Page 3 of Stripped

Chapter 2

Pim maneuvered her way off stage, stopping only long enough to accept the congratulations from fellow dancers. She gave them a fake smile. She had missed the double pirouette coming out of the grand jeté, only doing a single turn. Compliments aside, she would have to do better next time, or she would lose her role. She looked at the clock. She needed to hurry. She had exactly fifteen minutes to go visit her grandfather before the start of act three. When he’d found out the part of Odette and Odile had become hers, he had insisted on coming to Inverness to see her debut performance. She rushed to her dressing room, changing into a pair of warm-up dance pants and sweater, then she snuck toward the stairs, backstage. Light and stage crewmembers were gathered in huddles, talking in lowered voices. One of them called out to her. "Stay down here, Pim. Rumor has it someone fell from one of the balconies."

"Oh God, how gruesome," she said. "Are they all right?"

"No idea."

"I'm just going to pop up and say hello to my grandfather. He needs to leave as soon as the performance is over, so I won't have time then."

"Be careful."

She opened the heavy emergency door, taking the concrete stairs to the third level. It was a back passage not intended for the general public. She stuck her head out the door on the top floor. A crowd had formed at the end of the hallway. She hurried toward it. Two ushers were telling people to keep moving as they directed them toward the main stairs and exit. Pim located the box her grandfather was supposed to be in. "I'm sorry, miss. You can't go in there," a woman said, blocking the entranceway.

"It's my grandfather's box," she said nervously. The sight of the growing crowd was unsettling.

"You're a dancer?" the woman asked.

"Yes.

"We need you to go back and be with the company."

"Is he all right? Was he the one who fell?" She felt herself starting to panic as dread washed over her. This couldn't be happening.

"Miss, it's best if you go back down."

A tall man approached, pulling her alongside him. "Let's go."

"What's going on?" She tried pulling out of his grip, but he held on to her arm tight. He kept his head down, the top of his brown hair all she could see of his face. "Let go of me."

"Hush and come with me." He punched the code into the keypad, unlocking the door to the backstage stairs.

"Was that my grandfather who fell?"

"I don't know who your grandfather is, but the man in the box is the one who fell."

"No. Fuck." She tried turning around, but he still held her by the shoulder. "Are you with security? I need to get to him." She tried looking at his badge.

"There's no point going back up there. They're locking the whole place down. The authorities will come to you if it's him." He raised his head, running his hand over the shadow of his beard before pushing his way through the door leading backstage.

Tears filled her eyes and she stopped to wipe them. "I don't understand how this could happen." Fear, from so many years ago, converged on her, the memories carrying their ominous dread across time. Overcome, she leaned into him, resting her head on his chest as the tears began to fall.

* * *

Wraith didn't plan on getting involved. He only took the girl as an excuse to go down the back stairwell and get away from the crowd. There was a killer on the loose and he needed to find out who had gotten to Angus before he did. His perfectly timed strategy now playing out in chaotic disarray, he wanted to get to the auditorium before they removed the body. The girl was crying in earnest now. He put his arms around her, uncertain what else to do.

"Pim," a man with long, curly gray hair called out, coming toward them. "Darling, I need you to come with me."

She pulled away from Wraith, her pale blue-green eyes gleaming. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what came over me," she apologized. "Was it my grandfather?" she turned and asked the man. "The person who fell?"

There was a commotion coming their way from the side of the stage. "Excuse me," a familiar voice called out. "I need an exit the duke and duchess can get out of safely, away from the crowds."

Wraith turned quickly, putting his back to the oncoming group, and grabbed the young dancer again in an embrace. His heart was pounding. Damn it. He should have known they would be here.

"What are you doing?" she asked, trying to pry his fingers from her arms. "I need to get to my grandfather."

"Wheesht," he commanded in a hushed whisper. He dipped his head and kissed her to keep her from speaking as she struggled to break free. She bit his lip, bringing her knee swiftly up toward his crotch but he managed to stop her in the nick of time, increasing the pressure of the kiss.

"You can use this exit," the man said. "Peter Brindy, artistic director of the Scottish National Ballet. My apologies for the unfortunate turn of events, Your Grace."

"Christ," the duke said. "He fell right in front of our box. It was horrible. I need to get the duchess home."

"Of course, of course." Peter led them to a door that would take them outside.

Wraith chanced the exposure and looked over his shoulder. The duchess looked back, and her green eyes grew wide as they stared at each other for no more than a second before she composed herself, looking back.

He was thrown off kilter for a moment, thinking of all the things he wanted to say to her. All the things he had said to her in his mind since the day everything went to hell with Al-Saad. But he couldn't. He died that day and that is how it must remain. The young woman continued to struggle and was now glaring at him as she pushed out of his arms. He let her go, realizing just how hard he gripped her.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" she asked, looking at his badge. "I'll fucking report you."

The director was returning. He needed to get out of there. He turned and ran toward the stage, keeping to the left as he pushed aside the curtain and jumped the short distance to the house floor. His leg burned, the effort of moving so fast and the jar of the landing tearing at the scar tissue in his thigh. The police were already arriving. He tore the badge off, stuffing it into his pocket as he tried to blend into the growing chaos. The ushers had cordoned off the area where the man lay, and yellow ropes blocked the path. Wraith moved closer. He stepped over the cords when no one was looking and snapped several photos with his phone, the tinny metallic smell of blood thick in his nose. Angus lay, lifeless, surrounded by the roses, their white petals stained red. His head was twisted at an awkward angle as blood seeped across the concrete floor. He studied the macabre tableau, putting everything to memory. Anger welled inside him. This was his kill and someone had taken it from him, stolen in a blink of the eye. He backed up, exiting the scene, and followed a group of panicked spectators out of the building. Without warning, he was forcefully knocked from behind and his damaged leg gave out, causing him to fall to the ground. A fiery burn ripped through his femur, the sensation making him feel nauseated. A man pushed past at full speed, rushing through the crowd. Wraith looked up to see the person wearing an ominous owl mask, not unlike the one the evil Von Rothbart wore in the second act of the ballet. The bird of prey moved silently, knocking down innocent victims as he ran from the building. A deadly assassin who had broken the neck of Wraith's soon-to-be victim with his killer talons, stealing Wraith's own target.

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