Kings of Midnight: Book One of The Midnight Saga

by J Q Anderson

  We made plans to meet at the hotel lobby in an hour, and I left to my room for a hot shower.

  At the bar, a few of the dancers from Manhattan Ballet had already taken a whole section with high tables. The place was cool: exposed brick walls, dim lighting with low-hanging iron fixtures. Even the ceiling was intricately designed with those stamped tin tiles. It reminded me of an old train station. Sebastián would’ve loved it. I ordered a beer.

  I sat at the bar, glad for a moment alone while Marcos went to say hello to Bridget, one of the Manhattan Ballet principals, a redhead with fit curves and long legs. A hand startled me when it squeezed my shoulder from behind. A second later, Christopher appeared beside me.

  “Hi.” He smiled, and his deep blue eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “Um, hi.” There you go. Impress him with your extensive vocabulary again. He looked around at the crowd, who was mostly made of people my age, though I didn’t think Christopher was much older than thirty five.

  “You here alone?” he said.

  “No, I came with Marcos, my partner.”

  He nodded at Marcos. “Also your boyfriend, I hear?”

  “Marcos? Oh, no. He’s not my boyfriend. That’s just…you know, for the media. Apparently, it sells.”

  “Ah, yes. Yes, it does.” He ordered a drink, and I immediately felt self-conscious because I wasn’t supposed to be drinking the night before a performance. I angled away from my beer, and he chuckled.

  “I won’t tell.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Federico is…rather strict about it.”

  “And yet, here you are. Rebellious. I like it.”

  I blushed crimson. “I—”

  “I’m just teasing you. A drink always helps me relax.”

  He eased into casual chatter about the performances and the differences between our cultures. I was worried I shouldn’t be out getting distracted, and almost excused myself to go back to the hotel, but the image of my tear-stained pillow stopped me. He was easy to talk to, and within minutes we were chatting about my life in Buenos Aires and his life in London. He had an intensity about him that was…sexy. Whenever he spoke about something he felt passionate about, a little V formed on his forehead. He used his hands a lot to explain things, and for some reason it made me feel comfortable. As I took a sip of my beer, he gently brushed my hair away from my face. Our eyes met, and the intensity of his gaze sent an electric shot through my already weakened system.

  “I should go,” I whispered.

  “Let me walk you back.”

  “It’s fine, I’m only a couple of blocks away.”

  “I insist.”

  “Okay.”

  I gave a quick kiss to Marcos and told him to stay. He glanced at Christopher and gave me a wary look, then nodded and told me to text once I got to my room.

  I was glad my hotel was only two blocks away, because I was ready to throw a fit about the weather. How in the fuck did people function here? Even my brain was frozen. I couldn’t think. A mother walked past us with a stroller. The poor kid was so bundled up you could only see his eyes.

  In the hotel lobby, Christopher kissed my cheek softly.

  “Good-bye, Camila of Buenos Aires. I thoroughly enjoyed talking to you. And I meant it when I said I’d love to work with you. Let me see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Christopher.” I smiled weakly.

  “Chris.”

  “Chris. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The next morning was our last class with Manhattan Ballet. I was excited, but as soon as I walked in, I felt the hostile looks from some of the dancers from the bar the night before. What was their problem? Chris and I had only been talking. Marcos walked in behind me and offered me his coffee as I finished peeling off the last layer of clothes.

  “I had one already. This one’s yours,” I told him.

  “You can have it. I get the shakes.”

  “Thanks,” I said, looking up at him. He knew I loved those caramel macchiatos, but Marcos had never been the bring-you-coffee kind.

  He kissed my cheek. “You look pretty today.”

  I sipped the coffee and looked around the room. Mmm. It was delicious. A few steps away, two girls from the Manhattan Ballet gave me a dirty look as they whispered something to each other. Chris called the class to their places, and the girls walked in my direction.

  “Slut,” one of them said under her breath as they walked past.

  I frowned. I knew that word from the movies. Had I done something wrong? What was their problem? The girls glanced at Marcos, then back at me and turned away.

