Her Name Is Murder

thirty-two

Grant grabbed her wrist. He felt her pulse racing. Her fingers also wrapped around his wrist. The ring was pulsing in random patterns. He helped her up and he began counting in a six-eighths time signature. A triplet with a rest, A proper heartbeat. One... two, three. He had looked it up. Most musicians on the internet, which he knew wasn't exactly asking a panel of true experts, equated the beat of the human heart to being close to a six-eighths time signature, just like Greensleeves, but with a swing. It had taken him a bit of research to wrap his head around what that piece of musical theory even meant. After comparing his own heart to the old song on the plane, he had gotten the gist. He sang to her, with his best effort, barely out of key:

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight

Greensleeves was my heart of gold

And who but my Lady Dreamscapes?

She smirked at his lyric change.

As they continued to waltz, they noticed the ring's pulse was settling into a calmer rhythm.

"I don't understand, Grant." She looked like she was feeling a little better.

"Arrhythmia?" He considered the statement "I'm not sure that's the word, but I noticed your perfect triplet heartbeat early on. You fidgeted to it, swayed to it. Like somehow keeping that beat was the most important thing. In Paris, I realized you had the musical limitation."

She frowned. "Programmed beats have no swing to them, with a person playing common time I could mostly always adjust to their natural rhythm. Metronomes and more and more common-time pieces came along and ruined music for me."

"So you hate raves, then?"

"So much."

"I think your body and your curse were fighting for superiority."

"And the triplet heartbeat was the result?" She was impressed, yet only a little surprised he was putting all this together. She had put it all aside for years as not very important. It was important now.

"I think, If you hadn't been cursed you'd have been stillborn." He raised his voice a bit. "And now I need Ira, Arthur, or someone to come up with a plan to fix this!" He looked and noticed their friends were already at the books, phones, and tablets, looking for the answer.

"We can't Waltz forever, Grant."

"We can damn well try."

Chicago 1933

Murder danced with a young man named Ezra McCreary. He too was a redhead. He too had a fiery temper. She knew he'd never hit a girl though.

This was their second date and she had intentions to cut out early leaving him with only a quick peck on the cheek. Leave him wanting more. The band took a break. Ezra went for drinks. She was very glad prohibition was over and bars were less risky propositions.

Murder went to sit with Levi.

"It's time to leave you know, not time to be starting up a new romance. We're hitting the ten-year mark.

"We've stayed places longer, besides. We've crossed town. These are new people. And they're captivating!"

"We won't be able to hide long, love. The dozen-year curse is looming."

Across the room, a brunette leered at her.

"The jilted ex isn't helping your argument..." Levi frowned.

"Give me six months Levi, let me get to know him a little. Decide if he's open-minded enough to know about us. Then I'll either bring him with us. Or let her have him."