Chapter Twenty-One: By Choice or By Force
The last of my dancers filed out of class half an hour ago, but I’m reluctant to leave. David is working with Zander again tonight. Strangely, I’m not as eager for the break as I once would have been. I slip down the hall to where my boss is locking up the other studio rooms. She sees me coming and smiles.
“Everything all right, Van?”
“Yeah, I was just wondering if I could stay a little while longer. I’m finally starting to feel more like myself, and I’d like to work on my own for a little while. I know I’m behind everyone else.”
Lydia chuckles and pats me on the shoulder. “Even on your worst day, you’re still miles ahead of any other dancer I’ve ever taught. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. It’s been nice having you back.”
“Thanks, Lydia, for everything.”
She smiles again and gives me a quick hug before heading for her office to close everything down for the day. I head in the opposite direction, back to my studio, where I already have everything set up. I gave Lydia the excuse of needing to work on a few dances but, really, I want to finish what I started with David last night.
As I walk into the studio and close the door behind me, the bizarre set up of dance ribbons and ballet barres—plus a few other things—give me a strange sense of satisfaction. The contraption David set up at a facility we’ve been working at this week was definitely more refined and scientific, but this will work just the same. Ducking under a few ribbons, I settle myself in the center of my strange maze.
Some might find it strange that I seem to carry a blindfold with me at odd times but, lately, I never know when I’m going to need it. Slipping it into place, I let go of my lingering distractions. Ketchup will probably be wondering where I am soon, but I need to do this tonight. As many times as David pushed me to complete the exercise last night, I couldn’t do it. Not with him watching my every move.
I don’t understand it. When he watches me dance, I feel like I can let go of everything and truly be myself. When we train… I’m always worried about revealing too much, being too good, or not good enough, or… I don’t even know. Trying to figure it out distracts me, and I fail. Not tonight. Tonight, I can focus and prove to myself what I can really do.
My breathing is slow and even before I think about making the first move. The pain I have gathered and stored today spills through my body as I access its potential. My senses come to life, and I feel the light breeze caused by the low-level air conditioning pulsing through the stuffy building. I smell the oils and sweat left on the wooden barres from years of hands gripping it, and it orients me. The slight flicker of the ribbons rustling in the breeze helps me pinpoint their location. My goal, the apple I brought with me, sits at the back of the room, outside the field of ribbons, barres, and various other paraphernalia used with the youngest ballerinas like hula hoops and pompoms.
Extending one arm, I place it carefully between two ribbons. Neither one is disturbed by my motion—which is the point—but I don’t continue. If the point of the exercise were simply to reach the apple, I would have beaten David more than once last night. Haste is not acceptable. I hold my arm in the same position for a full minute. Only then, do I lift my right foot from the floor, positioning it over the barre and beneath what I’m almost positive is a pair of pompoms balanced atop a ribbon.
Fifteen minutes later, my whole body is quivering. I have moved less than three feet from my original position, but I’m nearing the apple. Its sweet, crisp smell taunts me, begs me to just move faster. What does it matter if I brush against a ribbon or knock down the hula hoop I’m hallway through? I don’t really know why it matters so much, but it does. I refuse to fail again. I can do this.
I put everything I have left into transitioning from one leg to another without knocking over half my obstacle course. It requires folding my arm and leg through a hoop that was meant for a six-year-old, hopping with enough control to land in perfect balance, and extending my free arm through three ribbons without touching any of them. I’m breathing hard and my leg is ready to give out on me by the time I get through, but I’m only one more move away from my goal.
Smiling, I pull my other leg through the hoop, lift onto my toe and turn, while wrapping both arms in close to my body. Halfway through the turn, my leg drops exactly where it needs to, and I step between the last few ribbons to claim my apple. I take a well-deserved bite as I yank the blindfold away. I wish I hadn’t when I nearly choke on the piece of apple like some kind of twisted Snow White.
I somehow manage to swallow, though it feels like my esophagus is being ripped apart. Coughing, I stare up at Noah in shock. “What are you doing here?” I demand. “You scared me half to death!”
He doesn’t respond to my questions, just like he didn’t bother to even look concerned that I was choking. Instead, his wide eyes are scouring my weird little setup. “What are you doing?” he asks.
The fear in his voice is more than just a little weird. It’s really creping me out now. I set down my apple and stare at the obstacle course. “It was just an exercise. David taught me to…”
“Do you have any idea what this is?” Noah is on the verge of full freak-out mode, but I’m still pretty lost.
“It’s an obstacle course. I have to get through it without touching anything, using my senses to guide me. It’s really not that big of a deal,” I say, hoping it’s true.
Noah starts shaking his head immediately. “No. No, this isn’t just another training exercise, Van. Don’t you see what he’s training you to do?”
I’ve been trying not to, I think to myself. In fact, I’ve been avoiding thinking about that exact thing. “He’s just trying to teach me control,” I say quietly.
“No, he’s turning you into an assassin, Van!”
