Suddenly, the band stops playing. Ginny peels away from the bar, trying to steady herself as the crowd goes still, all faces turning toward the stage. The presenter's smile is two shades brighter, his walk a little bouncier as he brings his lips against the microphone, almost like a lover, "Ladies and gentlemen, put those hands together for the woman of the hour. Count your lucky stars, because here comes the one and only . . . Josephine Hurston!" Ginny sucks in her breath, craning her neck above the spell bound crowd. Mary's nowhere to be found. She'll be heartbroken if she misses this performance, but there's no point in trying to find her now, with the bodies surging closer to the stage, everybody aching for a look at the star. Josephine is this month's hot ticket to a good night out in Harlem. Catching her show is like a row of identical hearts in a ringing slot machine, but if Mary can't be bothered to hang around, then let her waste the night on some man instead. The band members shuffle into a new formation, and the presenter is introducing them as Billy Calloway and his Rippling Rhythm, but all eyes are turned toward the velvet curtain. A spotlight swings toward the stage, and she appears at last, sliding slowly to take her rightful place by the microphone. An elegant Black woman dressed in ghostly silver, from the heavy veil descending over her coiled curls to the sharp tips of her dancing shoes. She's careful at first, feeling through the notes with a soft rasp blurring the edges of her words, but then the torch song builds in power until it's pulsing through the room, her voice going down smooth as whiskey only to burn you from inside. "Trouble, trouble, I've had it all my days . . ." The audience pushes Ginny into dance. She can't feel her feet anymore. She might as well be floating above the ground, loose-limbed and smiling under the hot glare of the stage lights. Soon she's so full of the music, the rhythmic thrum purring through her entire body, that she feels her eyes glossing over with bright joyful tears. This is heaven, she thinks. She's finally high enough to feel it. But something's off, a dark note ringing in her ears no matter how hard she tries to lose herself in the torch song. Ginny catches a movement up front, three wiry figures pushing through the crowd. They disappear behind the backstage curtain with their hands on their waistbands. Twisting her head toward the exit, Ginny watches the crowd already parting in the back, harsh voices growing louder behind the steel door. The electric lights sputter once, then fade to black. The band tapers off into silence. Ginny's breath sticks to the back of her throat. "Police!" And just like that, the spell is broken. She's caught up by the crowd, elbows banging against her ribs, rough sequins rubbing her skin raw. As she's carried farther away from the stage, she realizes with a jolt that they're bringing her straight toward the exit, where the steel door is swinging open, half a dozen cops pushing past the bouncer with batons raised, the buttons on their coats gleaming like monstrous eyes. Ginny can barely breathe. There's no way she's falling into this trap. She's already been at the station twice this summer. Three strikes and she's out of the apartment, those were Dottie's terms, and without a place to stay for free, she'll have to go back to Kansas, all her big-city dreams scratched out like a sloppy first draft. So Ginny heaves a deeper breath and pushes against the crowd, joining a current rushing in the opposite direction. The liquor blurs her vision, and all she can see is a tiny electric light glowing through the backstage curtain. She shouts out Mary's name a couple times, but there's no silver in the crowd, so she keeps pushing forward until she's at the curtain, flinging herself at the red velvet with all she's got. The concrete walls echo the shouts in the club, the sound of bottles smashing at the bar. The backstage hall is empty except for a group of dark figures at the far end, three roughnecks with bandanas up to their eyes, a woman in a cloak who must've fainted into their arms. Ginny squints through the shadows, but she can't make out their faces, just the irritated hiss of their voices. "Cutting it pretty damn close, don't you th--" "--will kill you for messing up the plan--" The woman is limp between two of them, her arms drooping over their shoulders. It might be the liquor or the rattle of her heart, but something makes Ginny take a few steps closer. She's been around long enough to know what this looks like. The night won't end well for this woman. "You," she says, trying to bring her hoarse voice to a louder pitch, "what the hell are you doing?" The taller one, clearly the leader, snaps his head toward her. Ginny catches a glint of amber eyes beneath his wide-brimmed hat, jagged scars rucking up the side of his face. He motions to the others, and they lift the woman's body between them. As the cloak slips sideways, there's a flash of silver, and she sure recognizes those pointy shoes. It's Josephine Hurston. "You're drunk," says the taller man, his voice slippery, smooth, hypnotic. "You're seeing things. For your own good, I hope your memory fails you tomorrow, and this night fades away like a bad dream." The others are already rounding a corner. Ginny takes off in a sprint, her nerves buzzing through her body, her heartbeat loud in her head. She can't let them get away with this, can't let them take Josephine. But the floor slips beneath her feet, and the tall man catches her by the elbow. She's close enough to smell him, the acrid smoke and sharp cologne covering up a third, animal scent, sending a rash of goosebumps up Ginny's arms. Before she can do anything, he pulls a gun from his waist, metal flashing in the red light. Then he slams it into the side of her head, and the world goes dark. Excerpted from Glitter in the Dark by Olesya Lyuzna All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
