The Dancer and the Masks by Bea Paige

Chapter 1

CHRISTY

Two years later

“We don’t hide behind the masks. We are The Masks, and we’re coming for you...”

Sitting bolt upright in bed, I swipe at the bead of sweat rolling over my cheek that’s stained a deep pink by a large port-wine birthmark. My heart thunders violently, my pulse racing as my mind tries to make sense of the vision. I rarely dream. I don’t even have nightmares. I see things, things that haven’t happened yet. Things that will come true. It’s both a gift and a curse.

Gritting my jaw against the feeling of dread that’s trying its best to incapacitate me, I force my fingers to relax and let go of the duvet. Over the years I’ve learnt how to control my fear, embrace it even. So that’s what I do now. I embrace it. Fear only ever has power if you let it. I refuse. I’m stronger than that. I’ve had to be.

“Just breathe, Christy. You can’t change what’s to come, but you can prepare yourself for it,” I say, repeating the mantra that I’ve often told myself over the years. Goosebumps rise on my arms as I force myself to look into the dark corners of my room and calmly assess whether I’m alone or not.

I am.

Tonight isn’t the night they’ll come for me, but it will be soon. I’m as certain of that as I am of my next breath.

These faceless men, The Masks, have visited my dreams on and off for almost two years. I haven’t had any visions of them for months and I’ve managed to lull myself into a false sense of security because of it, convincing myself that they weren’t real, that our fates aren’t intertwined.

I was wrong.

These men aren’t the kind of monsters that live in books and movies, nightmares even. These men are as real as I am. Without ever having met them, I already know that they’re twisted, perverted, and dangerous in ways I don’t wish to look too closely at right now.

Blowing out a breath to calm my racing heart, I lean over and reach for my bedside lamp, switching it on. My warmly decorated bedroom is illuminated with a soft white glow, chasing away the darkness and the visions, at least temporarily. For now at least I can function, even if the familiar, yet disturbing voices of the three masked men still linger.

“Who are you?” I whisper as I pull back my sweat-soaked duvet and climb out of bed, my bare feet sinking into the thick, plush carpet. “What do you want from me?”

I don’t get an answer. Instead, the ticking of my wall clock fills the silence. It’s barely five am. Knowing that sleep will be impossible now, I grab my phone, clothes, and makeup bag and head into my ensuite to shower and change. Stripping, I set the water temperature to cool and step under the spray. Tipping my head back, I allow the water to cascade over my skin, humming gratefully at the feeling. I can’t stand any kind of heat on my scarred back. Doctors have said that I’ve become sensitive to heat, a lingering psychological effect from the burns I endured as a child when my house caught fire and my mother was killed, swallowed up by the licking flames. I may have grown a thick skin on my back, but it’s sensitive to the touch. Aside from cool water that eases the phantom pain, the slightest pressure reminds me of everything I’ve lost.

When I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself, I can’t help but grit my teeth at the sensation of the soft cotton sliding over my scarred skin. Forcing myself to keep still, I grip the side of the vanity unit and focus on my breathing. With every inhale and exhale of breath I take my mind elsewhere briefly, unhinging myself from sensation, from reality, until the pain disperses. It’s a skill I’ve learnt over the years and enables me to function day-to-day.

Once I’m tethered back in the here and now, I dry myself off, pull on my knickers and get dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a grey sweater. I don’t own a bra, and have never worn one. The tightness of the straps is one step too far in my ability to ignore the pain successfully.

Brushing a comb through my long, wet hair, I study my reflection. The deep red birthmark covers the majority of my right cheek, my eyelid, and part of my forehead above my eyebrow. Lifting my hand I place it over my birthmark and stare at the unblemished side of my face. Objectively, I can see that side is pretty. In the past, I’ve felt the attention from others when they’ve looked at me from this side, only to reel back in horror when I’ve turned to face them fully. It’s why I now choose to cover it up with makeup, not for my own vanity but for everyone else’s peace of mind. When I slide my hand across my face to study my birthmark, a familiar feeling of being different washes over me.

