Blood Dancers, Chapter 1
So she stands before an abandoned church, underneath the light of a blood moon. She used to attend the services weekly with her grandmother, but it’s been fifteen years since the last time she went. The village itself lay deserted for the past decade. The village was all but dead when the Church closed, but yet still there is energy that remains, a hallowed sort of energy, and an energy that infects her with memories of her youth.
When she was seven, she had hated getting dressed all pretty, she had hated being around so many old people, but most of all, she wanted to be left alone in the garden. Now, she misses them, everyone. She misses the ceremonies, the little traditions that she found she boring, the sense of community and belonging. She misses the little cookies the old ladies used to give her and the tips they gave her about choosing a husband, the woodworker’s singing, and the stories the old men told about when they were boys, crass and wild and not fit for little girls, as her grandmother would say.
Wolves howl in the far distance and they sound as if they’re on a hunt. They put an end to her little reverie. The first time she’s heard the thunderous beasts in years, and it’s the first time she’s heard them this close to the village. She only visits a few times a year, but still.
She ignores them and enters anyway, pushing open the half-rotted and crumbled doors that once were pristine and shiny. Cleaned and waxed every month, every other month, she doesn’t remember that much. All she remembers is the old, leathery caretaker with missing teeth but a full heart. Apples, he used to give her.
Some of the benches stand as strong as they were, covered with dust and leaves and remnants of small birds and mammals. Other benches have since collapsed.
She looks for evidence of trespassers and finds none. She thought she might have seen an owl in the corner of her eye, but when she turns to look, there’s nothing and she shrugs it off. Satisfied, she gathers material for a fire, setting them down on the stone floor before the steps leading to the pulpit. The glass windows have since been broken, so she has a direct line of the moon with all its glory.
She speaks an indecipherable phrase under her breath before she starts the fire. Glitter seems to have manifested from her and it floats down onto flames, crackling. She holds her hands out, feeling the warmth, and she takes deep breaths. Moments pass before she strips down, leaving only a tattered dress. The dress is the color of the moon, the color of blood, of fire.
As the fire grows stronger, so does the energy in her. The fire in her veins glow, a stark contrast with her pale, near translucent skin. The energy pulses in sync with the flickers of the fire. Here, with this fire, she feels a quality to her life that exists nowhere else.
And so she starts to dance within the fire itself, twirling, stomping, making the smoke rise. If there are watchers, it flows through her and reaches them, and it is because of this transfer that this dance is only danced for the sick and the intimate.
When she’s dancing, she becomes a stranger. Her parents, her brother, her friends, all think she’s someone cold and distant. But the fire frees her, protects her. Whether it melts her shell, or if the spirit of the fire takes her body over, she does not know, and she does not care.
But tonight, something is different, because in years past, dancing under this autumnal moon would give her strength she had never known. But tonight, the more she dances, the weaker she feels, and the blaze now only gentle wisps.
Someone is watching.
She stops to catch her breath. A strange calmness takes over her, and it is strange because anyone, man or woman, might be alarmed, even frightened, at the prospect that there's a stranger there with them. And a stranger, who through all indications, had wanted to remain unseen.
I know you’re there, she says in a sing-songy voice.
Up here, says a strong, smooth voice, but clearly a woman. A woman in black. She is leaning against a pillar, with one leg dangling off the beam and the other outstretched. She says, you’re a blood dancer, are you not?
I am. The dancer says. How long have you been there?
Before you walked through those doors. I was told you’d be here.
By who?
The winds. She sees the look on the dancer’s face. I mean it, I don’t know why I was drawn here. I was…
Hiding. Your clothes hid you will. But what are you hiding from? Are you a thief?
Hunters, wolves, I suppose. But I thought I’d be safe here. But no, I’m no thief. At least, not in the sense that I stole gold. I stole something much more precious.
You’re someone.
I am. My name is Awnie. And you are?
Sari Conrad.
A knock on the door. Soft and quiet knocks she thinks aren’t for her, the cheap construction let her hear the sounds of the motel. The rambling and the gambling, the sounds of rage and lust between lovers and strangers, heavy footsteps, sounds of pistols and shotguns, deals gone right and deals gone wrong. The smells of cheap perfume, beer, and cigarettes infiltrate her room. All of that which goes on in a cheap motel, at all hours of the day. Especially before daybreak.
It’s me, a faint whisper from the dancer she met last night. They had a long conversation, long enough for the moon to turn back to its usual off-white and for it to reach its zenith. The dancer knew enough to be as quiet as possible and to not use her name, but not enough to not knock, or even to not check in on her.
Awnie peaks through the window and sees her. Sari. Now, Sari has her silver hair slicked back, glistening, giving her the appearance of a serious, methodical woman. Almost reminiscence of a psychopathic banker. The orange at the tips seem weirdly natural, and maybe they are, but it matches the bright canvas jacket she’s wearing. A strange option to wear in the middle of the night, especially when stealth is necessary.
Awnie pulls her in the room quick and makes a gesture to stay silent. Even if the hunt for her had been called off in the middle of the night, it would resume at daybreak. Awnie peeks out the window and the sky has transitioned from pitch black to navy blue with streaks of red. Dawn. She must leave.
