Page 46 of Darling

Minsu held out both his hands to her plaintively. “I know you’re scared,” he said, voice cracking. “Don’t you think we’re scared, too? You’ve only been here for a few hours. Curly has been with him for years.”

Ominotago folded her arms and scowled, but Wendy could tell that she was more hurt than angry. In fact, all of them looked hurt. Charles’s wide-eyed terror was beginning to creep back into his face. Tinkerbelle still held her hand where Wendy had slapped it away, her cheeks hot and red. Fyodor’s gaze burned as he glared at the ground and refused to participate.

Minsu lowered his hands. “We only have a few chances, and this took ages to plan. You saw how he gets away anytime anything happens! Please, Wendy.”

She couldn’t hear Peter’s approaching footsteps over the thumping beat, but it still felt like she could.

“You promised,” Tinkerbelle said, her voice thick with tears. “You spit-shook on it.”

Wendy closed her eyes and clenched her fists.

She didn’t know these people. Spit-shaking meant nothing to her before tonight. It was after midnight, and her parents were probably already home from the party and furious. Her phone barely had any battery the last time she checked, and it was probably dead by now, so there was no way for her family or Eleanor to contact her. It was still too early for an Amber Alert, so there was no one looking for her. The police—if they were truly coming—would be here to raid this party, not to help her or be on her side. She was never going to see these people ever again after tonight; their problems really weren’t her problems. Their suffering was none of her business. This was too dangerous, and the stakes were too high. If she pushed through the crowd and took off at a sprint, Wendy could remember the way to the train station. Peter continued to stride across the mezzanine as the beat throbbed in her ears. She could go home, she could go home, she could go home.

Wendy opened her eyes.

She grabbed her drink back from Ominotago and chugged the entire thing, chewing through the cherries while the entire group watched in suspense. Wendy saw that Peter was only twenty feet away now, his eyes focused hard on the back of Tinkerbelle’s head as he wove through the crowd.

“Fyodor,” Wendy shouted loud enough for Peter to hear.

Fyodor finally pried his eyes away from the tile and looked up at Wendy solemnly.

“Will you dance with me?” Wendy demanded, thinking quickly.

Fyodor stood and looked Wendy up and down just as Peter broke through to them.

“Yes,” Fyodor said, eyes dark and voice rough. He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the stairs.

Wendy couldn’t leave the group without glancing back. She saw Peter talking sternly to Tinkerbelle, but Ominotago was watching Wendy and Fyodor leave with a smile tucked in the corner of her eyes and her chin tilted up with pride.

Fyodor wrapped his arm around Wendy’s back and nearly carried her down the last three stairs.

They stumbled through the crowd to the middle of the room—in view of all exits, Wendy realized, and far enough from the speakers that the music buzzed in her bones instead of blasting her ear drums.

Fyodor gazed down at Wendy.

Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket and typed for a while, turning it around for her to see, because it was entirely too loud to talk.

You deserve at least one dance.

Wendy looked up to check the mezzanine, to see if Peter was watching them angrily, but Fyodor gently turned her chin back to him.

The music was a punchy rap song, more pop than gritty poetry. The people next to them were jumping up and down with the beat. The strobes enhanced the angles of Fyodor’s face, burning an afterglow behind his silhouette as he towered over her.

Fyodor reached out, but paused and jerked his chin at her as if to ask permission. Wendy answered his nod and allowed him to gently take both of her hands and place them on his shoulders. Then he reached a large solid arm behind her back and began to sway her gently to the beat. With a disorienting thrill, Wendy realized they were slow dancing.

Fyodor kept his right hand on the dip of her spine, not taking advantage even when she stumbled; she wasn’t used to moving this way. His left hand was tucked behind his back with almost military formality. Wendy couldn’t help but watch their feet, focusing on not stepping on his shoes. She realized with flustered hysteria that Minsu had been lying about Fyodor dancing like a scarecrow in a wind tunnel. He had been lying a lot. Fyodor was graceful and so skilled that he managed to find the slower beat in the music, turning them both effortlessly as if this was a ballroom and not a warehouse rave at all.

Fyodor stepped closer, until Wendy could feel the heat of his body, and it was nothing like being close to Peter. Fyodor smelled alive: a little like cigarettes, a little like the pomade he had in his blond hair, a little like deodorant, and a little like the metallic tang of panic-sweat that forms on people who have been on edge for entirely too long. No heady flowers, no smoke that reminded her of a house fire, no magic and starlight, just a flesh and blood kid, who moved her out of the way of a flailing dancer—bringing his left hand up fast to block Wendy from getting smacked in the back of the head.

Fyodor flicked his eyes over at the guy who clearly had too much to drink and grinned as if to say, At least he’s having a good time. He began to drop his arm to tuck it behind his back again, but Wendy caught his hand on the way down and threaded her fingers between his. Fyodor’s eyebrows knit in apprehension but smoothed as Wendy moved more confidently now. He squeezed her fingers and shifted into a middle-school-slow-dance style of rocking back and forth. He grinned.

Wendy took the bait, scowling as he dumbed down his waltz style for her. Fyodor grinned wider at Wendy’s pettiness, and for some reason seeing the imperfection of his gaping, childish smile and the shadow of a pimple on his forehead filled Wendy’s chest with warmth.

Fyodor lifted their conjoined hands and gave her shoulder a nudge. Wendy spun without thinking, and Fyodor caught her with ease, swinging her back into the gentle rhythm. A few of the people nearest them moved away to give them room, with confused and interested glances.

Fyodor chanced a look up at the mezzanine, and Wendy followed his gaze. Peter and Curly were looking down at them, and the expression on Peter’s face was what Wendy could only describe as gently furious. Fyodor stepped back from Wendy. The sudden gap left her cold as air rushed in between them.

Fyodor spun them twice and then finished with his back to Peter, blocking Wendy from Peter’s prying gaze.