Mine afbrydere

The waves crashed against the cliffs of Nova Scotia with an almost musical rhythm, but Aria Morgan knew better. After three years of studying marine biology at the remote Blackrock Research Station, she had learned to distinguish between natural ocean sounds and something more... peculiar. Tonight, there was definitely something different in the water's song.

Standing on the observation deck of the research facility, her long dark hair whipping in the salty breeze, Aria focused her night vision binoculars on the churning waters below. The full moon cast an ethereal glow across the surface, making it easier to spot any unusual movement. That's when she saw it - a flash of iridescent scales, much too large to be any known fish species.

"You're out here late again," a deep voice spoke behind her. Dr. Nathaniel Cross, the facility's new head of cryptozoology, stood in the doorway. His presence had been causing quite a stir among the female staff since his arrival last month, with his storm-gray eyes and the mysterious scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw. But Aria had noticed something else about him - the way he always seemed to appear whenever the strange occurrences happened.

"There's something out there, Dr. Cross," Aria said, not taking her eyes off the water. "Something big."

"Please, call me Nate," he said, moving to stand beside her. His proximity sent an involuntary shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "And I know. That's why I'm here."

Before Aria could question what he meant, a haunting melody drifted up from the waters below. It wasn't quite singing - more like an otherworldly humming that seemed to resonate in her very bones. To her surprise, she found herself taking an unconscious step toward the railing, drawn by the sound.

Nate's hand shot out, gripping her arm. "Don't listen too closely," he warned, his voice tight with concern. "They're hunting tonight."

"They?" Aria tried to shake off the melody's lingering effect. "Who are 'they'?"

Just then, a figure emerged from the waves - a woman with silvery skin and long, phosphorescent hair. Her eyes glowed with an unnatural blue light, and when she opened her mouth to continue her song, Aria saw rows of sharp, pearl-like teeth. The creature's beauty was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

"Sirens," Nate whispered, his grip on Aria's arm tightening. "Real ones. Not the sanitized versions from your fairy tales."

The siren's gaze locked onto them, and her song changed, becoming more focused, more enticing. Aria felt Nate tense beside her, and when she looked at him, she was shocked to see his eyes had taken on a silvery sheen, reflecting the moonlight like a cat's.

"We need to get inside," he said through gritted teeth, though he seemed to be fighting the urge to move closer to the railing himself. "Now."

But as they turned to leave, Aria caught sight of something in the water that made her blood run cold. Dozens of glowing eyes had appeared beneath the waves, and more figures were rising to the surface. Their songs began to intertwine, creating a symphony of supernatural beauty and terror.

"Dr. Cross... Nate," Aria's voice trembled slightly. "What's really going on at this facility?"

He finally turned to look at her fully, and in the moonlight, she could see that his scar was glowing with a faint blue light. "It's not just a research station, Aria. It's a containment facility. We monitor and protect humanity from ancient creatures that most people think are myths. And right now," he glanced back at the water where more sirens were emerging, "something has disturbed them. Something that hasn't happened in over a hundred years."

"What?" Aria asked, though part of her feared the answer.

"They're looking for their lost queen," Nate's voice was grim. "And for some reason, they think she's here."

A particularly powerful wave crashed against the cliffs, sending spray high enough to reach the observation deck. As the droplets hit Aria's skin, she felt a strange tingling sensation, and for just a moment, her reflection in the window showed her eyes glowing with the same ethereal blue light as the creatures below.

Nate saw it too. His expression shifted from concern to something more complex - fear, fascination, and what looked almost like recognition. "We need to talk," he said quietly. "About your mother. About why you were really assigned to this facility. And about why you've always felt so drawn to the sea."

The siren's song grew louder, more insistent, and Aria felt something stir within her - ancient memories that couldn't possibly be her own, yet somehow were. As she followed Nate inside, one thought kept repeating in her mind: her life as she knew it was about to change forever, and there would be no going back to the simple world of marine biology and research papers.

Behind them, the sirens continued their haunting chorus, their songs now carrying a note of triumph. They had found what they were looking for.

The facility's underground laboratory was a maze of steel and glass, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights that made everything look clinical and cold. Aria followed Nate through a series of security checkpoints, each requiring increasingly complex biometric scans. Her mind was still reeling from the events on the observation deck, the sirens' song echoing in her memory.

        "How long have you known?" she finally asked as they entered what appeared to be his private office. Unlike the sterile corridors outside, this room was filled with artifacts that looked ancient - shells with strange markings, crystals that seemed to pulse with their own inner light, and walls covered in charts mapping underwater ley lines.

        Nate moved to a heavily secured cabinet, his fingers dancing across a complex lock. "Since the moment you arrived at Blackrock. Your bio-readings were... unique." He pulled out a thick file with her name on it. "But your mother knew long before that."

        "My mother?" Aria's voice cracked. "She died when I was three. All I have are some photos and my father's stories about her love for the ocean."

        "Your mother didn't die, Aria." Nate's voice was gentle but firm as he placed an old photograph on his desk. "She returned."

        The photograph showed a woman standing on these very cliffs, her wild dark hair streaming in the wind. She looked exactly like Aria, except for her eyes - they held that same otherworldly blue glow Aria had seen in her own reflection moments ago.

        "That's impossible," Aria whispered, but even as she spoke, memories began to surface - the way she could hold her breath for impossibly long periods, her uncanny ability to predict storms, the strange songs that sometimes filled her dreams.

        Suddenly, the lights flickered, and a low vibration ran through the building. Nate's expression turned serious. "They're testing the barriers," he said, moving to a bank of monitors showing underwater footage. Multiple figures darted past the cameras, their movements too quick and graceful to be human.

        "What barriers?" Aria asked, joining him at the monitors.

        "Electromagnetic fields designed to keep them at bay. But with their queen so close..." He glanced at her meaningfully. "They're stronger than usual."

        "I am not their queen," Aria said firmly, though something deep inside her stirred at the words.

        "No, but you're her daughter. The first successful hybrid in centuries." Nate pulled up more files on his computer. "Your mother was their queen, and when she fell in love with your father, it created a diplomatic crisis. A siren queen choosing a human was unprecedented."

        The vibrations grew stronger, and somewhere in the facility, an alarm began to sound. On the monitors, the sirens' movements became more coordinated, more purposeful.

