Dance of Deception: Chapter 3

Fuck. I should have worn something warmer.

Even through my winter coat, the icy wind slices through me, across my bare legs, seeping through my clothes like it’s trying to reach my bones, making me tremble.

Or maybe I’m just shaking because I’m terrified.

The car that brought me here is already gone, leaving me standing in the freezing cold New York night blindfolded and vulnerable.

The moment the car door opened, a hand took my arm—not roughly, but firmly, guiding me out and onto solid ground. I nearly tripped, but the grip steadied me, fingers pressing into my coat sleeve before letting go.

I have no idea where I am, because I’ve been blindfolded ever since the car picked me up maybe twenty minutes ago.

Brooklyn insisted—insisted—that this gig was neither stripping nor prostitution in any sense when I asked her about it for the umpteenth time after I made that phone call.

“It’s literally just a dance gig,” she’d reassured me.

But standing here now, shivering in the unknown, secrecy wrapping itself tighter around me with every step I take, I wonder how much of that was her convincing me, and how much was her convincing herself.

I don’t have time to spiral. The hand returns, gripping my elbow lightly, urging me forward.

It’s happening.

I remind myself of the instructions the man who answered the phone gave me in a low, quiet voice two nights ago, after he’d asked how I got his number. I told him Brooklyn’s name, and that I was another ballet dancer. I’d started to awkwardly give him my dance resume over the phone, but he’d stopped me and given me these rules instead:

Arrive at the pickup location by 8:30 PM.

Do not bring any personal belongings beyond essentials.

Do not bring your phone.

Lateness or failure to adhere to these rules will result in immediate disqualification from the job and any compensation.

I did exactly as I was told. And now? I’m here.

…Wherever here is.

I keep my steps light, quiet, listening for any subtle movements around me as I’m led through a set of doors. The temperature shifts dramatically, the cold of outside giving way to warmth. I can hear the sound of high heels clicking as the other dancers…presumably…are led with me down a hallway.

Moving deeper into the building.

A door slides opens with a ding.

Elevator.

My suspicions are confirmed as I am herded into a crowded space, rubbing shoulders with other bodies of my size and build—again, I’m guessing the other girls who are here to dance tonight.

The elevator drops lower. When the doors ding open, we’re led out through what feel like cramped hallways. Finally, a door opens with a slight creak, and we’re led into another space.

The blindfold doesn’t come off immediately. I hear shuffling, movement, the shifting of bodies. The faintest floral scent drifts through the air—perfume, expensive and subtle.

Then, finally, fingers at the knot behind my head, the sensation of fabric slipping away.

Light. Soft and golden.

I blink, my eyes adjusting as the world comes into focus. I’m standing in a large, elegant dressing area, like something out of an animated princess movie.

A row of vanities, the bulbs surrounding their mirrors glowing with warm, flattering light. Each station has a clothing rack hung with a delicate and luxurious, shimmering costume—sexy, but not stripper-sexy, at least.

Seven stations. Seven girls.

I turn. My eyes immediately find Brooklyn. She’s standing a few feet away, her own blindfold freshly removed, her dark eyes locking on mine for the briefest of moments. There’s a tightness in her jaw, a stiffness in her posture.

Then I notice the men who led us in here.

They’re standing among us, silently watching. Each wears a sleek, matte black Venetian mask, ornate but expressionless, hiding their faces completely, leaving only their sharp suits and unreadable body language.

Their presence is…unsettling.

But then, as if responding to some unspoken signal, they turn and walk out.

Except one.

He stands near the door, his gloved hands resting lightly in front of him.

“Get dressed in the outfits assigned to you,” he says, his voice muffled slightly by the mask. “Fifteen minutes. Someone will return to escort you to the performance when it’s time.”

Then he, too, is gone.

Silence follows.

For a moment, no one moves. I step to Brooklyn, my voice low. “What the fuck is this?”

Brooklyn shakes her head. “Just get dressed,” she whispers. “Last time, they said we weren’t supposed to talk to each other.”

I glance at the other girls, all silently doing as they’re told, and a fresh chill rolls through me.

Brooklyn catches the look on my face and softens slightly. “I know. It’s weird. But it’s not bad.”

I hesitate. But then I think of the men forcing their way into our apartment. The debt. Vera’s face.

I move to my station, swallowing hard as I pull the outfit from the rack.

It’s…beautiful.

And revealing. Very, very revealing, and I say that as someone who’s been dancing in tights and leotards her whole life.

Slinky gold fabric, almost sheer in certain places. The kind that clings and molds to the body, leaving nothing to the imagination.

