West Berlin

1986

6:55 a.m.

When Lyn danced, she detached herself from reality. She closed her eyes, let her mind wander off to oblivion, music her only guide. She slid across the wooden floor, spinning and twirling on her toes. The fabrics of her black dress moved gracefully around her with every movement. Dark wings unfolded from her back and shimmered against the sunlight pouring in the windows. On her head rested a midnight painted crown.

She spread her legs and leapt across the floor, contorting herself into the likeness of a swan. The tune came to a sudden stop, and she paused. Her eyes opened, and a group of ballerinas came into view. They applauded her, some wearing genuine smiles, others masking their envy behind white makeup that fit like masks. Lyn relaxed and rushed off the dance floor.

Her countenance formed into misery as she shoved through the group of clamoring ballerinas, whispering insults or terms of endearment as she passed. A hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder. Lyn turned, it was the head coach, Valerie. Being a retired ballerina, Valerie sported a knack for scoping raw talent. Nothing went unnoticed through her cold, calculating blue eyes. But despite her icy demeanor and appearance, Valerie carried within — a heart of gold.

Valerie was a strict mentor who demanded excellence from her students and nothing less. She challenged them daily, drove them beyond the thresholds of normal human capacity; programmed them to exceed the standards. She and Lyn clashed often over trivial matters, particularly regarding the role of Black Swan for their upcoming play.

In her views, Lyn was stubborn, pompous, and petulant. But the fact remained: none of her ballerinas could match Lyn’s abilities and grit; none harbored the determination and conviction necessary to seize the mantle of Black Swan.

But she would not be the Black Swan of her own accord.

Lynn pulled off, bumped past a danseur as she stormed down the hallway. The fellow stumbled, tilted his head as Valeria shoved him away. The ladies’ room door bashed open as Lyn strode in, plopped down on a bench. Tears erupted from her eyes while she ripped off her dance shoes and tossed them aside. Bloodied socks and tapes encased her feet and she struggled to peel them off.

Valerie peeked into the locker room, heard soft mewls and entered. She sat next to Lyn, stroked her hair and propped a bloody foot on her thigh. Lyn inhaled, tried to stifle her cries, ruined mascara streaks of black and white on her cheeks. As Valerie unwrapped the layers of tape, she noticed broken nails and bruised toes. Lyn winced as she examined her feet, more tears escaping.

“My child…” Valerie prompted.

Water dripped perpetually from a lone valve, echoed along the shower chamber. Valerie grabbed a handkerchief, began wiping the blood. Before she could carry out another pass, she noticed the wounds heal, steam rising. Lyn retracted her feet, tucked her knees to her chest.

“...I knew there was something different about you.” Valerie lifted a brow. “It takes years to comprehend the dances; master the feel of the stage, immerse oneself with the melody; become a dancer that the audience loves. The other girls hate you, because they wish they could be you…”

Lyn glanced at her black and blue feet. “I told you… I can’t be your swan. I did this to divert myself. The truth is this pain — reminds me I’m alive.”

The German woman stretched back her short blonde hair, fished for a pendant hidden in her blouse. Lyn went bug eyed. Valerie held it before her, a Golden Star of David. She dropped it in Lyn’s palm. She reciprocated, revealing her own star.

“You’re a Jew?”

Valerie nodded. “No, my late husband was. He gave this to me. ” She sniffled, rubbed her eye. “It was before the Gestapo arrested him one dreadful night. I never saw him again. You have that presence in your eyes. Over the years, you learn to hide it. But I know it, you’ve lost someone precious. So now, you show up to my studio to do ballet, hoping it will distract you; wishing that he’d never existed to spare you the grief.”

Lyn gawked at the ceiling, exhaled. “If you prefer me not coming anymore, then I understand…”

Valerie shook her head, placed a hand on Lyn’s thigh. “No, stay. You have the right to be here.” She stood, made her way to the exit. “You have talent, beauty, and intelligence. Those things, my dear — are priceless.

