by Nell Stark
“Are you looking forward to the party?” she asked once they were seated in the limo.
“Hell, yes.” TJ’s emphatic answer earned a frown from his mother, but he wasn’t paying her any attention as he uncorked the bottle of Moët.
“I’m glad. Jeremy will pick up your guests as they arrive, and they’ll be staying in the suite next to yours.”
“Great.” He poured a glass expertly, the frothy head rising just above the top of the flute. “Care for some?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
TJ looked disappointed and passed the glass to his mother.
“Thank you, Vesper, for helping us with all of these preparations.” Marisa smiled at her.
“It’s my pleasure.”
“And we’re all set for the fight tomorrow?” asked Theodore Senior.
“Eighth row center, as usual.” Vesper’s phone rang and she quickly opened her purse. “Excuse me for a moment.”
“Vesper! Evan.”
She winced, immediately wishing she had ignored the call. Last year, Evan, who worked for the online poker company Royal Flush, had tipped her off that the wife of one of his prize poker players liked to pour his winnings into the slot machines. Vesper had comped her a shopping spree and convinced them to move from a regular room in a rival casino to a Midgard suite at Valhalla. Ever since, they had been loyal customers. And every time they visited, the wife lost thousands, if not tens of them. Now, Evan was going to ask her to return the favor. His timing couldn’t be worse.
“Hi, Evan.”
“So, remember that poker player I was telling you about a few weeks ago? The one who won our big tournament last year and is coming for the World Series?”
“Yes, I remember,” Vesper said, maintaining her cheerful tone even as her stomach began to sink. She was already overbooked for the next two months. She didn’t have time to pay attention to anyone else—especially when that person probably wasn’t planning to throw large sums of money into Valhalla’s lap. One baccarat player like Theodore Senior was worth a hundred poker players.
“She’s flying in tomorrow to get some practice in before the tournament. I’ll send you the flight information. Can you just do me a favor and make sure she settles in okay? This is her first time in Vegas.”
Another babysitting gig. Just perfect. “Of course,” she said, hoping her irritation hadn’t seeped through. “I’ll look forward to seeing the details.”
“Great. I’ll be in touch.”
He hung up almost before the last syllable, leaving Vesper feeling suddenly overwhelmed. This job caught up to her quickly sometimes. Determined not to let her exhaustion show, she tucked her phone away and turned back to the Hamiltons with a practiced smile, apologizing for the interruption.
Chapter Three
Nova walked down the stairs toward baggage claim, feeling as though she was moving in slow motion. Everyone around her seemed in a hurry—the man who jostled her elbow as he hustled down the stairs, the family chattering excitedly as they pushed their laden cart toward the exit, the woman flinging her arms around a man’s neck for a passionate kiss before they turned toward the door. Clearly, they had heard the call of the Strip and were eager to heed it.
A small space opened up in front of the baggage carousel as a young couple turned away, smiling, and Nova edged her way into the gap. Hands jammed into her pockets and shoulders hunched, she watched the bags travel round and round. Moments later, her duffel appeared, sliding down and tumbling once end over end before it was stopped by the narrow ledge. The whole scene reminded her of a roulette wheel, and she felt an odd sense of vertigo, as if in empathy with her luggage. Then the moment passed, and she hoisted the bag onto her shoulder.
Evan had told her a car would be waiting at the airport, and after glancing around the room, she caught sight of her name on a placard. The man holding it was probably around her age, if she had to guess, though he was trying to look older by wearing a goatee. He extended his hand as she approached.
“Ms. Novarro?”
“That’s right.”
“Welcome to Las Vegas. I’m Jeremy, your driver. May I take your bag?”
“I’ve got it, thanks.” She shifted the strap on her shoulder and patted it for emphasis.
“Right this way, then.”
The sliding doors opened, admitting a blast of hot, dry air. The smell of baked asphalt and car exhaust made it suddenly difficult to swallow. Here she stood in the middle of the desert, hemmed in by arid land, stranded hundreds of miles from the sea. As her panic rose, Nova fumbled for her water bottle and drank deeply. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t stranded. She had come of her own volition and could leave anytime she pleased.
