Chapter 26 The Crimson Stain
The sunrise over the hills is a cruel, mocking gold. It hits the glass of the Vance Academy just as Jax's car rolls to a stop two blocks away. My body feels like it has been put through a wood chipper. Every muscle is screaming, but the loudest voice is my ankle. It is no longer a pulse. It is a constant, jagged howl.
"Give me the bag," I whisper to Caspian.
He hands me the small, grime stained duffel. Inside is five thousand dollars in crumpled, oily twenties and fifties. It smells like the Pit, smoke, sweat, and desperation. In this neighbourhood, this amount of money is a tip. In the Flats, it is a miracle.
"You can not walk on that, Zora," Caspian says. He has not let go of my hand since we left the warehouse. His eyes are dark with a mix of fear and something that looks like awe. "The tape is soaked. If Sterling sees you limping in morning rehearsal..."
"She will not see me," I say, though I am not sure I believe it. "I will clean it. I will wrap it again. I just need to get through the foyer."
"I will distract the guard at the side entrance," Caspian says, his jaw tightening. "If he is looking at my ID, he will not be looking at the shadows in the hallway."
"Cas—"
"Go," he says, squeezing my hand one last time. "I will see you in the mirrors."
I slip out of the car, staying low. The walk to the side door feels like a mile. Every time my heel touches the pavement, a bolt of electricity shoots up to my hip. I am biting my tongue so hard I can taste copper, using the pain to keep from fainting.
I make it inside. The hallway is empty, the air smelling of fresh wax and lemon polish. I reach the basement locker room and collapse onto the bench.
I pull off my sneaker. My sock is a deep, wet crimson.
"Damn it," I hiss, tears stinging my eyes. The stitches did not just pull. They tore. I look like I have been stepped on by a horse.
I grab the first aid kit from my locker, the one I bought with my first paycheck as a janitor. I am cleaning the wound with stinging antiseptic when the door to the locker room swings open.
I shove my foot under the bench, pulling my hoodie over my lap.
It is not Caspian. It is not a guard.
It is Sloane Miller.
She is already in her rehearsal gear, a pristine white wrap sweater and perfectly pink tights. She stops in the middle of the room, her nose wrinkling.
"What is that smell?" she asks, her eyes darting around the room until they land on me. "It smells like old grease. And trash."
"It is a locker room, Sloane," I say, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I am sure she can see it. "Maybe it is your personality."
She walks toward me, her heels clicking like a death row march. "You look terrible, Vane. Even for you. Your eyes are bloodshot, and you are shaking." She stops three feet away, her gaze dropping to the floor.
A single drop of blood has escaped from under the bench. It sits on the white tile like an accusation.
Sloane's eyes go wide. A slow, poisonous smile spreads across her face. "You are bleeding. And that is not a dance injury. That is fresh."
"I tripped in the dark," I say, my voice cold.
"In the dark? Or in the Pit?" Sloane whispers, stepping even closer. "I am not stupid, Zora. I know where girls like you go when they need a fix. I saw a post on a private forum this morning. A grainy video of a girl in a black hoodie doing a power move that looked suspiciously like a corrupted version of our Fusion midterm."
My blood turns to ice. The video. I knew I should not have done that final flip.
"If I show that to Madam Sterling," Sloane says, reaching for her phone, "you are not just expelled. You are in breach of the Thorne contract. They will take your mother's apartment. They will stop the clinic payments for your sister."
"You do not have proof it is me," I grit out.
"I have that drop of blood on the floor," she counters. "And I have the limp you are about to have during the 8:00 AM evaluation. Unless..."
She pauses, enjoying the power.
"Unless what?" I ask.
"Unless you do exactly what I say for the rest of the week," Sloane says. "You are going to be my shadow. You are going to fetch my water, clean my shoes, and when we get to the partner evaluations, you are going to dance so poorly that even Coach Elias can not justify keeping you in the lead. I want you to be the failure everyone thinks you are."
She leans down, her face inches from mine. "And if I see you near Caspian? I hit send on the video. Do we have a deal, Janitor?"
I look at the blood on the floor. I think of the five thousand dollars in the bag, the money that can finally start Lumi's healing. If I get kicked out now, Arthur Thorne will find a way to seize that money as damages.
I have to swallow the fire. I have to let her win. For now.
"Deal," I whisper.
"Good," Sloane says, straightening her sweater. "Start by cleaning up that mess on the floor. I do not want to get my shoes dirty."
She walks out, leaving me in the silence of the basement. I pick up the paper towel and wipe the blood from the tile.
I have won the money, but I have lost my soul. I am back in the Academy, but I am not even a ghost anymore. I am a servant.
I pull on a fresh sock, the pain now a dull, heavy throb. I have two lives now, and both of them are trying to kill me.
But as I stand up and face the mirror, I do not see a broken girl. I see a girl who is learning how to lie. And if Sloane Miller wants a servant, I will give her one. Right up until the moment I find a way to break her.
The 8:00 AM bell rings. The torture is about to begin.