I have two faces. The one I see when I wake up in the morning, and the one everyone else sees when I wear makeup. One is disfigured, the other… a lie.

The only people who’ve ever seen the real me are my aunt and uncle who I live with, my half-sister, Kate, and her partner, Roger. Whilst my sister and I share the same father, we couldn’t be any more different if we tried. I’m my mother’s daughter with flaming red hair and heterochromia. Another abnormality that marks me as different. I have two different coloured eyes. My left eye is a bright blue, my right eye a brown so dark it verges on black.

Kate, however, is raven-haired, unblemished, perfect.

I hadn’t even known I’d had a sister until the night I’d dreamt of her when I was twelve. Two weeks later we met at the reading of my father’s will, a man I never knew or had even met. Not in real life and not in my dreams, though by all accounts he had known who I was and had kept a close eye on me. I’ve often wondered why he never came to claim me when my mother had died in the fire when I was eight. It’s a question I’ve never been able to get an answer to. Not even Kate can tell me that.

As my fingertips glide over my birthmark, my palm pressing against the splotch of colour marking half of my face, I feel nothing but abstract acceptance. I’ve long since distanced myself from my reflection. It’s easier that way.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I say, repeating my mother’s words.

She used to say that to me all the time growing up. I’d come home from school heartbroken from the verbal abuse of cruel kids and she would tell me that one day someone would love me for all that I am. I never believed her as a child, and I don’t buy into that crap now.

Beauty isn’t everything, it fades with time, but there’s no denying that it’s a currency that has meaning in the world, and something that I’ve never been rich with. I’m deformed, marked, disfigured, repulsive. I’ve been called all of those words and more, and whilst they no longer have the power to hurt me, they have scarred me. Hating my reflection was something the child I had once been indulged in. I don’t hate what I see anymore, after all, it’s who I am, but it isn’t all of me, just the surface.

Like I said, I’ve grown a thick skin, both metaphorically and physically, and the very same skin on my back suddenly begins to prickle with knowing. I can’t describe it any other way. It’s another gift, not as powerful as my visions, but a part of me nonetheless. Call it intuition, gut instinct, whatever you like, but I know that any second now my phone is about to ring.

Half a beat later, it does.

Picking up my phone, I press the connect button to answer the video call. “Hey, how’s Iris?” I ask as a familiar face appears on the screen. It’s not my sister, but her partner Roger, or should I say Beast. He’s long since dropped his given name, just like my sister did many years ago.

“What the fuck, Christy? Are you doing that witchy shit again? The phone barely even rang,” he responds with a chuckle.

I roll my eyes, refusing to acknowledge that he’s right, and knowing that despite his teasing, he’s wary of my gift. The unexplainable scares most people, including this man who’s afraid of very little. “What’s up? Where’s Kate?”

“Nothing’s up, Grim just wanted a chat but Iris isn’t settling so she’s asked me to call whilst she deals with our little princess first.”

“But it’s six o’clock in the morning. Isn’t that when babies should be waking up?” I point out.

“You think?” he says, shaking his head. “Not Iris. We’ve been up with her all night. None of us have gotten a wink of sleep.”

I laugh. “She’s going to be so much trouble. You’d better get used to sleepless nights, Roger.”

“That’s Beast to you, witch,” he replies with a chuckle, swiping a tattooed hand over his face before grinning at me. “And don’t let Grim hear you call her Kate, either. You know she hates it.”

“She hates it when you call her Kate. Maybe she just doesn’t love you as much as you think she does, huh?”

“Now I know you’re a fraud. That woman loves me more than life itself.”

“Correction, she loves Iris more than life itself… She just tolerates you,” I retort, laughter in my voice.

“You and I both know that Grim doesn’t tolerate anyone,” he points out.

“Wait, you’re right,” I say, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “Didn’t she shoot you once?”

Beast grins, his white teeth straight and even. “Yeah, alright. I might have overstepped the mark a little on that occasion…”

“She never did tell me what you did,” I muse, narrowing my eyes at him.