“Your host, Vesper, is occupied this afternoon, but she has arranged to meet you for a drink this evening.” He presented her with a cream-colored business card on which 10 p.m., Sól Bar had been written on the back in flowing cursive. “How was your flight?”
“Fine, thanks.” Nova was glad he wanted to talk. Conversation helped with her anxiety.
For the next few minutes, they chatted idly about banal topics—the weather, and and how crazy it was that what had once been a tiny oasis was now the gambling epicenter of the universe. When they reached the limo—a stretch car, Nova realized with some surprise—she finally surrendered her bag and stepped into the ample interior. The cool scent of leather and pine enveloped her, and she tipped her head back against the seat to ease the tension in her shoulders.
“Do you surf?” Jeremy asked as he slid into the driver’s seat. “I couldn’t help but notice the logo on your bag.”
“Yes, I love it.” Nova had won the duffel in an amateur competition at her local surf club several summers ago. “You?”
“Absolutely.” He paused briefly as he pulled out onto the road. “I grew up in Santa Barbara and was at Rincon every chance I got.”
“What brought you out here?” She couldn’t imagine a die-hard surfer being content with a landlocked life.
“I got a basketball scholarship to UNLV.”
“What was your position?”
“Point guard. But I blew out my knee sophomore year, and the money went away. Haven’t managed to get back on a board since then, either.”
“Ouch.” The worst Nova had suffered was a broken arm, back in her adolescence. The thought of being stuck in a knee brace made her cringe. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Water under the bridge.” He met her eyes briefly in the mirror. “So, you play poker professionally?”
“That’s right.” Nova found herself reluctant to share more details. She loved talking about poker in the online forums—rehashing past victories, analyzing lost hands, debating the best strategies. There, she was a goddess, revered by those who aspired to be like her and hated by those jealous of her success. But now, as she looked out the window toward the bristling Vegas skyline, the self-doubt that had been gnawing at her ever since that fateful day at the bank returned full force. Here, she was a stranger in a strange land.
Thankfully, Jeremy didn’t follow up with another question. Nova tore her gaze away from the window and opened the mini fridge. It was stocked with three bottles of champagne, and she stared at them for several long seconds before reluctantly closing the door. The soft haze of an alcohol buzz would soothe her nerves, but today, she needed to stay sharp. She would check in, get the lay of the land, and then begin her live poker-playing career—preferably at a low-stakes table populated by tipsy tourists.
“Have you ever stayed at Valhalla before?” Jeremy asked.
“I haven’t.” Nova didn’t want to let on that she had never stayed anywhere in Vegas. “Got any insider tips?”
“Have the salmon eggs benedict at Barri. That’s the nicest restaurant. And the pool on the fiftieth-floor terrace is a little smaller than the one on the roof, but its view is almost as good and it’s usually not as crowded.”
“Thanks.”
The word died on Nova’s
lips as Jeremy turned onto the Strip. Even in the harsh light of midday, it presented a spectacle. To her left, the Luxor pyramid towered over the surrounding buildings, black walls gleaming like onyx. At night, she had read, a spotlight shone from its apex so brightly that it was visible from space.
She had no more time to admire it as Jeremy guided the car into the heart of Sin City. In the days before her departure, Nova had done extensive online research about the Vegas Strip. Not wanting to seem ignorant, she had even taken a “virtual tour” of several of the major casinos. There was the New York, New York, encircled by a massive roller coaster, its Statue of Liberty welcoming the rich, the bold, the strong of constitution. Across from it, a massive lion guarded the entrance of the MGM Grand, its gaze as implacable as Fortune herself. Next came the Paris, its replica Eiffel Tower casting a long shadow across the broad street where the Bellagio’s fountains danced merrily, rising and falling from an immaculate pond that summoned another surge of longing for the ocean. Then came the wide, Roman arches of Caesars Palace, sprawling in the shadow of the Mirage’s tall towers. And there, at last, was Valhalla, its curved granite walls glinting dully in the sun.
