Black Frost Winter: The Black Seasons Book Two

by Lenai Despins

  “Excited for the big day?”

  Kelly’s face was alight with so much enthusiasm that Alexia couldn’t bring herself to do anything except nod.

  “I hope we finish on time this afternoon. Would be great to squeeze in a power nap before tonight. I have a feeling the masquerade ball is going to get wild.”

  Alexia slipped onto the bench beside her, cringing at her own reflection. Her complexion was robbed of color—zombie-worthy paleness, with the exception of the black rings that hung about her eyes.

  “Sleep much?” Kelly asked, flicking her a sidelong glance.

  “I slept well last night, but apparently I have a lot more catching up to do.”

  She never said it aloud, but Alexia knew it wasn’t sleep deprivation that had brought out her ghastly appearance. It was stress. Existing in a state of nervous exhaustion for the past twenty-four hours had taken its toll.

  She set Deborah’s bag on the counter, rummaging through it until her fingers closed around a circular container of pressed powder. The white puff was soothing against her cheek, reminding her of Leo’s hand brushing it the night before. She closed her eyes for a moment, finding peace in the thought. When they reopened, she took extra care to dab their undersides, erasing the sea of black. Once finished, she nodded subtly but firmly at her own reflection.

  Focus on what you came here to do. This is it. The performance of a lifetime. Don’t let anyone take that from you.

  Mrs. Beaumont peeped her head in the dressing room, flashing a bright smile that dissolved Alexia’s nerves.

  “Five minutes until we start the run-through. Hurry along everyone.”

  She caught Alexia’s eye in the mirror, tossing her a wink before vanishing back onto the stage.

  “I hope I get the opportunity to work with her again,” Kelly said as she stood. “I swear I’ve had more encouragement from her than any instructor in the past twenty years, and my dancing has never been better. It’s crazy, such a simple concept. Be nice. Smile. Throw in some laughs here and there. You’d think a few more people would get the memo.”

  “I wonder if it stems from her confidence,” Alexia replied. “Most of the instructors I’ve had see the skill of their students as a reflection of their ability to teach. They think one bad performance will flush their reputation down the drain. It’s ridiculous when your instructor is more nervous before a show than you are.”

  They threw open lockers side by side, dumped their bags, and followed the train of ballerinas through the stage door.

  “Are you nervous?” Kelly asked.

  Alexia glanced up as if her subconscious was pulling her eyes to the rafters, expecting to find Chloe in the shadows overhead.

  “Not about the dance,” she whispered.

  As they warmed up, Alexia stayed beside Kelly, afraid of getting too close to the dark wings of the stage. Chloe was still nowhere to be found, a fact that hadn’t escaped Mrs. Beaumont.

  “Has anyone seen our lead?”

  Dressed in a tweed blazer, the director painted a sophisticated picture as she waited for a reply. Above the silence, one came in the form of squeaking hinges. All heads turned to the dressing room door.

  Although late, Chloe appeared perfectly collected. Her face was upturned to the sparse stage lighting, eyes glowing like embers in a dying fire. They were fixed on the front of the stage, where her stride took her without apology to her peers. Only when Mrs. Beaumont asked for the reason behind her delay did she mutter a response in her native tongue.

  “It’s okay,” their director replied in English. “But I’d like you to arrive thirty minutes before everyone else for the performance tonight. That’s the real on-time arrival we can’t jeopardize.”

  The request inspired a malicious cocking of Chloe’s head, similar to how a startled snake would twitch before a strike. Although the director putting Chloe in line should have impressed Alexia, it now made her shiver. Chloe was the one person Alexia didn’t want anyone to cross. There was a suspended moment while everyone waited for her to react. Thankfully, Chloe knew better than to cause a scene. Instead of retaliating, she flopped down to begin her warm-up.

  Not long after, Mrs. Beaumont called the two principal dancers to their spots for the opening number. The tech team was in position. Each time one of them moved in the rafters overhead, Alexia’s blood ran cold. But all she had to do to pacify her mind was glance at the stage. Chloe was there, alive and well, not a ghost haunting her from above.

