Black Frost Winter: The Black Seasons Book Two

by Lenai Despins

  “Shotgun on the big one,” Deborah called, hurrying into the master bedroom.

  Carrie changed course mid-stride, rolling her suitcase to the twin room instead with a disgruntled purse of the lips. “Haven’t you already had a big one today?”

  “Nah, he was pretty disappointing,” she replied, wriggling her pinky finger in the air.

  “Okay, we get it! Would you hurry up and get in the shower?” Amy quipped, pointing at the shared bathroom. “You’re first because you take the longest to get ready.”

  Amy wasn’t lying. It was nearly nine before Deborah emerged from her room. At least her appearance justified the time. Deborah’s hair was the perfect balance of tousled, yet tame, and her smoky eyes paved a strong accent for her red locks. She wore an asymmetrical navy coat with thigh-high boots, a fashion trend that was supposedly making a comeback and would be all the rage next season. Deborah was always one step ahead of the style curve—although working for a major fashion enterprise gave her a leg up.

  “Aren’t you going to make any effort, Alexia?” she asked, pulling a face at her friend’s sneakers. “Didn’t you wear those on the plane?”

  Alexia shrugged off the remark. Now that she wasn’t meeting Chloe, she couldn’t care less about what she wore.

  “If we’re walking the streets of Paris all night, I’m at least going to be comfortable doing it. The Eiffel Tower is like an hour away from here. You won’t make it two blocks in those heels.”

  “I could run a marathon in these,” Deborah replied with absolute seriousness.

  The disturbing part was that Alexia believed her, although she would never give her the satisfaction of hearing it. Before Deborah could get another word in, Alexia rose from the couch, swinging her trusty backpack over one shoulder.

  “No,” Deborah said firmly.

  Alexia gritted her teeth, her temper unravelling at the seams. “Deborah, you wear whatever you want, so let me wear whatever I want.”

  “You can keep the shoes, but the backpack is where I draw the line.”

  Alexia’s words flowed as cool as the air outside. “This is the only bag I brought.”

  “Surely you’re not taking that to the masquerade ball?”

  “I have a clutch for the party, but it barely fits my phone.”

  Deborah was silent for a moment, drumming her fingers against the sliver of thigh her boots exposed. Then she turned on her heel and disappeared into her bedroom.

  Alexia looked to her other friends for support, but Carrie and Amy shifted awkwardly, avoiding her gaze like it was a contagious virus. It was an unspoken rule of the group to not take sides. If two people had an argument, it was up to them to come to a resolution. Picking sides created division, and their friendship was stronger together. Besides, the bickering was more like sibling rivalry; heated for a moment, forgotten the next.

  Sure enough, Deborah emerged a moment later with a luxurious purse tucked under her arm. She handed it to Alexia.

  “Take this one.”

  Alexia rolled her eyes, knowing that Deborah’s intentions stemmed from her desire to be seen with a crowd just as fashionable as she was. A motive evidently lost on Amy, who gasped.

  “Is that Chanel? That bag’s worth more than our plane tickets!”

  Deborah smiled. “Perks of working in the industry. Look, I’m not giving it to you, Alexia. I’m lending it to you for the duration of the trip.”

  “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

  “No, you’re supposed to be relieved. If you wear this at all times, then I won’t bug you about any of your other clothing choices.”

  Alexia scanned the bag again. She had to admit, it was nice. Careful to conceal any trace of contempt lurking in her expression, she accepted the designer piece with a sigh.

  Carrie was on her feet in a flash, ushering them out the door. “Great, now let’s go.”

