Her cheek grazed her knee as she waited backstage, doing simple stretches. A woman with large fake breasts tottered by shakily on towering heels, sending her a suspicious glare. Aazuria was stricken by the disproportionate size of the woman’s breasts with respect to the rest of her emaciated body; she remembered something her personal doctor had told her about new procedures which augmented certain physical attributes. It was fascinating, but not really of much significance to her, and she returned to pressing her forehead flush against her leg.
The carpet under her bare legs was rough and abrasive. She imagined that it was already leaving ugly scratches on her newly-tanned skin. As she straightened slowly from the stretch, she stared at the unfamiliar color of her knee. She missed being underwater. More women strolled by, sending her more distrustful and disdainful looks. Aazuria sighed to herself, and continued to pull her muscles taut. She focused on the comforting ache in her tendons as she tried to bury her homesickness and override the upsetting images from her recent past which flashed just behind her eyes.
A redheaded woman burst into the room, strutting buoyantly on her six-inch pumps as if they were springs. Her whole body was finely toned and her height was intimidating; at six feet tall she towered over the other women in the room who barely came up to her chin. Her pleasant laughter rang out loudly in the dressing room.
“For Sedna’s sake! Zuri, you really don’t need to stretch. Don’t bother giving this any effort! It’s supposed to be a low-class, inferior form of entertainment.” The redhead turned to the women who had been watching Aazuria with airs of superiority and glared at them. She flung her hand towards the exit as she barked an order, “Skedaddle, bitches.”
The women quickly complied. Aazuria smiled up gratefully at her protectress. “It is not worth doing unless it is done properly, Visola.”
“Then show me how it’s done, Princess,” Visola said with a wink. “Just be careful not to overexert yourself. Those lovely legs of yours aren’t used to these ghetto conditions.”
“Are you referring to the club or the land?” Aazuria asked as used a knuckle to knead her thigh.
“Both. I’ll be watching.”
“You have always been watching,” Aazuria said fondly. She heard the first few notes of her song begin, and she rose to her feet nervously. She took a deep breath, feeling the unfamiliar air fill her lungs—it felt extraordinarily empty. The muffled voice of the DJ filtered backstage:
“Now gentlemen, get ready to be blown away by our mysterious newcomer. She’s the girl you’ve always dreamed of, but never thought you’d actually meet in the flesh: Undina!”
Visola smiled. “Not a bad introduction. Why did you choose to use your mother’s name?”
“It was the first thing that came to mind when they asked.” Giving her friend a gentle shrug, Aazuria glanced at the exit with foreboding. “Well, here I go.”
“Break a le—”
“I would much rather not.” When she pushed past the beaded curtains, Aazuria immediately felt the vibrations of music seeping into her bones. Her fingers twitched with the desire to move before she had permitted them to do so, and she exercised discipline to quell them. To do this correctly means moving precisely when the music commands me to—I will not waste a single motion. Her eyes were downcast as she ascended the stairs, feeling a strange sense of simultaneous nervousness and excitement. She had always been confident in her dancing technique—she had studied various styles on various continents, and she had practiced for hundreds of years. She usually trained in water, and it was far more difficult to dance in water than it was on land. By all accounts, this should be a cinch.
The familiar vocals began, and Aazuria finally surrendered to the yearning of her limbs and plunged them into motion. A burst of energy began in her chest, and visibly traveled throughout her every cell. Indescribable sensations of loveliness washed over her, as they always did when she began dancing, reaching her lips to settle there in a subtle curve of pleasure. Once she had expertly commenced her art, she turned to gauge the reaction of her onlookers.
The audience was a sea of eyes. Adoring eyes of those seeking something from her dance which she would never be able to give them. They were seeking the things which they did not really need. They sought sex and excitement or momentary stimulation, but her every gesture and expression, her every step, was dancing in homage to something transcendent and everlasting.