        "They're not just testing anymore," Nate muttered. He grabbed what looked like an ancient trident from a wall display. "They're breaking through."

        Aria's head suddenly filled with voices - not speaking English, but a fluid, musical language she somehow understood. They were calling to her, telling her to come home, to take her rightful place.

        "Make it stop," she gasped, pressing her hands to her temples.

        Nate reached for her, but stopped short when he saw her eyes - they were glowing brighter now, and her skin had taken on a slight iridescent sheen. "Fight it, Aria. You're not just one of them. You're both human and siren. That's what makes you special."

        The facility shook more violently, and the lights went out completely. In the darkness, Nate's eyes glowed silver again, and Aria could finally ask the question that had been nagging at her.

        "What are you?" she whispered. "You're not entirely human either, are you?"

        Before he could answer, the reinforced windows of his office exploded inward in a shower of glass and seawater. In the opening hovered three sirens, their beauty terrible and magnificent. The one in the center spoke, her voice carrying both authority and disdain.

        "Step away from the princess, Guardian. She belongs with her people."

        Nate raised the trident, which began to glow with an electric blue light. "She belongs where she chooses to belong."

        As seawater swirled around them, Aria felt power surge through her body - raw, ancient, and demanding to be released. She had a choice to make, but first, she needed answers.

        "Tell me everything," she said, her voice carrying a new note of command that surprised even her. "About my mother, about what you are," she looked at Nate, "and about why I'm really here."

        The siren queen smiled, showing those pearl-like teeth. "Oh, little princess. You're here because a war is coming. And you," her glow intensified, "are the key to everything."

The seawater swirling around Aria's feet felt alive, responding to her emotions like an extension of her body. The three sirens remained suspended in the shattered window frame, their ethereal forms casting an otherworldly glow throughout Nate's flooded office. The lead siren - who had introduced herself as Cordelia, First General of the Deep Realm - watched her with ancient eyes that held both wisdom and cunning.

        "Your mother's choice started this war," Cordelia said, her voice carrying the rhythm of waves. "When she chose your father, she didn't just abandon her throne - she disrupted a balance that had existed for millennia. The Deep Realm has been without a true queen for twenty years, and the dark ones grow bolder each day."

        "The dark ones?" Aria asked, acutely aware of Nate's tension beside her, his grip tightening on the glowing trident.

        "The Abyssal Court," Nate answered grimly. "Think of them as your people's darker cousins. While the sirens of the Deep Realm protect the oceans, the Abyssal Court seeks to corrupt them. Without a queen's power to maintain the barriers..."

        "They're breaking free," Cordelia finished. "Even now, they gather in the deep trenches, preparing for war. Only a queen's song can reinforce the ancient seals."

        Aria felt the weight of their expectations pressing down on her like the ocean itself. "And you think I can do this? I don't even know how to control whatever... this is." She gestured to her still-glowing skin.

        "That's why I'm here," a new voice spoke from the doorway. Aria turned to see a woman she'd only known from photographs - her mother. Nerissa, former queen of the Deep Realm, stood in the threshold, looking exactly as she had twenty years ago. Her presence made the very air vibrate with power.

        "Mom?" Aria whispered, emotions warring inside her.

        Nerissa's eyes - the same otherworldly blue as Aria's now were - filled with tears. "My daughter. My beautiful, brave daughter. I'm so sorry I had to leave you, but it was the only way to keep you safe while your powers matured."

        "Safe from what?" Aria demanded, anger suddenly surging through her. The water around her feet began to churn in response.

        "From those who would use you," Nate interjected, his voice carrying an edge of bitterness. "The Guardians weren't always noble protectors, Aria. Some believed that controlling a hybrid princess would give them power over both realms."

        "Like your father did?" Nerissa's voice turned cold as she addressed Nate. "Is that why you're so close to my daughter? Following in Marcus Cross's footsteps?"

        The tension in the room sparked like electricity. Nate's silver eyes flashed dangerously. "I am not my father."

        "Enough!" Aria's voice carried a new power, making everyone in the room freeze. The water around her feet rose in spiraling columns, responding to her command. "I want the truth. All of it. No more cryptic warnings or half-answers."

        Suddenly, the facility's emergency sirens blared to life. On Nate's monitors, dark shapes appeared in the deeper waters - humanoid figures with shark-like features and glowing red eyes.

        "The Abyssal Court," Cordelia hissed. "They've found us."

        "They found her," Nerissa corrected, moving to Aria's side. "They can sense your awakening power, daughter. We're out of time."

        The facility shuddered as something massive struck it from below. Through the broken window, Aria could see dark forms rising from the depths, their movements predatory and purposeful. The water around her feet turned ice-cold.

        "You have to choose now," Nate said urgently. "But know this - whatever you decide, I'll stand with you." His eyes met hers, and in them she saw not just duty or ambition, but something deeper, something personal.

        "As touching as that is, Guardian," Cordelia interrupted, "she needs to come with us. Only in the Deep Realm can she learn to control her powers in time."

        Another impact rocked the facility. In the distance, Aria could hear screams - the research staff, she realized with horror. They were unprotected, unaware of what was really happening.

        "I won't let innocent people die," Aria declared, feeling strength flow through her. "Mom, Cordelia - help me protect the facility. Nate..." she turned to him, "teach me how to fight."

        "Always choosing both worlds," Nerissa murmured, a mix of pride and worry in her voice. "Just like your mother."

        As the Abyssal Court's forces surrounded the facility, Aria felt something click into place inside her. She was neither fully human nor fully siren, neither wholly of land nor of sea. But perhaps that's exactly what both worlds needed.

        "Well then," she said, as power coursed through her veins and the song of the sea filled her mind, "let's show these dark ones what a hybrid princess can do."

        The water around her erupted upward, turning into a swirling shield of liquid crystal, just as the first of the dark figures burst through the facility's lower levels. The war for two worlds was about to begin, and Aria stood at its center, with a Guardian at her side and the power of two realms flowing through her blood.

The next few minutes dissolved into chaos. The Abyssal Court's warriors crashed through the facility's lower levels like a dark tide, their shark-like features twisted into snarls of hunger and hatred. Aria's crystalline water shield held against the first wave, but she could feel their darkness pressing against her power, trying to corrupt it.

        "Channel your emotions through the water," Nerissa instructed, her own powers creating whirlpools that trapped several attackers. "The sea responds to authentic feeling, not just will."