I run my fingers over the material, my stomach tightening. I’m used to costumes, to exposing skin to facilitate movement, but this… This is different.

I hesitate, then remind myself why I’m here.

Five thousand dollars.

Yep, there’s my motivation.

I change quickly, my hands shaking slightly as I slip out of my clothes and into the costume, adjusting the fit. No bra. No real support. But it’s elegant, in its own way.

I turn to the mirror, taking in my reflection.

The girl staring back at me is someone I don’t quite recognize.

A soft exhale from my left catches my attention.

Brooklyn—already dressed, smoothing a hand over her hip, staring at her own reflection like she’s trying to convince herself of something.

Before either of us can speak, the door opens again and figures step in.

At first I think it’s the same men as before—but then I realize I’m wrong. It’s women now, clad in sharp black suits, moving with quiet precision. They, too, wear masks.

One of them steps in front of me, a faint, cool, clean scent trailing from her. She holds up a piece of black silk.

Another blindfold.

Before I can protest she’s wrapping the fabric over my eyes, tying it gently.

A flicker of motion to my right—someone else is being blindfolded. Before my vision disappears completely, I see a metallic glint.

One of the masked women is securing a smooth gold mask over another dancer’s blindfold. Unlike the ones the women are wearing, and the men before, this one has an expression that suggests the face of a classical Greek sculpture of a woman.

A fresh wave of unease snakes through me.

My blindfold is secured. Then a mask slipped over my face. A second later, something is pressed into my palm.

Earbuds.

“Put these in,” the woman behind me instructs softly.

I fumble to obey, clumsy, my breath coming too fast. The moment the earbuds are in my ears, a female voice crackles to life.

“You’ve done well so far.”

I nearly jump at the sound.

“You’ll be escorted shortly. Relax and trust the process.”

My stomach flips, but I take a slow breath, forcing myself to stay calm as a hand brushes my elbow, guiding me forward.

I move carefully, barefoot, the cold floor sending bites of chill up through my legs. The woman leading me says nothing as she leads me with a steady, unhurried pace. I don’t know how many turns we’ve taken, how many doors we’ve passed, only that we’re going deeper.

Farther away from the world I know. From reality.

The air changes suddenly. It’s heavier here, charged, like stepping into a hushed church before a sermon. Except even blindfolded, I can tell there’s nothing holy about this place. I don’t know how I know, but I do. It’s like an ominous, unsettling feeling quivering on my skin.

My breath is loud against the serene classical music playing in my ears. There are no outside noises. No coughs, no whispers, no shuffling of feet.

But Brooklyn was right. I can feel them. I can’t see the audience, but I know they’re there.

Watching.

A delicate shiver chases up my spine. My instincts are screaming at me to turn back, but it’s too late for that. I have nowhere to go but forward. The woman guiding me finally slows, adjusting her grip on my arm.

The voice in my earbuds crackles to life.

“In a moment, you’ll be led into a cage,” the soothing voice says.

I stiffen, my blood chilling instantly.

The woman beside me nudges me forward until my hands brush metal bars, cool and unyielding.

“If this is your first night with us,” the voice continues smoothly, “do not be alarmed. This is merely so that when you dance, you’ll be in a confined area and will not hurt yourself, or others. The insides of the bars are padded for your protection.”

Fuck.

I don’t like this.

But five thousand dollars is five thousand fucking dollars.

I let the woman guide me inside, my body brushing against the metal as I step forward. It’s not small, not cramped, but it’s…contained.

Controlled. Like everything about this entire experience so far.

The voice continues, soft and serene. “The music will begin in a moment. Dance however feels natural. You have an audience. Please note that it is vitally important that you do not try to remove your mask or earbuds. Doing so will result in immediate expulsion, and other consequences.”

My stomach twists.

I want to ask what consequences, but something tells me I’m not sure I’d want to know.

The music starts and with a small smile, I realize I recognize it: “Brotsjór”, a modern piece by the Icelandic composer Ólafur Arnalds. I danced to it last year as part of a contemporary ballet anthology the Zakharova put on.

For the first time since arriving here, I feel something close to steady.

I know this piece. I know how to move to it.

I can do this.

For five grand? I can do this on a bed of fucking nails.

I take a deep breath. And then, I dance.

At first, it’s hard to ignore the cage, the blindfold, and the suffocating weight of unseen eyes pressing in from all sides. But then the music swells, filling my heart and body, and I let go.

