The Game of Love and Death(30)

The gesture undid Ethan. Love meant no harm by it, and he’d so sunk into the skin of James Booth that he’d forgotten the power of his touch, particularly on skin as electrified as Ethan’s. Love removed a small lantern from its spot on the framing of the shack. The Zippo clicked, the flame caught, and there was a smell of burning oil and smoke. Ethan held his breath.

“There,” Love said, his voice low and soft. “A bit of light.”


Ethan exhaled. His hands shook. Love regarded him in a way that said, I see you. Ethan looked downward, then back at Love. Their hearts began to keep time with each other. Henry would have appreciated the rhythm, the connection. Love did. More than he had anticipated. It meant there were more depths to Ethan.

“I should go,” Ethan said. “I —”

“Or you could stay,” Love said.

Ethan did not object as Love ran a knuckle down his cheek, slightly sandpapered with stubble where his beard was beginning to come in. Like a rope, the air pulled tight between them. The tension was excruciating; Love could almost feel the fibers snap.

He closed the makeshift plywood door, sealing the space so Ethan would not have to hear any sounds from the outside world: not the voices of men, not the scream of steam engines as they arrived at the nearby station. The only sounds would be of their bodies breathing, of their clothing rustling, of skin moving against soft skin.

The shack was small and humble, but it was cozy and private, and lit with a light that did not seem to come entirely from the lantern.

Afterward, Ethan wept, and Love whispered things meant to make him feel safe. Were it possible, he would have traded his immortality to remain with this beautiful soul, to concentrate all that love on a human who needed it so.





THE bouquet of tulips sat next to Henry on the front seat. He was having second thoughts. What was he going to do, give them to the bouncer and ask him to deliver them? Better to throw them away.

The air outside blushed with humidity. Summer was coming, with its long, hot days. He slipped into the alley behind the club and found a trash can by the door where he’d first encountered Flora’s uncle. As Henry lifted the lid, a black cat dashed from behind the can and looped around his ankles. He nearly had a heart attack; he wasn’t much of a fan of cats.

“Sorry,” he said, not unkindly. “I don’t have any food for you.”

The animal meowed plaintively. Henry turned to discard the flowers. The door opened, and Flora emerged holding a saucer of milk. She wore a robe, though her hair and makeup were done. Seeing Henry, she started, spilling liquid on the cobbles. They stared at each other a moment until Flora broke the silence.

“I brought you this saucer of milk.” She held it out to him, her face deadly serious.

“And I brought you this lid.” Henry offered it to her. “A very rare item. A similar one sold for millions at auction.”

Flora laughed and the cat meowed again. She set down the saucer. “Sometimes she follows me here.”

Henry put the lid back on the trash and held out the flowers. “I know it looks like I might have pulled them out of the rubbish, but I didn’t. I was too much of a coward to deliver them. But now that you’ve caught me in the act, I might as well get credit for the gesture.”

She laughed again, pulled her robe tighter around her rib cage. “They’re lovely. Thank you. I give you full credit.”

“Am I getting more embarrassed or less as this conversation progresses?” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“If we’re talking relative levels of embarrassment,” she said, “one of us is standing here in a bathrobe.” Her expression changed. “Wait! I do have clothes on underneath. I would like the record to reflect that.”

“As I thought,” he said. “More embarrassed every second.”

Flora smelled the tulips. “Can we pretend this never happened?”

The cat meowed again. Henry shooed it aside gently. “Let’s pretend I walked up to you in a better place than an alley, and I wasn’t tripping over stray cats or holding garbage can lids, and I gave you flowers because I like the way you sing, and no one was mortified in the process. That way, I still get some runs up on the board.”

“Runs on the board? I didn’t realize we were playing a game,” Flora said.

“It’s a baseball thing. Sorry. I’m going to stop talking now. In fact, I’m about ready to agree that this never happened.”

Flora smiled. “Sherman’s going to have my head if I’m not ready to go. We’re onstage again in a few minutes.”

“And I am going to pay the cover charge and find a table, and not say another word. You didn’t see me. I’m a ghost.”

Flora reached the door. Then, looking over her shoulder, she said, “I’m glad you came back. I’ve gotten used to seeing you out there in the crowd.”

The door clicked behind her, as solidly attached as Henry’s heart.





AFTERWARD, Flora mopped her brow in her dressing room. She leaned into the tulips, breathing their clean perfume. What had happened onstage? She’d become aware of Henry in the audience again, of his eyes on her, of his hands on the table, of the way the candlelight gilded his face and hair.

This time, though, her immunity was gone. She had an overwhelming urge to look at him, to sing to him, and it terrified her. She fought it. But when the time came to sing “Walk Beside Me,” it was as though someone had found the source of music inside her and was pulling the notes out of her harder and faster than she intended. She was only able to resist for a moment more before giving in absolutely.