  A one-day break between performances gave us time to recover. Some dancers left to see the city while others chilled at the hotel. I went to see the 9/11 Memorial Museum with Nata. It was stunning, and as I walked around in our guided tour, the heaviness of so many lives lost overwhelmed me. New York didn’t forget, and this incredible tribute dedicated to so many for whom this city had been home, grieved for them in silence. My chest tightened. It was so powerful, moving, and yet, still uplifting, but it left me in a somber mood. Once again, I thought of Sebastián, wishing he could’ve been here. He would’ve explained every architectural detail, the passion bright in his eyes as he spoke while I listened in silent fascination.

  On the way back, Nata left me to stop at the pharmacy. When I entered the hotel lobby, Chris approached me. What was he doing here?

  “Hey, I was hoping to find you. They said you were out.”

  “Yeah, I went to see a bit of the city.”

  “Fancy dinner and a drink?”

  “Oh, I—”

  “Come on. Say yes. I meant to ask you after class today, but you left so quickly.”

  I thought of the girls in class and their dirty looks. More had followed after Chris had stayed longer to work with me alone.

  Screw them.

  “Okay…Let me change.”

  “Why? Darling, you look lovely.”

  We went to an Irish pub. Chris ordered an unfamiliar dark beer that at first tasted bitter but then soothed me into a state of pure sedation. We ate burgers and fries with vinegar, and for a few moments, I forgot Sebastián was in the hospital and that he had to completely cut me off from his life. Chris was charming, smart, and funny. If I hadn’t been so heartbroken, I would have been really into him. We danced to a slow melody, and he wrapped his arms around me while he whispered sweet things in my ear in that sexy British accent of his. I closed my eyes and pretended that there was nothing else, no one else but the two of us in a bar in my dream city. His mouth slowly found mine, and I let him kiss me because I was kind of drunk and really exhausted from the constant loneliness and longing. I abandoned myself to the kiss and didn’t notice the tears until he held my face in his hands and kissed my wet cheeks.

  “My sweet, sad girl. There’s something about you. A mourning in those eyes…I get it.”

  I looked at him, confused but also puzzled. A complete stranger had kissed me and it was comforting, different. Perfect, actually. He kissed me again, this time with all the passion and longing of lost, forgotten love. It felt good to be wanted, and I ignored the uneasiness unfurling inside me and pretended. This time for no other audience than myself.

  Chris got us a room in my hotel far away from the cast floor. We snuck in, and he stripped my clothes while he kissed me adoringly. My head was foggy with alcohol and swirling memories, memories I kept pushing away. He laid me on the bed and I felt feverish and weak. Damn alcohol. But I had needed the courage to break away from the images of Sebastián.

  He trailed kisses along my stomach from the line of my panties to the band of my bra. I closed my eyes and willed my heart to let go. It was strange to be in bed with someone I barely knew, someone other than Sebastián. How did Marcos do it all the time? He always said sex with strangers was so liberating. My body protested. Chris was without a doubt a good lover, but his touch felt foreign, and after Sebastián, to me sex and love had to be in the same package. I broke
the kiss.

  “I’m sorry…I can’t.”

  Chris lifted his head, his forehead wrinkled with worry. “Something wrong?”

  “No…Yes.”

  “Have I upset you somehow, darling?” he said, nuzzling my nose.

  “No, no. It’s not you,” I said, sliding from underneath him and sitting up. “I’m just a mess right now. I’m so sorry.”

  “No need to be.” He took my hands in his, and I gazed up at him.

  “It’s just…I broke up with someone before I came to New York. He was…important. I’m not over him. This wouldn’t be fair to you.”

  “Listen, love,” he said sweetly. “You don’t have to apologize. We all have our sad stories.”

  Dread settled in my chest as we both dressed. Riding the elevator back to my floor, I wanted to feel relief for not sleeping with Chris. But instead I felt light-headed and heavy with a new sense of guilt. Chris would surely think I was a head case, and he wouldn’t be wrong.