My body moves on instinct, feet gliding across the floor, arms slicing the air. My muscles remember the choreography, shifting through movements as the tempo builds and the rhythm pulses through me.

This part is easy. Dancing is the one thing that has always made sense to me, has always grounded me and gotten me through the madder, more dangerous chapters of my life.

Then, horribly, as I whirl, the fabric of my blindfold under the mask shifts. It’s not much—a tiny sliver of movement, a miniscule tug beneath my mask.

But suddenly…

I can see.

My pulse jangles, my skin instantly tingling all over.

I can see where I am, through the gleaming gold bars of the huge cage I’m dancing in.

Holy shit…

The space is massive, cavernous, the architecture breathtaking yet ominous—like a gothic cathedral without windows, illuminated only by the flicker of candlelight and low, golden chandeliers.

I shouldn’t be seeing this.

There will be consequences.

Sheer panic roars through my veins as I spin, half expecting to see guards or who even knows what racing over to throw me out on the street or far, far worse.

But I don’t see anything except the other cages with the other dancers moving to the same music floating through my own earbuds.

No one can tell I can see.

It’s a thin strand of hope, but I cling to it for dear life, forcing myself to keep dancing as I turn on the balls of my feet, my arms cutting through the air.

Even as I keep dancing, my eyes scan the space, absorbing details I was never meant to witness.

It’s like a scene out of an ancient Roman orgy. Or some decadent party that laughing French nobility would attend while the rabble starved outside.

Tables stretch across the room, heavy with platters overflowing with lavish silver platters of food. Wine flows freely, poured into ornate goblets, spilled onto waiting tongues, dripping down open throats.

Bodies drape over chaise lounges and velvet settees, only half-dressed or not at all.

Everyone, however, is wearing a mask.

Limbs tangle in lazy, languid pleasure. Some guests whisper in hushed, intimate tones, others laugh huskily as fingers skim over skin, as teeth graze throats, as hands disappear into layers of silk and lace.

I flinch as I rip my gaze away, my stomach knotting.

What. The. Fuck.

It’s pure, erotic opulence. It’s madness, like something out of Caligula.

I should be disgusted. I should be terrified. I’m…not.

Not entirely.

Because beneath the fear and the sheer, breathless panic of being caught, something else stirs deep in my stomach.

Curiosity.

There’s also something even more dangerous swirling in my core.

Fascination.

I try to force myself to keep dancing, to not call attention to the fact that I can see the insanity around me, but then my gaze shifts, and suddenly, the feast is not the craziest thing in the room.

Holy fuck.

At the far end of the cathedral space is a raised dais with five black thrones in a row. And sitting on those five thrones are five men all in black…

…Each wearing a matte black mask with animal features.

A bull, a wolf, a dog, a bird, and a stag.

The moment I see them, something inside me locks up.

It goes beyond fear. Beyond the sharp, instinctive panic that pricks at my skin, sending every nerve in my body onto high alert. It’s deeper than that—more visceral, more primal.

The masks are simple and unadorned, eerily blank, and somehow, that only makes them more terrifying. There’s no expression, no personality, no hint of the men underneath. Just sleek black surfaces sculpted into animal forms, each distinct, yet thematically linked. A bull. A wolf. A dog. A bird. A stag.

The men don’t move. But it’s like the sheer weight of their presence is suffocating, a silent command of power that doesn’t require words.

I should look away. I should drop my gaze, try to forget I saw them.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

A slow, electric pulse unfurls in my stomach, winding through my limbs like a tightly drawn wire.

These aren’t just men.

They feel ancient. Elemental. Gods watching from above, waiting to pass judgment.

Predators, waiting for their prey to make a mistake.

I breathe faster as I instinctively twist my body in time with the music. Then my gaze drops to where the five masked men are looking. On the floor, right in front of the dais, a man is kneeling, flanked by guards, bound by chains to the stone floor.

My pulse quickens, chest rising and falling as I try to keep myself positioned so that I can see what the fuck is happening through the tiny gap in my blindfold.

The prisoner wears no mask. He looks in his late forties, maybe a little older, with thinning hair, a belly straining the suit that it looks like he just ran a marathon in, and a stricken, horrified look on his face. He’s shaking, pleading with the five of them.

I can’t hear him through the music in my ears, but I can see read his body language, see the way the masked figures remain completely, unflinchingly still.

I know it’s reckless.

I know I shouldn’t.

There will be consequences.

But I have to know what the fuck this is.

When I turn, I brush my hand past my hair, flicking my ear ever so slightly and dislodging one of my earbuds just a little.