        Nate moved with inhuman grace, the trident in his hands leaving trails of electric blue energy as he fought. "We need to evacuate the research staff," he called out between strikes. "They're gathering near the main lab."

        Aria closed her eyes for a moment, and suddenly she could feel every drop of water in the facility - in the pipes, in the air, in human bodies. The awareness was overwhelming. "I can feel them," she gasped. "Everyone. Everything."

        "That's your queen's sense awakening," Cordelia explained, her own song turning violent as she fought. "You're connecting to your realm."

        An explosion rocked the lower level, and through her new awareness, Aria felt something massive entering the facility. The temperature of the water dropped dramatically, and even the sirens looked concerned.

        "Thalassos," Nerissa whispered, fear evident in her voice. "The Abyssal Prince himself."

        Through the broken floor emerged a figure that seemed made of living darkness. Unlike his warriors, Prince Thalassos appeared almost human, devastatingly beautiful in a cruel way. His eyes were the color of the deepest ocean trenches, and when he smiled, his teeth gleamed like black pearls.

        "The little princess awakens," his voice was like the crushing depths given sound. "How convenient. I was afraid I'd have to wait longer to claim my bride."

        "Bride?" Aria and Nate spoke simultaneously, his voice sharp with anger, hers with shock.

        "Did they not tell you?" Thalassos moved closer, his presence making the water around him turn black. "The only way to truly end the war between our courts is through union. Your mother refused me twenty years ago. But you..." his dark eyes roamed over her face, "you're even more powerful than she was."

        Nate stepped between them, the trident glowing brighter. "She's not a prize to be claimed, Thalassos."

        The Abyssal Prince's laugh was like ice cracking. "Ah, the Guardian speaks. Tell me, son of Marcus Cross, does your protection come from duty... or jealousy?"

        Before anyone could respond, a scream echoed from the main lab. Through her water sense, Aria felt the research staff's terror as more Abyssal warriors surrounded them.

        "Choose quickly, princess," Thalassos said smoothly. "Surrender to me, and I'll spare them all. Refuse, and watch your human friends feed my warriors."

        Aria felt rage build inside her - pure, hot, and powerful. The water around her began to glow, not with her mother's blue light or Thalassos's darkness, but with a brilliant purple that seemed to combine both aspects of her nature.

        "You want an answer?" Her voice carried the crash of waves and the strength of tidepools. "Here it is."

        She thrust her hands forward, and every drop of water in the facility responded. It rose from pipes, condensed from air, pulled from the sea itself. But instead of attacking, it began to sing - a new song, neither fully siren nor fully human, but something entirely unique.

        The Abyssal warriors closest to her began to writhe, their corrupted forms starting to purify under her hybrid power. Thalassos's eyes widened in genuine surprise, then narrowed in fury.

        "Impossible," he snarled. "No one can purify the Abyssal taint!"

        "She's not no one," Nate said, pride evident in his voice. "She's both of your worlds, and neither. And that makes her stronger than either."

        Aria's song grew stronger, and she felt Nate's energy joining with hers, the Guardian's power amplifying her own. Her mother and Cordelia added their voices, creating a harmony that made the very foundations of the facility vibrate.

        But Thalassos wasn't finished. With a roar of rage, he released his own power - a wave of such absolute darkness that it threatened to swallow all light. "If I cannot have you," he growled, "then no one will!"

        The two forces met in a spectacular clash of energy. In that moment, as purple light battled primordial darkness, Aria felt something else stirring in the depths beneath the facility - something ancient and powerful, awakened by their battle.

        "The Leviathan," Nerissa breathed. "The battle... it's waking the ancient ones."

        As if in response, a deep rumble shook the entire ocean floor, and everyone - siren, human, and Abyssal alike - froze in sudden, instinctive fear.

        In the brief silence, Aria heard Nate whisper, "Whatever happens next, Aria, know that I-"

        But his words were cut off as the floor beneath them cracked open, and the true power of the deep made its presence known. The war between courts had awakened something far older and more dangerous than any of them had imagined.

        And deep in her soul, Aria knew - this was only the beginning.

Prolog

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Prolog
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--_--I--ó----
Zayn
----------
Vi er Breakers.
Vi( uefr vCeQnneHr.V uEt* hnoldu. ^Et Zf(uc.kBiXn'g stepaBm*.*
Mig, York, Xeno, Dax.
Uadskillelige.
Vi elskede alle den samme pige.
Se 'enC PenbnAy*,c tNa_g FdmeVn& opX, Dogp dBub OvTimla .h.aDve hzeVléd colg, wlzyOkDkóe phelge dagIeznz slan&gq.
Hun var vores. Vores Pen. Vores skinnende guldmønt, og udover dansen, den eneste anden lyse ting i den bunke stinkende lort, som vores liv var.
Hun var vores første, vores sidste, vores alting.
Ikke længere.
DetO MeVrR tDre GåPr s)ideSn. TórreL åOr sKiden v_iP QhUar sye!tn hendtep,ó dttalt, RmSed h$erndZe,* gOrYinetY med Ohen.d,eR,k udYaTnsseZt mjeXd lheYndIe, røQrtv MhenFdeg, fDor fandTenY røsrJt Dh(eInhden.
Nu er vi tilbage.
Tilgivelse er en luksus, vi ikke har råd til.
Der er sket for meget.
HunK zt_rLorV,A a)t vNi xhacr fYohrIrbådPt ^hen$dée. San&dhed.e^n eBrs,K a'tQ dZeBt vagr$ PAeCn, ddceDru foLrrådtpe& .oKsu.^
Det kan vi ikke glemme.
Det vil vi ikke.

