“It doesn’t make any sense,” Layla said under her breath.
The lights of the morgue glared down on the two bodies before her, turning their ashen brown skin a sickly shade of dark green. Even though the blood in the bodies had gone putrid, and the stench burned her nose, the main thought in her mind was how her friends, who had been reapers just twenty-four hours ago, were now human.
Elise stood over her, arms crossed. “It never does,” she sighed.
Layla pulled Giana’s mouth open, checking once again for the enlarged canines that indicated reaperhood. Those same teeth that had been bared for her a day ago, glistening with fresh blood, were gone. A normal set of human canines sat in her mouth, as if the extra reaper teeth had never existed.
“Have there ever been instances of reapers turning human in death? Maybe there are ancient cases—”
“No,” Layla said. Her tone was stern, but without malice. She had entertained this question herself many times. But every reaper understood that their fate as a reaper was final. Until now. Nothing made sense anymore. Layla pulled her hand out of Giana’s mouth and got to her feet. “There have always been people and reapers looking into cures. We’ve never been lucky enough to find one,” she said.
Elise merely raised a brow. She had always been a master at hiding her true self; Layla hated it. Once, she had loved being the one person Elise allowed in to see the real her. Now she resented ever having been that open with her at all. She knew all of Layla, as much as Layla hated to admit it. Years ago, that had been a thing Layla treasured, but Elise had burned their abundance to ashes.
What Layla once loved could kill her as easily as blood passed through a vein. Swift, fluid, and without a conscious thought. It intrigued Layla as much as it infuriated her.
Elise still watched Layla, doubt twisting her features. Layla rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you have plenty of books in that fancy library of yours to consult if you want to. I won’t be participating in that research.”
“Because of your allergies?” Elise asked.
The question caught Layla off guard. She blinked several times, confused. “No?”
“Oh. Well, I just thought…you know, because when we would sit in the—” Elise stumbled over her words so badly, it actually pained Layla to watch.
“I know,” Layla whispered. Tempted to keep that glimpse of the real Elise shining through her tough exterior, Layla hesitated in interrupting her. But the little relieved sigh Elise let out when Layla stopped her made the corner of her mouth tick up. “I no longer have allergies since becoming a reaper. I have no afflictions, actually,” Layla said.
A tight smile spread across Elise’s face. “Well. No afflictions except for…you know.”
Cold resentment froze Layla’s amusement. “Shut up.” She zipped the body bags and pushed the drawers back into the wall. “So we’ve found ourselves back at square one with this stupid investigation. The newspapers failed to report on two dead Black girls, despite the crimes being at a popular club. It’s clear no one will believe a damn thing I have to say. So why don’t you announce to your father that it was not only reapers attacking the club, but also humans,” Layla said dryly.
Elise followed her out of the morgue and into the hallway. She remained quiet for so long, Layla started to get irritated. She turned, waving a hand in front of Elise’s blank expression. “Hello? Partner? Do you have any suggestions?”
Elise smacked Layla’s hand away and glared. “I do. You could be more cordial.”
“No,” Layla snapped back. “My friend has died. Again. My clan and I could be next. If not dead, then arrested under suspicion of attacking humans. I’m not kneeling to your petty demands when we have more pressing issues to figure out.”
Elise pursed her lips, sighing. “How is your memory?” she asked.
“You’re really going to mock me right now? I’m not losing my humanity as we speak—”
“But what if you were?” Elise countered.
Layla’s shone with anger. “Excuse you?”
“I’m not trying to mock you, Layla,” Elise said quickly. “I know you said you could not remember anything the night of the murders, but consider when reapers experience memory loss. It doesn’t happen unless they experience blood fury. Back in the club, Giana looked at you like she didn’t know you. Like her memory of you was gone.”
A heavy breath rattled through Layla. Her face had gone ashen as Elise spoke, jaw clenched so tightly, it ached. “Something came over her. And I think the same thing came over Theo the night of the murders,” she murmured. “It could not have been a blood fury. I know for a fact Giana had fed.”
“If not a blood fury, then what?” Elise asked. “And what about those other dancers? Why did the club have so many reapers hiding out, just waiting to attack?”
A sour taste filled Layla’s mouth and her throat went dry. Her mind flashed back to the attack. Then, things had been too hectic to question anything, but now, as Layla mulled over the memory of the other dancers tearing into Shirley, questions arose. They had gone right for Shirley, despite the gangsters hemorrhaging blood all around them and they had reeked of rancid blood—as if they themselves were rotting from the inside out. Layla’s heart sank. She looked up at Elise, whose brows were bunched in thought. “I don’t think those dancers were reapers. They were something else.”
“Maybe this is what Dr. Harding meant about a poison spreading,” Elise mumbled. She ran her hands through her hair, dividing dark curls between her fingers and twisting the ends until they sprung back into place.
