The Game of Love and Death(37)

He perceived a third human in the bakery. The baker, a quiet, middle-aged man, shuffled out from the back, his face dusted with flour. He looked hot, no doubt from standing by ovens all day long. With regret, Love plumbed the depths of the baker’s heart, adding layers to it as a brick mason might construct a wall. He needed to insert an overdose of the wrong type of love, the sandpapery, possessive sort that rubs a heart raw. He folded this twisted love into the soft spaces, and he held it in place so the man’s mind could not shake it free.

The baker believed he was eternally in love with the girl behind the counter, the girl who was laughing and flirting with Grady as though such things came with every cookie sold. Love whispered the baker’s name, knowing it was the single word most likely to send him over the edge. The man opened a drawer beneath the cash register. He pulled out a revolver. Grady backed up against a rack of freshly baked loaves of bread, holding his hands high.

“Now,” Love whispered.

The baker swung the gun toward Grady. Love held his breath as the safety clicked off.

Just then, a figure materialized in front of him. His mind registered who it was as her hand flew against his cheek. The blow broke his hold on the baker, who dropped the gun. It discharged, blasting through the sweets display case. Both the baker and Grady covered their heads to protect themselves from raining glass.

The girl dropped to her knees.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Please, no.”

Embarrassed, Love felt his blazing cheek. Death stood inches away, her eyes narrowed to slits, her mouth a slash of red lipstick. She looked like Helen and she looked like herself at the same time. “What do you think you are doing?”

“You, of all people, ought to know.” Love worked his jaw, half expecting it to break to pieces. There was a flash as the baker bent to retrieve the gun, which he examined like it was something alive.

Death froze time.

“Of course I know what you were doing. What I’d like to know is why. How dare you.”

“How dare I what?” Love said. “How dare I do what you do every day?”

Death clenched her hands, and Love braced himself for another blow. Grady stood frozen, holding the folded newspaper across his chest as if in defense, his mouth parted because he’d been about to speak.

“He’s in the way,” Love said, unable to say Grady’s name.

“He’s a human being,” Death said. “A living soul. And this isn’t how you play the Game.”

Love couldn’t quite read the expression on her face. As ever, her mind was closed to him. “What do you mean? It’s how you play the Game.”

“Exactly,” Death said. “You are not me. You don’t —”

“I don’t what?” He lifted his hat and smoothed his hair. “I don’t want to win? Is that what you think?”

Death made a noise of frustration. She stepped outside. Love followed. “Leave them alone. You don’t need to do this,” she said.

Love looked back at the humans, still frozen in the shop. “Fine. I won’t.”


Death released her hold on time. A look came over the baker’s face. He gazed at the gun, and Love remembered, too late, that poison remained in the man’s heart, more than enough to be dangerous.

The girl flinched. “Please, no!”

Love looked to Death. Her irises flashed white as the baker took aim. She materialized inside the shop as the gun flashed. Too late to save him, Death caught Grady from behind. The bullet had torn through the newspaper. An unholy crimson flower bloomed through the paper and ink. Grady coughed blood, and Death set him gently down.

The baker cried out, his heart drumming a frantic beat. He rushed toward the girl, who’d backed up against the sacks of sugar and flour.

There was second shot, then a third.

Love closed his eyes. “No,” he whispered.

A few moments later, Death stood beside him. Through the shop window, three bodies had been laid neatly side by side by Death, as if sense could arise from this small gesture of order. Blood spattered the bakery walls and floor. Her knees buckled. Love held her up, marveling at how small she really was. She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes still the silvery white they turned when she was feeding. After a moment, the color flowed back. She pushed away and wiped her eyes.

She’d abandoned her Helen guise and was fully herself, beautiful, ageless, and hard. “My fate is a prison. It’s the one thing humanity and I have in common. You were the only one of us who didn’t need to inhabit one. I took responsibility for these souls for you, even though their deaths are your fault. You should be forced to feel what it’s like for someone to be imprisoned.”

Anguished, she disappeared. Love knew he was meant to follow, even though she had not told him where to find her. In the distance, a police siren wailed. And in a sickening moment of clarity, Love knew where to go.



Death waited for Love on the wind-scraped peak of the Presidio, looking over the hazy water toward Alcatraz. In the setting sun, the island darkened like a bruise on the horizon. It was the worst of prisons, and it’s what she wanted him to see. A eucalyptus breeze lifted her hair. Then a foghorn blew, and she sensed his presence.

“Is it really inescapable?” he asked, closing the distance between them.

“What, the prison?” Given the circumstances, she had to ask.