CHAPTER ELEVEN
I slowed to a halt. Yasuo and Josh were sitting on the low stone wall in front of the Arts Pavilion. Chatting and lounging with legs swinging, they looked more like a couple of college dudes than what they really were: two recruits in a deadly vampire-training program.
My eyes zeroed in on Josh. The sight of my so-called tutor put up my defenses. It was time for dance class, which was bad enough. I wouldn’t put it past the vamps to force me to practice my business German while performing a traditional Bavarian folk dance.
“What are you doing here?” I asked warily. “We’re not meeting again till next week.”
“Gidday to you, too.”
The clichéd Aussie greeting rankled me, and he knew it.
“Do you practice being so maddening, or did you study it at Harvard?”
“A guy’s got to have a major,” he said, not missing a beat, and then he actually winked.
Like that, the stupid boy brought a grudging smile to my face—again.
“Easy, little D.” Yasuo hopped down and brushed off his pants. “He’s just keeping me company. Though”—he slugged Josh on the arm—“you could’ve warned me that your mere appearance would get my dance partner’s panties in a twist. I need Blondie in a good mood if I’m gonna pass summer school. I am so not taking this class again.”
So Josh wasn’t joining us for dance class—that was something. But still, I couldn’t help my eyes from sweeping up and down the length of him. He was a little shorter than Yas, with broader shoulders. Great looking, great surfer, great student, great personality—knowing Josh, he was probably a great dancer, too. And I didn’t trust such general greatness one little bit.
“Shoo.” I waved my hands at him. “Before Master Dagursson gets any ideas.”
“I’m gone, I’m gone.” Josh slid from the wall and had the gall to whisper in my ear as he walked past. “Don’t forget your etiquette homework, meine kleine Gummibärchen.”
I growled at his back, feeling my cheeks flame red to the roots of my hair.
“Sorry, Drew. I’ll talk to him.” Yas put his arm around me and guided me toward the stairs. “Did he say something?”
I grimaced. Worse.
I remained silent as we walked into the dance studio, with Yasuo looking more solemn by the minute. “Seriously,” he said finally, “did he just totally curse you out?”
I gave a sharp shake of my head. “He called me his…”
“His what?” Yas was worked up now, and he flung his bag on the floor against the back wall. “I’ll rip the bastard’s lungs out. I’ll smite him. I’ll superglue something in his sleep.”
That got a chuckle out of me. “I won’t allow any paste-related crimes to be laid on my head.”
“Come on, little D.—then tell me.”
Hands on hips, I stood, my fierce expression daring him to laugh. “Fine. He called me his—his little gummy bear.”
He made an obnoxious guffawing sound, but just then Master Dagursson strode in, and his appearance cut off Yasuo’s snort, making it sound as if he were choking on something instead of having a laugh at my expense.
I gave Yas a smug look.
“Oh no,” he whispered suddenly, looking over my shoulder, jokes about gummy bears long forgotten.
I followed his line of sight and had to agree. “Oh cr—crud.” I quickly corrected myself, having learned the hard way not to curse in Dagursson’s presence.
“Good day, class.” The thin skin of Dagursson’s face crackled into a thousand wrinkles as he gave us an evil grin that told us we were in for it. Sticking his head back out the door, he called impatiently, “Come in, come in.”
A couple Trainees I didn’t recognize skittered in, keeping their heads down and wheeling the sort of cart a hotel bellman might use. But instead of suitcases, there were stacks of boxes. Shoe boxes.
I wriggled in my boots, apologizing to my toes in advance for whatever indignity those shoe boxes represented. “What the…?”
Our teacher clapped us to attention, and the Trainees scampered out. “Today you have a rare treat in store.”
Rare treat for him maybe. Yas and I shared a quick, apprehensive glance.
“Because today you will learn to dance the Paso Doble.” He beamed as though he expected us to explode with gratitude. Strolling before us, he looked like a peacock—a nasty, wrinkly, gratified peacock. “I confess, it was not my idea, but rather the suggestion of one of my colleagues.”
My chest tightened. Paso Doble sounded suspiciously Spanish. And I happened to know a suspicious vampire, also Spanish. Alcántara’s hands were all over this.
“But before we dance, there is a critical element that has been missing from your ensemble.” He gestured to the boxes, and I braced for what I knew was coming. “Footwear.”
We all stood there frozen, and he began clapping maniacally. The guy was always clapping—maybe that was how his hands had gotten so long and bony. “Hurry now, hurry. You will find a shoe awaiting you in your size. And I should hope the difference between boys’ and girls’ footwear is self-evident.”
