Angelique Rising Read online

  Angelique crossed the dance floor all eyes riveted upon her as she approached him, singing and smiling her most charming come-with-me smile. As she neared, the look on Wyatt's face changed from pleasant surprise to wonder to astonishment to being absolutely thunderstruck as she smoothly, with the tips of her fingers, directed him up out of his seat into the spotlight, and led him to the center of the floor with her. Wyatt's eyes flared momentarily in intrigue when she pressed the microphone into his hand, then blazed onyx-sharp as he realized this extraordinary creature expected him to sing --in front of his family. His employees. Everyone.

  And how did she know that song? No one knew that song!

  Wyatt stood there as his eyes locked on her hypnotically. The hundreds of people surrounding him gradually disappeared, it became only the two of them, in the spotlight, in the dreamlike music. Angelique circled him as she sang, she wanted his body turning so everyone in the audience could get a look at their boss, their oh so handsome about to sing boss, she was sure they'd get a kick out of it. Probably most of them had never heard him sing before, they would be pleased and that was her job --please the audience. Her voice climbed, her eyes gleamed with excitement, his turn was coming. She nodded to him as she gave him her most encouraging smile.

  To Wyatt's own incredulity, not taking his eyes off her, he raised the microphone to his mouth and the words came flowing out. His voice sounded strong, masculine, full, ageless. He knew he had a good voice --but this-- this was magic. He was singing with pure crystalline operatic quality --like her. Dimly he heard squeals of amazement and awe around him. He sang the aria right through to her, effortlessly, as she continued to circle him, but gradually she stopped backing away from him and instead circled closer.

  His song built to the climax. Inches from his face Angelique reached up and clasped her hand over his hand holding the microphone, he felt her breasts swell against his chest as she began singing with him, still turning as their voices united and they stared into each other's eyes probing, unwavering. The moment her hand had alighted against his, he knew she was the core of him. Their duet soared, ethereal, cataclysmic, and on the last word, a word they sang together in one long spiraling suspended note, they froze as one. Her blood flamed under his heavy almost tangible sexuality, her eyes glittered liquid but unfathomable into his. They ended their held note, cutting it off in simultaneous perfect synchrony and the music crashed into colossal silence. She tilted her head up to him and covered her microphone with her fingers.

  "Excellent, Wyatt," she whispered in his ear, her voice touching him softly, "better than at the university."

  And then she caught a whiff of his scent. Oh God, she thought, he smelled so good, so intoxicatingly good.

  He seized her by the nape of her neck, pressed his face to hers, and kissed her.

  Bedlam.

  The audience was in an uproar. Everyone was on their feet thundering applause, shouting, some people even crying. Angelique didn't resist, she surrendered to his kiss willingly, deliciously, but only for a few moments before she caught herself and pulled away in shock, flushing crimson. She stared at Wyatt's face as it became ice-cold, violent, murderous even. Wyatt was incalculably angry she realized. Oh crap. Crap oh crap oh crap. Briefly she wondered if there was any way she could patch it up. Not without a magic wand and fairy dust she answered herself.

  Who IS this woman, Wyatt Cochran wondered, who's exposed me so?

  She grabbed the microphone from his hand, lurched back out of the spotlight, turned and ran through the darkness to the stage. She prayed for the rain to start. It didn't. Somehow she had the whole rest of the performance to get through, all of it with him seated right there, ringside, at his table. She'd foolishly believed that one happy occasion could introduce herself to him.

  This, she knew, wasn't going to be that happy occasion.

  *****

  Lexa's number was next so Angelique once again hid behind the curtains peeking at Wyatt.

  Lexa was the Company's other female soloist, a yin to Angelique's yang. Lexa's voice was impressive but not with the bell-like tonal quality of Angelique's, but with a raspy throaty sound that neatly matched her short hyperpermed black hair and razor thin body with absurdly expensive breasts. Where Angelique was light, Lexa was shadow, they were total opposites and the best of friends.