  The music began, flowing through the darkness like a vessel bringing sentiment to every ear reached. Then the curtain parted and the spotlights shone, uniting sight and sound as though they were always destined to be together. The piece was memorizing, and a hush fell over all the dancers who peered on from the wings of the stage. Reassurance snaked its way under Alexia’s skin as she watched the performance. Something sacred unfolded on stage that left little room for doubt. The way Chloe moved was angelic—she was angelic. Not demonic. It wasn’t possible. The music ebbed like a wave succumbing to the ocean’s tide as the piece drew to its end.

  Kelly’s breath tickled Alexia’s ear. “I still think she’s a diva, but you have to admit, that girl can dance.”

  At a loss for reply, Alexia stared at the stage—the border between reality, dream, and nightmare.

  Kelly whispered a final word of good luck as they took their places for the pas de quatre. Despite her mind wandering in a thousand directions, Alexia pulled it together as the next song began. Muscle memory guided her through the flow of movements, anticipating every step exactly how it was supposed to be executed. She didn’t falter, but the performance was far from her best. An element of passion was missing, the source she tapped into when she was fully immersed in dance. Something kept her from leaving the real world behind—a fear of what might happen if she became too vulnerable.

  This was forgivable in the dress rehearsal; many dancers held back, not wanting to burn out before the big night. But Alexia knew that if left untreated, her anxiety would carry through to the show. Something needed to be done. If she couldn’t seek clarity on the supernatural front, she’d have to find a way to stop her emotions from impeding her performance. And there was one person who might be able to help her with that.

  As the dress rehearsal came to an end, one by one, the dancers trickled off the stage. Alexia waited patiently, seeking a moment in private with Mrs. Beaumont.

  The director didn’t suffer from the weary appearance Alexia had come to recognize in many of her instructors on the day of a recital. Her hair had been curled into silver ringlets, her lips painted red, and her shoulders were relaxed. No black rings tainted her eyes, which danced with anticipation for the night to come. She was tapping away on her phone when Alexia descended the few steps from the stage. Not wanting to interrupt her, Alexia slowed her pace, circling her gaze around the auditorium, wondering how it hadn’t been incorporated as a new wonder of the world. By the time her eyes fell back on Mrs. Beaumont, the director was smiling at her.

  “Alexia! Please, sit down.”

  The director flung down the base of the theater chair beside her, and Alexia took a seat graciously. She may not have danced her best, but she had danced hard, and her legs welcomed the repose.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Alexia’s voice was small. “Fine.”

  Although she said no more, Mrs. Beaumont eyed her with suspicion, nose wiggling at the tip as though she smelled something was off. After a moment, she repeated her question. This time, Alexia sighed.

  “Do you still dance, Mrs. Beaumont?”

  The director withdrew slightly, brow converging in shock.

  “Why, of course! Almost every day. I may not be as special to watch anymore, but I never did it for the audience. Sure, it was nice to give them a show, but at the end of the day, I danced for me. For the thrill of being on pointe. There’s nothing that compares. To this day, it feels exactly the same…it feels like flying. Why would I ever give
that up?”

  Alexia was silent as she contemplated the words that captured her exact sentiments of being on pointe. That was precisely the problem. She hadn’t felt like she had flown that morning; she’d felt like she’d been drowning. Pulled under by some invisible current. Air slowly leaving her lungs.

  “But has there ever been a time when something’s held you back, chained you to the ground?”

  Mrs. Beaumont laughed a wise laugh that only someone experienced at life could master.

  “Oh, yes. There are always things that will try to pull you down. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. Those things are like anchors without chains. They have the weight to keep you down only if you tie yourself to them. The key to your freedom is up here.” Mrs. Beaumont motioned to her head with a graceful flick of her wrist.

  Alexia fidgeted in her seat, fingers weaving in and out of each other, feet tapping incessantly against the floor.