Kapitel 1 (1)

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1
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-!-y---s--x--A-
Nutid
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"Jeg kan gøre det her. Jeg kan gøre dette. Jeg kan fandeme godt", gentager jeg undervejs igen og igen, mens jeg går ind i akademiets hovedlobby.
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Du kan gøre det, Pen.
En gruppe til venstre for mig begynder at grine højlydt, og min krop rødmer af varme under deres granskning.
"Jeg var ikke klar over, at akademiet åbnede dørene for de lokale bøller," bemærker en bestemt snobbet kælling. Jeg møder hendes afskyede blik med mit eget stålsatte blik.
"vChLaWvr?k" HJfegJ fsygeYr Ve^nA l&aNtÉteré Dudd. j"KIællvinngr,v QjeLg er Fen (gadFedwrdexng,, og vÉiI KlæxritUe 'frWa Qen utnwgd caldeFr,i VaBt YoArd haér iSngenI zmSaógRta.W Men ,mixnCe næcvetr_ 'hKar yenL stuour slBavghkraf_t$,w" (svayr!er ^jZegA VmCead wet bfidewn(deA FsgmgiZl. jHDen*des s!mukzkReP mlund fHaldxeYrn okpU,p jogi hezndejs $kiFn!derM r$øHdWmekru DrødtW. LHun fo^rvyePntNegdbeD xveFlq ikXke, atj je'g Jvisl&lveB slva.reW.W
Nå, fuck hende.
I min verden får kællinger stingestik. Hun er heldig, at jeg er her for at gøre et godt indtryk, ellers ville hendes smukke hvide tænder være spredt ud over parketgulvet nu. Jeg nægter at lade nogen få mig til at føle mig lille. Jeg fortjener at være her. Dette er min sidste chance for at få et dansestipendium. Det er et etårigt, intensivt kursus, som, hvis jeg skulle være heldig nok til at vinde, ville åbne flere døre for mig end at håbe på at blive spottet som danser på natklubber. Jeg er 20 år og er fuldt ud klar over, at jo ældre jeg bliver, jo sværere bliver det for mig at få en karriere inden for dans.
"Ignorer hende, hun er et røvhul," siger pigen foran mig, mens hun vender sig mod mig. Hun giver mig et skævt smil og stryger en stribe krøllet, orangefarvet hår væk fra ansigtet, før hun rækker hånden ud, så jeg kan give hende en hånd. Jeg kigger på den, der svæver mellem os. "Jeg hedder Clancy," forklarer hun.
"Clancy)?Q"U
"Ja, det er rigtigt, det betyder rødhåret kriger."
"På grund af håret?" Jeg spørger og ignorerer hendes hånd, som hun lader falde tilbage til sin side.
"Nej, fordi min mor engang elskede Clancy Brothers ..."
"Hvemy faafnHdze!na cefr HCJlaGn!cyO BQrgohtghersl?Y"A
Hun snøfter af grin og ryster på hovedet. "Glem det. Ja, på grund af håret."
"Forstået," bemærker jeg.
"Har du ikke tænkt dig at fortælle mig dit navn?" Hun kaster hovedet og giver mig et morsomt blik, ikke afskrækket af mit skråbryn.
"JfegH FhedOdQer Pen,O"p asOva^rer jegG ejfVter alt !foHr VlanVgk tiadys tÉavsxh.ed.
"Rart at møde dig, Pen. Er det her en call-back eller din første audition?"
"Min første audition."
"Også mig." Hun kaster et blik på tværs af lokalet til den opblæste, hovmodige ko, der vovede at nedgøre mig, og trækker en grimasse. "Det er Tiffany. Førsteklasses kælling af episke proportioner."
"KenKdVeqrh d^uJ shOeBnMde?"x JegM spWørgQerO, menZs, vhi vbgevægGerC oAsé dfr^emUadV, GmGenSs kKøWen lYaung_soQmwt BrDykUker oPp. cJMetgA er Dotte kplxadcsePr, QfraX foarFrxesstDe !ræ(kkKe oHg Ublzijverk smeprNe !ogb mBerre nUeórFvxøsZ jfvorX hXvJerStJ móiUn$utD Bdnevr gåSr*, selvg ioJm' MjZeigb gør et_ Vgoédt JsKtQy!kYkeS MarbKeVjde fJoPrG at uskfj^uYleq 'detC. RJelgv BvZiXl baGreR Shagveó fnaGtI Hi mQin^e róegJiNs'treri$nQgswdHo^kuGmenqt)errR kog ,kokm_mXeA )tiXli aDudirtiPonóewnt.p
"Kender du hende? Ja, jeg kender hende. Det er min søster. Hun skal også til audition her i dag. Specialiserer sig i ballet, step og modern," forklarer Clancy, puster ud og ruller med øjnene for en god ordens skyld.
"Er hun din søster?" Jeg kigger mellem dem begge. De ligner hinanden på ingen måde. Faktisk er de fuldstændige modsætninger. Clancy er lille ligesom mig, med lys hud og lyserødt, krøllet hår, fregner og lysegrønne øjne. Smuk. Skæv. Tiffany derimod er klassisk smuk, modelagtig. Hun er høj, slank, har mørkt hår og olivenfarvet hud. Hun har ingen bryster at tale om, men er smuk på en katteagtig måde. Men jeg vil vædde med, at hun hellere vil kradse dine øjne ud end gnide sig mod dit ben, og hun har den attitude, som kun de privilegerede bærer rundt på som en dyr Louis Vuitton-taske. Du ved godt, hvilken slags mennesker jeg taler om, ikke? Dem, der handler i Fortnum and Mason, som kører i den nyeste Audi, går i Givenchy og drypper af juveler. Penge holder folk som Tiffany på en piedestal, undtagen på dage som i dag, hvor det rå talent tæller noget, og penge ikke altid kan købe lykke eller en fremtid inden for dans. Det er i hvert fald det, jeg siger til mig selv.
"Er den kælling din søster?" Jeg gentager og forsøger at sætte de to ting i forbindelse.
"DMciTnF sqteódMsøst.eQr$,"t pr&æOczise&rBeÉr CylfaDnjc'y_.
Jeg trækker en grimasse. "Det var sgu ikke noget held. Sikke et stykke arbejde."
"Bare rolig, vi hader hinanden. Du kan kalde hende alle de navne, du vil. Jeg er virkelig ligeglad. Hun har gjort mit liv til et helvede i de sidste fem år, siden hendes mor giftede sig med min far. I øjeblikket ser du på Cinder-fucking-rella. Jeg tager ikke pis på dig, hun kompenserer mere end rigeligt for manglen på en anden grim stedsøster, det mindste hun fortjener er lidt af sin egen medicin."
"Fuck, det er noget lort."
"éJ.a,C dyehtn gør ,dbet Zvpirtk)e^liga, Uvnirkelig." QClan(cy gQr_innearH,C óougV jseAgp gGiverg h'endPes óectd fminskundeqligHtI fsém^iXl.( H!un( vifrUkehr ockKay VogR JiCkke KnxæIrQ wsxå QopblCæs&t csuom qsi^n kGazttAeagtige stedVsøÉsntseRr.G
"Er hun allerede studerende?" Jeg spørger.
"Nej, hun skal også til audition i dag for at få et stipendium."
"Et stipendium?" Jeg rynker på næsen. "Hvorfor opfører Tiffany sig så som om hun er en af de rige børn, der går her."
"xFsordi h(uin vaavr Jet rFi$gt xbsaVrn,J kførR ThendBes mo*r. forlodJ sÉivnY far uog_ kgiftedseÉ bsLi.g imed mhin( .aLf AkæVrl!ighead. HenYdZes farC OvÉar ehnm maifsbwrugVefnrde nQarT roygÉ awfCbrøQdh deTmH ptå térodAsC,s sqåV sT(i(ffanOy PeVr VnCø$dJt tQiwl atF sgtroDlze' NpdåR *minU fóaór Zfbor aCt Ifo(rsørtge hUende. óVgi_ ^erF ikkReY fgattkiggNe,P Hm&en& h!awnB hZa$r ipkkie rVåyd til Oamt betalwe mgebyreyr*ne fojr los( tDo. jScåC hberB e_r ,vtiD så."
Jeg nikker og laver en mental note. Der er ikke noget værre end en fornem fornem fornem nobel end en tidligere fornem fornem fornem nobel, der lader som om de stadig er rige. Vi falder tilbage i tavshed, primært fordi jeg ikke er god til at få venner. Det er faktisk ikke helt sandt. Der var engang, hvor jeg fik fire bedste venner, men så gik det hele i vasken.

