by P. N. Elrod
Christ on a cracker. Listen to me. This isn’t right. This isn’t Lena Falco talking.
But without my hex pendant, I was helpless. Worse than helpless. Ordinary. And for a few minutes, I’d felt like a goddess. I’d never wanted anything as much as I wanted that.
Ethan didn’t lower his gaze. “Lena, you’re not thinking straight. The demon has addled your mind. Let it go.”
“But—” I sucked in a breath, trying to be calm. Maybe he was right. All that magic had felt so good, I’d fallen for the demon’s temptation. I couldn’t keep the amulet, not if I wanted to save my soul. Right? “But … I have to give it to Phoebus. A deal’s a deal.”
“No. We can’t give it to Phoebus. We can’t give it to anyone. It’s too dangerous, Lena. You know that better than most. It has to be destroyed.”
I stared. “What? You mean you’re not working for Kane?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know me better than that.”
“So all along, you never wanted this thing? You just wanted to destroy it?” My guts twisted. I couldn’t believe it. He’d lied to me. He’d let me think … well, he’d let me think what I wanted to think, which was that we were partners. Ha. What a laugh.
Ethan shrugged. “I’m sorry, Lena. I needed your help. If I’d told you the truth, I didn’t think you’d—”
“Damn right you’re sorry.” My eyes burned, and I marched into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Cool white tiles gleamed, annoyingly spotless, and did nothing to ice my temper. I thrust my hands under the tap, splashing water on my flushed face until I had to come up for air.
Yes, it hurt that he’d lied. It hurt that I’d believed him, that I’d thought we might be good together.
But it hurt worse that he hadn’t thought me worth the truth. He’d assumed I’d betray him for a chance at Phoebus’s favor. Taken me for nothing but a cheap gutter con artist who always took the easy way out.
And hell, he was right. Wasn’t he?
I leaned both hands on the sink and forced my gaze upwards. My reflection glared back. Her corset was stained, her purple hair wild. A livid burn shone at her throat where the amulet had hung. Her dark eyes glinted, shadowed with bruises and fatigue. Hard. Angry.
Was it so wrong to long for more? If I traded with Phoebus, I could have whatever I wanted. Wealth. Influence. Power.
Ethan, even.
My skin tingled. That shadow-demon had threatened him, and I hadn’t stopped to think about what was in it for me. I’d just acted. Unselfishness. There’s a first.
One word from Phoebus, and Ethan would forget he despised me. I’d have his respect. We could be equals. Friends. More, if I wanted, and after last night, I realized I did want. More than I ever had.
I stared into my own unforgiving eyes, searching for a way out. There wasn’t one. The power or the man. I couldn’t have both.
And here’s where I had a choice.
Fight Ethan for the amulet, take it to Phoebus, and claim my prize, whatever I choose it to be.
Or prove to Ethan that I deserve his respect instead of tricking it out of him.
Blood clots stained my hair, and slowly I washed them away. Straightened my corset. Checked my face in the mirror. And opened the door.
Ethan jumped to his feet. “Look. I didn’t mean—”
“No, Ethan.” My voice sounded calm and clear. “I was wrong. I guess, all that power … it seduced me. I wanted it. But you were right, that’s not the way. We should destroy the amulet. I see that now. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You saved my life.” He touched my shoulder, hesitant. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “And you nearly killed yourself to do it. I … I don’t know what to say.”
Him, awkward with me. Imagine.
“I didn’t want you hurt,” I admitted, and I swear that husky break in my voice happened all by itself. “I couldn’t see another way. I had to put it on.”
“I know.” He looked up at last, ice blue eyes melting to sunlit sky. “I screwed up, Lena. I was trying to shield you from temptation. The last thing I wanted was—”
“I know.” I flushed. God, he really did have great hair. “It’s over now. Can we … y’know. Be friends?”
That flashbulb smile. “Lena, despite what you might think, we’ve always been friends.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I leaned closer and brushed his lips with mine.
For a moment, he was still, startled. And then he kissed me back, slow and spine-tingling, like we had all the time in the world. He tasted of herbs, the coppery cut on his lip only spicing up the flavor. His hair fell on my shoulder, so soft and crisp, and my skin sparkled hot. Wow. I slid my arms around his neck and opened my mouth, inviting him in, and he folded me in his good arm and pulled me closer. His lean body crushed against mine as we kissed, and he felt as good as I’d always known he would.
And then he sighed, gave me a disbelieving blue glance, and passed out.
I eased him onto the bed, and swiftly reapplied the lipstick I’d put on in the bathroom. Cherry-cola. Made it myself. Bet you never picked Ethan for an easy mark.
Blond hair spilled into his sleeping face, and I brushed it back with one finger and a regretful sigh. Damn. He was really nice. I’d have liked that.
But the Lena he wanted was a lie, no matter how much I wished for his sake that I could be her. I might lie about the little things, but in the end, you’ve gotta be true to what you are.
And what I am is a cheap gutter con artist. No amount of wishing’s going to change that.
I dug into his pocket and pulled out my amulet.
Dried clots of my blood still crusted the chain. I brushed them off. The remnants of my hex pendant were buried deep inside, and the stone winked at me, inviting.
