Chapter 53 The Rat in the Warehouse
The Shoreditch studio is a tomb of echoes and dust, but tonight it feels like a stage for an execution.
Caspian is already working, his body cutting through the gloom of the warehouse like a strobe light. He is running the sequence again, the one where he catches me mid-fall, a move that requires a terrifying amount of trust and a terrifying lack of physics.
"Again," he says, his voice raspy. "I did not get the extension on your arm."
"Cas, my foot is burning," I gasp, leaning against the cold metal chair. I am dripping with sweat, my vision swimming at the edges. "I need a minute."
He stops, his chest heaving, and crosses the floor in two strides. He kneels, his hands hovering over the boot before he carefully begins to loosen the straps. The relief is instantaneous, followed immediately by a sharp, nauseating throb as the air touches the skin.
"I am sorry," he says, his thumb brushing my ankle with agonizing tenderness. "I just, if we do not have this perfect, the gala is a suicide mission."
"It is a suicide mission anyway," I murmur, reaching out to pull his head toward mine. He is so tired. There are dark smudges under his eyes, and his movements are not just athletic. They are frantic.
He leans into my touch, closing his eyes. For a heartbeat, the warehouse stops being a place of war and becomes a sanctuary.
Click.
The sound is faint, barely louder than a pin dropping on the hardwood, but it hits me like a gunshot. My head snaps toward the shadows of the rafters.
"Did you hear that?" I whisper, my body tensing.
Caspian is on his feet in a second, his predatory focus snapping back into place. "Hear what?"
"A camera. I heard a shutter."
He moves instantly, silent as a ghost, disappearing into the maze of abandoned equipment and support pillars that line the studio walls. I hold my breath, the silence in the warehouse suddenly feeling heavy and predatory.
I hear a scuffle, a grunt of pain, the sound of fabric tearing, and then a thud against the far wall.
Caspian comes back into the light, his knuckles bruised, dragging a figure by the collar of a high end designer tracksuit. He shoves the person into the pool of dim overhead light.
It is Soren.
He is not even trying to run. He is standing there, calmly adjusting his collar, a small black camera clutched in his left hand. He does not look afraid. He looks delighted.
"You really should invest in a better security system, Thorne," Soren says, his voice dripping with cool, amused detachment. "Though I suppose beggars cannot be choosers."
Caspian slams him against the brick wall, his forearm pressed hard against Soren's throat. "Delete it. Every file, every frame. If I see a single second of this footage on a board member's phone, I will make sure you never walk again."
Soren does not struggle. He just smiles, a sharp baring of teeth. "You are too late. The cloud is a wonderful thing, is it not? It is already uploaded. Halloway is probably viewing the unauthorised training as we speak."
"Why?" I scream, scrambling up from the chair and limping toward them, my leg screaming in protest. "Why are you doing this? We are just dancers, Soren. We are just trying to survive."
Soren glances at me, his eyes cold and devoid of anything resembling empathy. "You are not just dancers. You are the reason my career is stagnating. Every time you step onto the floor, you remind them that raw talent is better than the years of discipline I have sacrificed. I do not need your spot, Zora. I need to make sure you never get the chance to show them you are better than me."
Caspian's fist pulls back, and for a second I think he is going to kill him. "You are a parasite."
"I am a survivor," Soren counters. "And look at you. You are shaking. You are already broken." He looks down at my boot, then up at Caspian. "You think you are the hero of this story? You are just the guy who threw away an empire to watch his girlfriend limp through a failure."
Caspian lets him go, shoving him toward the door with such force that Soren stumbles out into the rainy alleyway.
"Get out!" Caspian roars. "And do not come back!"
Soren turns back one last time, his face a mask of calculated malice. "Enjoy your gala, you two. I will see you at the finale. If you make it that long."
He saunters off into the night, whistling that same sharp, dissonant tune.
Caspian stands in the doorway, his hands trembling with rage. I limp over to him, leaning against the doorframe, the adrenaline starting to curdle into cold, hard fear.
"He sent it," I say, my voice trembling. "He sent it to Halloway."
Caspian turns, his eyes dark and hollow. "Then we do not have forty eight hours anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"It means," he says, grabbing his jacket, "that the gala starts in six hours. And if we are going to survive this, we are not going to just perform. We are going to have to prove that even with a broken foot, we are the most dangerous thing in this city."
He looks at me, and for the first time, he does not look like a boy. He looks like a man who has decided that if the world wants to burn, he might as well be the one holding the match.
"We go to the gala tonight," he says. "We perform. And we do not ask for permission. We just take it."
I look out into the rain. The Shoreditch streets are dark, empty, and waiting.
"And if we fail?" I ask.
Caspian pulls me into his arms, his grip so tight I can feel his heart hammering against my own. "Then we go out on our own terms."
The hook is in deep now, and there is no room left for lies. We are going to the gala, we are going to dance, and heaven help anyone who tries to stop us.