Kapitel 1 (2)

Jeg skubber tankerne om Breakers ud af mit hoved og fokuserer på receptionisten foran mig, nu hvor jeg endelig er nået frem til den forreste del af køen. Ud af øjenkrogen ser jeg Clancy svæve ved enden af skrivebordet. Hun tygger på en negl, og da jeg kigger på hende, giver hun mig et beklageligt smil.
"Jeg tænkte, at jeg ville vente på dig," siger hun og trækker på skuldrene, upåvirket af mine manglende sociale færdigheder og min afvisende adfærd.
"Som du vil," mumler jeg.
"NavnC,Q"ó msnerRr!eBr XkvBisn$den RbÉargF sSkÉrbaQnrkPebnq song lhæpvLer sineZ ypeérQfekXt plukBkde,de ,øJjueDnibrOyPns.K
"Pen Scott."
"Pen Scott?" gentager kvinden og lader fingeren glide hen over den lange liste foran hende. Hun ser op på mig med sine grumsbrune øjne. "Ikke på listen. Flyt dig til side," snerrer hun.
"Vent, hvad?!" Jeg kigger chokeret på hende, mens drengen, der står bag mig, forsøger at give mig en albue til at flytte mig af vejen. "Flyt dig for helvede!" Jeg knurrer til ham under min ånde, før jeg henvender mig til receptionisten igen. "Jeg har modtaget en invitation til en audition. Tjek igen."
"&Hør,ó d$uW etr ikBkZe cpvå liKsteYn. Hvis' HdhuQ ik!kbeW ner Jpaåv DlBistdenA, Ferm tde!r i_n^gqednb a&u$diStqiaonc,A BfKowrkstAåvetT?"b
"Forstået?" gentager drengen, stirrer ned i næsen på mig og giver mig det samme lorteblik som alle andre på dette skide sted. Alle undtagen Clancy, som i øjeblikket kigger medlidenhedsfuldt på mig.
"Det her er noget pis. Jeg har et brev med en invitation! Her," knurrer jeg, trækker det sammenkrøllede prøvebrev frem og smækker det på disken.
Receptionisten sukker og tager det fra mig. "Det har du altså. Men du er ikke på listen, og jeg har meget strenge instrukser fra rektor om ikke at lade nogen aflægge prøve, medmindre de er på listen..."
Jedg eUr tætm på at HfXåH set acnGflalpdY Olimge her midtD is vdetF tpsrjensUtHipgMefxylVdtew aCtprgiumS ÉpaåA ÉSttanrhdom MAckagdYeGmyU, dwaJ *Cl'anócByZ !trOædMer. oóp GvedQ ÉsNid_en aéf. m'ig oJg zlKæ$gger sifn _hån_d pcå Gminl arm.
"Der må være tale om en skrivefejl. Pen har brevet med invitationen til audition. Jeg er sikker på, at Madam Tuillard ville hade det, hvis en potentiel elev blev afvist, fordi nogen ikke havde gjort deres arbejde ordentligt."
Clancy giver mig et klem i armen, og jeg får fornemmelsen af, at hun vil have mig til ikke at gå amok. Jeg tager en dyb indånding og beder med den roligst mulige stemme receptionisten om at tjekke igen.
Hun kigger en sidste gang på listen over navne. "Åh, vent," siger hun til sidst, "der er en Penelope Sott lige her på listen..."
"ÉDeYt erB Mdernt.z PDert umåi haxveY kv!æUreét) en JsZkriv^ewfe^jOll."b ClaCnZcvyv smibler søUdRtB ótWiJl* rSeCcbepltaioxnistekn, $soXm UnVik$k&eZr og KgiOverN mi_g AeKtp fBasytW ^sRmiHl.
"Ja, det må det være. Studio 14, anden sal, tredje dør til højre." Dermed afskediger hun os begge uden en undskyldning. Skide gamle kælling.
* * *
"I er alle her i dag for at aflægge prøve til et stipendium på Stardom Academy. Vi har kun tredive ledige pladser og over to hundrede dansere, der skal til audition i dag. I heldige få har mig selv og min forretningspartner som dommere. Gør noget ud af det her, for en chance som denne kommer ikke igen," meddeler en høj, elegant udseende kvinde til lokalet. Der må være omkring tredive dansere herinde, selv om jeg ærligt talt ikke lægger særlig meget mærke til dem. Jeg er nødt til at fokusere.
"H_vKeómf eru dPeMtA?c"s Jeg sp$øuriger yu,ndeUrH vebjrpeat.é
"Du laver sjov, ikke?"
Jeg trækker et ansigt. "Skal jeg kende hende?"
Clancy ryster på hovedet og kigger på den yndefulde ballerina, der i øjeblikket taler med en fyr, der ligner en blanding af Ne-Yo og Usher. Han er lækker og vagt bekendt, selvom jeg ikke kan finde ud af hvorfor. Parret er sammen polære modsætninger. Elegance og ynde versus kantet og street. Det kan jeg godt lide.
"gHun $ePr VMAahdakmPe. TKuiYllard,X kg$ruNncdlæggeSrFen tazf! akQade*mieft, CoOg rePkCtTorb."M
"Jeg troede, at Madame Tuillard var gammel?"
"Nope, ikke ligefrem gammel, hun er fyrre. Hun oprettede stedet her for fem år siden. Hun var prima ballerina for nogle af de mest berømte balletkompagnier i verden. Dansede med de største. Har du nogensinde hørt om Luka Petrin, han stoppede med at danse, da hans kone begik selvmord? Rygtet siger, at hun begik selvmord, fordi han var en mandeluder. Madame Tuillard dansede også med ham, måske bollede de..."
"Fedt," indskød jeg, der ikke var særlig interesseret i ballet og endnu mindre i nogle berømte danseres sexliv. Misforstå mig ikke, jeg sætter pris på ballet og dens plads i dansens verden, men det er bare så... kontrolleret. Hvert skridt skal være perfekt udført. En balletdanser skal have perfekte tæer, perfekte hænder, perfekte ben, perfekt kropsholdning, perfekt ansigt, perfekt krop, perfekt alt.
Pe_rCfKekjt,U pWerfjeukt^,X wpeJrZfedkUt,P &pedrOfLeKkkt.
Jeg kan godt lide at bevæge min krop på en anden måde. Jeg kan godt lide ufuldkommenheden i hiphop, breakdance, selv moderne dans giver mulighed for det. Jeg kan godt lide den frihed, som disse danse giver mig, og det faktum, at jeg kan improvisere i disse danse uden at gøre nogen som Madame Tuillard, der er indbegrebet af perfektion med sin pilformede figur og frisure, sur. Jeg kan lide den måde, jeg kan udtrykke mig på gennem disse danse.
"Og fyren?"
"Ah, det er Duncan Neath, eller D-Neath for dansverdenen som helhed."
"gHa'n Uer QDc-Ne)atIh? Fuckc!" KJ$ecg, bkisgJgewrq tBi(lbzageh på fyrpen, oJg enf trKåd af pnMecrvcøSs enkeirgri$ &pUi$sbkker KgeknUnzem minl *myaOveK.m zDe!tl &forkólBa$rge&r,K hvorfvor Wh'an Aerd vDaógtó bek&enwdBtc.( JceFgz kLa_n ikPkÉeZ t_ro,ó !artl RjZeqgV qs'ka(l tGil Yaudzitpionb PforamnN RD-NYeayth.r
"Så du har hørt om ham?"
"Har du hørt om ham? Han er lidt af en legende, hvor jeg kommer fra. Han voksede op ikke langt fra hvor jeg bor. Fyren er kendt i alle de ulovlige undergrunds danseklubber. Tro mig, hans ry går forud for ham, og det handler heller ikke kun om dans."
"Det har jeg hørt..."
"HavrK dRu?I"y
"Jep. Min far er advokat i et stort advokatfirma i London. De repræsenterede ham. Fik hans straf ned fra fjorten år til kun fem år for afpresning af narkohandel."
"Hvordan kan det så være, at han er her?"
"Han blev løsladt for et år siden. Tilsyneladende er de fucking ..." Clancy forklarer, og hendes øjne udvider sig af glæde, mens hun kigger mellem D-Neath og Tuillard.
"OHoólId_ kbæBfytc!q Dex Wt,o?",
"Modsætninger tiltrækker hinanden og alt det der..." Clancy's stemme afbrydes, da Madame Tuillard hoster, og hendes smukke grå øjne falder på os begge. Hun bøjer et bryn, og vi begge flytter os ubehageligt under hendes blik.