His smile fades and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Then it ain’t my place to tell. I may just end up dead this time.”

“Fair enough. I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

“Anyway, how’re you doing?” he asks me, changing the subject with a wink and a dazzling smile.

Beast might be a huge tattooed man with violent tendencies and a darkness that should never be underestimated, but beneath all of that is a man who is fiercely protective and loving to those he extends his warmth to. He’s a good man. I don’t need to know what happened between my sister and him to know that. In fact, I was the one who’d convinced Kate to give him a chance after seeing him in one of my visions. When we first met, she hated him. Or at least that’s what she’d convinced herself. I knew better.

“I’m fine, but by the looks of it Iris is running rings around you.”

“You’ve no idea,” Grim says, joining the conversation as she peers over Beast’s shoulder. “Hey, Christy.”

“Hey, Kate. Everything okay?” She might look perpetually tired these days, but I see the happiness in her eyes. Motherhood was never in her plan, but she’s amazing at it.

“Everything’s great,” Grim replies, sitting on Beast’s lap. She winds her arm around his neck and he folds his thick, tattooed arms around her waist, pulling her closer against his broad chest.

“Yeah, so great that you threatened to cut off my balls if I didn’t call Christy even though it’s the arse crack of dawn and no one with any sense is awake at this time in the morning,” Beast says, yawning.

“I’m awake,” I point out.

Beast winks. “Exactly. No sense.”

“I just had the urge to call my little sister. What’s wrong with that?” Grim protests with a shrug of her shoulders, but I see the concern in her eyes. Grim has incredible intuition, which she refuses to acknowledge. I’m pretty sure her intuition has saved her countless times over the years, especially in her line of work. As one of the most respected gangsters in all of London, she’s had to trust her intuition, or gut instinct, as she prefers to call it.

“That’s called worry. Grim wants to mother everyone these days,” Beast explains.

She clicks her tongue, lifting off of Beast’s lap and grabbing the phone, moving away from him. “Why don’t you go and make yourself useful, Beast, and put on some coffee, I’m barely hanging on here,” she says over her shoulder.

“Fine, fine, I know when I’m not wanted. Catch you later, witch,” Beast says, appearing back on the screen. He gives me a small wave before planting a kiss on Grim’s cheek.

“Don’t mind him. He’s cranky lately. No sex for a week can do that to you,” Grim says with a wry grin as he leaves the room.

“He’s cranky because he hasn’t had sex in a week?” I laugh at that. “How about never having sex. You're talking to the oldest virgin on Earth right now.”

“Twenty-three is hardly old.”

“Maybe so, but it’s not as if I’m going to be getting any. Have you seen my face?”

Grim scowls. “Don’t do that. Don’t put yourself down. You’re perfectly you, Christy.”

I snort. “I wasn’t putting myself down, just stating a fact. It is what it is. I’ll just have to marry my vibrator.”

“Want to know what I think?” she asks, looking at me intently through the screen.

“Sure, why not? But if you’re about to say beauty is in the eye of the beholder to try and make me feel better, I might hang up.”

“I wasn't going to. We both know that beauty holds value in this fucked-up world we live in. There’s no getting away from that fact. But do you know what else has value? Strength. Courage. A sense of self-worth. The ability to dance as beautifully as you do. Not to mention the ability to see into the future. You’re the real deal, Christy. The whole package, even if you can’t see that right now.”

The sudden sound of Iris crying filters through the screen, followed by Beast shouting that he’s going to handle it. “Teething...” she explains with a sigh.

“That bad, huh?” I ask, glad of the change in subject. I start applying foundation to my skin as we talk. Slowly my birthmark disappears beneath the creamy liquid, and before me, the person that I truly am disappears. I become acceptable to look at even if it is a falsity.

“I’m telling you, gangsters haven’t got shit on a thirteen month-old baby. Most days I can barely function. She’s a menace.”

“That’s why you love her though, right?”