  They strolled along the glowing river toward the Eiffel Tower, hypnotized by all the unfamiliar sights. Before long they paused at an intersection, ears pricking at traditional sounding Parisian music that drifted down a narrow alley. Answering its call in a unanimous decision, they shifted course in search of it. Their journey was precarious with stable footing scarce on the cobblestone street, but they managed to arrive in front of the quaint bistro without any broken ankles. Bright red awnings and candlelit windows created a cozy ambiance, and shivering in the late December air, they hurried inside, desperate for warmth and a taste of the country’s esteemed wine. They had no trouble ordering; the server spoke perfect English, and they took his recommendation on a bottle from Bordeaux. He didn’t let them down. With each sip, Alexia’s disappointment over missing the welcome event fizzled further and further from her mind. She melted into the atmosphere, rich with the sounds of an accordion and the refined French language. She only permitted herself one glass, but on top of the time difference, by the time she had finished it she was relying on the back of the bistro chair to keep her upright. Her eyes were drowsy, but her smile was as bright as the sun at full height. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so happy. To think she almost passed up the chance to sit in this beautiful bar, drinking exquisite wine, surrounded by her best friends. The music faded from one song to another, and in its pause, a thought scratched through the fog of her happiness. There was something more she had wanted. The nagging sensation continued to probe at her until it broke free, pouring a clear image of Chloe Monet in her mind’s eye. Alexia lowered her gaze, paranoid her eyes would give away her thoughts.

  Tonight might be reserved for my friends, but tomorrow…tomorrow, I’ll finally meet Chloe Monet.

  CHAPTER 2

  Alexia wasn’t sure if it was the jet lag or the single glass of wine that triggered her migraine the following morning. After her rigorous training regime for Le Réveillon de la Saint-Sylvestre, her tolerance for alcohol was at an all time low. However, she didn’t regret going out. The previous night had been one of the most magical of her life, even if she was half asleep by the time they’d made it to the Eiffel Tower.

  She reached for the water bottle on her nightstand with one hand, and the control for the automatic blinds with the other. Sunlight flooded the room with savage brightness. Alexia flinched, releasing her finger from the button. A crack was more than sufficient.

  It took her a moment to process the extravagance of her surroundings. An enormous chandelier cast flickering prisms of light and shadow over the space below. Her clothes were sprawled across one of the ornate armchairs, and her sneakers were strewn across the plush carpet like muddy footprints tainting a polished floor. Alexia cringed to think Deborah had a point…a shopping expedition might be in the cards.

  Popping two aspirins, she reluctantly left the sanctuary of her king-size bed and its high thread-count sheets to get ready. She covered her leotard with two layers of warm clothes before pulling a hat over her bun, which had been bobby pinned to death. Once dressed, Alexia pulled the week’s schedule from her bag, double-checking the start time of their first rehearsal. Twenty minutes. Scarcely enough time for a croissant.

  She dashed out of her hotel room like it was on fire, descending the marble staircase to the foyer two steps at a time. A mouth-watering aroma tantalized her senses at the bottom. Before she knew it, she was standing in front of the reception booth of the hotel’s main restaurant.

  “Bonjour Mademoiselle, table for one?” the maître d’ asked in a glamorous French accent.

  Alexia straightened her shoulders. “Yes, thank you.”

  “May I have the room number?”

  Memory failing her, Alexia drew the card holder from her pocket.

  “104.”

  The maître d’ gave her a polite nod before turning to the tablet she held between manicured hands.

  “Very good, Ms. Brooks. I’ve just seated your sister at table four. Follow me, please.”

  Wheeling with a purposeful stride, the maître d’ remained oblivious to the shock unfolding on
Alexia’s face.

  My sister? I don’t have a sister.

  Curiosity got the better of her as she tailed behind the woman, weaving through white tablecloths like they were maneuvering icebergs in the Arctic Sea. A delectable assortment of pastries and demitasse cups decorated each one.

  “Voilà.”

  The maître d’ signalled their arrival, and Alexia peered around her to make out a tangle of red curls.

  “Deborah,” she hissed through her teeth.

  Alexia’s projected annoyance was lost on Deborah, who replied with a bright chirp, “Morning!”

  Alexia glared. “What are you doing here?”

  “I did send you a text,” Deborah replied in a way that made Alexia feel as if she were the one causing the inconvenience.

  “Breakfast isn’t free, you know. Yours will still be charged to my room. How are you up this early anyway?”