Layla watched the Saint heiress pace back and forth between the fountain and her, where she sat on a bench in a private park. A park she had not visited in years since the Saints owned it. Layla glanced up at the iron gate surrounding the small garden and the plaque that held the park’s name, CHARLOTTE’S SANCTUARY.
Elise stopped short. “The clinic,” she said.
“What?” Layla asked, only half-interested. She could not stop looking at the carefully arranged flowers. Roses, lilies, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums—every blossom one could imagine. She wondered if any of these plants had outlasted her welcome in the Saint estate.
“The Harding lab and clinic. Are you paying attention?” Elise demanded.
Layla blinked up at her. “No.”
“Classic,” Elise huffed. She crossed her arms and sat beside Layla. “Dr. Harding is researching the long-term effects of reaperhood and whether prolonged proximity with reapers can cause infection.”
“I think we would have noticed that already,” Layla said flatly.
“We just have. Those dancers were infected. If not by reapers, then by something else. We need to figure out what. The lab must have answers. If not him, then Mr. Wayne,” Elise said.
At this, Layla’s full attention returned, and she frowned at Elise. “You want to consult the white man?” There was truth to Elise’s words; Layla could not doubt that. But a prickling sensation formed in her chest at the thought of the rest of the Saint family involving themselves in reaper business even more than they already did. “Reaperhood started with a white man and a laboratory, so if a poison is coming from anywhere, it must be them.”
Elise gaped. “They might know something worthwhile. Why do you think you’re so much better than them? Than this—”
“Why do you think you aren’t?” Layla demanded. “You’re so ready to kiss the ground your father and his empire slaves walk on. Have you ever considered that maybe they do not have all the right answers? You don’t even know this doctor, or Stephen Wayne. Why are you so willing to trust him? Just because your father—”
“Yes, because of my father. I trust who he trusts,” Elise said firmly. “Mr. Wayne has helped many businesses and contributed to Harlem’s economy. He helps people. It’s what he does,” Elise insisted.
But apprehension cracked her visage of certainty, and Layla sensed her doubt. She spoke slowly, “I don’t know what this man has told you, but you must know that we will always give them more than they could ever give us,” Layla said. “They’ll do whatever it takes to keep themselves on top and keep us beneath their feet. If you want to consult Stephen Wayne, fine, but we treat him like the suspect he is.”
“No,” Elise seethed. Her breathing quickened and then she was back on her feet, pacing again. “I cannot treat him as an enemy. I’ve already messed up at the club and I have not solved the murder. My father expects me to fix things. If I don’t, he won’t…he won’t…” Elise trailed off.
The distress in Elise’s voice caught Layla off guard. “He won’t what?” she asked as she leaned forward.
Elise’s throat bobbed. She turned back to Layla, shaking her head. “Nothing.”
The determination and desolation in Elise’s eyes were not bound to vanish any time soon. Layla knew it would be easier to go along with Elise rather than fight her. The more she got to know this new Elise, the more it felt like a long ice path stretching across a frozen river. Slow and steady steps would get her to where she needed to go, but stalling and succumbing to her hot temper would only send her crashing into an icy abyss.
Layla nodded. “Fine. We’ll consult Stephen Wayne. As allies.”
Relief seemed to soften Elise’s edges. Even her voice was gentler when she spoke. “He is endorsing the new mayoral candidate. I will be able to attend some rallies to learn more about him. As for you, it would be best to track down the Cotton Club dancers—”
“You mean the ones from the club we destroyed two days ago? That will be tough if not impossible,” Layla said.
“Oh, please. You’ve never shied away from a challenge before.” Elise cocked her head to the side and offered her a sharp smile. The look she gave Layla was made of pure virulence. How Elise got her eyes to look so picturesque, the essence of fatal attraction that only a siren could conjure up, Layla would never know. But she fell victim to it every time.
Layla’s skin buzzed. She had to tear her eyes away and watch the flowers again to concentrate. But the pounding of Elise’s blood, the glow in her eyes followed Layla’s thoughts. “Meet up again in a week?” she muttered.
“Of course.” In a flurry of gray skirts and luscious curls, Elise was gone. But her sweet scent of intrigue and betrayal lingered.
Elise gave herself to the beautifully demonic score she played on her grand piano that evening. Her fingers brushed the keys in shallow strokes over the bridge of the song, breathing life into the notes that projected hope. But as soon as the chorus came, her fingers struck down upon the keys as if she was striking death’s gong. Notes smashed together like stormy waves against the shore, crashing into a haunting crescendo. The song ended as softly as it began, but with notes filling only an echo of the hope the song’s first verse offered. It was as if a love letter had been written, detailing one’s affection in great detail, only to be sent to a grave.
