Page 1 of Darkest Valley
ONE
Unspoken rule of the Fringes #4:
Don’t pick fights you can’t win.
CELINE
A shiver rolls down my spine as I wrap my calf around the pole and arch my back until the tips of my hair and wings graze the stage. Dozens of eyes on me. Leering. They rake across my exposed skin hungrily, like ghostly fingers.
My audience pays the bills. That earns them the right to look to their hearts’ content. But if they try to touch me, I’ll torch them... and I’ll have a great time doing it.
Humming along with the music, I throw my hips back and smile.
There’s a wild energy hovering around the Naked Fang tonight. The tips are better than usual, and—something hard pings off my forehead. I slide a foot down the pole before I catch myself, palms prickling from the unexpected friction. The sharp sting is followed by a dull, painful throb that syncs up with the beat of the drums and my pounding heart.
Adrenaline pumping, my eyes follow the object as it hits the stage, rolling around and wobbling before falling flat. A quarter. Someone threw a fucking quarter. And with the supernatural clientele in here, there’s zero chance it was an accident, the collective senses and reflexes are too advanced.
The urge to touch my skin to see if I’m bleeding is hard to ignore, but I focus on my dance instead. I won’t give the jackass who tried to humiliate me the satisfaction of seeing me hurt.
With my teeth gritted so tightly my jaw aches, I feel heat rolling off my wings in waves. It brings the temperature on the stage up several degrees, a warning for me to chill out or release some of my rage before I accidentally burn the club to the ground. I choose release.
Flipping back off the pole, I drop into a full split and scan the audience until I spot the dick who threw the coin. Legs spread wide, he’s grinning, the oscillating stage lights illuminating exactly how pleased he is with himself. He winks when he sees me staring, saluting me with . . . another coin. It’s clenched in his meaty fingers, and he lifts it higher in a toasting motion. He’s taunting me.
The temperature rises around me again.
I roll my bottom lip between my teeth and look him up and down deliberately. He trembles with excitement.Loser.It’s easy to memorize his blockish face as I crawl across the stage, dipping my pelvis in rhythmic rolls and collecting fallen cash as I go.
The quarter winks at me from its landing spot, tangerine-colored strobe lights reflecting off the shiny surface. I grab it, rolling it between my knuckles like a magician as the crowd roars with delight.
As the song ends, I glance back at the coin-throwing dick, blow a kiss, and flick his change back at him with a hint of my full strength. It shoots directly into his slack-jawed, gaping mouth, and I hear a tooth crack.Bullseye.
He falls back in his seat, visibly choking, hands wrapped around his throat. I watch with satisfaction as he struggles to breathe. When he gags, dislodging the quarter in the process, my lips curl into an obvious pout.
More cash hits the stage. They love it when I’m mean. I gather it up, heat rolling down my wings as I work to control what’s left of my anger.
“Better luck next time, babe,” Imani says, her husky tone tickling my ears and giving me goosebumps. I shiver, even though she’s not trying to ensnare me.
My best friend does everything she can to keep a lid on her magnetism, but there’s only so much she can do about the magic she was born with.
“Maybe he’ll want payback for the tooth,” I whisper, hearing the hopeful note in my own voice. I’m spoiling for a fight, and a meathead with a pocket full of coins is the perfect target for my frustration.
Imani laughs, the beautiful sound carrying into our audience. A man in the front row moans, squirming uncomfortably in his chair. I shake my head and pull Imani into a dirty dance, grinding against her in a patented move that never fails to make the audience go crazy.
Bills hit the stage in a frenzied flurry as I wrap my wings around the both of us, grazing her lower back in a teasing caress. An angry angel dancing with a sexy siren—that shit sells itself. They can’t get enough of us.
“Knock them dead,” I say as the song reaches our transition point, raising my voice to be heard over the music and cheers.
“If only I were that lucky.” Imani sighs, and I spin her away from me with a controlled move that appears more reckless than it is. We’ve practiced a thousand times, and I know exactly how much force to use.
Imani goes up on the toe of one chunky platform heel,spinning dozens of times, faster and faster, until she’s a whirl of tightly coiled curls and gleaming umber skin. Only when it seems the spin has escaped her control, and the crowd holds its collective breath does she catch the pole with her right hand and allow the momentum to carry her into a one-armed backbend.
Satisfied every eye is where it belongs—on my ride or die—I strut off the stage, my good mood returning as the stunned silence erupts into raucous cheers. Like every other night, Imani will end this set by dancing away with their valuable cash while discarding their worthless, drunken promises of eternal devotion. I’ll cheer her on for every sensual eight-count, then help her count every crumpled single.
Air conditioning hits my flushed skin as I walk into the dressing room, sighing with relief. Holding my wings out wide so the cool air can do its job, I take a deep breath, then narrow my eyes as I notice the room is suspiciously empty of other dancers.
“You know you’re not supposed to use magic against the paying customers.” Luca leans back inmychair, his hazel eyes sparking.
The wooden floor here and in the main room is scratched, scuffed, and dented, battered by a million beatings from a thousand different stilettos. The air is laced with the comforting scent of perfume and hairspray, capped with a faint whiff of burned product from the curling irons and straighteners leeching power from every available outlet. If I close my eyes, I catch notes of latex, assorted magic, and cash—that unmistakable trace of a dozen strangers’ sweaty palms.