Lair of Dreams (The Diviners #2)

The house band—Charlie Johnson’s Paradise Orchestra—kept the jazz percolating for a throng of dancers packed in so tightly it was a miracle anybody could move at all. Tuxedo-clad waiters twirled and danced between tables, keeping their heavy trays hoisted high above their heads without spilling a drop. There was even one enterprising waiter on roller skates. The whole atmosphere was one of a glamorous, anything-goes circus.

“When this band gets tired, the other band’ll take over,” Memphis said over the noise. “You never have to stop dancing. They’ll still be going strong come sunup. We can stomp all night long.”

“Let’s hope there’s no raid this time!” Theta shouted back.

“If it weren’t for that raid, we never would’ve met.”

“That’s true. But one escape is enough, don’tcha think?” Theta said.

A waiter swooped down and delivered their cocktails, disguised in teacups. “Here you are, Miss. Sir,” the waiter said, and Memphis could hear the subtle judgment lurking just under the courtesy: What’re you doing here with a white woman?

“Thank you,” Memphis said, making a point to be extra polite, even though it made him mad to do it. Like he was apologizing for some crime he hadn’t committed. Even now, as he sneaked a look around, he could see disapproval in the faces of some folks. But maybe if he became a great man, a respected poet, it would be enough to let them bend the rules. And Memphis was writing every day now. Already he’d filled a notebook with new poems. Like the one in his pocket he’d written especially for Theta.

Memphis kept stealing glances at her now as she watched the dancers, hoping she was impressed. The last time they’d been together at the lighthouse, Theta had said that everything was fine, but Memphis could tell it wasn’t. He was worried that it was him, that he wasn’t enough. It was part of the reason he’d wanted to make tonight special.

“Everything copacetic, Princess?”

“Everything’s swell,” Theta answered, but beneath the silk of her gloves, Theta’s skin prickled with a soft heat, and she tried not to panic. It’s nothing, she told herself and kept her eyes on the dance floor, and after several deep breaths, the prickling went away. But she’d been feeling it more and more—ever since that night in the theater when she’d been running for her life from the Pentacle Killer. Once it had even happened in her sleep. She woke from a nightmare about screaming horses running wild in the snow around a burning village to find that her palms were as warm as freshly lit coals. She’d had to shove them under the tap for a few seconds to return them to normal.

“Well, then. I guess I should give you this.” Memphis took the folded paper from his pocket and laid it on the table beside Theta’s glass.

“What’s this?”

“Anniversary present,” Memphis said. “Been working on it for a week now.”

Theta toyed with the edge of the paper. “Should I read it now or later?”

Memphis shrugged. “Whatever suits you.”

Fresh heat licked up Theta’s fingers. Her heart beat wildly. “I… I think I’m gonna save it for later, like a present,” Theta said, slipping the note under her beaded handbag. She felt like crying, but she was afraid that if she did, her hands would really start acting up again. So she kept her eyes trained on the people dancing until they were a pretty blur of color.

Memphis tugged at his collar. His special anniversary date seemed to be going off the rails, fast. He watched as a group of white fellas escorted their dates to the floor, laughing and carefree. Every night, they came up by the carload to catch the action, then took it back with them downtown, where it was reborn in Broadway shows, swank clubs, and hotels that catered to whites only. It burned Memphis up that they could come here to his neighborhood, to his clubs with their dates, and it was no trouble at all. They expected to be able to do it, no questions asked. But Memphis had to be careful with his own girl in his own home.

Under the table, out of sight, Memphis laced his fingers with Theta’s, enjoying the silky softness of her glove. Just to stroke her palm was a thrill. A couple of tables away, a group of Harlem high-hats stared with disapproval. Well, damn them. Damn the white fellas making the rules and the good people of Harlem for playing by them.

Memphis grasped Theta’s fingers more solidly. Theta gasped.

“Trust me,” Memphis said, and he brought their clasped knot of fingers out of hiding, resting them on the smooth sea of tablecloth. He stared back at his own people a few tables over, challenging them. Finally, they looked away, and Memphis enjoyed the thrill of winning: Don’t tell me how to live. The orchestra launched into another dance number. More dancers swarmed toward the already crowded floor. A white couple passed by, their hands joined like Theta’s and Memphis’s. The girl, a blond in a sparkling rhinestone headband, looked from Theta to Memphis and back again. The girl might’ve taken a lot of care to dress the part of a sophisticate, but her expression was the truest thing she wore, and it was one of naked contempt. She paused for just a second to let her judgment settle on them.