The Game of Love and Death(26)

People came for her, people who put her in a white room in a quiet hospital with barred windows. They whispered that someone so finely dressed would have family searching for her. But for the longest time, no one came for this girl. Not until it was far too late.





WHEN the train pulled into the King Street Station five days later, screaming and billowing steam, Death could barely contain herself. She could have traveled back to Seattle instantaneously, but she did not wish to face Love so full of souls from the Hindenburg, or so charged with what she’d consumed of Helen’s life. She rode west on the train as a human would, drinking tea and eating stale sandwiches, looking at a crowd of souls through their flesh cases, pretending they held no appeal, making conversation whenever she was called to.

Her self-control was not aided by the fact that the station in Seattle had been modeled after the Campanile in Venice, reminding her that the Game would end where it began. What’s more, it was just blocks from the Domino, and not much farther from the Thorne mansion, where she would be living, or the small green house she’d first visited so long ago. Every element was gathering in the neck of an hourglass, and it would not be long before the ground opened up for the final plunge.

She stepped out of the train, one delicate shoe at a time. Henry and Ethan were there, waiting, and ready to welcome her into their home.

“Kiss kiss,” Death said.

Ethan put his hands on her shoulders and faked a peck on her cheeks.

“Don’t look too happy to see me or anything, cousin,” she said.

Behind them, the huge train breathed steam on their hands and faces.

“I’m always happy to see you, Helen,” Ethan said. “Shin-kicking, name-calling, things done with spiders in the middle of the night. You’re a treat. I can’t believe so many years have passed since your last visit.”

“We were children,” Death replied. The name Helen had long held significance for her, and Love had never forgiven her for the whole business with the thousand ships. How was she to know the war would last ten years and kill a demigod? “We’re all grown up now.”

“That’s an awful lot of luggage you brought,” Ethan said. “Just how long are you planning to stay?”

“As long as it takes,” Death replied. Then she looked toward Henry and gave him her most seductive smile. “Who’s your friend?”

Death was happy to devour Henry with her eyes. He wasn’t movie-star pretty, like Ethan. But there was something about him she liked even better, from the slight gap between his front teeth to the way his dark hair refused to obey a comb. She liked the curve of his cheekbones and the square of his jaw, all the better to envision the skull beneath the skin.

Taking her time, she removed an enameled compact from her bag. She snapped it open and appraised the face in the mirror from a variety of angles. It was a face she’d grown to like. She powdered her nose, applied a swipe of red lipstick. Then she reached for Henry’s arm and readied herself. She was nearly home.



The Thornes no longer had a houseboy due to the changing nature of the times, just a maid and a cook, so Ethan and Henry carried Helen’s luggage upstairs to her suite of rooms. When they finished, Helen and Mrs. Thorne were standing at the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Thorne held a basket of cut tulips.

“Yes, those are divine,” Helen said. “Very fresh. Almost as if they’re unaware they’ve been cut.” She smiled coyly at Henry. “I’m just going to dash upstairs and change.”

“Ethan, dear,” Mrs. Thorne said. She shoved the basket of flowers at him. “I’ll need you to hold these while I make arrangements. Helen is changing into her tennis garb. She said she’d so love to play. I thought Henry —”

As Helen glided up the steps, Ethan held his hands behind his back, as a soldier might stand at ease. His mood was anything but. “You know what Father would say if he saw me arranging flowers with you.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Thorne replied, too irritated even to get out a sentence.

“I’ll help,” Henry said. He reached for the basket. Mrs. Thorne held tight.

“I’d rather play tennis,” Ethan said. “Even with Helen.”

“Ethan,” she said. “How rude.”

“I’d love to help.” Henry held out his hands once more, and Mrs. Thorne reluctantly set the basket in them. Helen reappeared at the top of the steps, dressed in a white skirt and sleeveless blouse.

“Who’s up for a match?” she said. “I’d kill for some fresh air.” She looked pointedly at Henry.

He shrugged and held up the tulips. “I’m afraid I have my hands full.”

“On second thought, I can surely manage this myself,” Mrs. Thorne said. She picked up a leaded glass vase and nodded toward the flowers. “Just set them on the console, Henry.”

“I’ll play,” Ethan said. “Give me a moment.”

“You too, Henry,” Mrs. Thorne said. “I insist.”

“After we’re finished here,” Henry said. The truth was, Helen made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. But he wasn’t inclined to spend any more time with her than he had to.

“Do you ever wonder,” Helen said, walking down the stairs toward him, “if flowers feel pain when someone cuts them?” She lifted one from the basket. “Does it look like it suffered?”