HALFBLOOD DANCER

4. STALKER

Astonished, I gawk at the dazzling face in front of me. I can't begin to comprehend how this is happening. How I'm running into the same man I ran from in New York. How I'm suddenly in the arms of the stranger whose bloody lips I've been tasting in my nightmares, night after night, for an entire week.

"Forgive me, it wasn't my intension to startle you...again," he says, his tone suggesting a bite of frustration.

I open my mouth to speak, but words have forsaken me once more. Where the heck are they when you need them? I frown.

"Are you all right, Ms. Anderson? You look a little pale and...unsteady."

A wave of fear prickles through my back, raising the hair on the nape of my neck. How does he know my name? I wiggle my shoulders to try to free myself from his arms.

He releases me at once. "Don't run," he says, the edge to his voice fueling my fear. "You don't need to run away from me. I won't hurt you," he tells me, his reassuring words having the opposite effect on me. It sounds as if he's trying to convince himself rather than telling me.

Besides, why would he assume that I expect him to hurt me?

Gathering all my strength, I punch him in his abdomen as hard as I can and do exactly what he told me not to do. I run. And as I dash to the theater, I revisit the moment in my head, realizing the man barely flinched when I stroke him.

My hand shaking, I clutch the handle and quickly swing the door open. As I rush inside, I can't stop my eyes from glancing back, afraid he would be following me.

But there's no one in the hallways. Not a single soul.

The cold air in the theater strikes my skin, the smell of old leather and carpets filling my nostrils. Shivering, I close the door behind me and hurry to join my colleagues, my footsteps resonating on the crimson carpet almost as loud as my pulse.

"Luna, where were you?" Nina asks as I stand next to her.

"I was throwing away my cup," I reply, playing with my hair.

I decide not to mention the incident. There's no time. Besides, I couldn't explain what I can't even understand myself. The entire time I was feeling dazed. And when I looked back, the man had vanished. I'm actually beginning to wonder if he was even there.

"Come on, we need to go change." Nina pulls me backstage.

While we get ready, Nina and I mingle with the other dancers. In addition to the six of us from New York, there are six dancers from Paris and three from England. The rest of the fifty-six adult dancers are from different places of Italy. The twelve-year-old boy that's playing the role of the Indian Child is from Rome, as well as the twenty-four children that are playing the roles of the Woodland Bugs, all ranging from ages eight to thirteen.

We return to the front moments later. The children are directed to join the small audience while the adults are beckoned to wait on one side of the stage for the instructors to start calling our names. We all have to dance a two-minute solo of our choice. It can be either a classical or contemporary routine, as long as it displays all the necessary techniques. When the first name is called—Darnell, one of the dancers from France approaches the man in charge of the music and then moves to the center of the platform.

As I'm watching Darnell dance, my whole body begins to feel tense, as if being shocked and tugged by an electric cord wrapped around me. My gaze follows the invisible string, finding a set of deep blue eyes at the other end, watching me.

I freeze on the spot, wondering if he's even real. Blinking a few times, I wait for him to disappear. But he never does. As my imagination grows wild, trying to figure out who he is, my father comes to mind. And the idea that he might've sent this man to watch over me irritates me beyond words.