Slowly, the audience was pulled out of the realm of their own expectations and into the realm of her creation. Yes, she could hold them spellbound with a little help from the haunting sound of her sister’s recorded voice. Aazuria was strong enough to guide them all—she had always been in a position of leadership, and this was no different. She created the atmosphere; she poured her personality and her principles into it, and she invited them inside for a moment to glimpse the décor of her soul. She felt like she was challenging their roughness with her grace, and ultimately, she was winning. She was overpowering them.
She spun, and spun, until she felt windborne. There was an impossible fire within her which seemed to radiate forth from her center. All of the elements coalesced in her emotions, and as always, she felt far greater than herself when she danced. Aazuria felt a memory of her father’s face return to her, but she flung her head to the side, casting it away from her thoughts before it could cause her harm or interrupt the flow of her kinetic thrill.
There might be other moments of her life when she was twisted into various uncomfortable shapes by exterior forces, but for now, at least, she was in complete control. The stage was hers, the audience was hers, and time was hers. She could bend it and make the moment last an instant or a lifetime, depending on her whim. She could manipulate all of their hearts like putty, just as long as she kept moving—and as long as the poignant music played, she had no intention of stopping. Each moment was a crescendo, overpowering the last.
She reveled in this complete control until he looked up from his drink. Aazuria paused for a millisecond, nearly missing a beat. She felt shame at what had almost been a misstep, but certain that no one had noticed. Turning her gaze away, she tried to focus on the perfection of her lines. But she could feel that the dramatic expression on her face had lost some of its conviction, having been replaced by curiosity. She hoped that the flaws in her dance were imperceptible.
Aazuria did not mean to make eye contact again, but she could feel the force of his scrutiny like a warm stream gushing toward her. Even from a distance, she could discern a hue of sadness in somehow familiar jade irises. In the midst of this strange new environment, and this even stranger establishment, something shone in that expression which she felt she knew. She was suddenly safe in the comfort of a warm lagoon as she beheld the unmistakable intelligence glinting at her from across the room.
She had to remind herself to keep moving—for her hand had paused without her consent for a fraction of a second. The eyes had seemed to notice even that tiny hesitation, for they flitted to her fingers vigilantly before returning to her face. What did it mean? Admiration? Loneliness? Loss? Her chest constricted as she tried to explain the connection—the man’s contemplation hit her like a tidal wave and nearly knocked her off balance. All she could do was hang on for dear life, as she pushed her body onto automatic mode. At the same time that she moved thoughtlessly, she was doubly conscious of her postures. She tried a little harder because she knew that there was at least one person in the room who could distinguish the quality of her execution.
The rest of her dance flew by in a blur that she could barely remember. Her heart was beating unusually quickly under the keen inspection. Every moment she could justifiably spare was spent glancing at the sharp gleam unnaturally present in those olive green eyes. The person they belonged to was the furthest away from her, concealed in an extremely dark-lit corner. Luckily, her vision, especially in the dark, was better than most. There were dozens of men, probably handsome young admirers, clustered around the
stage; she was not sure why her attention was held rapt by this distant, intense gaze.
As the world churned about her in a mess of sea foam, those green eyes were a solid island. How sweetly they shone, and how firmly they were grounded. She could not resist being drawn to them as a windswept ship eagerly seeks a harbor. She could not resist the immediate intimacy that was provoked in her chest, completely unbidden and unanticipated.
When she had finished her dance and retreated backstage, she stood naked against a wall, trying to calm her racing heart. She sucked in gulp after gulp of the air which no longer felt empty. Each breath was laced with electricity. A surge fizzled through her scalp and neck, and she reached up to touch her skin soothingly. Underneath her fingers, her skin still tingled with triumph. The audience had loved her; she had sensed it. She felt strangely affirmed by this—she was by no means a young woman anymore, despite her smooth skin and physical appearance.
But that man! She closed her eyes as she leaned her head back against the wall, remembering his gaze. Imagining that she might never again feel such an intent and private gaze, she tried to commit the feeling to memory.
“How was it?” came a soft voice from the shadows. It was Visola, of course. The red-haired warrior woman never strayed far from Aazuria’s side.