  The next night at the theater, while I waited for Marcos to get me a glass of champagne, I saw Chris walk in a few steps away. He was pushing a young woman in a wheelchair and didn’t see me as he approached a group of dancers from Manhattan Ballet gathered in the main hall.

  “Let’s go say hi,” said Marcos, handing me a glass. But when I took a sip, the taste of alcohol turned my stomach. A lingering headache had stayed with me since yesterday, and the building fatigue was taking its toll. Marcos greeted Chris and the dancers while I considered going back to the hotel and going to bed. When my eyes met Chris’s, he froze. An uncomfortable moment passed between us. Yeah, Camila, the mental case. Then I glanced down at the young, slender woman in the wheelchair. She was beautiful, her skin pale and delicate, her eyes large and black.

  “Hello, I’m Ivette.” She smiled, extending a slender hand with long fingers. “I’m Chris’s wife.”

  Two dancers in the group stabbed me with icy glares. Slut. Guilt, betrayal, and disgust filled me. I scowled up at Chris, who looked like he had tasted something bitter, and I almost laughed out loud at the irony. Just when things couldn’t get any goddamn worse. Just when I thought I was wanted and had almost given it a chance.

  “Excuse me.” I turned, hurrying to the exit.

  Marcos caught up with me. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving. I don’t feel well.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I pushed the door, ran to a nearby trash can, and emptied the scant contents of my stomach.

  “Shit, Cams. Let me take you back,” he said, holding my shoulders from behind.

  Back in my hotel room, Marcos took my coat off and dropped it on the bed. A memory of Sebastián hanging up my coat after a party punched me.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I just need to go to bed. Thanks, Marcos. You can go. Nata won’t be back till late, so I’ll just go to sleep.”

  He left and I buried myself under the covers. I felt drained, my head ached, and I sensed the onset of a cold. I let my eyelids win and surrendered to unconsciousness.

  The rest of the week dumped on me like a blizzard. I was grateful to have a fixed schedule, although it was hard to keep up with it. A head cold hit me full on, and I couldn’t get over the insanely arctic weather. How do people do this? I asked myself every morning as I walked the two blocks to Lincoln Center.

  The company had organized a few sightseeing tours in between performances, but I couldn’t find the energy. It was a countdown to closing night, and I promised myself I would make it.

  By the weekend, my head throbbed, and my nose was chapped from drying the constant drip. I made myself take a hot shower and drink herbal tea. God, I was sick of tea. Wrapped in a blanket, I stood by the window and watched the snow fall like moths in the wind. From our room on the fiftieth floor, the traffic sounds were faint, muffled by double-paned windows. As I sipped my tea, I watched the city I had dreamt of my entire life, and it seemed distant, foreign. Nothing like in my dream.

  I thought about my first opening night at the Colón: Sebastián waiting with a huge bouquet of flowers, grinning proudly. But no flowers came now, and every night that week as I walked into my empty room, another petal of hope fell off, and the anguish that I had permanently lost Sebastián haunted me. I was tired of it, dammit. I had to do something. My head was foggy from the cold. I shivered even though the heater was cranked all the way up. Stumbling to the dresser, I grabbed my phone to call him.

  Chapter 43

  My phone was dead, and Marcos had borrowed the only power cord we hadn’t lost yet. I did my best to dress quickly, but my body complained from the incessant hours en pointe, and I was pretty sure I was running a fever. Pushing the discomfort away, I slipped into a pair of UGG boots Nata had forced me to buy, put on my coat, and rushed to the elevator.

  The front desk loaned me a charger, and after a few minutes, my phone screen lit to life.

  “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” The automated recording played the message over and over. I tried Rafa: same answer. What the hell.

  Nata could help. Sergei could get me Sebastián’s number somehow. Remembering she was with Diego at a café across the street, I rushed to the exit. But when I stepped out, the gelid air slapped me like a mother would an insolent child. I stumbled forward, the world spun, and it all went black.