  Lexa could work a spotlight like no one else and as she sang she too knew who was paying for the night's festivities as shown by how she lingered in front of Wyatt. And every time the light from her spotlight splashed over him and his table, Angelique got an eyeful.

  Wyatt was seated with his back to his table, facing the dance floor unobstructed. As Lexa flounced past him (with her somehow always present review of male dancers) Angelique briefly thought it was like a king on his throne blandly surveying his subjects as they paid tribute.

  Asshole.

  Her knight in shining armor was an asshole. (But why had he kissed her? And like that?)

  His face was impassive and often left Lexa to examine the curtain backdrop behind the orchestra as if he was searching for something. Angelique cowered back every time his gaze approached her.

  Songs and dances were performed by others and then it was Angelique's turn again and this time it was with the Lifts.

  The Lifts were an unparalleled invention of computerized special effects mechanics. A metal grid hidden in darkness hung high overhead not only the dance floor but the orchestra and audience as well. And from this grid would sweep down and move, strong thin metal rods each with just enough of a foothold at the bottom to hold the foot of one dancer. The Lifts could travel down, pick up a dancer, rise, spin, plunge, twirl. And more, the Lifts were programmed to move in a way that made them appear almost alive, sentient, thinking, having not entirely trustworthy minds of their own. It was all part of the act of course, but Angelique could play off them flawlessly.

  The Company's rule for the Lifts was that all performers had to be attached by their safety line whenever on a Lift to protect the performer from falling and to protect the audience underneath from being fallen upon. The dancers fully complied with this rule -- except Angelique. She never attached her safety line to the Lifts, she didn't need to. Angelique, earthbound though she was now, knew all about flying.

  She didn't even need to look at the Lifts, no matter how fast they were moving (and they were programmed fast for her numbers), she always knew precisely where they were and where they would be. A Lift could swing up behind her and she'd know instantly when and where to place her foot to be swept away, swept up. It wasn't real flying she knew, it was barely third best, but it was something and it was the reason why she stayed with the Company inevitably getting chewed out after every performance and rehearsal for her no-safety line thing but nevertheless always with exclamations of what a sensation she was (the kind of talk that, she knew, if you listened to long enough you could actually believe). No, bravery wasn't Angelique's secret, what she had was diligence. The Lifts were hard steel, a moment's distraction could result not only in a pretty good clobbering, but in brain surgery. She paid attention.

  But her flying, her spreading her legs wide and leaping mid-air from moving Lift to moving Lift, her whirling, plummeting, rising, corkscrewing, all in tune to the music she sang while dancers surged below her and lights flashed about her, always both terrified and enthralled the audience --but most of all it excited them.

  Angelique stepped through the curtains, across the stage and back out to the dance floor. She didn't dare look at Wyatt, she needed to concentrate on the Lifts, they would be coming at her swiftly. For this number they wouldn't elevate her more than ten feet into the air and not over the audience (yet) but still, they were programmed to look like they were playing with her, challenging her, almost a threat to her. And they sure would be if she didn't pay full attention to them as she waited their arrival. Her pounding music began, she sang out the lyrics, dancers pranced about her careful to stay on her periphery --their Lif
ts wouldn't move as fast or as high as hers and they would each tether themselves to it.

  Not Angelique. The Lifts came at her, she grabbed at one, soared upwards, sometimes using the foothold, other times just holding onto the metal rod with her hands. Sometimes a Lift would twirl her above the floor violently, almost like it was trying to shake her off and she would let go, attached only by one hand and the audience would shriek as she was whipped about, still flying, the layers of her skirts sailing and fluttering which was the visual affect they were designed for --that and to prevent people from looking up her dress. She was a master at this. But the Lifts were also programmed to eventually appear as if instead of attacking her they'd decided to join her in her song, a frenzied dance with her, loving her. She pretended to almost-miss, to almost-fall a few times, the audience went agog, they ate this stuff up --attractive singer maybe going splat on the dance floor, film at eleven. They rubbernecked, holding their breaths.