Sound rushes in, and I hear the man in the bird mask speak.

“Andrei Mushkin.”

The entire place goes silent. Every guest freezes in the middle of what they’re doing.

“You have been found guilty by the Black Court for the crime of breaking a blood marker.”

The kneeling man—Mushkin, did he call him?—sobs.

The man speaking barely acknowledges it.

“Mr. Mushkin, your fate now lies with my associate, The Hound.”

The man with the dog mask rises. He descends the dais with slow, measured steps, radiating unhinged hunger. His broad shoulders strain the fabric of his black suit, thick biceps rippling under the sleeves as he rolls his neck and stops right in front of the prisoner.

“Fight, or flight,” The Hound growls in a low, velvety voice that dances over my skin like silk and smoke. A voice that tugs at something inside of me, like a memory I can’t place.

Mushkin shakes his head violently.

“Fight…” The Hound murmurs again, turning and gesturing toward a table laid with gleaming, evil-looking medieval weapons. “Or flight.” He turns the other way, raising a hand to a massive stone doorway carved with runic symbols, with nothing but blackness beyond it.

A chill slithers up my spine.

“I’m not going in there!” Mushkin screams.

“Fight it is,” The Hound rasps.

There’s glee in his tone.

Still dancing, I watch him walk to the table and select two gigantic hunting knives. One of the guards walks over to him, takes one and brings it to the prisoner. They press the hilt of it into Mushkin’s shaking hands after they release his wrists from their bonds.

Mushkin is still sobbing as The Hound twirls his own blade absently, gazing at it through his mask as the thick gold ring on his finger with the black opal or maybe diamond glints alongside the knife.

“Mr. Raven,” he murmurs quietly, turning to glance up at the dais toward the man in the bird mask. “I believe we’re ready.”

The Raven nods. “Then the fight has already begun.”

Mushkin stumbles shakily to his feet, weeping abjectly. He and The Hound circle each other. Even I can tell this isn’t going to be a fight. It’s going to be a slaughter. The Hound is clearly just fucking with him.

Suddenly, he makes his move.

And he’s fast.

Mushkin barely has time to react before The Hound’s knife slices both his wrists. Mushkin yelps, his own weapon clattering to the floor. The Hound’s next slash takes him across first one thigh and then the other, sending him to his knees.

Then, The Hound is done toying with his prey.

He grabs Mushkin by the throat, yanks him close, and with one thrust rams the knife into his chest and rips upward, through flesh, through muscle, through throat, sending a tsunami of red gushing all over the stone floor.

It can’t be helped. Can’t be stopped. Can’t be contained.

Not the blood.

I’m talking about the gasp that bursts sharply and audibly from my throat.

I try to spin—try and force myself to tear my eyes away from the horror in front of me and pray that nobody heard me.

Unfortunately, someone did.

Every nerve in my body whines. Every inch of my skin goes cold as The Hound turns and stares directly at me, his head cocking slightly, his attention locking on me with unnerving precision.

My entire body goes still as he drops the body, knife and all, to the ground. The guards drag the dead prisoner away as my ears ring.

Keep dancing.

Keep. Fucking. Dancing.

The voice in my ear crackles to life again.

“Well done. Sadly, tonight’s show is shortened, but you will all be paid the agreed-upon amount. In a moment, you will be escorted back to your dressing room.”

The masked men stand from the dais and melt into the shadows. The guests knock back their last gulps of wine or get in one last kiss or grope before they get up from the various couches, chairs, beds, and floor mats, turning to file out through shadowy side doorways.

The masked women open our cages. The woman that steps into mine touches my arm, not wanting to startle me, before she takes it in her grip and leads me beyond the golden bars.

Suddenly, a presence materializes right in front of me.

Him.

The Hound.

The masked woman leading me stops, lifting her chin to look up at the man towering over us. He simply shakes his head side to side, not saying a word.

Instantly, she drops my arm, turns, and walks away.

The rest of the guests leave. The other dancers are gone. Suddenly, I’m alone with him in the thunderous silence of the underground cathedral, the coppery scent of blood still lingering in the air.

“You shouldn’t have seen that.”

His voice is dark. Dangerous.

I’d back away from him, but there’s nowhere to go.

He takes another step, a predator closing in on his prey. Suddenly, his arm shoots out and his powerful hand wraps like iron around my throat. I choke against his fingers as he pulls me close, my feet stumbling as he drags me almost right against his muscled body, the black eyeholes of his mask staring into my very soul.

“Tell me, little dancer,” he growls quietly. “What should I do with you?”