Kings of Midnight: Book One of The Midnight Saga
Page 1
Kings of Midnight
J.Q. Anderson
Book One
of
the Midnight Saga
This book is a work of fiction. All references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright© 2020 by J. Q. Anderson
All Rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
To my family: my husband, my boys, and my girl.
You are my angels, my haven, and everything that is right and amazing about the world.
And to Marilyn. You never stopped believing in me.
Kings of Midnight
J.Q. Anderson
Table of Contents
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part 2
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Acknowledgments
Other books by J.Q. Anderson: Intercepted, a Love Story
Part 1
the shoe
Chapter 1
That morning, the morning of the pointe shoe and the speeding car, the morning I met Him, didn’t start any differently. Life chuckled at me from above, nothing tipping me off on how it was about to mess with me. Big time.
I held my half-eaten toast between my teeth as I pushed open the foyer door while shrugging into my parka. Strapping my dance bag across my back, I hurried through the streets of downtown Buenos Aires. The damp air from an earlier rain filled my lungs as I jogged—away from work—steam building inside my parka. You don’t have time for this, my roommate’s voice rang in my head. You’ll be late. Again. But on a rebellious—and childish, I admit—impulse, I was doing it anyway. Even though I knew she was right. Even though that morning in particular I should have been at work early because the artistic director would be posting the casting for my favorite ballet, Giselle.
I had exactly twenty minutes to pick up my much-awaited custom pointe shoes and make it to the theater on time, or I would get grilled by my teacher, Madame Vronsky.
My feet complained from the long hours en pointe, but even after a year with the company, I still felt a high as I rushed to work every morning. Being part of the permanent ballet of the Colón Theater was every Argentinean dancer’s ultimate dream and, in my case, also the first step toward my future career as a prima in New York City. New York was the grand prize for me, a future far away from Buenos Aires and the shadow of my own mother’s brilliant career as the country’s most beloved prima ballerina.
I rang the doorbell of the old building, catching my breath. Anna’s small frame appeared almost immediately, as if she had been waiting behind the door.
“Camila, darling. Come on in,” she said, ushering me inside and away from the morning chill.
“Sorry to come so early, but my schedule’s crazy. I have no free time anymore.”
I followed her into the small foyer, and the familiar smell of wood polish welcomed me. She reached into an armoire I had always believed was magic. It was neatly stocked with Anna’s irreproducible works of art. I let my bag drop to the floor, watching impatiently while she retrieved the treasure I had been dreaming of for days: a pair of her special edition, hand-embroidered pointe shoes. I took them in my hands and grinned. Closing my eyes, I pressed them to my nose and inhaled my favorite smell in the world: satin and leather.
“They’re beautiful,” I whispered. And they were. Pale pink satin from Italy, carefully embroidered with the finest silk threads in elaborate patterns. Nobody made ballet shoes like Anna. At seventy years old, she still ran her own workshop. The wait list was normally several months long, but I had lucked out because Anna was my mother’s favorite ballet shoemaker during her days as a prima. It also didn’t hurt that my father was Anna’s doctor and she had him on a sky-high pedestal. So as soon as I had asked her, Anna had squeezed my order in. I handed her the money I had been saving for the last three months and kissed her tissue-soft cheek. “You’re the best, Anna. I gotta run. Take care, okay?”
“Let me get a sack for you. These are more delicate than your regular shoes. You don’t want to put them in your bag with all your other things. The fabric is pure silk, it stains easily.”
“I’ll carry them in my hands. I need to go, okay? You don’t have to get me a sack.”
“No, no. One more minute won’t matter.”
Wanna bet?
“The new girl moves my things around. It’s driving me crazy.” She browsed through one, two, three drawers.
“Anna…” I fidgeted. Jesus, at this pace, Madame would have my head.
“Ah. Here.” She opened a pale pink silk bag, and I quickly slid the shoes in, then followed her to the front door where, with unhurried movements, she eased the lock. “Say hello to your parents for me, will you?”
“Will do, Anna. Chau.” I dashed out, shouldering my ballet bag as I clutched the precious sack in both hands, flexing the shoes back and forth. I couldn’t wait to try them on. Before wearing them, I would have to go through the whole ritual of breaking them in: bend them, buff the points to give them grip, pull out the inseams, and quarter the shanks to mold them to my feet. All without damaging the precious embroidery.
Needles of wind prickled my cheeks while I waited at the traffic light to cross 9 de Julio, Buenos Aires’s iconic avenue, the widest in the world. The city’s pulse quickened, a sulky dragon waking from a too-short slumber. I pulled the shoes out of the bag and admired them. Holding them in my hand, I darted a quick look at the now green light and hurried across the massive width of pavement. A passing body bumped my shoulder. I was almost at the other side when a woman in a crisp suit heading my way pointed behind me.
“Querida, you dropped something.”
