Calore Dance Academy// Red Queen AU

Chapter 1

Part 1 — The Empire of the Dancers

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Summertime in this part of the country brings humidity with it.

The soles of my worn-down shoes and I have learned it all too well, spending countless hours trekking the avenues of New York—Manhattan, specifically. I should be used to it by now, the sun that would bake my skin if I wasn't wearing SPF 50, the wafting and balmy heat, and the merciless sweat gathering sweat on my brows and under my arms. Yet each day I leave my apartment believing it ought to not bother me, I return in the evening as a sticky, smelly mess.

This morning the weathermen said the high for today is ninety-five degrees. With the sun having been up for hours, the day's far past any protection the heaping skyscrapers of the city can give it. All sun, no clouds or shadows. How it always is these days.

A shame I lent my bike to Kilorn for his commute downtown, past Midtown and deep into the Financial District. He took my offer readily, and I haven't seen my beaten-up, noisy bike since, something I'm a little pissed about. Though it's bound to break soon. My friend takes that piece of junk almost ten miles south, seven days a week to his swanky grill job, and he's been doing it since the beginning of summer. I bet it won't last through July.

Then I'll get my bike back. Or whatever's left of it.

I smile to myself and roll my eyes, entirely looking forward to what that conversation will look like.

My sister Gisa and I went our separate ways moments ago, as she headed for the fabric store a few blocks south. Her favorite day of the week: Wednesdays. Her boss sends Gee off with a few hundred bucks, entrusting her to use every penny to buy a half dozen bolts of fabric, colorful threads, and all the buttons, pins, and needles the shop might need. I have no doubt in my mind she doesn't filch a dollar of it.

Only to quell my guilt, I ask if she wants me with. I can't begin to imagine what Mom would say if she found out I was leaving my fifteen-year-old sister out on the streets alone, but Gisa just waves her hand and scampers off whenever I press her. It's not like I wasn't doing the same when I was her age.

And I can hardly blame her when I wouldn't want her trailing me. Around high-noon, judging by the sun and the growl rolling in my stomach. I'd call it quits for the day, if not for the rush of businessmen approaching the building I lean against.

The sun burns hard over my eyelashes, the material of the building hot against my back. Straight ahead rests the chaos of Times Square: flashy lights, cars, and a hell-lot of people.

Tucked into the crook of my elbow is an inconspicuous black hoodie. I hate to put it on . . . but it's for the best. Begrudgingly, before the walk sign appears, I draw it onto myself, hood and all, pulling the strings with one rough tug.

The men move slowly for my taste, in no rush and distracted amongst themselves. From my position across the street, they look older, maybe in their late thirties or early forties when I squint. Polished shoes, dark pants, blazers for the sake of etiquette and nothing more. They have to be dying out here, and I wonder why they're here in the first place. Deep into Times Square, these men are more than a little displaced, wearing their fancy clothes while every tourist to be seen dresses in shorts and light shirts. They're probably from some company or other a few blocks away and seek a change in scenery and a restaurant to talk business.

I let my neck drop towards my frayed shoelaces but keep my eyes up. A nearby stoplight turns from green to red, and a white walk sign switches on. While I wish they'd hurry up—I have places to be too—but their agonizing pace tells me what I need to know: they're relaxed, subdued by the heat. Lazy, unnoticing, and mindless.