  I shivered. Why was it so cold? I tried stirring, but my body was numb, my muscles rubbery and heavy, as if they belonged to somebody else. I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar room. My arm itched. When I tried scratching, my hand met a plastic tube taped to my skin. I stared at it, not understanding.

  “How are you feeling?” Nata said from the foot of my bed. She sat on a corner of the mattress, her face worried.

  “What…where am I?”

  “At the hospital.”

  “What?” I looked around at the stark white of the walls, trying to summon the memories. “The hospital…” My throat burned with thirst, and my mouth felt sandy and dry. Nata reached for a water cup on my bedside and handed it to me. I emptied the cup in one long gulp. Water never tasted so good.

  “You fainted.” She stroked my hair gently. “I saw you from across the street but couldn’t get to you in time. You hit your head,” she said, her voice laced with remorse.

  I reached up to my temple. It felt as if a searing iron had branded me there. “Ough.”

  “Take it easy, Cams. The ambulance brought you here. You were burning. They said you had an infection, and they gave you antibiotics. The doctor wanted to keep you here overnight to rule out some other things.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven.”

  “At night?”

  “In the morning,” she said, carefully brushing the hair off my forehead. “Listen, I’ve got to go, but I’ll come check on you at the break, okay?”

  “Wait, no. I’m coming.”

  “No. You stay here and rest. They said they’ll dismiss you later today if your fever breaks. Rest.”

  “I’m fine.” But as I tried pushing myself up, an invisible mallet pounded my forehead. I plopped back into the pillow. “Shit.”

  Nata pressed the back of her hand to my cheek. “You still have a fever. Here.” She refilled the cup and I downed it.

  “Nata…closing night is three days away. I can’t be sick.”

  “You need to rest. Verónica will take your place tonight and you’re off tomorrow. Get better.” She kissed my forehead. “Christ, you’re burning. I’ll have Marcos check on you after his rehearsal, okay?”

  No, no. Not Verónica. Please, wait. A wave of fatigue washed through me, and my eyelids fell closed. Everything shut down.

  A second later, I blinked at the light. Nata was gone, and Marcos was stretched out on a small armchair beside me, watching an American football game.

  “Marcos, what time is it?”

  “Hey, sleepy.” He glanced at his watch. “One. In the afternoon.”

 
“Seriously?”

  “Yeah, you’ve been out cold. The doctor came a while ago and gave you a shot. How are you doing?” He winced at what must have been my haggard appearance.

  “Shit,” I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut, threading the images together. “I slept for a whole day?”

  “You did. Slacker.” He chuckled. “Looks like you’re on the mend. The antibiotics worked. They said they kept you another day because your fever wouldn’t break, and they wanted to rule out a very aggressive virus that’s hitting New York. Bummer you were out. I wanted us to do this whole tour together.”

  “What do you mean?” I realized it as soon as I said it. “Verónica danced in my place?”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “Like I said, it sucks.”

  Shit. I tested my limbs against the mattress. They were stiff, unresponsive. I pointed my toes, stretching my feet until a sharp pain burned up my calves. Focus.

  “What time is the next rehearsal?” I said.

  Marcos yawned as he glanced at his watch. “In forty-five. We’re still on lunch break.”

  I rubbed the grogginess from my eyes and slid off the bed, scanning the room. The IV line pulled on my arm. I scowled at it, and ripping the tape off in one solid tug, I slid the needle out, then pressed the tape back where the needle had been. “Ouch. Where are my clothes, do you know?”

  “Your clothes? What the hell, Cams, you can’t pull that thing out.”

  “I don’t need it.” I met his eyes. “Are you going to help me get my clothes or not?”

  “Cams, you can’t dance like this. Verónica can cover you.”

  “No!” I whirled around and the room spun. I gripped the bed rail just in time. Marcos frowned and tilted his head, watching me as if I was some odd experiment he didn’t understand. “Tell me,” I said. “Was she good?”

  “Nope. Federico’s in a shitty mood. It sucks overall, but what are you gonna do…And she’s put on weight too. My arms are killing me from carrying her fat ass around.”