Instinctively, my fist tightened on the one—shit!—shoe I was holding. I whipped my head around and my heart constricted. The other shoe lay innocently a third of the way behind, a small wedge of pink on a sea of asphalt. Shit. That shoe was unique, and it cost a big chunk of my salary, plus the waiting time. My eyes flew to the light.
Adrenaline surged through me as I sprinted, every one of my limbs tensing to win the race against the tidal wave of in
coming traffic. Without pausing, I bent down, scraping my fingers against the asphalt, and hooked the rim of the slipper. Behind me, an explosion of horns blasted, and I tripped forward with my hands tightly clutching the shoes. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact, but the force of a tornado scooped me up and whirled me away.
“Are you insane?” snarled a deep, husky voice that went with the tornado.
I blinked through the shock, panting. As the world came into focus, my brain registered the pair of ash-colored eyes locked on mine. They were wide with annoyance, yet absolutely stunning, a cloud of powder blue, or was it silver?
“What the hell?” he said, now sounding less annoyed and more concerned.
“What?” I muttered, still trying to pin the exact color of his eyes.
“Did you seriously almost kill yourself for a shoe?”
Reality hit at once and I straightened out of his muscular arms, clutching the pointe shoes in my hands. Safe. “These are important,” I murmured, securing them inside my bag that was somehow still tucked under my arm. I took an unstable step, and a shard of fire burned through my ankle. Shit. Not now. I let out a tense breath, clenching my teeth at the old injury. Nothing I couldn’t handle. But the slightest twitch in the wrong direction could make the day’s rehearsals unbearable. Pain shot up my leg when I took another step, and I winced.
“You hurt your ankle.” He grabbed my arm gently, his tone impatient.
“Yes, but no,” I said, cringing at the pain. I had no time for any of this. I looked up at him to send him off but stopped as I fully took in his appearance. Rebellious strands of raven hair framed the angular, perfect features of his face. His eyes narrowed a fraction, the furious silver of his irises blazing against sun-kissed, olive skin. A soft, five-o’clock stubble shadowed the square lines of his jaw. Damn. He was fucking beautiful. A mix between a superhero and something darker, an X-Man. My heart stuttered.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, shaking off the trance. A sudden panic struck me, and I glanced down at my watch. Shit. I was late for the cast meeting. I flinched inwardly at the thought of Madame scolding me for my tardiness. I would much rather deal with my throbbing ankle than her. But as I took a step, pain burned through my ankle. I groaned in frustration.
“Here,” he said. “Don’t put your full weight on it.” He held my arm gently and arranged it over his for support. I opened my mouth to protest, but when I took a step, the pain was significantly less. This was helping. “Careful.” He pressed me against him to let a guy having a heated phone conversation pass us by. My whole body shivered at the closer contact with him. “This city’s forgotten its manners,” he murmured, looking down at me. Concern flashed in his eyes when he saw me frowning, though it wasn’t at him, but at the sudden hormonal frenzy inside me.
“You okay?” The deep, raspy tone of his voice rippled through me, and I nodded. What was this? I didn’t let myself swoon. Not even by ridiculously hot guys like this one. I didn’t have time.
“I’m late,” I said, pulling him with me to keep the weight off my ankle as I hurried.
“Will you slow down?” His hand clasped my arm more firmly. It was a bit comical: me half limping and him holding me to slow me down.
“I can’t,” I blurted. I darted a desperate look at him, and he was smiling in resignation. A small dimple had formed on his cheek. It was sexy and adorable. Dammit, I didn’t like that he was so good-looking. It made me nervous. Yet, I was strangely enjoying his persistence and unnecessary concern for my safety. “You really don’t need to escort me.”
“Guarding instincts are intact. That’s good. Come on.” He nodded.
Arguing with him was wasted time. Plus, he gave long strides and we were moving fast. I let myself relax a fraction, using his arm as support as we navigated through a thickening mass of morning workers who seemed to have just realized they were going to be late for work.
“What’s your name, crazy girl?”
“I’m not crazy. That shoe is one of a kind. And it costs a fortune.”
“I can only imagine if you were willing to kill yourself for it.”
“You ran into the street too.”
“I did. To save you.”
I thought about that as we awkwardly limped and hurried, dodging bodies in suits. He seemed at ease, as if going out of his way to help a complete stranger wasn’t a nuisance at all. Didn’t he have a boss? I was grateful, though. My ankle was warming up and already felt stronger. I would have to wrap it up before class, but it would be okay.
We stopped at the last light, and he pulled me closer. I resented the way my stomach swam at the heavenly scent of his body wash. He was tall. I peeked up at him and our eyes met. His were simply breathtaking. Like they had come up with their own color and didn’t give a shit if it existed or not. Everything about him was confidence.
“Thank you,” I said—I realized—for the first time.
He nodded.