7:20 a.m.

Steam cloaked the mirrors in milky perspiration, water dripped from the shower heads. Lyn gathered her ponytail and, with a sharp twist, wrung out the remaining water. She wrapped herself in a towel, wiped the mirror, and gazed at her reflection. A cold-blooded beauty beamed back, one with a pale complexion and eyes like rain. The black pearls caught her attention, and she caressed them, felt them pulsating. With a finger, she traced in the mirror: DRAKE.

Immediate stillness enveloped the room, accompanied by a chilling breeze. She turned, clenched the cloth covering her bosom and busty frame.

“It’s been a while…” a voice announced, thin as silk.

She stifled an exclamation, tiptoed back until bumping a faucet. A figure in the shadows loomed over her. When it crossed the threshold between light and darkness, it manifested into a man clad in white.

“Sullivan?”

He bowed, brushed back his wavy golden hair, stopped a few paces from her. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

Lyn’s person trembled and her grasp cracked the porcelain sink. Her knees buckled, and she found difficulty in standing. “I thought — I thought you were — ”

Sullivan raised an eyebrow. “ — dead?” He stuffed his fists in his pockets, exhaled sharply. “My mother was a forgotten descendant of the Rothchilds. They made plans before the war and we fled to Palestine; received refuge there for a while. Lyn, I — ”

An open fist slammed his face, jarring him and leaving a bright red print. Her face turned dark with anger. She twisted away, wet body glistening, trickles of water sliding down to her breasts.

Sullivan grinned, rubbed his aching cheek. “So gorgeous when you’re annoyed.”

“What are you doing here!” Lyn snapped. “This is a ballet studio, none the less the women’s room. Bastard…”

She ambled off, disappeared around a corner. Sullivan stared sullenly, still registering the anguish of her remark. He chuckled, chose a seat behind the lockers. Lyn opened her locker, reached for a pair of tights and a t-shirt.

There was an occasion of silence. Then she peered through a narrow gap, saw Sullivan sitting cross-legged. She scoffed and continued drying herself.

Sullivan drew a breath, said: “Lyn, you have every right to be outraged with me. I shouldn’t have left you. But everything — everything happened so fast. If you would just open your heart to me… I’ll make everything right.”

“We were supposed to be married,” Lyn said, voice breaking. She tightened her constraint on the pearls, bit into her lips. “I said I would be a ballerina. You were going to be a watchmaker like your father. And then you took off — you disappeared without saying goodbye; you left us there to die! To be butchered like animals — !”

Her feet left the floor, and she fell. She noticed a flash of white and Sullivan cradled her in his arms, cinnamon-colored eyes fierce. He smelled of roses and lavender, that masked his sinister nature. Beneath it, he reeked of blood, death, and graveyard soil. His grasp was like iron as he immobilized her and released a mild growl.

His breaths became heavy and carnivorous teeth filled his jaws.

“You’re a Shaitan,” Lyn said, taken aback. “Child of Eve…”

Her words hit like a revelation. “But so are you…” He whiffed her hair, became bug-eyed. “You have Adam’s blood running in you, too. You shouldn’t be alive; no one’s ever survived a bite from both of them…”

Lyn planted her hands against him, pushed until Sullivan surrendered. She fell, towel unwrapping and leaving her indecent. Sullivan curbed a gasp, and she scrambled to cover herself. Their gazes clashed, but Lyn could only express disdain.

“Why did you come here, Sullivan?”

Sullivan clutched his collar, straightened his tailored Armani suit. “Melchior sent me to retrieve you. We need your help…”

“Help?”

She could sense the hostility in his tone. “He thinks you can revive Drake prematurely…” He handed her a folded envelope, closed it in her palms. “There’s a plane departing tonight at this address; the details are inside. We’ll be expecting you. And lastly: Come alone.”

Lyn looked down, grew conscious of the paper crumbling within her palms. She felt a rush of wind that chilled her soul, scanned upward to see Sullivan gone without a trace.