  If only it were that easy…

  A calming hand fell over hers. Alexia came out of herself, upturning her eyes to meet the director’s.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you.”

  There was no inflection. It wasn’t a question. And that was exactly what Alexia needed. Not to be asked, not to be permitted time to debate how ludicrous she would sound.

  “I feel that something isn’t right with this place. I see things…things that can’t be real. I don’t know if you believe in ghosts, but each time I come here I get the feeling it’s haunted, and I can’t seem to get in my element because of it.”

  As she spoke, Mrs. Beaumont listened with grave stillness. The slight rise and fall of her chest served as the only indication she was made of flesh and not stone.

  “You are attuned to things. By this I’m not surprised. It takes a special person… This building has seen many centuries, Alexia. Its walls are a vault of secrets, some good, some bad. They’re what shape it, give it character. No different from people, really. But the Opéra Magique has experienced more than most.”

  The light in her eyes faded as she was pulled into a dark memory. “Tragic events have unfolded here. Most kept from the news. This place has a reputation to uphold…as do the people who associate with it. So no, it wouldn’t surprise me if it was haunted. It’s hard to escape the past.”

  Alexia unclasped her hands, which fell to her side. Her attention was absolute.

  “What things have happened? Please…”

  When Mrs. Beaumont turned to her, no muscles powered her expression. Her skin drooped, revealing the director’s age for the first time.

  “A girl died here a few years back. Flung herself off the roof.”

  Alexia’s stomach dropped, remembering the horrifying distance from the rickety plank of wood to the streets of Paris below. But Mrs. Beaumont wasn’t observing her reaction; she seemed to look through her, distraught by the memory. The pain in the director’s eyes was tangible.

  “You knew her,” Alexia whispered.

  Mrs. Beaumont’s curls bounced slightly in her nod.

  “Very well.”

  Alexia’s whole body felt like it was on fire. She was desperate to ask if it was Chloe, but the idea seemed outrageous. She had to tread carefully. Keep Mrs. Beaumont talking.

  “Was she a dancer?”

  Mrs. Beaumont blinked away tears. “Yes, and a fine one at that. One of the best I’ve taught.”

  The revelation pushed Alexia over the edge. Another connection that fed back to Chloe. She had to know. She had to bring up her name.

  “Did…did she know Chloe?”

  Mrs. Beaumont jerked back to the present hard and fast.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “She…I heard she went through something traumatic.”

  The director’s head shook in an elusive manner. “Yes, she did. Although I’m not sure they were friends.”

  Then it was someone else. Not Chloe, but another dancer. The more Alexia dwelled on the information, the more her confusion grew. It was Chloe she had seen. Dead and alive. Not anyone else.

  “Why did she do it?”

  A troubled sigh escaped Mrs. Beaumont. “The pressure to be someone she thought she had to be to find happiness.”

  The reply was vague, but Alexia didn’t have the guts to pry further—to twist the dagger of grief deeper into her director’s heart. She leaned back in her chair at the exact moment Mrs. Beaumont breathed something barely audible. As she spoke in French, Alexia understood the words weren’t meant for her, but she still caught a name at the end.

  “Ma pauvre Renée.”

  Renée.

  It was a start. Something to go on.

  “I’m sorry to have brought it up,” Alexia said in gentle closure.

  “It was some time ago now, ma chérie. But remember, the things you see, as you said, are not really there. If something troubles you then close your eyes, count to three, and everything will return to how it was meant to be.”

  She gave Alexia’s hand a consolatory squeeze before releasing it from her grasp.

  “Now go. Get some rest. Tonight, you fly.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Alexia’s lungs were sliced raw with cold air when she arrived on the doorstep of her friends’ apartment. She had run the entire way from the Opéra Magique.

  “Let me in,” she yelled as her finger came down repeatedly on the buzzer.

  Her wait was in vain. Of course they weren’t at home. It was their last day in Paris. Alexia whipped out her phone to call Carrie.