I shuffled to that cart, scanning the stack for my size five. I worked the box out from the bottom of the stack and opened it. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to laugh or cry. Inside was a typical pair of women’s ballroom dance shoes, which meant, they resembled objects of torture. High, black, and strappy, and in my petite size, they seemed suitable for Minnie Mouse.
They were going to be the death of me—if the lack of dignity didn’t kill me first. I glanced down at my Acari uniform. Gray tunic and leggings, with these things? I’d look ready for a Bollywood dance number.
“Is there a problem, Acari Drew?”
Crap. I’d caught Dag’s attention. “No, Master Dagursson. Simply ensuring I’ve selected the appropriate size.” Ever since he’d slashed my lip in our first class, I’d taken to speaking as politely and articulately as possible.
“Very good.” His face split into another grin, this one meant for my consumption. “Because I’d like you to be my partner as I teach today’s class.”
I kept my mouth stretched into a tight grin. “That would be an honor, sir.”
He looked up to address the whole class. “Your clumsy boots simply won’t do. You need to learn how to dance in the proper footwear, and now is the time.”
He rambled some more, but I only half listened as I sat down, kicking off my beloved, broken-in boots. My feet were sweaty in that been-wearing-shoes-all-day way, and I had to jam them sockless and sticky into the shoes. The straps cut into the bones of my feet and across my ankles. I’d have blisters by the end of the session.
Yasuo leaned close. “Mine are worse.”
One look, and I knew he was right. His were worse. Laughably so. They were shiny black oxfords that looked like formal menswear except for the bizarrely feminine chunky heel. Three inches high, it was shorter than mine, but still it was a heel. I swallowed a giggle. “You’ll look like Prince.”
“Or Tom Cruise, maybe.” He wiggled his ankle. “You know, for height?”
“Don’t talk to me about height,” I grumbled. Mine had spiky heels, and it was only a matter of time before I bit the dust.
Yasuo studied them, a look of male wonder on his face. “I dunno, Blondie, I think they’re kind of hot. You might break an ankle, but at least you’ll look smokin’ doing it.”
“Up, up.” Mr. Clapper clapped again. “You must pay special attention. For you will be using these skills at an end-of-summer dance.”
We all looked at one another, uncertain we’d heard correctly. Did he mean dance, as in the verb to dance, as in we’ll have to dance at the end of term for a final test or showcase or something? Or was he saying dance, as in a dance—the noun—as in homecoming, hoedown, ball, fete, prom…dance.
“We shall,” he continued, “all of us, be gathering to celebrate the end of the Dimming and the blessed return to darkness. Trainees, Acari, Initiates, Watchers, Vampires, too. And in preparation, Acari Drew has generously volunteered to partner with me for today’s instruction.”
I gulped.
Yas muttered under his breath, “Get back, sister.”
I glared. My friend was lucky I didn’t impale him with one of my newly acquired heels.
Master Dagursson held his hand out, beckoning me closer. “She will obviously have a different partner at our dance. But, for now, hopefully I will suffice.”
I went cold. A different partner. Dagursson had said it as though he knew something I didn’t, and I got the feeling he wasn’t referring to Yasuo. The implications made my skin prickle with foreboding.
“The word is Spanish, for ‘double time,’” Dag said, droning on about the Glories of the Paso Doble.
My belly knotted. Spanish. I knew just who’d ordered this, and I had a feeling it was a special request going out just for me.
“It is to be performed with drama, with strength of feeling and movement, full of spectacle. It is a man’s dance, like a bullfight, with the leader acting the part of the matador.”
What? Yasuo mouthed at me.
Bullfighter, I mouthed back. A man’s dance. Surprise surprise.
“And the female…” Dagursson paused for dramatic effect.
I raised a brow. Girls danced the part of the bull?
“Dances the part of the cape,” pronounced Dagursson with a grin. “Though some say she enacts the role of the matador’s shadow.”
My shoulders slumped. I couldn’t even play a bull? We might be fearsome kick-ass killers, but girls seemed to be the submissive ones on this island. Apparently we didn’t even get to enact the role of an animate object—instead, we were expected to dance around like some guy’s cape, or shadow.
Dagursson strolled to his iPod. There was an overloud clicking as he zipped to the correct track. And then Spanish trumpets blared and ostentatious classical guitar thrummed off the studio walls.
