Washington Square Park was crowded with people waving flyers for the mayoral candidate, Hugh Arendale, in the late September air. Elise had never been to a political rally before, but she had an idea that this one would be particularly flashy. Just like Stephen Wayne. She wondered how much of this display he had personally funded.
Mr. Wayne moved through the crowd right behind Mr. Arendale with a bright smile on his face, though his security scowled every time someone got too close to them. The man was like a puppeteer, never straying too far from the strings he chased after.
His smile stretched even wider when he approached the Saints and stopped Mr. Arendale to greet them. “Sir, you are lucky to be graced with such wonderful people.”
Mr. Arendale lowered his cigar and his gaze passed over Elise slowly at first, then stopped short when he got to Sterling. “Thank you for being here.”
Sterling offered his hand for Mr. Arendale to shake. “Pleasure to be here, sir,” he said with a gentle smile.
Mr. Arendale clamped his mouth over his cigar then gripped Sterling’s hand hard with both of his own. “Pleasure to have you, son.” Happiness lit his eyes as he beamed before moving over to kiss Analia Saint’s cheek.
Elise shared a look with Sterling. “Well, if you ever see yourself in politics, you know who to call.”
“And be a part of this country’s corruption? Absolutely not,” Sterling muttered.
Had her life not been firmly rooted to the ground she currently stood on, Elise would have agreed. It felt impossible to imagine this place without spite. Once they stood among the crowd, watching Mr. Arendale take the stage, Elise whispered back, “He wants to fix racism. Is it possible for a country built on the backs of others to ever consider those others as human? As more than tools to be used and discarded until we’re needed again? The chances of a country conceived out of bigotry reconciling with justice…”
Sterling shook his head. “Never.”
“I want a brighter future for everyone.” Mr. Arendale’s voice rang out. He stood on the dais in the middle of the square, eyes gleaming with ambition. “No one should live beneath the feet of others. As mayor, delivering equality to everyone will be my priority.” Mr. Arendale raised his fist in the air. Several shouts rang out from the crowd.
“No more gangsters!”
“Eliminate all reapers!”
Elise anticipated fear from these individuals, but their angry voices seared through her.
Her father pressed into her side then, his knuckles brushing the back of her wrist. “Listen closely, Elise.”
Elise looked out over the overly white crowd that appeared before the mayoral candidate. Some were Greenwich Village art types—people whose eyes never focused on one thing in sight. People who walked right from their projects to join the rally with paint still on their faces and flour still dashed on their clothing. Elise could imagine them passing around papers detailing their wishes for new legislation in the park during the evenings. Here, art and radicalism mixed, creating an environment of stifling want.
“Imagine ripping away the tiny shreds of hope all these people still manage to hold. You don’t want that to dissipate, do you, Elise?” her father asked.
The crowd roared as Mr. Arendale continued to speak, but it was merely a murmur in Elise’s ears. She could only focus on her father and the severity in his tone. “No, Father,” she said strongly.
“Then why was one of Harlem’s most prosperous businesses shut down after your visit? Another reaper attack left in your wake and all you’ve created is more paranoia,” Mr. Saint hissed.
Elise took a deep breath. Her heart pounded so hard, she felt it in her ears, her temples, her arms. She wanted to leave; have this conversation in private, without the increased pressure of the crowd around them. All she could do was sweat while her father picked out every anxiety in her until she was more fear than person. She glanced up as Mr. Arendale said something that made the crowd laugh. “You will be happy to know that Layla and I have made a plan that involves Mr. Wayne. He is bound to lead us in the right direction.”
“So you are going behind my back. Stephen is a very busy man, Elise. We are here to support him, not distract him,” her father said coolly.
“I thought you would be happy to know.” Elise swallowed.
Her father’s expression turned cold. His mouth twitched, as if to keep back an aggravated smile, and he locked his jaw while he stared down at Elise. “Happy?” A shadow passed over his eyes and Elise’s heart stopped. “If you are vying for my happiness rather than your success, Elise, then you have already failed. The success of performers relies on applause and pride. But you are no longer a performer. You are a Saint.” He leaned closer to her when Analia Saint glanced over, concerned. “Do you think I accept awards when I eliminate reapers? No. Do not fall victim to the false god that is pride. Do better.”
In a split second, that mask of honed anger was gone. Mr. Saint leaned back, his relaxed smile returned. Elise dug her teeth into her bottom lip and willed her trembling body to still.
The rally carried on while Elise felt like the world was slipping from beneath her feet. Mr. Arendale spoke so smoothly, without a single doubt attached to his words. Elise could not imagine having that level of confidence. To speak, knowing everyone listened, to act, knowing those who watched were judging not his appearance, but the content of his character. To exist as the sole owner of his freedom.
“The Negro community is just as influential as ours. And we must unite if we want to see proper change,” Mr. Arendale exclaimed.
Mr. Saint applauded with the crowd and his smile stretched even wider. Elise swallowed past a lump in her throat.
Elise could not brush away her fears; not when one of them stood right beside her. She thought of Layla in the garden the other week, her eyes filled with concern. Even if she had not shown it, Elise had felt it. And yet Elise had not been able to answer Layla’s question, about what Elise feared with her father. He won’t what? the reaper had asked.
