Dance of Ruin: Chapter 34

The lights dazzle me as the bag is yanked off my head.

For a moment, that’s all I can see: harsh, blinding lights, lasering into my eyes as I blink and try to focus.

My head swims as I replay the scene outside the theater maybe…what, an hour ago? Kuzmina was running the swans through a forced death march at her gulag.

…That is to say, holding a grueling extra rehearsal for the women that I’m guessing might well still be going on. Somebody’s leg could fall off and she would probably tell them to stay in sync.

She’s a sadist like that.

Honestly, it’s one of the things I like about her.

But while said Russian death-march was going on, I snuck out into the alley behind the theater to grab a cigarette.

Yes, I know. They’re bad for you.

But I didn’t really think that health hazard would extend to having a fist slammed into my jaw and a bag yanked over my head before I was brought to my knees and thrown into the trunk of a car.

I mean, you expect cancer. You don’t expect assault and kidnapping.

I blink again, and my pupils begin to adjust.

The steel beams of a warehouse space loom overhead, and there’s rocky rubble on a concrete floor beneath my feet.

Oh, and I’m tied to a chair.

Not my first time for that. But the kidnapping is new.

“You know, Nico, this isn’t how I pictured our first date. If I knew you were this kinky, I mean…take a number, Naomi⁠—”

I grunt, my head snapping to the side and blood spurting from my lip as his fist comes out of nowhere.

“You don’t get to say her name,” his voice snarls from the darkness. I hear his footsteps crunch on the rubble as he circles me like a predator.

“Slightly more aggressive than I usually go for,” I grunt, turning and spitting blood onto the floor. “But, I mean, warm me up first, baby, and I’ll play as rough as you⁠—”

He hits me again.

Okay, that one was expected.

But now I’m fucking pissed.

“What’s the matter, fucker?” I hiss, blood dripping from my lips. “Worried about facing me man-to-man after our last tussle? Decided to increase your odds this time by tying me to a fucking chair?” I spit another mouthful of blood onto the floor and glare through the lights at his shadow looming behind them. “Pussy.”

His hits have made my head fucking throb, though. I wince, trying to shake off the ringing sensation in my ears as my vision swims again from the lights.

For a second—just a flickering second—it comes, like it does every now and then. A flash of a memory, maybe.

Lights swinging overhead.

A different warehouse.

A voice I can’t quite place whispering something I can’t really hear.

Then it’s gone. Like always.

Most of the time, I don’t want to know anything about the childhood I can’t recall. I remember enough of the shadows that I’m sure it was nothing good.

I blink again, frowning as I glare through the lights toward Nico.

Yeah, nothing good about my present situation, either.

Nico bursts from behind the blinding lights, surging into me and slamming another fist into my jaw.

“Fuck you!” I roar, dribbling more blood. “Cut me loose, you fuckin’ pussy!”

“I don’t think so,” he murmurs, circling me again. “As tempting as it would be to kick your ass man-to-man and wipe that fucking smile off your face.”

“Does it look like I’m fuckin’ smiling, jackass?” I mutter.

“It looks like you’re starting to realize how fucked you are,” Nico tosses back.

“What the fuck this is? I mean I like to play rough, but one, I don’t fuck my friends’ sloppy seconds, and two, you are truly not my fucking type. Way too straight.”

“I don’t want to fuck you, you fucking idiot,” Nico spits.

“Good, because trust me, princess, you are not ready to bottom for someone like me⁠—”

Yeah, that’s another entirely expected punch to the face. Still, it doesn’t stop the snarl of rage from bubbling up inside me as blood gushes from my mangled lip.

Fuck this.

I can fight. I mean, I grew up in the foster system in New York. I can get down in the dirt and dole out some fucking hurt if I have to. But this shit—whatever the fuck this shit is—is different.

It brings up memories of other kids in the group homes pinning me down so they could get their licks in.

That’s not fighting, like this isn’t. That’s just poking the fucking tiger through the bars of its cage and calling yourself a hunter.

“You think this is funny?” he growls.

“I mean, not ha-ha funny,” I mutter. “But, you know, existentially?”

Another punch, right to my abs. I grunt, doubling over as much as I’m able to, tied to the chair as I am. When I look up into his eyes, a sense of dread and coldness rips down my spine.

Fuck. He’s really not playing. But I have no idea what the fuck any of this is about. What, just because we got into it before? He doesn’t strike me as the fragile ego type. Then again, he did go all fucking aggro on me about…

My brow wrinkles. “Is this about…Naomi?”

His face darkens again.

“Wait,” I spit. “Before you fuckin’ hit me again, just wait. Nico, I seriously have no idea what the fuck I’m doing here. Is it a jealousy thing?! How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not interested in your girlfriend. She’s like a goddamn sister!”