“I love her so much it scares me,” Grim responds with a smile in her voice and love in her eyes, but there’s fear too. She might be able to hide that from most people, but not me.

“That little girl will live a long, happy life. I can promise you that,” I say, knowing it to be true.

“Christy,” Grim warns. “You know how I feel about this.”

“I get it. You don’t want to know if I see any of you in my visions. It’s just…” Sighing, I blow out a breath. “It’s just, you’re always so worried about Iris and something terrible happening to her that you’re making yourself ill. You might be able to put up a front for those who don’t know you well enough. But I see you, Kate.”

“Doesn’t every mother do the same thing: worry? That’s what we do, right?”

“Yes, they do. But not every mother is a gangster with as many enemies as she has friends. I get it.”

“Still…” she hesitates, but despite her reservations I know she needs to hear me say the words.

“Iris will have her personal battles like the rest of us, but I’ve only ever seen good things for her.”

“Just because you haven’t seen bad things doesn’t mean that they won’t happen though,” she counters.

“I agree, and as much as you might wish it to be true for Iris, no one goes through life without pain and hardship. We both know that better than anyone.”

“I’m not sure I feel any better. I don’t want her to go through anything painful. Not ever.”

“She has you and Beast, Kate. She also has an extended family that loves her and will protect her just as fiercely. There was a reason why Pen and the Breakers came into your life. They’re not just friends, but I don’t need to tell you that because you know it already, right?”

“They’re family,” she adds thoughtfully. “I’m sorry you haven’t had a chance to meet them yet. I’ve been meaning to bring you down to London for some time now. It would be good for you to get out of Wales for a bit. You’d get on really well. Like you, Pen is a gifted dancer and her guys aren’t too bad either.”

“Sure, that’d be nice,” I reply, the tone of my voice noncommittal. My voice trails off as I’m reminded of my vision. It’s not that I don’t want to meet Pen and the Breakers, it’s just that I know they’re not in my immediate future. I see nothing but The Masks, and even though I don’t see much else, I do know that it is just them. We have an undefinable future together. Right now, I have no idea about my part in it, but I am in it.

“They’re good people. I want you to be friends. Besides, I don’t fancy another four hour journey with Iris screaming her head off and Beast driving like a maniac. I swear, I almost shoved him off the Prince of Wales Bridge when we visited you last, he pissed me off that much.”

I laugh. “You two are so in love it’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, he’ll do.” Her cheeks tinge pink and I catch a glimpse of the girl she must’ve been before she was thrown into a lifestyle that has made her toughen up. For a while, Grim is silent on the other end of the line. She watches me as I continue to apply makeup. I slick on some lip gloss and mascara, and wait.

“Christy, I’m calling because…” She frowns, chewing on her lip. “Have you…”

I know what she’s about to ask, but after her initial reaction to me telling her about my visions of The Masks, I’ve never brought the subject up again. The last time we spoke about them was just before Iris was born. She flipped out when I described the men, so I know she’s hiding something big from me. I believe she knows them and isn’t saying how or why to protect me. It doesn’t matter either way, she can’t change what’s going to happen any more than I can. So, I lie.

I lie to ease her worries, and to hide from my own.

“No, I haven’t. Everything’s good here. Sometimes I get things wrong.”

“Yeah and I’m the Queen of England,” she retorts with a snort. “You don’t need to protect me.”

“I know that, and I’m not.”

“Okay,” she says after a while, scrutinising my face. “But if you’re lying to me, Christy…” Her voice darkens and I hear the formidable woman that she is in those few words. Motherhood hasn’t softened her in the least, if anything it’s made her stronger, more fierce.

“Yeah, I know. I love you, Kate.”

“I love you too, Christy, but please call me Grim.”

“You’ll always be Kate to me, Grim,” I reply, a smile in my voice.

“And you’ll always be my little sister. I protect the ones I love, no matter what. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Good. I’ll call back soon, arrange some dates for you to come visit, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree.

With that she hangs up, and I’m left with a feeling of foreboding that scares me far more than my visions ever have.