They exit from the window, Awnie making sure it’s all clear. Someone peaking out their window could see them, especially with Sari’s coat, and there would be a good chance that someone would be the one looking for her.
With a stroke of good luck, Sari had parked the car directly outside the room. A vintage muscle car, with sharp lines and a slanted rear pillar. Painted cherry-red. When Sari starts the car, it shakes the ground. It’s not the most discrete vehicle, but it was a gift from Sari’s brother. And that matters more than if it were a discrete, mundane, silver sedan. The hunters are daring, but the car means that there is too much risk for them to make a move. They don’t need to know the exact owner, but that the owner would have resources to make them pay a price for something so priceless.
You didn’t have to do this, Awnie says. I would’ve escaped.
Sari shrugs. She repeats a line from last night, you are someone. But so am I. So you’ll remember me if I need help?
I will.
Then I have to do this.
But what could you possibly need help with?
I don’t know.
Ok, Awnie says. She knows that’s a lie and for a moment, she considers if she should call it out. How long until we’re there?
The runway? A few hours. Sari presses the pedal further down, a great roar from the engine. Sooner.
They stop to fuel at a dusty convenience store. There’s that, a dingy motel, a mechanics shop, and a diner that looks like its been frozen in time for at least fifty years. Through the windows, the employees and the elderly customers seem to be frozen, too. Besides the plaza, there is no other trace of civilization, hospitality, in the great valley. The roads don’t count, they only count as civilization inasmuch as rivers and fish do.
Sari walks through the doors and is greeted with a half-hearted hello. A teenager, on the cusp of freedom, old enough to drive, old enough to work, and not enough work ethic to work anywhere but there. His life over is before it had begun. Sari makes eye contact, gives him a meek smile. His eyes light up with dreams for a moment, but reality drowns him near instantaneously. He will not dare. And she did not notice.
She walks through the aisles, methodical yet cartoonish as there’s no reason for her to scan each and every shelf up and down. She knows she will buy water, maybe a chocolate bar, and that’s it. Maybe she’s doing it to look for something for the strange woman in her car. But in the end, she buys two of each and pays in cash. Gives more than enough for her items and the fuel.
Ma’am, the attendant says, I don’t have change.
Yeah, I know, she says. These people and these places never do.
She didn’t mean for there to be double-meaning, those words are literal. When the only customers are passerbys, most don’t carry cash. The practice tends to be safer for for the traveler, and thereby the store. But electronic payments are logged, and can be tracked and the data can be viewed by those with the money or with the knowhow. And for Awnie, that could be fatal. Sure, they will not be bothered now, but once Sari leaves, Awnie is on her own.
She follows up, I don’t need the change, I mean. You can keep it.
Then, she goes outside to fuel. She is glad the place hasn’t changed, she hates hearing advertisements at the pump. Unnecessary noise and flashing lights. Brief moments to herself.
I need you to tell me about the dance you were doing last night. I can’t stop thinking about it, Awnie says. I’ve never seen something so visceral and so raw.
I’m a blood dancer, you’ve never heard?
No, never.
I can’t tell you too much. But you weren’t supposed to see me. It’s supposed to be for the sick, the broken, and for loved ones. I mean, maybe there’s a reason you saw me, and I don’t know why. Something inside of you could have been broken. Do you feel any different between yesterday and now?
Not that I can tell.
Sometimes, if you’re healed by the dance, you won’t realize it right away. But you mumbled something about sand. Did you want to go to a beach, or is there an island that means something to you?
What? No. Sand is the nickname of someone important to me. Alexander. He - I. I don’t want to talk about him.
Please don’t. There’s a look from Awnie, as if to ask ‘why not’, so Sari explains. Yesterday, when you watched, a connection was formed. We’re linked now, so to speak. It’s such a faint link. If it was stronger, you’d feel more of what I’m feeling. But when you mentioned him, I felt that pain. And I don’t want to know.
Really?
Yes. But now, it’s my turn to ask you a question.
Yes?
Why are you being hunted?
Hours pass and they arrive at the secluded runway by the coast. The runway built by Sari’s grandfather, a farmer who spent hours in the sky, looking for new land, looking over his crops. She admired him, and whenever she thinks of him, he seems to be one of those men that only exist in myths, and she was his favorite.
There’s a 4-seater plane ready to takeoff, pilot inside already. A trusted but grumpy older gentleman. Her grandfather’s pilot and her father’s mentor.
I wish you the best, Awnie. He’s loyal to a fault.
Thank you. You know, the hunters won’t stop until they take me. At best, this will get them off my trail for a few weeks.
Never asked, but who’s paying out the reward?
Captain Kazarian. Terrible man.
I thought he was one of the good ones.
No. Far from.
Sari nods. She has encountered him many times before, but she doesn’t think he would recognize her. She was off to the side while her brother conversed with him. That throws her brother under suspicion and she feels compelled to ask. But she hasn’t seen him in a while, either. He said he would be going on an important business trip and that was months ago. Yet his associates haven’t reported him missing.
What has she gotten herself into?