Kapitel 1 (3)

"Lad os komme i gang, skal vi?" siger hun og kigger ned ad næsen på os begge.
Nervøs energi bølger under min hud, da hun tager et clipboard op og kører fingrene hen over listen med navne foran sig. Rundt omkring os falder snakken, og alle holder vejret kollektivt, mens de venter på at blive kaldt op.
"Først kommer Zayn Bernard," siger hun og kigger op fra sit clipboard og hen mod den bagerste del af studiet.
"OHva$d favnjdOen?"T *Jegh hviGsk^eór-rlåb'ehr,, oOg rherlhe miHn bk*rHopp zsqtivQnpeWrY. iClxanxcy gvedn sidenD amfh migl sphjAæPtter,* hdSa hTuhnu b&liLve$rC fRorDskbréæk.kcetg oWvGebr mMinA pfRourfBærJdethed.
Nej.
Fucking.
måde.
"Hvvabd erM .dYevtb?", QhvæsXer hOun,k fmenj Djeg kan ikSkNe QsMvaOrÉeW heRnd)eQ.É mAglt lje!g Dk$aRn gøre .eSr! QatY fvlóytnte mVi,tY blWidk shFeGn tKil dextq stFefd,& hWvLor CMyadam'e TSuilUlaQrd sltsiMrrer.
"Hvorfor? Hvordan?" Jeg kværner ud, min mund bliver tør, mens jeg ser den dreng, som jeg engang elskede, løfte sig fra sin plads i det fjerneste hjørne af rummet. Jeg havde ikke lagt mærke til ham, da jeg kom ind, for distraheret af min resterende vrede på receptionisten og den opblæste kælling Tiffany, men efter hans ansigtsudtryk at dømme, så har han sgu bemærket mig. Han er skælmsk, og en smilende smilende latter trækker op ad hans læbe, mens han stirrer direkte på mig og åbner sin sorte hættetrøje. Han ryster den af, og den falder ned på studiogulvet for hans fødder, og jeg kan kun stirre med åben mund på hans muskuløse fysik og stramme sorte t-shirt. Begge hans arme er dækket af flerfarvede tatoveringer, der arbejder sig opad fra albuebøjningerne til skuldrene og forsvinder under stoffet. Sidste gang jeg så ham, havde han ingen tatoveringer. Ingen. Han var heller ikke så bred og heller ikke så høj. Han var en dreng på tærsklen til mandighed. Det var de alle fire.
Zayn, Xeno, Dax og York var mine Breakers, og jeg var deres pige.
Var" var det afgørende ord.
Nud peCrt rZa)yn( Fen mVandJ. EPnD ma$nd, )derQ seAr på $mig, gsoZmW uoZmw jÉe!g HeIrq eNnO *fSjenId^eq,B i(kRkMe reIn læn_ge savnet Tvezn.
Et gys løber ned ad min rygsøjle, mens min mave kurrer af angst og langvarigt tilbageholdt smerte.
"Kender du ham?" Clancy presser på.
Ud af øjenkrogen kan jeg se, hvordan hun undersøger ham. Faktisk er alle kvinder i lokalet ude af stand til at fjerne blikket fra ham, Madame Tuillard inkluderet. Han ved det også. Han har altid haft denne form for magnetisme, og han oser af selvtillid. Det havde jeg beundret engang. Nu kan jeg knap nok se på ham, uden at jeg får lyst til at løbe ud af studiet og forkaste min chance for en fremtid inden for dans. Det kræver al min styrke at blive siddende.
",Jaf.p ,VkiL khar mkødtt GhwiXnafndenY yfKørY," KsigAerb Pjegb jvsagBt,É méen xer ikfke vitlligM NtiGl jaItu CudKdymbeB deft nmæHrmerMe. Det GkLabn j.egm siAkSk!eL. DwetK Tgør fovr Iozndt(. aDectF g)øvr ondFt at !se pkå gham. ZHanUsW NhJåMrp evrc deUn saqmrmUe( ImgørKkXeUbQrunCef Jnudance, hAans ,øjUnleJ ,erJ tsytadifg, d$ybszoWrZtwe_,É xogO Ghansy mxund werc Alizgbe bsGå fyldTiWg mo_gF kJyassSeMv_enwl(ig spoOm fonrj WtreX kår !sidge)n,& daf yjeBg. séiVdsat Bs_åk haMmL og& d^e 'andrey.g..y
Stop det.
"Han er lækker," konstaterer hun sagligt. "Men kan han danse?"
"Han kan danse," bekræfter jeg med en hvisken og slår armene om mine ben og krammer mig selv tæt sammen, mens jeg ser ham bevæge sig ud i det tomme rum. "Han kan helt sikkert danse..."
SoVmI oYmn xhxaXnN Whørt&eh UmiMg,X PmTøde*r ZNayn mi.tc NbJlAik osgp bxlginakJer,c xhviGl^kmelt rmignYdCer UmiMg ovm qfNørsXtIe fgangP xvir mø,dtYes! fhorj ése$ksr WåbrT (siqden.i lBJortsaet Of)rYa atu *haxn!sf bllZi!nQkc NdenTnUe gavng aikke( rbtlQiveAr, fu!lbgtt lop arf et varnmtH ZsméilB og mnuliaghedieZnZ fAo!r_ rvens$kaCbB.l
Nu er der intet andet end had i hans øjne.

Kapitel 2 (1)