  In between mouthfuls of pain au lait, Deborah mumbled something about jet lag at the same time that the maître d’ returned, offering Alexia an espresso. She accepted, shooting it like a shot of vodka before ordering a second. Its warmth was soothing, and its strength worked wonders on her fatigue.

  “Fine,” Alexia said with easing shoulders. “Hand me one of those apple things, would you? I’m going to be late as it is. What are you all getting up to today?”

  “Shopping at the Champs-Élysées, duh.”

  Alexia’s brow raised incredulously. “You convinced Amy and Carrie to go shopping on their first day in Paris?”

  “Nope, they’re going to the Louvre, or something else super boring.”

  Blood pressure on the rise, Alexia stood from the table, half-eaten pastry in hand. “Okay, have fun shopping then. I’ve got to run.”

  Deborah put her latte down, regarding Alexia with serious intent for the first time that morning. “Where’s my bag?”

  “Upstairs. Want it back?”

  Deborah held her gaze with a coolness that made her recoil.

  “I gathered it was upstairs. I was wondering why it’s not hanging off your shoulder.”

  “Are you serious? I’m not taking a luxury handbag to rehearsal.”

  Leaning forward, Deborah tapped a red-polished finger hard on the table. “Alexia, you are representing all of America this week. The Europeans think we have zero fashion sense as it is. You have a golden opportunity here to prove them wrong. Do it for me, would you? If not, do it for your country.”

  Alexia glanced at her phone, then swallowed her pride. There wasn’t time to drag the argument out. “Well, you’re going to have to give me a designer day bag because I can’t even fit my water bottle in that thing.”

  “It’s not meant to be a bag. It’s a symbol of your exquisite style. Well…my exquisite style, but you don’t need to tell anyone that part. Unless they are attractive men,” she winked. “Now, I don’t care if you wear a backpack, those ugly shoes, and sweatpants out of this joint, as long as you’re carrying Chanel, you’ll have the respect of the community. So please, just go get it.”

  “Fine,” Alexia snapped, and without a goodbye, turned on her heel and stormed out of the restaurant.

  Five minutes later, she was trotting down the snow-covered streets of Paris. The handbag bounced against her thigh like a repetitive slap reminding her that she’d fed Deborah’s vanity. Her friend was so out of line with her ideals. To Alexia, fashion was the epitome of consumerism, ego, and, not to mention, a complete waste of money. But the freezing temperatures cooled her vexation the longer she remained at the mercy of the icy wind. She tugged at the collar of her jacket, pulling it up as high as it would stretch until only her eyes were exposed to the elements. They lifted as she neared her destination, and Alexia took a step back, stunned at the sight before her. The Opéra Magique was breathtaking, charging her with a rush of excitement that warmed her to the core. Two majestic staircases flowed from the entrance to street level as though anchoring the divine building from heaven to earth. Roman columns surrounded its entirety with sculpted angels perched at the top of each one, saying a prayer for all who entered. Alexia climbed the closest staircase with rising anticipation, slipping on a patch of ice when she hit the landing. She steadied herself on the front door, gloves pressing into its elegant engravings. In the dead center was an old-fashioned knocker, a fat golden ring that dangled from a lion’s head. Gripping the iron handle, she pulled the door wide, her eyes widening simultaneously. The interior of the opera house was drenched in gold. At least fifteen chandeliers dangled from the high ceiling, radiating soft light over the stone walls and sculptures below.

  “Puis-je vous aider, Mademoiselle?”

  Tearing her gaze from the hypnotizing baroque decor, she eyed the man at reception.

  “I’m sorry?”

  The man translated with a smile, “May I help you?”

  It was the first time Alexia had been mistaken for a Parisian. She glanced down at Deborah’s bag, wondering if it had anything to do with it.

  “Yes, thanks. I’m here for rehearsal with the International Ballet Alliance.”

  “Is it Le Réveillon de la Saint-Sylvestre?”

  “That’s the one,” Alexia replied, thinking how much more elegant “New Year’s Eve” sounded in French…alongside everything else in the English language.