He won’t trust me, he won’t see my worth, he won’t love me. And then what good am I? What purpose do I serve?
The back of her eyes burned. Elise pressed her hands into her face, breathing hard. She was a fool. For how could she make him happy—how could she make anyone happy, or proud, when she could not even satisfy herself?
A gentle hand rubbed her shoulder, then Sterling’s voice was in her ear. “Just a few more minutes. It’s painfully boring here, I know.”
Elise wanted to cry. She wasn’t bored, she was exhausted. No one around her had seen that but Layla. A reaper had seen right into her.
She lowered her hands and stared ahead, right into the setting sun.
For so long, Elise assumed reapers bereft. They were stretched beyond their life expectancies, forced to contend with parts of their life that they would never get back, and denied the privilege of even experiencing a natural death. Reapers lived without the breath of life, eternal sinners trapped in agony.
They lived for no one but themselves.
Elise would never know what that was like.
Something burrowed in the back of Layla’s mind. It bothered her so much, she eventually had to tear out the hair tie that held up her bun, letting her long curls bounce freely across her back so her head stopped throbbing. Not much relief came from the change, but she pushed a curl back from her face and continued perusing through Valeriya’s various books, looking for anything at all about reapers turning back into humans.
Layla dropped the five-hundred-page book on medical evolution. It hit the desk so hard, the wood creaked and dust billowed up around the room. The only thing these books were good for was collecting dust and potentially being a deadly weapon. Layla lifted her brow, considering.
“What are you looking for?” Mei’s voice turned Layla around.
Mei leaned against the door, hip popped out and arms crossed. Her black hair was plated beautifully and the red qipao she wore was so striking on her, Layla’s breath nearly caught in her throat at the sight. She swallowed. “Nothing.”
“Really? That is the only thing you could come up with?” Mei walked into the room and shut the door behind her, the ruined lock dangling against the wood. “I see you broke the lock. Valeriya told me to tell you to stay out of her study while she’s away. The entire clan is whispering about you.”
Layla rolled her eyes. “Of course. ‘Reapers stick together’?” she scoffed. “We should rethink that.”
Mei sighed and went silent for a long moment. Her lips pursed, brows going flat as she watched Layla. “Are you finished?”
“Why are you suddenly wanting to interact with me again? Has my case gone stale enough that it’s now appealing, rather than disturbing?” Annoyed, Layla couldn’t help the bitterness that soured her tone. “I’m busy, Mei. Go bother someone else.”
“So, you are looking for something.” Mei placed her hand over the massive book sitting on the desk between them. “Whatever it is, it can wait. And it should wait. The entire clan is on your ass about working for a Saint. Word got out about the Cotton Club incident and how you are at the center of it.”
Layla gaped. “I am not—”
“The papers have reported on the incident. The papers are what people believe. You are in danger,” Mei said through gritted teeth.
Layla huffed out a breath. “First of all, I am not working for a Saint. I am working with a Saint. I would never stoop so low, and I am highly offended that you think I would—”
Mei sighed. “Layla—”
“Second of all, I don’t exactly have a choice here,” Layla snapped.
Mei’s biting expression fell into confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“I was offered immunity to solve the crime with the Saint heir.” She gestured to the books surrounding them. “Believe it or not, research is heavily involved in solving crime. Anyone could have asked me what was going on, but no. For such bloodthirsty menaces to the world, these reapers are pretty cowardly.”
Mei snorted. “It’s not cowardice. It’s leverage. It’s easier to stay away from a bomb that will inevitably explode. But we will remain in the ashes to sift for the valuables left behind. No one cares about what you’re doing, Layla; that’s my whole point. They care about the precedent you’re setting.”
As logical as Mei’s words were, Layla couldn’t bring herself to latch on to them with any sincerity. “I don’t care, Mei. And as far as I’m concerned, we are not friends. So whatever ‘word of advice’ you have for me, you can keep to yourself,” Layla said coldly.
She expected pushback from Mei. But the determination that seemed to always be aflame in her eyes was damp around the edges, duller than usual. Mei sank away from the desk and walked to the door. Her hand rested on the handle while she turned to look back at Layla. “You’re relying on a Saint’s word. You of all people should know their word is as good as shit. Remember the ones who have been there for you since you became damned. It was not the Saints. And it never will be.” Mei left, slamming the door behind her.
Her words echoed in Layla’s mind until the dust, stirred from the slammed door, filled her throat as she inhaled. After a violent fit of coughing, Layla gave up. She reached for one of the stationery sets on the desk, intending to write her mentor a note, but paused when she saw the name scrawled across every envelope in the set: Sena.
Layla’s heart stopped. These were the letters her mentor wrote endlessly. She was tempted to look, craving a glimpse into Valeriya’s life. But Layla snatched her hand back, remembering whose study she stood in and the grace she had been offered. She would not spoil that trust to satisfy her own curiosities. With one last glance at the stack of letters, Layla left the room, her mind spinning and her throat burning.