  Her song ended on a wildly pulsating beating note and, with the audience's applause almost deafening her, the Lift she was on slowly, almost reverently, lowered Angelique back down to the center of the floor --and she saw Wyatt's face clearly. Impassive would have been good. Impassive would have been damned peachy. What Wyatt was, was pissed.

  Again.

  Wyatt's eyes had become jet as they glared at her hard and his face smoldered, his seated body burning with anger.

  Well holey hootsville, Earthling, I so don't give a crap she fumed.

  His facial muscles twitched at their momentary eye contact like he was straining to suppress his anger. She couldn't help it, she glanced about his table wondering who those people were who made up his inner sanctum, his court.

  Christ, she's spectacular he bristled, she moves like a wraith, a smile like a shaft of early morning sunshine. But she'd almost near killed herself up there! His uncle had warned him this Cochran Performance Center group was a bit avant-garde when he'd approved their hire for his Gala (his uncle owned the Performance Center this bunch worked out of and he was doing him a favor) but this? Shit!

  And how did she know I can sing? And sing that song?

  As she took her brief bow he saw she was now studying the people at his table. First, Uncle Mal. Of course. Women always looked at Malcolm Cochran first, but did so at their own peril. Uncle Malcolm was the pinnacle on which senseless and frantic women smashed themselves to bits. He was solid, his battered face actually handsome in a swarthy nocturnal way, always so impeccably dressed in contrived precision that somehow accentuated his mock humility. But Malcolm Cochran could practically ooze power over a woman and Wyatt knew that power could be poisonous, even to him. The only female who was blithely impervious was Uncle Mal's own daughter, Tinka, who sat beside him. Tinka was an illegitimate surprise bundle that had shown up in Uncle Mal's life twenty years before and was, Wyatt saw, currently staring at the singer with her mouth open in near worship. Maureen, however, had a very different expression on her face. His ex-wife and not-by-blood-but-by-marriage ex-cousin (Uncle Malcolm's former stepdaughter) was simply starring flabbergasted at the girl, torn between indignation and undisguised delight at the singer's removal of him from their table and forcing him to sing publicly. As to his parents, they were seated directly behind him at the table, he couldn't see their expressions, but he could guess. His brother hadn't shown up.

  The girl and all the dancers surrounding her raced back to the stage.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen," a voice boomed out solemnly, "we are about to begin the finale. Performers will be directly over your heads. Because of this, if anyone stands up during the finale IT WILL BE HALTED IMMEDIATELY. Please remain seated at all times during this performance. And please, no flash photography that could distract our performers while they are airborne. All servers are to leave the area now."

  It sounded like somebody issuing a death decree. The audience hushed nervously and shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Dancers flying above them? They looked at each other.

  This is gonna be good especially if one of them falls. On someone else.

  That was not what Wyatt T. Cochran was thinking. Wyatt T. Cochran was thinking of standing up --and calling a halt to the whole fucking business right now. But he didn't. And the big finale began, of which Angelique was the de facto star.

  The finale was one of Angelique's songs, I Am Free Now, a duet sung by her and Lexa and eventually all the rest of the Company's singers and dancers. The orchestra began the music softly as Angelique and Lexa stepped out together onto the dance floor daintily, sweetly, innocently. Lexa began to sing first, almost disconsolately.

  ...once I was chained...

  Angelique answered, her voice bittersweet, saddened.

  ...without any choice...

  They each began moving, Lexa in her tight black sequined dress glinting under the lights, Angelique in her flowing white, glowing. Their dance movements were sparse, controlled, but the expressions on their faces began to change.

  ...'till I cut the chains and flew...

  Lexa was singing, her voice rising, a plaintive entreaty, chagrined but climbing.

  ...exactly where I wanted tooo...

  Their faces were smirking now, eager. BAM. The orchestra exploded with a pounding disco beat, digital LED lights erupted into life flashing instantaneous appearing/disappearing light patterns everywhere and both Angelique and Lexa started dancing jubilantly as the audience was swept away in the sheer elation of it all.