“Oh, Viso,” she said, her chest heaving with exhilarated breaths. “It was divine. There was a man…”
“There were many men, darling.”
“Yes, but this one… I saw the sea in his eyes.”
Visola released an incredulous grunt before scowling. “Princess Aazuria! I have never known you to spew such a load of romantic whaleshit.”
“I am not being romantic, General! You know that I have a knack for judging people.” Aazuria had straightened her posture in order to defend herself. “There was a unique quality—something that I have never seen before, and yet it was familiar...”
Visola reached out and grabbed Aazuria’s naked shoulders. She gave her a violent shake. “Listen to me. I know that home is a distasteful memory you want to escape right now, but you can’t deceive yourself with fantasies about this place. This is a cruel, disgusting world. The atmosphere isn’t the only thing you need to get acclimatized to—it’s the people. You must stay on guard.”
“I have lived among land-dwellers before,” Aazuria argued, reaching up to remove Visola’s hands from her shoulders. “I know how to interact with them.”
“Things have changed in the last hundred years that we’ve been cooped up in Adlivun. Culture, technology, weaponry…” Visola was speaking in a low voice, but when a dancer walked by with a heavily painted face, she relaxed and hit Aazuria in the arm. “You should go talk to this guy! And for Sedna’s sake, try to smile a little. You look like someone died.”
“Someone did die.”
Visola waved her hand casually. “That’s irrelevant. We’re here to collect copious amounts of this nation’s currency with minimal interaction. We make our money and get out.” Visola’s voice was stern, and she raised a finger to add emphasis to her next words. “You cannot get attached to these land dwellers, Princess. We have a mission to complete.”
“I have no intention of veering away from your directions,” Aazuria said with a nod. “You are the strategist. By the way—where is Sionna?”
“Around here somewhere,” Visola said with a shrug. “Off making tons of cash, no doubt. She keeps trying to convince me that we should purchase medical equipment instead of firearms. That’s my sister and her screwed-up priorities for ya! I tried to tell her that if we have a good offense we won’t need… hey, Zuri?” Visola paused, studying her friend. She noticed that her friend was idly fingering the back of her neck and glancing toward the beaded curtain. “I’ve never seen you so distracted. What did this man of yours look like?”
Aazuria stared at the redhead blankly. She tried to picture his face and frowned when her mind faltered. She could not remember a single attribute of the man—not the color of his skin, his hair, his clothing, or even his height and build. Nothing came to mind. But burned into her memory was his peculiar pair of emerald eyes, and the odd feeling which they had stirred in her breast.
“I do not know,” she said in confusion. “He was interesting.”
“Interesting!” Visola barked as she recoiled. “Darling, ‘interesting’ is tantamount to ‘deadly.’”
Aazuria smiled at her friend. “Just because you married a demon…”
Visola stiffened at the mention of her husband. “I know. Not all men are mass-murdering monsters—just the ones I like. Come to think of it, I don’t even know what type of fella you like. You’ve always been so disciplined. I haven’t seen you display interest in someone since 1910.”
Aazuria shook her head. “The Rusalka prince? That was diplomacy, not romance. I was being cordial for the sake of the alliance.”
“Good. If you can be polite to the Russian sea-dwellers for our country, maybe you can be friendly to American fisherman.” Visola grinned and reached under her skirt, revealing a giant knife. “I’ve got your back. Go out there and have fun! I can’t wait to see what this guy looks like—he must be a total hunk if he managed to get your attention.”
“Perhaps,” Aazuria said with a frown. It still bothered her that she did not remember what the green-eyed man looked like. She could recall the general area where he had been sitting, but it was possible that he had already left the club. If he had moved to another location, she might not even recognize him. “He could be hideous,” she mused.
“Well, go find out,” Visola encouraged, nudging Aazuria playfully. “Remember, the most important part of a man’s appearance is the girth of his…”
“Visola!”
“…wallet.”
Chapter 3: Wealth of Emotion