It had been built, she’d learned, in the style of the ancient Norse ring forts—a perfectly circular castle with doors at each of the four compass points. Three cylindrical towers jutted up past the walls, connected in several places by gently sloping archways. Each conical roof was crowned by a large sculpture of the beast for which it was named: Dragon Tower, Raven Tower, Wolf Tower. The statues were made of some kind of white stone that glittered fiercely, fracturing the light into slivers of rainbows that played along the walls of the keep.
Jeremy pulled into the circular driveway, stopping the car so that her window was perfectly aligned with the massive gray door leading into the hotel. “Here we are,” he said. “I’ll grab your bag.”
Nova fished up a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet as Jeremy swung the duffel onto the curb. Immediately, a bellhop appeared, but she waved him away. “I appreciate the ride.” She reached out to shake Jeremy’s hand. “Take care of that knee.”
He nodded. “Good luck in there.”
Nova turned toward the door. From the car, she had thought it too was made of stone, but now she realized the effect was the product of a masterful mural designed to appear as a bas relief sculpture. The centerpiece was a gigantic tree, its roots spreading out along the bottom of the door and its branches extending to the top. A sinuous dragon, scales painted with exquisite detail, lay curled among the roots, while an eagle perched on the branches. Nova had read about this, too: Yggdrasil, the world tree of Norse mythology.
She took one step forward and the doors slid open, splitting the tree vertically down the middle. Impressed despite herself, she stepped into the lobby. As her eyes adjusted from the glare outside, her ears were filled with the sound of rushing water and the faint musical tinkling of slot machines somewhere in the distance. She blinked, and her vision cleared to reveal a large, circular fountain, its basin illuminated by blue lights. A tall tree rose from its center, and this one was very much alive. White flowers appeared between clusters of green leaves, illuminated by a skylight overhead. A stone sculpture of a stag stood near the base of the tree, its head bent as though it were drinking from the pool. The fountain was refreshed by streams of water flowing from the creature’s antlers.
Not wanting to seem like a tourist, Nova moved toward the check-in area. The employees standing behind each computer screen wore light gray jackets, their lapels stamped with the same coat of arms decorating the golden shield on the wall behind them. Its blue background had been divided into thirds, one for a black raven in flight, one for a silver wolf in mid-stride, and one for a red dragon, its wide jaws belching a plume of flame.
“Next guest, please.”
She stepped up to the marble counter where a young, clean-shaven man took her ID and credit card, reciting in practiced language how pleased he was that she had chosen Valhalla for her accommodations. Again, she declined the service of a bellman, not wanting to have to dole out any more tips than necessary.
As she waited for the elevator, a nearby digital marquee tried to entice her to a baccarat tournament that had been going on since noon. That sounded about as appetizing as the “authentically prepared lutefisk” on the restaurant menu. She’d never even learned the rules of baccarat. What was the use, when Lady Luck presided over it, two-faced and fickle? She would rather burn her money. All thirty thousand dollars of it. The elevator chimed, and with a sour twist of her mouth, she stepped inside.
Her room, on the twentieth floor of Raven Tower, was barely wide enough to fit a queen-sized bed and a small nightstand. At the bed’s foot was a dresser, and next to the dresser, a desk. The adjacent wall boasted one window, barely larger than an arrow slit, with a view of the neighboring tower’s gray wall. If she craned her head just so, she could make out a thin slice of the parking lot. Charming.
Nova dropped her bag on the desk and went into the bathroom. It, too, was small, but the alternating rows of white and blue subway tiles were cheerful, and she felt herself smile at the sight of a rainfall showerhead set into the ceiling above the tub. That would feel heavenly later.
She braced her arms on the ceramic counter and examined her reflection. Women often praised her bright blue eyes, but today they were dull and bloodshot from a poor night’s sleep. Early this morning, she had pulled her hair back into a messy bun, and several strands had escaped during the flight. She tucked them behind her ears and frowned. Her face seemed too angular—severe looking, almost—and her gray cargo pants hung precariously from her hips. Most women would have felt ecstatic at having lost a few pounds, but Nova liked the way she had looked, the person she had been. This new, changed face was on the cusp of gaunt and oddly pale despite her tan. Confidence had abandoned her. She had better learn to bluff, and soon. Displaying weakness at a poker table was like swimming in shark-infested waters with an open wound.