He looms over me as his eyes pierce into mine.

“This isn’t about jealousy, Vaughn. This is about answers.”

“Regarding?”

His eyes narrow. “Why don’t you tell me about the Marquis.”

I stare at him. He stares back.

“…What?” I finally snap.

“Your boss. Let’s talk about him.”

“My…” My brow furrows. “My boss is sadistic thirty-something Russian woman who thinks drinking water during a rehearsal is being lazy. But fine, fuck it. What do you want to know about Kuzmina?”

“Don’t get fucking cute,” Nico growls.

“Get?” I make a face. “Baby, I don’t need to get—okay, STOP!” I hiss, right as he winds up again.

“Nico, from the very bottom of my heart, I haven’t the slightest goddamn idea why the fuck we’re here, why the fuck you’re hitting me, or what the actually unholy FUCK you want me to say!”

“I want you to tell me about the Obsidian Syndicate!”

I stare at him blankly. “The what?”

Nico disappears behind the lights, then returns and approaches me again. He tosses something at my feet—a file folder that spills open as I look down at it. The paper inside fans out a little, and my gut clenches.

“You were found in an Obsidian-owned drug warehouse,” Nico says tightly. “Age nine.”

I look up at him, red mist clouding my eyes.

“State custody records for minors are sealed for a fucking reason, asshole,” I say quietly.

I’m not going to bother asking how Nico fucking Barone got his hands on my foster records. I don’t need to hear some bullshit story about them “falling off the back of a truck”.

“Let’s talk about that warehouse, Vaughn.”

I shake my head. “That what we’re doing here, Nico? Talking about my fucking childhood?” I bark out a cold laugh. “Joke’s on you, dipshit. I don’t remember shit before I was placed in a group home.”

“How convenient.”

“It’s actually a nightmare,” I hiss. “But thanks for the fucking sympathy. It’s not convenient, Nico. It’s a bunch of shit I don’t even know if I can unpack, let alone want to.” I shoot him a look. “If you’re hoping I’ll confess to something I can’t remember, you’re barking up the wrong psych evaluation.”

He stares at me for a long moment.

“Why don’t we jog your memory.”

I glare at him. “You keep jogging my memory and I’m going to have permanent brain damage, dickbag.”

Nico pulls out his phone, taps the screen, and turns it to face me. A video starts to play.

In it, a guy is sitting alone at a booth in some bar, sipping a beer. Then someone else comes over and sits down opposite him. The guy pulls his hood back…

What the actual fucking fuck.

It’s me.

It’s fucking me sitting at that booth. Except it’s not.

There’s something off.

Nico’s babbling on, threatening me with something or other, and I’m pretty sure he’s mentioning Naomi and whatever this syndicate thing is. But I’m ignoring him, just staring at the screen, trying to spot the glitch in my personal Matrix.

Then I do.

The guy on the screen stretches his arms a little, and the sleeves of his jacket ride up, revealing more of his forearms.

Bare, un-tattooed forearms.

“That’s not me,” I say quietly.

The video keeps playing. Nico smirks at me like he’s just caught me red-handed.

“Nico, that’s not fucking me,” I snarl, louder this time.

“Enough,” Nico sighs. “You’re fucking done. So start fucking talking⁠—”

“Look at his forearms, jackass!” I roar, nodding at the screen with my chin. “Do you see any fucking tattoos?”

Nico’s hesitates.

“Just look at the goddamn phone!” I snarl.

His eyes sweep the lower part of the screen. Then his gaze slides from the phone to my arms, bound to the seat of the chair near my thighs.

…Which have tattoos all over them.

“That’s not fucking me,” I spit.

Nico starts to open his mouth, but he’s interrupted by a voice from the shadows.

“He’s right.”

Nico whirls, reaching to pull the gun from his waistband.

“Not one more move,” the voice growls. “Pull it out slowly, drop it on the ground, kick it away.”

The voice steps closer, enough that the lights glint off the metal gun barrel in his hand, pointed at Nico.

Nico’s jaw tightens as he slowly pulls the gun from his waistband, drops it to the ground, and pushes it aside with his toe.

“That’s not him in your video, Mr. Barone.”

The shadow steps closer, into the light. Until suddenly, he’s no longer a shadow.

My world glitches.

Not a shadow. A fucking mirror.

Of me.

My brain refuses to believe what my eyes are showing me. I’m looking at literally me. Closer-cropped hair, no visible ink, and a scar on his left temple, but otherwise?

It’s me…staring right at me.

Nico’s looking between us now, trying to recalibrate, like someone just broke his internal clock.

“Why… Why the fuck do you look like Vaughn?” Nico growls.

My mirror takes a slow, deep breath before exhaling.

“Because I am Vaughn.”