Snapping my head up, I glare at him, unexplainably angry. “How could you possibly know that? How do you know what assassin training looks like? Half of the crap the Eroi spout off about is total nonsense. They think we’re demons, for crying out loud!”
“Demon was the best word they had for Godlings back then,” Noah snaps, “but this has nothing to do with myths and scary bedtime stories. The Godlings are assassins, and David is pulling all the ropes. What do you think his mercenary business is really doing all over the world?”
I close my eyes, trying to block it all out. “Protecting civilian businesses,” I say, begging, pleading for it to be the truth.
David practically assured me of a place in his business when I was ready. I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want one of his “other” positions to be covert assassin. I don’t want to be recruited for something like that. I don’t want to be good at that, at taking away lives. As many mistakes as I’ve made, I’ve never killed anyone. He can’t take that away from me. He just can’t. I can’t… I can’t become David. Zander promised me he wouldn’t let it happen. He promised. He promised.
My head starts shaking back and forth as what was left of my energy completely abandons me. Noah is quick enough to catch me before I hit the ground, but panic sets in and suddenly, I can’t catch my breath no matter how hard I try. I can hear Noah talking. He’s holding me, his own panic adding to mine, but I feel strangely detached from the whole experience.
What if that is the final test? Isolde will only protect me if I gain David’s trust and give her all his secrets. My breathing picks up to an impossible level, blackening the edges of my vision. If I’m meant to be David’s pocket assassin, how will I ever prove I’m ready without showing I can kill? I can’t. I can’t. My hands start flailing, trying to get away from Noah and his words. I fight against him, but everything starts to fade.
“Van, you need to calm down,” Noah says harshly, right next to my ear.
The cutting words push back some of the darkness. The panic still claws relentlessly, and I can’t escape its grasp. My lips move, begging, but words are beyond me. Tears burn down my cheeks as if my skin has suddenly turned to ice.
“Van, please, just breathe,” Noah begs. “Just breathe.”
I try. My chest convulses as I try to pull in air, but my body refuses to cooperate and more tears fall, hot and filled with fear. I’m helpless when Noah slips me off his lap and onto the floor. A small cry of panic escapes my lips as I think he’s leaving me, but Noah crouches over me a moment later. His hands feel too warm as he places one over my eyes and one just above my navel.
“Shut everything down, Van. Concentrate on my voice and nothing else,” he says.
The gentleness in his voice does little to calm me, but the pressure of his hand on my abdomen does something. It brings Ketchup to my mind, knowing that if for some bizarre reason he walked in right now, Noah would find himself laid out on the floor in two seconds flat. That is a rather comforting thought.
“Breathe in, make my hand move,” Noah continues. “Focus only on the motion of your breathing.”
As I concentrate on breathing and Ketchup, feeling slowly returns to my cramped up hands and feet. Tingling sets in, but it’s a welcome sensation after what I just experienced. It seems to take hours before I feel in control of not only my body, but my emotions as well. Finally, Noah sits back and helps me up to sitting. His face is white, and he looks as though he just ran ten miles. When he drags his hands down his face, I see that they’re still shaking.
“What just happened?” Noah asks.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak out like that.” My head dips down out of habit, fearing the reaction to yet another bizarre event. Noah only shakes his head.
“Are you okay now?”
I nod.
“I shouldn’t have blown up like that,” Noah said. “I panicked when I saw what you were doing.”
“What was I doing that was so bad?” I ask.
Looking over at me questioningly, Noah says, “You really don’t know?”
I feel stupid shaking my head, but it’s the only response I’ve got. What have I been missing this whole time?
“What do assassins need to be able to do, Van?” Noah asks. “Stay in one position for a long time while they scope out their target, maintain precise control over their breathing and body, move silently through a crowd without disturbing anyone or calling attention to their presence, use their senses to orient themselves in the dark…”
“And be deadly accurate,” I finish.
“Target practice?”
“Knives,” I say.
Noah sighs, dropping his head into his hands. When he looks up, his eyes hold regret and fear. “You really didn’t know why we call you guys assassins?”
“I think Zander knew,” I say, “but he didn’t tell me because he knew it would only make it harder for me to keep up my end of the bargain with Isolde.”
Shuffling nervously, Noah seems intent on the linoleum we’re sitting on. “What exactly does this Isolde woman expect from you in return for her protection?”
“Information.”
“What kind of information?”
“The kind I can only get from David once I’ve made it into his inner circle,” I say.
Noah releases his breath slowly. “As his newest, gold star assassin, right?”
“That’s what I’m guessing.” Hearing the words out loud is even worse. This is what Zander hid from me. Those pictures Ketchup and I found, they were targets, but not Zander’s or Annabelle’s. All those dead people were Eroi, killed by David’s pets. Killed by the more experienced versions of me.
“What are you going to do?” Noah asks.
Shrugging, defeat presses down on me. “What else can I do?”
This is my fate one way or another, by choice or by force. Like Ketchup said, I’m going into the lion’s den either way. The best I can do is try to control the situation. I have no choice but to become David’s newest and brightest assassin, but I’m doing it on my terms.