When she finished, all that Elise could picture in her mind was that grave. Frozen over, too barren to grow new life.
She never understood why such a melancholic piece was so popular to play at weddings, or considered to be joyful at all. Anyone who sat down and really listened to the song would understand the push and pull of the notes, and the pitting sadness they evoked.
Elise closed the piano. Her eyes caught on Sterling’s reflection in the shine of the fallboard. “How was it?” she asked, turning away from the piano.
“Beautiful, as always,” Sterling said. He pulled his hands from his pockets and sat on the stool beside her. “I’m no musical genius, but that song sounds very complicated. I can never tell if it’s supposed to be sad, or happy.”
“You don’t have to be a musical genius to understand music. I think this song is about happiness, sadness, and everything in between. That’s the beauty of music. Even if you’re not trying to decipher it, it calls out to you. It demands perception,” Elise said wistfully. She was still caught up in the last few notes of the song. Most music haunted her for hours after playing, but she knew today was especially different because of the specific song she played. It was a piece she played whenever her nerves were too fragile to talk through. Whenever she couldn’t sit still, or relax, her fingers found the keys. They seemed to work through everything for her, even if it was just for a bit.
Sterling nudged his knee into hers. “How are you feeling today?”
He was warm against her thigh, but Elise didn’t welcome the comfort like she normally did. Today, she craved the company of music more than anything, or anyone else. “Okay.”
“Just okay?” Sterling asked.
“Just okay,” she confirmed. “I suppose that’s not too bad, considering the circumstances.”
Sterling let out a gentle laugh. He was undeniably charming when his guard was down. For once, his soft curls were not completely slicked back; some bent around his ears and one particularly loose piece of hair flopped over his forehead. As children, a day would never pass without Layla teasing Sterling about his hair being too long and him needing a haircut. Elise was the only one to smooth his hair out of his face without a scolding word. Now, he kept his hair slicked back while working for a more professional look, something she imagined him saying when he sent her a letter with a picture of his new hairstyle attached.
Elise brushed the hair off his forehead. He caught her hand when she was done and clasped it between his palms. “Please be careful, Elise. I mean it.” The sudden serious tone he took on surprised her.
She wanted to pull her hand back, stop this vulnerable moment from happening before they were in too deep, but it was too late. “Sterling…”
The anguish in his eyes cut the words right from her throat. “I always hoped for you to come back from France—for you to be unchanged, and for you to still be my best friend. I’m an awful friend for hoping you wouldn’t find anyone you loved more than me while you were away. I couldn’t stand the thought of you sharing your deepest secrets with anyone but me; I still can’t. I know it makes me selfish, but I’ve lost everyone. I won’t lose you too.”
For a moment, Elise was speechless. She could watch him, silently willing the tears cresting in his eyes to not fall because if he descended into despair, then she would follow quickly after him and Elise wasn’t sure she could handle that. “You won’t,” Elise whispered. She stood and drew him into her arms. Even standing while he sat, she was barely taller than him. His head fit against her chest, forehead resting right over her sternum.
Aside from Elise and her family, Sterling had no one. When he was just four years old, he had seen his father being lynched. In the Deep South, interracial relationships were inconceivable, much less tolerated. His mother was shunned for being a white woman who associated with a Black man, and when she gave birth to Sterling, who represented the very thing white people feared—whiteness tainted by otherness—their entire family became a target. The uncle had led the lynching of his own sister’s husband. She tried to escape the South and find peace up north, but the grief her heart carried for the loss of her husband proved to be too much for her. Sterling was an orphan by the time he was eight years old.
Elise still remembered the day her father brought Mrs. Walker and Sterling into their house for a job opportunity. The overbearing sadness in Mrs. Walker’s eyes bore into Elise and to this day, she still saw it in her darkest moments with Sterling. It had almost scared her off from playing with him then. But Layla had feared nothing. At just six years old, she threw their toys down and went right up to Sterling with her hand outstretched.
“I’m Layla. This is my best friend, Elise. Do you want to be our friend?” Layla demanded.
Sterling had raised his brows, curious. Elise couldn’t blame him; Layla was incredibly vociferous as a child and that could be intimidating. They might not have been friends if their parents hadn’t put them together as infants. Separation was never an option. They grew up closer than roots spiraling across a neighboring tree’s trunk.
Now, inhaling the familiar scent of Sterling, guilt crushed her heart.
“Some part of me is more jealous than scared of you working with Layla now,” he muttered.
Elise’s throat went dry. “There is nothing to be jealous of.” Her own words felt like a lie. She had grown to crave the heart-pounding thrill Layla caused in her.
She was a fool who didn’t even understand her own feelings. Elise desperately hoped that wouldn’t make fools of them all.