Page 140 of Out for Blood
“Back there.”
Near the edge of the stage, his eyes roam to a small gap in the curtains uncovering a peek of the space beyond.
“The businessman too.”
I glare at the opening between the curtains.
I can’t see what’s on the other side, but I can sense it.
The women. The victims.
The evil we have already unearthed and the evil we are about to fucking drag screaming into the light.
My chest constricts.
Somewhere past that curtain could be a piece of the puzzle I’ve been chasing for two years. A name. A face. A lead. Anything.
The possibility hits harder than it should.
Air slips from my lungs in a shaky stream.
Alongside me, Tyler slides a hand over his holster and rests it on the grip of his Glock. The suppressor picks up a faint shimmer from the stage lights before vanishing back into the darkness.
Around us, the theater holds a suffocating silence. The buyers stay secluded, the stage shines beneath the chandeliers, and the curtains stand motionless at its center. Everything feels poised on the edge of disaster, hanging in the air for the moment the first crack appears, and the truth finally steps into the light.
Then suddenly, the gigantic curtains begin their slow ascent.
My pulse kicks harder.
Showtime.
The moment the curtain reaches the ceiling, a thick hush blankets the theater.
Eight ballerinas stand beneath the spotlights, perfectly spaced across the stage.
The scene looks majestic as if it was pulled straight from a dream. I recognize the production at once, Swan Lake. One of the most beloved ballets ever performed.
The ballerinas are dressed in pristine white pancake tutus that sparkle from the stage lights, layers of delicate tulle splaying around them like feathers. Tiny crystals are woven throughout the fabric, twinkling every time they move. Their bodices are fitted and embroidered with intricate silver detailing that curls across the material like frost spreading over glass.
Then I notice something else. My breath stutters. My hand clamps over my mouth as revulsion surges through me. The women are bare under their tutus with black ribboned labia corset piercings, finished with a perfect bow, a gift presented to be unwrapped. My teeth bite into my palms until they throb, but I’m too numb to care.
Once I get my breathing under control, I take in the rest of them, committing their faces to memory.
White satin slippers adorn their feet, their ribbons winding faultlessly around their slender ankles.
Their hair is pulled into picture perfect ballet buns, every strand secured in place. The spotlights catch the shine of blonde, brunette, black, and auburn hair alike, altering them into living masterpieces.
In the back of them, an enormous painted backdrop extends from floor to ceiling.
A moonlit lake radiates below a silver sky as dark trees line the shoreline and soft mist floats across the painted water.
The scenery is breathtaking, creating the deception that the dancers are standing on the edge of a magical forest lake instead of inside a decaying theater.
The stage has been meticulously converted. Artificial reeds frame the edges while clusters of white flowers overflow from thoughtfully placed arrangements. Pale blue lighting washes around the floor, creating the mirage of moonlight mirroring off water, the silvery light rippling across the stage with every movement of the dancers.
Everything has been designed to the illusion of a fairy tale.
And for a moment, it almost works.
