The Game of Love and Death(66)

“Darn tootin’,” Palmer added.

It didn’t feel like that to Henry, though. It wasn’t so much about changing his life as much as it was about him stepping into the one he was meant to live. And, after all of this, he’d arrived.





MORE than two weeks passed. During this time, Henry, Flora, and the rest of the band rehearsed and set up shows in clubs around town at night, while Henry worked at the paper during the day. Love and Ethan continued their assignations, which had become as much about philosophical discussions as physical interactions. Death, meanwhile, had been quietly observing. Her relative silence terrified Love.

When the night came for Flora and Henry’s debut at the Majestic, Ethan breathlessly invited James to join him, and Love, eager to hear what the players would create, agreed. He wished he truly were human so he could embrace the evening as a man in love should, wearing a cloud-white shirt of crisp cotton, a fine tuxedo of black wool, and a carefully knotted tie of cerulean silk.

He wanted to scrub the dirt of life from his fingernails. He wanted to steam his face, soap his chin, shave with a new blade — or better, have the practiced hands of a barber perform the duties. He thought of frosted bottles of champagne. Tender rib-eye steaks dripping juice onto bone china. Rich wine. A stunning, audacious dessert: perhaps a cream-filled swan made of dark chocolate, its feathers edged in edible gold.

He’d had these pleasures before. And in previous Games, where he had developed no direct attachments to the players or their friends, he’d indulged himself when the urge struck. But this wouldn’t be the way of James Booth, and so Love would have to forgo such things in favor of humbler clothing, humbler fare.

There was beauty enough in the Majestic, where the musicians had gathered. Candlelight from the table illuminated Ethan’s carved cheekbones, his blue irises, his straight white teeth. Game or no, Love might not have been able to resist this one at any point in history. Ethan was like no other: smart, creative, passionate, handsome. The world was his to inherit.

As the show began, the curtains that covered the stage billowed and split, and the smallish audience that had gathered for the opening act began to applaud politely, though most continued with their conversations as if the music wouldn’t matter. There was a pop of brightness as the lights came on, then the rat-puh-puh-tat of the drum. The Majestic wasn’t set up the same way as the Domino, and it didn’t have that club’s history as an underground speakeasy to lend it an air of danger and intrigue. It was closer to a regular restaurant, so the stage was simpler. But it was lovely, all the same.

The band launched into the Gershwin hit “Summertime” — an appropriate choice, as the days had peaked in length and were growing warmer every night. Flora made a straightforward entrance from the left side of the stage, and the look she gave Henry as she walked past him and toward the microphone, her arms swinging languidly, could have lit a city block.

The humans, who did not know what they had before them, scraped their forks against their plates and chattered to each other over the sound of the band, until Flora opened her mouth. When the first note emerged, a few people put down their drinks and watched. Conversations ended. The girl was no longer holding back.

The tune had a meaty bass part for Henry, a sort of slow, sad, wistful walk up the strings that reminded Love of his favorite part of summer, when the heat of the day broke and the light turned a soft purple, and the world was womb-warm and just as safe. Henry gave everything to the song, his hands a blur on the strings, creating a counterpoint to Flora’s melody and a rhythm for her to follow. As Love listened, certain details mesmerized: the way the spotlight burnished the edges of the musicians; the scent of the melting wax from the candles; the occasional, purposeful break in Flora’s voice, turning it from satin to velvet.

The first set ended. Ethan leaned to whisper in Love’s ear: “This is aces, isn’t it?”

Love nodded in agreement, just as the young man’s face took on a stricken look. Death, in her guise as Helen, approached the table in a red dress: hard, modern, impossible to ignore. It was the color she wore when she was in the mood to kill. Love regretted letting himself get so swept away that he’d missed her presence until it was too late to prepare.

The hi-hat shimmered and a new song began. Death crossed her arms and made a face that looked as if she were smuggling a lemon wedge in her mouth. She pulled off her glove and reached for Ethan bare-handed. Love gasped. She stopped short of touching him, as if reminding Love that she held Ethan’s life in her hands too.

She pulled out a chair between the two of them and sat. “What’s in your pocket?” She tapped the spot where he kept his book of notes and observations about the players and their progress in the Game. “Is it a book? Some sort of journal where you write down your James Boothian exploits? What I wouldn’t give for a look inside of it.”

Love glanced at Ethan to see if the boy had noticed. He had. His face colored as he turned toward the stage and pretended to be transfixed by the music.

What was her aim? The book was merely a record of the Game, a record of things that had happened and could not be changed. He turned his focus to the music, and he turned his affection for Ethan outward, so that every heart in the audience would swell with the joy of it. The effort was exhausting, but he had reached the point in the Game where he could save nothing.