The days had fallen back into the same pattern of rehearsals, costume fittings, and frantic searches of the theater. Having Malena on our side meant she and Pax could constantly sniff around for signs of blood or ritual herbs. Sadly, that didn’t mean they’d been able to find anything, and by the time the night of the show arrived, we were all consumed by nerves.

Anders picked up on my anxiety—it would have been hard for him not to. He stepped up behind me while I was checking my makeup before the opening jazz number. Sasha had bent us into the shapes she wanted, and all that remained was getting through the next five minutes without breaking an ankle. Or a neck. To be honest, I was more worried about the latter.

“You okay?” he asked, looming in my mirror. He focused on my reflection with an intensity that made me borderline uncomfortable.

I didn’t let it show. He’d always been attracted to me, and he’d always taken “no” for an answer. I just had to act oblivious and things would be okay.

“Nope,” I said, using eyelash glue to secure one more rhinestone to my cheekbone. We were dancing the seasons tonight, and I was supposed to be a winter wind. A little weird, sure, but that was lyrical jazz for you: the only thing that kept it from being even weirder than contemporary was the need to keep us all contorting into shapes that the human body was never meant to achieve.

“Nerves?” he asked.

“Nerves, and family trouble.” We’d find out which dancers were in danger after the group routine. Anders might be a little too focused on me sometimes, but he was still my partner, and I still loved him as a friend. I always would.

I dropped the eyelash glue and spun around in my chair, grabbing for his hands. Anders blinked at me, surprised but not displeased.

“Poppy and Chaz rushed out of here so fast last week that I didn’t get to say good-bye,” I said. His face fell as he realized I wasn’t about to confess my undying love. I pressed on. “I don’t think either of us is going to be in danger, but I want you to promise that if we are, if either one of us gets eliminated, that you’ll stick around so we can say good-bye. Please. Promise me.”

Anders blinked again. “Dude, Val, what’s gotten into you? I expected nervous. I didn’t expect psycho.” He tried to pull his hands away, eyes widening at the strength of my grip. “Yes, okay? Yes, I promise, if either one of us gets eliminated—which isn’t going to happen—I’ll find you backstage. No matter what.”

“I’m so glad to hear that. I don’t think I could bear it if I didn’t get to say good-bye to you.” I’m not sure which of us was more surprised when I hugged him: me, or Anders.

He relaxed into my embrace after the initial stiffness, and he was smiling when he pulled away. “Here I thought you weren’t a hugger.”

“I’m not,” I said, turning back to my mirror before he could realize how uncomfortable I was. This was another of the places where my real life and my fantasy life diverged. Verity was a hugger, but Verity only hugged people who wouldn’t be surprised when they felt a gun pressing against their hip or a sheathed knife digging into their stomach. Anders had no idea how many weapons I was carrying. That had been foolish, and worse, it had been weak. I needed to be strong, now more than ever.

If I wasn’t, someone else was going to die tonight.

“Special circumstances, huh?” Anders patted me on the shoulder. “It’s going to be fine, Val. We danced like gods last week. Nobody’s going to eliminate us.”

“Hope you’re right,” I said, picking up my eyelash glue and carefully tacking one last rhinestone into place. I glittered whenever I moved. Exactly like I was supposed to.

“I’m always right and you know it,” said Anders. He opened his mouth to say more, and stopped as a long, low bong resounded through the room. A wry smile twisted his lips upward. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls . . . you ready?”

“Ready,” I said. I stood and took his arm, and he led me from the safety of my mirror to the dangerous familiarity of the stage.

Sasha might be a punk rock Tinker Bell who thought the human body came equipped with easily replaceable joints, but there was no question that she was a damn fine choreographer. The fourteen dancers still in the competition—the fourteen dancers who were still alive—flung ourselves through the routine like our lives depended on it. And they did. Even if only Malena, Pax, and I knew the danger was literal, and not just a risk of elimination, there was a very good chance that anyone who failed to dance well enough would die.