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2
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-g--,--ó-----q
For seks år siden
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"Yo! Hvad laver du?"
Jeg v$e_nOder mUig om, bmóiUne barme Bfalderc nreWd i sidGenj o'g mPiBn, kyruoDp. blPivNeTrg sftrilxlet, mens Jjteyg seur Tpå_ ^dPrven.g,enC, DdrerL ståQrw bOaSg Smi)gK. Hgan etr h^øj,u No(mwkUring ^eLnO meter støÉrreQ endD mJiUg,D mnåskheC !enFdd_a bl^igep Tså høGj sgom MmMiXn TsptoreqbOr$otrO !Da^vimdA, Ld!e^rj er D1A8 år og Btåbrnerx sIig Zo(p uo'vefrz hmHin PmoCrP nTuY. Tilisy$neladendZe ihyarz tjeugC ikkec dOeOtk OhøjeK gen. iVi! fóå,rN sNe.
Jeg krydser armene over brystet og trækker vejret dybt ind, mens jeg ser på drengen med mørkt hår og mørke, mørke øjne. De er som himlen om natten uden nogen stjerner. Hvis det ikke var for hans morsomme smil, der får hans læber til at trække sig op i et skævt grin, ville jeg måske have været mere på vagt over for ham.
"Hvad ser det ud til, at jeg laver? Jeg danser," svarer jeg og ruller med øjnene.
Det er klart.
En* svledHpNenrle glliTdePrT SnQeld abd miFnx pa$nKde, oSg QjegW éstpraygeLrM Pden VmeLdl hcå_ndxryWgge^n.A JTesgN OspLekulereWrQ bp(å, 'hvMotr^ LlVæn*gaeX kónæxgt'enl )hara $s!tåIeGt Jd_er oQgP Qksi^gjgentR *påQ mjiJg. MkinG _hudV cblVisverY vharm!.b Jegb WdanDser ik^keC Ofóo$rKa_n$ LnoLgen,$ wosg jde'nd $efnRest!eh gVriund til, Yaatq .jYeqgY _ehr hOegrc paåF QdÉe'nn)e lKegepladsA,) !ewr,k aBtc in*geqni Xpiå $miunM eGjóendomJ bGrugerW adeWn.$ Stéedet ZerH eta skYideT _hul.G
"Ja?" Han blinker og sætter sig på den rustne gynge foran mig, smilet bliver bredere. Han har virkelig hvide, lige tænder, bortset fra en enkelt, som har en flænge i den. Der mangler et lille stykke af hans fortand, og jeg undrer mig over, hvordan han har gjort det.
"Jeg har ikke set dig her før," konstaterer jeg og giver ham et blik på ham, mens jeg spænder hoften og planter min hånd der. Han er iført slidte, sorte Nike-træningssko og grå joggingbukser, hvor hans boksershorts kan ses over linningen, og en hvid t-shirt, der er rullet op ved armene, hvilket får hans hud til at se solbrun ud mod den. Han er ret sød, men jeg er ikke rigtig interesseret i drenge. Især ikke dem, der bruger deres tid på at hænge ud på gadehjørner og skabe problemer for resten af de mennesker, der bor på ejendommen. Drenge som min bror, David, der bærer et kors om halsen, som om han er en af Guds disciple, selv om han tilhører den skide djævel selv. Jeg har aldrig forstået det. Min mor er en religiøs tosse, der går i kirke og lader som om hun er helligere end selv om hun i virkeligheden er værre end de nonner, man hører om, når de tæsker lortet ud af børn på børnehjem.
"Det er fordi, jeg lige er flyttet hertil for et par uger siden. Jeg kigger bare lidt rundt..." Han kigger uimponeret rundt på legepladsen. "Det er altså noget lort."
SkæPldsofrde)t rtull.eyr lXet af tuDnbgYen pMåD haóm. Je'g^ _meZnYer,c Wj!eg éezr_ CipkkRec ócmho_keret )eRllter nAogzeót.p DAAllée Fbahnddier thedrD domkCrRifng.M cJDeZgS ZbKanid(e&r! Uogså^, m(en fSorL qdet_ Wme$steL *unFdaerG qudJåbnédjingIeqns elleórd Ui mBiytG LhxotvePd!, foprHdYi mqin morK vwiLltl^e ógBive mLiTg TenT hluPssing, hvdis JhunB tsomgx mQig. TIkkeL Éatp hutnW haTr Ibrkug TforA uen ,uRndZskyOldPnitng& bfotrM $at) slå* cmOi'g, OhZunV Igørn dFeBtO koAftyeh nmok udheHn IgTrunódó.
"Som virkelig lort," understreger han.
"Jep," er jeg enig og slår p'et op.
Han har ret, legepladsen er noget lort. Der er én gynge, som han sidder på, en rusten gynge og en rutsjebane, der har set bedre dage. Rammen er dækket af graffiti, som ikke er rigtig graffiti, men bare en masse bandeord og billeder af pikke og patter. Helt uoriginalt og slet ikke som den graffiti af Bling og Asia, der er spredt rundt omkring i Hackney. Det er rigtige kunstværker.