  ...do what I want now, fly where I will...

  Angelique was singing, pirouetting around the perimeter of the dance floor making sure that her gown brushed Wyatt's feet as she whipped past him.

  ...ain't nothin' gonna stop me, not until...

  Lexa was singing, belting it out, relishing it, her voice pure ruthless dynamic energy.

  ...heavens crash down, stone turns to sea...

  Angelique moved forward, the audience could see the Lift coming out of the darkness above and behind her, targeting her, not knowing what it was going to do to her.

  ...'cause that's what it'll take now, to stop me!

  Angelique sang as at the last moment she shifted her body and the Lift flew by her. She slipped her foot into the foothold which owing to her gown the audience couldn't see and whoosh --it looked like the thing from above had simply swooped down and made off with her.

  As the music pounded and the lights flashed, Lexa covered the dance floor while Angelique sailed above the heads of the audience close enough for them to feel her breeze. The Lift twirled her, swung her, raised and lowered her above them like she was riding a wave, the music louder, the beat rougher, the lights a barrage of color and shock.

  And then the music abruptly quieted, the lights shut off and the entire showground darkened eerily. The music resumed, but subtly, faintly, like something was restraining it. Tiny strobe lights began flickering for a millisecond each, barely giving enough light for the audience to see figures flitting about --dancers were taking their places on the floor. High above, Angelique was whisked by the Lift up onto the rafter.

  A rafter encircled above the audience, a smooth wooden plank almost as narrow as a gymnast's balance beam, but circular, supported underneath by columns. Angelique was supposed to stay on her Lift and pretend that she was running along the rafter but she never did that. Instead she abandoned the Lift she was supposed to be tethered to and, heading in the opposite direction the Lift was programmed to go, she prepared to run, dance, leap and sing along the rafter, free and unconstrained. She knew darn well the guy operating her spotlight would keep it on her, not the Lift.

  The music increased, like it was hiding something, a building undercurrent that was promising immanent detonation.

  Wyatt looked in anguish at the flashing images of Angelique racing along the rafter toward the orchestra. He went to stand up, no way, no fucking way in the godamned universe was he going to allow that woman to run around up there and fall and break her fool neck. But his uncle's hand gr
abbed him, yanked him back down, and he continued to watch in uneasy apprehension, his fists clenched.

  The detonation came, the music blasted open like a reverberating tidal wave and the lights that fired on were for a split second blinding. Dancers covered the floor, the men dressed in tight costumes of black sequins, the women in pastel gowns of flowing layers. Lifts appeared scooping up half the dancers, swirling them above the audience while those that remained below with Lexa began what looked like a dance war with them.

  Elevated above them all, Angelique danced, she flew along the rafter, mirroring the dancers below on the Lifts, spinning, twirling, her costume streaming about her combined with her voice creating a turbulent storm of jaw-dropping radiance. She made two circuits before jumping back onto a Lift, a Lift that looked like it just went insane with her.

  Suddenly it appeared that her foothold had broken, both her legs were flying loose, her arms gripping the metal rod slipping, she was sliding down as the Lift twisted so extremely one of her hands was flung off. People below covered their mouths, some their eyes, a few women screamed, and one man knew he shouldn't have cancelled his appointment with the urologist. Angelique's voice became desperate, Lexa's voice below, agonized.

  ...once I was chained...

  Lexa and Angelique were singing together now, as if their sheer blasted volume could somehow attain them absolution. New lights seared on, lasers attacking each other; twinkling blue-white lights crawled sharply all about the rafter as its columns filled with colored lights melting into each other. A glittering silver fog began spewing out of the columns cascading down to the seating area's walkways and rolling heavily out onto the dance floor engulfing Lexa and the gyrating dancers.

  Wyatt T. Cochran was horror-struck, he, like everyone else in the audience, didn't know where to keep his eyes --on the twirling dancers on the Lifts right above him, on the dancers on the dance floor being swallowed by the ungodly fog, or on Angelique, highest above them all and about to be thrown to her death.