  “Very good. The others are in the chambre du violon. Straight ahead. First door on your left.”

  Alexia bid him thanks with a polite nod and made her way to the designated room. Her pace was slowed by frequent pauses to admire the artwork that lined the great hall. Oil paintings of ballerinas frozen in performance added to the Opéra Magique’s charm. She fantasized about her image being added to the collection, finding a place on the historic wall for centuries to come. Still in reverie, Alexia jumped when the door of the chambre du violon flung open. Clutching her chest, she faced the woman in the doorway. Her hand lowered quickly, embarrassed that someone with such a soft appearance had scared her. The woman’s hair was not held in a tight bun, but flowed in gray waves around her shoulders. Neither slim nor round, her body had the sensual curves of a woman with a healthy appetite, a frame too often missing from the dancers Alexia performed with. Her face was kind, radiating a warmth that reminded Alexia of meeting an old friend.

  The woman laughed when she saw she’d startled Alexia, sending joyful ripples of sound down the hall.

  “Mon Dieu! I’m sorry for scaring you like that. Why, look at you, you beautiful girl. You must be Alexia. Our star from America, no?”

  Melting in the compliment, she nodded shyly.

  The woman held out her hand. “I’m Gaël Beaumont. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Alexia’s heart thumped.

  Gaël Beaumont, as in the director of the International Ballet Alliance?!

  It couldn’t be. She seemed so…nice.

  Mrs. Beaumont laughed again, evidently noting Alexia’s disbelief. “I don’t know why people expect me to be a monster. Well, that’s a lie. After meeting some of the directors of our esteemed academies, I guess I do. But I fail to understand the reason for it. Few people find careers in their lifelong passions, and I’m not so ignorant to take that for granted. I do what I love, I’m happy, and I show it.”

  She lowered her voice, brown eyes sparkling over Alexia as though she was peering into her soul. “You understand. I can tell. Your face shows the kindness of your heart. That’s one of the many reasons why I invited you here.”

  The profound conversation that had ballooned only seconds after meeting was disarming, and Alexia floundered, unsure of how to reply.

  Mrs. Beaumont came to her rescue. “It’s quite alright, ma chérie. Silence is often wiser than words. Please come in and meet the others.”

  In a daze, Alexia was ushered into a room buzzing with the chatter of her fellow performers. A mélange of accents found her ears and exotic faces met her eyes in every direction. Upon recognizing most of them, the full scale of the performance suddenly struck her.
She was surrounded by some of the best dancers in the world, and in five days’ time, they would participate together in a once-in-a-lifetime event. It wasn’t a dream. It was real.

  Her eyes flickered from face to face, desperate for her first glimpse of Chloe Monet, but the principal dancer was nowhere to be found. A dancer with a trendy brunette bob approached her instead.

  “Hi, you must be Alexia. I was looking for you at the function last night.”

  Her words were eager, but delivered in an impeccably cool way. A self-assured delivery that revealed she had mastered the right amount of confidence. The girl’s accent was familiar—almost identical to her own.

  “That’s me. And you’re Kelly from Canada, right?”

  “I’d say the one and only, but turns out there are a lot of Kelly’s in Canada. My parents were so misguided.”

  Alexia cracked a smile as Kelly carried on. “So you just landed this morning or what?”

  “Actually, I got in last night. It’s just that some friends came over with me and I had a hard time getting away. In the end, I’m glad I saw a bit of the town. Guessing we won’t have much spare time from today.”

  “It’s safe to say we have our work cut out for us. At least they sent us the choreography videos well in advance. Hope we can make it come together in five days. It’s a bit of a gamble, isn’t it?”

  Reflecting on the hard work she had put into solo practice over the past month, Alexia’s head wobbled ambiguously. “I think we can pull it off. Even if the rest of us mess up, as long as Chloe keeps it together the audience will have something worth paying for.”

  “Sure, our queen bee…” There was a hint of aversion in Kelly’s voice as her eyes flickered about the room the same way Alexia’s had done moments before. “Just hope her dancing is better than her punctuality.”