She clenched her jaw and escaped the mirror. There was no time like the present, right? She should go downstairs. Find her sea legs. Get rid of the jitters. Afraid to stop moving, she scooped her room key off the desk with one hand and patted her pockets with the other. A few minutes later, she was marching determinedly out of the elevator, past the fountain, and into the casino, bypassing the rows of jangling slot machines in search of the poker tables.
The baccarat tournament was harder to ignore. She heard it before she could see it—a wave of sound that ebbed and flowed as the crowd reacted to the players’ fortunes. Still, she was committed to bypassing it entirely until she turned a corner and came face-to-face with the masses. They milled about between her and the double glass doors fifty feet away, over which “Poker Hall” had been stenciled in a vaguely runic-looking script. With a sigh, she began to gingerly pick her way through the mob.
But the undertow was strong. Halfway along the periphery, Nova paused when the loudest shout she’d heard yet erupted from the onlookers. Curious despite herself, she edged closer and rose onto her toes for a glimpse. Beyond the gathered bystanders was a room full of gaming tables ringed by a low railing. The tables were cut in half-moon shapes, with the dealer seated on the straight edge and six players arrayed around the curve. The surface was covered in gold and white lines and symbols, vaguely reminiscent of crop circles or cave drawings. At the corner of each table, a small backlit sign atop a pole indicated that baccarat was being played.
The entrances to the room were cordoned off with velvet ropes, and casino staff dressed in crisp white shirts and black suits were stationed evenly around the periphery. Similarly dressed tournament managers, distinguished by the tags affixed to their lapels, walked the floor, stopping occasionally to monitor the tables and answer questions from the players. One standing at a nearby table caught Nova’s attention. Her skirt suit, a rich honey in color rather than black, draped elegantly against the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. Gentl
e ringlets of auburn hair curled down past her shoulders. She was wearing a nametag as well and Nova strained to get a better look.
“What the fuck?” A large man wielding a yard-long glass of frozen margarita like a scepter listed drunkenly into Nova. She recoiled from the intrusion into her personal space. “What the fuck?” he repeated, to no one in particular. The crowd parted, giving the man a wide berth. Nova took the opportunity to edge away from him and press closer to the rail. Wanting another glimpse of the beautiful woman, Nova scanned the room but was disappointed when she was nowhere to be found.
Her attention wandered back to the nearest table, where a new hand was beginning. The dealer flipped over four cards, and the audience leaned forward eagerly. When, moments later, he turned over two more, several of the players groaned. One of them pushed back from the table as the dealer collected the last of his chips. The crowd broke into polite applause as the busted player left the field.
“What just happened?” Margarita man was back. He pulled a crumpled booklet out of his pocket, nearly sloshing his drink on Nova and several nearby patrons. He waved the sodden booklet in front of him like a white flag of surrender. “Wait. I got the rules right here.”
The glass tipped precariously again, but this time Nova reached over and took it from the man. She placed it carefully on the floor by the rail. “Dude. Watch it.”
The man blinked once as he attempted to focus on Nova’s face, then his eyes dipped to her breasts and a large smile stretched across his face. “Sure, baby. I’m Matt.” He held out a pudgy hand, its fourth finger encircled by a gaudy class ring. His palm was moist with sweat.
“Whatever.” Nova ignored the outstretched hand. Unconsciously, she wiped her own hand on her pants.
The dealer called for bets and the players stacked their chips in the marked circles in front of them. Two cards were dealt to either side of the table. A third card was dealt to the right. More chips exchanged hands, and another player busted out. The remaining players jotted notes onto scorecards with small golf pencils. Nova watched as a few more hands were played in this fashion. Her gaze drifted to the other tables nearby, and she quickly sized up each game before moving on to the next. This was how she had played online poker—running several tables at a time, subconsciously registering the patterns and rhythm of each game while instinctively processing the mathematical odds. The familiarity of the exercise calmed her.
