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I gave a sharp shake of my head. “He called me his…”
“His what?” Yas was worked up now, and he flung his bag on the floor against the back wall. “I’ll rip the bastard’s lungs out. I’ll smite him. I’ll superglue something in his sleep. ”
That got a chuckle out of me. “I won’t allow any paste-related crimes to be laid on my head. ”
“Come on, little D. —then tell me. ”
Hands on hips, I stood, my fierce expression daring him to laugh. “Fine. He called me his—his little gummy bear. ”
He made an obnoxious guffawing sound, but just then Master Dagursson strode in, and his appearance cut off Yasuo’s snort, making it sound as if he were choking on something instead of having a laugh at my expense.
I gave Yas a smug look.
“Oh no,” he whispered suddenly, looking over my shoulder, jokes about gummy bears long forgotten.
I followed his line of sight and had to agree. “Oh cr—crud. ” I quickly corrected myself, having learned the hard way not to curse in Dagursson’s presence.
“Good day, class. ” The thin skin of Dagursson’s face crackled into a thousand wrinkles as he gave us an evil grin that told us we were in for it. Sticking his head back out the door, he called impatiently, “Come in, come in. ”
A couple Trainees I didn’t recognize skittered in, keeping their heads down and wheeling the sort of cart a hotel bellman might use. But instead of suitcases, there were stacks of boxes. Shoe boxes.
I wriggled in my boots, apologizing to my toes in advance for whatever indignity those shoe boxes represented. “What the…?”
Our teacher clapped us to attention, and the Trainees scampered out. “Today you have a rare treat in store. ”
Rare treat for him maybe. Yas and I shared a quick, apprehensive glance.
“Because today you will learn to dance the Paso Doble. ” He beamed as though he expected us to explode with gratitude. Strolling before us, he looked like a peacock—a nasty, wrinkly, gratified peacock. “I confess, it was not my idea, but rather the suggestion of one of my colleagues. ”
My chest tightened. Paso Doble sounded suspiciously Spanish. And I happened to know a suspicious vampire, also Spanish. Alcántara’s hands were all over this.
“But before we dance, there is a critical element that has been missing from your ensemble. ” He gestured to the boxes, and I braced for what I knew was coming. “Footwear. ”
We all stood there frozen, and he began clapping maniacally. The guy was always clapping—maybe that was how his hands had gotten so long and bony. “Hurry now, hurry. You will find a shoe awaiting you in your size. And I should hope the difference between boys’ and girls’ footwear is self-evident. ”
I shuffled to that cart, scanning the stack for my size five. I worked the box out from the bottom of the stack and opened it. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to laugh or cry. Inside was a typical pair of women’s ballroom dance shoes, which meant, they resembled objects of torture. High, black, and strappy, and in my petite size, they seemed suitable for Minnie Mouse.
They were going to be the death of me—if the lack of dignity didn’t kill me first. I glanced down at my Acari uniform. Gray tunic and leggings, with these things? I’d look ready for a Bollywood dance number.
“Is there a problem, Acari Drew?”
Crap. I’d caught Dag’s attention. “No, Master Dagursson. Simply ensuring I’ve selected the appropriate size. ” Ever since he’d slashed my lip in our first class, I’d taken to speaking as politely and articulately as possible.
“Very good. ” His face split into another grin, this one meant for my consumption. “Because I’d like you to be my partner as I teach today’s class. ”
I kept my mouth stretched into a tight grin. “That would be an honor, sir. ”
He looked up to address the whole class. “Your clumsy boots simply won’t do. You need to learn how to dance in the proper footwear, and now is the time. ”
He rambled some more, but I only half listened as I sat down, kicking off my beloved, broken-in boots. My feet were sweaty in that been-wearing-shoes-all-day way, and I had to jam them sockless and sticky into the shoes. The straps cut into the bones of my feet and across my ankles. I’d have blisters by the end of the session.
Yasuo leaned close. “Mine are worse. ”
One look, and I knew he was right. His were worse. Laughably so. They were shiny black oxfords that looked like formal menswear except for the bizarrely feminine chunky heel. Three inches high, it was shorter than mine, but still it was a heel. I swallowed a giggle. “You’ll look like Prince. ”
“Or Tom Cruise, maybe. ” He wiggled his ankle. “You know, for height?”
“Don’t talk to me about height,” I grumbled. Mine had spiky heels, and it was only a matter of time before I bit the dust.