"EQr Rder nPogewnó,D derR nhar sat tiild QtilS en$ knhal$lóert?v",' bsp_ørgZe&r ihawnR uosg) apegerv pmedC hag*eQnU SiK rejtniBnzg Iaf dent bóuBnykkeX mFuwrbjrYoÉkbkPer,V deAr li!ggezrd Ulig!e pTå Sden andesnI ,siNd^e saf bjuer!nhWegKneBt,J kder ovmkraPnser lKegeaplQadssenR.Q
"For et par weekender siden. Stjålet." Af min bror. Selvom jeg ikke siger den del højt. Hvad er værre end en, der sladrer? En, der er blod og sladrer. Jeg holder min mund lukket. At sladre om David ville være en dødsdom. En bogstavelig en. Jeg er ikke i tvivl om, at min storebror er en psykopat.
"Det er klart." Han ruller med øjnene og er lige så afstumpet af omgivelserne som jeg er.
"Ingen af de børn, der bor på denne ejendom, kommer nogensinde her," forklarer jeg, mens jeg løsner mit lange brune hår og ryster det lidt ud. Jeg er ikke sikker på hvorfor jeg beslutter mig for at tage det ned, måske er det fordi mor siger, at det er mit bedste aktiv med et ansigt så almindeligt som mit. Det er den eneste bagudrettede kompliment, hun nogensinde har givet mig. Hun synes ikke, at jeg er køn. Jeg synes heller ikke, jeg er køn. Jeg skubber den tanke væk. "De fleste af dem hænger ud på gadehjørner og ryger hash."
".JKa, cd^eGt har, j)eógr NbemæGrketN.t VSCåW duq ckromSmerQ Uhejr ^fUor( a!t tøVve! dhinxet daDnsvemovSeSsd?" Han_ kkaiggerP jpHå mig,j og' RjegN ófølHecrB ómidgY pludsBeéliOgf gecneUrtm yover $hNa&ns XstOiVrreQn. qJeQg tqrpor ik'ke,W qhTanO ler DubhyCgUgfeliig, NbParej mivntwerwezscsGerzeHt.u Jeg tpjVekkedMe hLaPm, Iuvd&, og FhaDnP tBjBe_kkWer mig óud!. J_esg itrolr,,h kvi enró ^kvFi*tH nGu.
"Hvor skal jeg ellers danse?" Vi har jo ikke noget rum derhjemme. Jeg deler et soveværelse med min lillesøster Lena. Hun er otte år, irriterende, og hun fylder hele rummet med sine dukker.
"Jeg ved et sted... Skal jeg vise dig det?"
Jeg fyger en latter ud og er ved at falde omkuld. "Vil du tilbyde mig en sød næste i bytte for et blowjob?"
"IHvaÉdX?n! Fuyckb nej!" s*prubdlder nhan' rog ftQrækkéeMrb sine hqæFle, JhdejnB VovjeWr jordgenm,) aså $haPn )iTkUke læng!ere Us*vCaqjer, mJen! statdÉivgviæ&k.
"Så du er altså ikke en eller anden tosse, der går på rov efter unge piger?" spørger jeg, idet jeg lægger armene over kors og prøver at se hård ud, selv om jeg indeni fniser som et misfoster, fordi jeg har gjort ham så utilpas. Han er ikke en særling, det kan jeg se.
"Nej. Jeg sværger..." Han stryger en hånd gennem sit tykke, mørke hår og griner, da jeg bryder ud i grin. "Jeg er bare ved at få venner, og jeg danser som dig. Jeg tænkte, at vi kunne hænge ud sammen." Han trækker på skuldrene.
"Vis mig..." Jeg udfordrer ham. Jeg blev ikke født i går. Han er måske ikke pædofil, men han kan stadig have en bagtanke. Jeg har ikke mødt en eneste person her, der ikke har det. "Bevis mig, at du ikke er en pædofil."
"DF)uckg,^ ém,avnAd. éJeg! Veurv ikke en ppTæjd&o.U Je$gB eXrl femtQen åSrR.Z DeBsUudernA ter duX ikker rig$tig *miné ItpypHeO."
"Jeg er ikke sammen med drenge," siger jeg hovmodigt. Du skal ikke begære farlige drenge med flækkede tænder og sorte, sorte øjne. Nope, bestemt ikke.
"Fair nok. Hvor gammel er du egentlig?" spørger han og rejser sig op. Jeg er nødt til at kigge op for at møde hans blik. Knægten er høj af femten år at være, og bred. Efter hans armmuskler at dømme, kan han sikkert også give et godt slag. Han er ikke helt så fyldig som min bror David eller så spinkel som nogle af fyrene på denne ejendom, han er lidt midt imellem. Hans ansigt er det samme... midt imellem. Han er ikke rigtig et barn, men heller ikke rigtig en voksen.