  No answer.

  Deborah.

  No answer.

  Amy.

  One ring. Two.

  “Hello?”

  Thank God!

  “Where are you?”

  Amy disregarded the question. “Hey, how was the dress rehearsal?”

  “Good,” Alexia blurted impatiently. “Where are you? I’m downstairs!”

  “At the apartment? Oh, sorry, we’re at a bistro near the Luxembourg Gardens. Care to join?”

  “No time,” Alexia replied, turning in the direction of her hotel. “I need you guys to do me a favor. Can you try to find any information you can about a ballerina named Renée? I don’t have a last name, but believe she danced for the Paris Ballet Academy. I don’t think it will be easy…she…she died. I don’t know when. Maybe a year ago, maybe more recently. It was kept out of the press.”

  For a moment the line was so quiet Alexia thought they’d been disconnected.

  “Are you still with me?”

  Amy cleared her throat. “Yeah. You, uh…you think she’s the ghost that’s been terrorizing you? What happened to Chloe?”

  “I don’t know,” Alexia replied truthfully. “I’m just doing what you asked, ruling out all the options.”

  “Okay, we’ll get on it. I’ll call you if we find anything useful.”

  “Thanks.”

  She hung up, wishing she had brought her computer. The tiny keypad of her phone was always frustrating when she was in a hurry.

  The receptionist bid her welcome when she entered the lobby. Alexia bowed her head in reply as she rushed to the staircase. She didn’t make it past the first step before she stopped dead in her tracks, wheeling back around.

  “Excuse me, monsieur?”

  “Yes?” the receptionist replied.

  “Do you have computers for guest use?”

  “Of course, in the business lounge. You’ll find it on the lower ground level. Last door on your right.”

  Alexia thanked him, nearly tripping over her feet as she raced back to the stairwell, which she flew down three steps at a time. The room marked Centre d’Affaires / Business Lounge was secured, but the lock flashed green with a quick wave of her room card.

  It was of modest size, only large enough to accommodate the four desks that hugged the walls. The lighting was standard of a corporate environment, harsh and fluorescent, which Alexia had always guessed was to keep employees awake during the dull hours of the working day.
The effect was wasted on her; she had enough adrenaline pumping through her body to keep her conscious for the next twenty-four hours straight. She fell into the closest chair, which bulged with excessive back support. The first screen that flashed on the computer requested her preferred language. She clicked the “English” button ten times instead of one, drumming the fingers of her other hand against the desk as she waited for it to load. When the search browser opened, she paused, unable to decide what to type. She settled for every relevant keyword that came to mind.

  Renée, ballerina, Paris, Opéra Magique, suicide.

  Desolation spread through her as she waited for the results to load, somehow knowing the search would come up empty.

  She was right.

  Articles that best matched the keywords she’d entered flooded the screen, but at the bottom of every listing was a gray line striking through “Renée” and “suicide”. The two words she needed most were missing.

  Trying to keep her hopes up, she scrolled on, scanning through page after page of results. When she gave up that tactic as a lost cause, she searched the cast list of the top ballet academies in the city instead.

  There were plenty of dancers called Renée. That was the problem. Without a surname to narrow the search, it would take weeks to vet them all. Not to mention, she didn’t even know how to vet them. Contact their closest relatives? Ask them if their daughter had jumped off a building? Alexia shook her head, suddenly impounded with weariness. It was no use.

  She returned to her room with deflated steps. Finding it had been cleaned cast her spirits lower. She wished the bed was as she had left it, imprinted with traces Leo—sheets askew, pillow sunken in at the middle. She flopped down on the side he had slept, hair fanning out around her. Even his smell was gone.

  Sleep was impossible, although she tried, blanketing her sight with a curtain of eyelid. There she saw Chloe. Saw her as the terrifying monster she had been the previous morning. Skin discolored, eyes yellowing in the cornea, blood trickling down the side of her head, limbs bent at broken angles.