“I’m fine now.” I pulled my arm away gently. “Work’s right over there. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
I glanced at the theater doors as Karina and Paula ran in. They were always late. Crap. I set off to cross even though the light was still red, but his hand was quicker and gripped my arm tightly, growling as a car blazed by.
“Christ, girl. You are crazy,” he barked.
I pulled my arm away. “I’m not crazy. I can’t be late.”
He clutched my elbow, forcing me to stop. His eyes pinned me down with a stern glare. “Nothing is worth getting killed for.”
“You haven’t met my teacher.”
He shook his head in exasperation, and I let myself smile at the small victory as I glanced at the still goddamn red light.
“Really my work is just across the street,” I said. “You can brag to your friends over how you saved a crazy girl from her death. Now go, I don’t want to make you late for work.”
He studied me for a second and ran a hand through his hair, a beautiful mess in perfect disarray, and I wished I hadn’t noticed those tanned, roped arms under rolled-up sleeves. His mouth curved into a lopsided smile, and a million butterflies I didn’t know existed inside my stomach fluttered their wings. God.
“All right. Be safe, okay? It was nice meeting you, crazy girl.”
I blushed furiously, and my usual steel armor suddenly felt like a child’s paper costume. I nodded, and forgetting about my ankle, I bolted to the theater entrance, desperate to escape him and the tornado of sensations whirling inside my rib cage.
Chapter 2
I pushed through the side door to the Colón Theater and took the stairs two at a time, minding the pain, which by now had scaled way down. A surge of unfamiliar electricity buzzed through me as the still fresh image of the beautiful stranger flashed in my mind. My heart protested, and not from physical exertion. I shouldered the swinging door, annoyed at the distraction. There was only room in my heart for one person, and that was already one person too many.
Yes. For the last year, I had been ziplocked in the vacuum of unrequited love, and as miserable as that made me, I didn’t have eyes, or time, for anyone else. So how could a total stranger suddenly unhinge me like this? A panty-scorching stranger. Still. Maybe my body was retaliating for never wanting anything except Marcos and what went on inside the theater walls.
Down the hall, the door to the studio was still open, a good sign Madame wasn’t there yet. I hurried over to the announcement board. No casting announcements yet. That would explain the delay. It wasn’t uncommon for Madame and Federico, the artistic director, to discuss casting right up until the roles were posted. A lucky break.
Exhaling in relief, I ambled to the studio door, a smile escaping my lips as I walked in. Even though I walked through these same hallways every day, I still felt spellbound by every detail of this environment: the photos of famous graduates lining the walls, the piano melodies that accompanied the classes drifting through closed doors. Outside the studios, dancer
s stretched and warmed up, contorting their limbs in ways regular people would think unnatural. Even in the early hours, the air was heavy with the familiar mix of sweat and the waxy scent of aged wood.
This was my life now. My world. For the last year, I had danced here eight hours a day, five days a week. I had pushed myself beyond my limits to make it here, and my reward was a road ahead that promised nothing less but to be brutal.
From the first time I put on ballet shoes at the age of three, I had felt compelled to prove to myself as a dancer. At first, I wanted to be just like Mamá. To three-year-old me, she was a princess, a perfect combination of elegance, grace, and classic beauty. But as I grew older, Mamá’s fame became my own personal curse. As one of the most renowned prima ballerinas in Buenos Aires, she had a brilliant career that included the best ballet companies in the world: places like the Royal Ballet in London, the Paris Opera, and exclusive productions in Russia. The only missing star in my mother’s impeccable legacy had been the Manhattan Ballet Company in New York City. She had danced there as a guest prima and had joined other ballet companies in New York, but for one reason or another, she had never been offered a permanent job with Manhattan Ballet. Although Mamá didn’t dwell on this out loud, I knew deep inside it had left a sense of unfulfillment in her. Manhattan Ballet was nothing less than the most prestigious ballet company in the United States.
So, naturally, becoming part of Manhattan Ballet became my life mission. It was not only my top career goal, but my emancipation from my mother’s fame and concrete proof that I had what it took to dance among the best. I wanted to prove to the world, and perhaps to myself, too, that I was much more than my mother’s daughter: the Navarro girl, as everyone referred to me at auditions. Every day I fought for the inches that would lead to a prima role in New York City. And with every inch, my dream of dancing in the Big Apple became a little bit closer.
I scurried into class and was immediately welcomed by the bright warmth of the studio. Relieved that Madame was nowhere in sight, I wiped the sweat off my face and spotted my two best friends, Natascha and Marcos, stretching out by the barre. Friendships were not easy to come by in ballet companies. We were each other’s competition, and often one person’s failure meant an open opportunity for the rest. My seniors, Natascha and Marcos had been principals with the company for three years. I danced mostly in the corps de ballet, but in the mornings, we were in a couple of classes together.