marcus a glare that sends satisfaction coursing through me. “But I was delayed.”
Cyrus darts suspicious looks at both of them.
“I’m glad you’re here.” I key open the door with my implant and sweep an arm out. She steps inside. Marcus and Cyrus follow us in.
I gesture with the sketch pad. “I’ve been doing some work, getting ready for the competition.” I set it down, hoping she won’t want to see.
“Eli,” she says softly and steps close to me. “I’d like to speak with you. Alone.”
My heart skips a beat.
Marcus’s tight expression confirms that he’s the one she wants gone. “She’s not here to help you, Eli. She’s here to stop you from competing.”
I frown, hoping he’s wrong, but the golden flush in her cheeks dims with his words.
His expression grows colder. “The only reason she’s here is because patrons have rights even sponsors can’t deny. But remember this: I’m the one who believes you have what it takes to win. And I’d like nothing more than to see you ascend.”
Lenora presses her lips together and locks glares with Marcus.
My stomach churns in an angry storm of bile. I’m just a pawn in whatever their little game is. Which makes me wonder how all this would change if I actually won.
“I’ll be outside if you need me.” Marcus turns to leave.
Cyrus folds his arms and doesn’t budge from his spot by the door. Lenora acts as if he isn’t even in the room. I wait until the door slides shut behind Marcus.
“Is it true?” I ask her. “Are you still trying to stop me from competing?”
“Elijah.” She lays a cool, perfect hand on my arm, but I flinch away. She frowns. “It’s not that I don’t believe in your talent.”
“Really? Because it looks an awful lot like that.”
Cyrus is keeping quiet, but he gives me a small, supportive nod.
Lenora’s delicate fingers lace and unlace. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her… nervous. “Marcus is ambitious. Our world is very different from yours. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but if Marcus sponsors a winning agonite, he’ll become even more influential than he already is. He’ll be able to sway others in a way he can’t now.”
“That’s fine by me. As long as I ascend, I don’t really care what Marcus gets out of it.” In that moment, I include her in that. I don’t really mean it, but it hurts—badly—that she doesn’t want me to compete.
“There are things you don’t understand at work here,” she says.
“I think it’s pretty simple, actually.” Bitterness is a poison working its way deep inside me. “When I ascend, you don’t want Marcus getting all the social status instead of you.”
“That’s not true.” She stops the torment working through her fingers. “Marcus is right. Patrons have rights. I could claim you for my own, if I wanted to.”
“But you don’t want to.” The poison plunges into my heart.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” My heart twists with the pain of it.
She’s so close now, I could reach out and touch her. I want to sweep my fingertips along her perfectly sculpted cheek and tell her how ascending means everything to me. That we could finally be together, as equals—
My thoughts cut off when she touches me instead. Her hand on my face.
Her eyes lock with mine, so close. “Eli… Eli…” Her fingertips are tiny islands of cool against the sudden heat of my skin. Breath is frozen inside me.
“You are so special.” Her voice is low, whispering. “You don’t have any idea how true that is. Come home. Stay with me. Become a true artist-in-residence. We’ll work on your art together, and when you’re ready, I’ll take you to the finest shows in the ascender world. I’ll give you anything you wish, just please come home with me now.”
Her words have worked the poison free of my heart. She’s so close… close enough to kiss. “There’s only one thing I want,” I breathe out. Does she know?
“What is it? Just tell me. I’ll give it to you. I promise.”
A loud cough breaks the spell.
Cyrus scowls at me from the edge of the room. I blink and lean away from Lenora’s touch. I’d completely forgotten he was there. Completely forgotten my purpose for being here, all because there was a whisper of a chance of being in Lenora’s arms.
The shame of that makes me take a step back. “My mom is sick. She needs me to ascend. If you cared for me at all, you would sponsor me yourself.” The poison creeps back in. Lenora may want me as a pet—her little human domestic—enough to offer me money or patronage or whatever I could ask for. But she clearly doesn’t want me as anything more than that.
Her perfect lips turn down. “I can help with your mother, Elijah. I can get her the best medical care. I can even…” She pauses, her eyelids fluttering. She’s communing with Orion.
My eyes go wide. “You can even what?”
She focuses on me again. “I might be able to find her a cure. I would need some time.”
“What do you mean find her a cure?” As if the cure for my mother’s illness is just misplaced under a bed or in a drawer somewhere. “You ascenders have the cure. You just refuse to give it to her!” Anger is making me shake.
“Eli.” Her voice is a gasp, heartbreakingly soft. “Eli, I know. It’s monstrously unfair. Which is why I would need time. To find a way around the rules. It can be done. I’m sure of it.”
“How sure?” Cyrus says coldly, still at the far side of the room.
She keeps her focus on me. “I can’t guarantee it. But I will do everything in my power to make it happen. If that’s what it takes.”
“If that’s what it takes… to keep me from competing.” The chill in my body reaches my voice. “Tell me the
truth, Lenora. Why is it so important to you that I not compete?”
She hesitates. “Because you might win.”
“Why is that so bad?” I wince at the plaintive tone in my voice, but I’m almost afraid she’ll tell me the truth. That I’m good enough for her to love as a domestic but not as an ascender.
“I’m afraid you won’t live through the procedure.” Her voice is soft, like this is a confession that embarrasses her.
But I’m not buying it. “Only one in a hundred medalists don’t survive… what’s the real reason?”
She opens her mouth, hesitates, then closes it. “I promised your mother that I wouldn’t send you to the Olympics.”
“You what?” My mind is reeling. When did she talk to my mother?
“From the beginning, it was our agreement. Part of your patronage.” Her hands are tormenting one another again. “That I would help you develop your art, but under no circumstances was I to sponsor you for competition.”
“I… what…” My mother hates the Olympics, but I can’t see her making a pact with Lenora about it. My mother barely tolerates the fact that I have a patron at all. The only reason she allowed it was because she was sick—with a disease ascenders like Lenora refused to cure. But my art was too important. My mom wanted me to have someone to help develop it, even after she was gone.
Lenora watches me struggle, the golden glow of her skin dying under waves of wispy gray.
Finally, I manage to say, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Is Lenora lying to me? My mind is breaking into pieces trying to figure this out.
“I never expected you to—” She cuts herself off, and I realize why.
“You never expected me to qualify.” The words are bitter in my mouth.
Lenora holds her hands out, pleading innocence with them. But all I can think is how she’s not telling me the truth. Even now. “Elijah, please. Your mother wants you to come home. We both think it’s better for you to continue to explore your art there.”
My mouth drops open. “Did you go see her?” My fury spikes to a new level. My mother is in the throes of fighting off her illness, and Lenora is trying to use her to stop me. All so she can keep me for her pet.
The Legacy Human (Singularity #1) (Singularity Series) Page 11