I winked back and slipped it around my neck. Power settled over me like a warm, sparkly blanket, and the demon purred and wrapped herself seductively around my heart. I was her mistress now. She wouldn’t fight me anymore.
Will I take her back to Phoebus? Maybe. Maybe not. He’d offered me a favor. But I already had everything I wanted.
Sparks zinged from my fingertips as I zipped my boots on and rebuckled my knives. I shrugged into my jacket and took one last lingering glance at Ethan, sleeping peacefully on his perfectly made bed in the land of out-of-my-league.
Well, almost everything I wanted.
But there’s always another game. Another con. And if Phoebus wants his amulet, he can come and get it. With my new friend on my side, I’ll gladly take him on.
I flexed my fingers, and distant thunder rolled. That was very cool. Not strictly ethical, but cool. I may not be a witch—not technically—but I’ve still got a few tricks up my corset.
I smiled, and stroked my demon, and vanished.
* * *
Author’s Bio
Erica Hayes is the author of the Shadowfae Chronicles, a dark urban fantasy/romance series. Set in a demon-haunted city infested with psychotic fairies and bloodthirsty vampire gangsters, her books feature tough, smart heroines and colorful heroes with dark secrets. She lives in Australia, where she drifts from city to city, leaving a trail of chaos behind her. You can find her on the web at www.ericahayes.net.
THE ARCANE ART OF MISDIRECTION
by CARRIE VAUGHN
The cards had rules, but they could be made to lie.
The rules said that a player with a pile of chips that big was probably cheating. Not definitely—luck, unlike cards, didn’t follow any rules. The guy could just be lucky. But the prickling of the hairs on the back of Julie’s neck made her think otherwise.
He was middle-aged, aggressively nondescript. When he sat down at her table, Julie pegged him as a middle-management type from flyover country—cheap gray suit, unimaginative tie, chubby face, greasy hair clumsily combed over a bald spot. Now that she thought about it, his look was so clichéd, it might have been a disguise designed to make sure people dismissed him out of hand. Underestimate
d him.
She’d seen card-counting rings in action—groups of people who prowled the casino, scouted tables, signaled when a deck was hot, and sent in a big bettor to clean up. They could win a ridiculous amount of money in a short amount of time. Security kept tabs on most of the well-known rings and barred them from the casino. This guy was alone. He wasn’t signaling. No one else was lingering nearby.
He could still be counting cards. She’d dealt blackjack for five years now and could usually spot it. Players tapped a finger, or sometimes their lips moved. If they were that obvious, they probably weren’t winning anyway. The good ones knew to cut out before the casino noticed and ejected them. Even the best card counters lost some of the time. Counting cards didn’t beat the system, it was just an attempt to push the odds in your favor. This guy hadn’t lost a single hand of blackjack in forty minutes of play.
For the last ten minutes, the pit boss had been watching over Julie’s shoulder as she dealt. Her table was full, as others had drifted over, maybe hoping some of the guy’s luck would rub off on them. She slipped cards out of the shoe for her players, then herself. Most of them only had a chip or two—minimum bid was twenty-five. Not exactly high rolling, but enough to make Vegas’s middle-America audience sweat a little.
Two players stood. Three others hit; two of them busted. Dealer drew fifteen, then drew an eight—so she was out. Her chubby winner had a stack of chips on his square. Probably five hundred dollars. He hit on eighteen—and who in their right mind ever hit on eighteen? But he drew a three. Won, just like that. His expression never budged, like he expected to win. He merely glanced at the others when they offered him congratulations.
Julie slid over yet another stack of chips; the guy herded it together with his already impressive haul. Left the previous stack right where it was, and folded his hands to wait for the next deal. He seemed bored.
Blackjack wasn’t supposed to be boring.
She looked at Ryan, her pit boss, a slim man in his fifties who’d worked Vegas casinos his whole life. He’d seen it all, and he was on his radio. Good. Security could review the video and spot whatever this guy was doing. Palming cards, probably—though she couldn’t guess how he was managing it.
She was about to deal the next hand when the man in question looked at her, looked at Ryan, then scooped his chips up, putting stack after stack in his jacket pockets, then walked away from the table, wearing a small, satisfied grin.
He didn’t leave a tip. Even the losers left tips.
“Right. He’s gone, probably heading for the cashier. Thanks.” Ryan put his radio down.
“Well?” Julie asked.
“They can’t find anything to nail him with, but they’ll keep an eye on him,” Ryan said. He was frowning and seemed suddenly worn under the casino’s lights.
“He’s got to be doing something, if we could just spot it.”
“Never mind, Julie. Get back to your game.”
He was right. Not her problem.
Cards slipped under her fingers and across the felt like water. The remaining players won and lost at exactly the rate they should, and she collected more chips than she gave out. She could tell when her shift was close to ending by the ache that entered her lower back from standing. Just another half hour, and Ryan would close out her table, and she could leave. Run to the store, drag herself home, cobble together a meal that wouldn’t taste quite right because she was eating it at midnight, but that was dinnertime when she worked this shift. Take a shower, watch a half an hour of bad TV, and, finally, finally fall asleep. Wake up late in the morning and do it all again.
That was her life. As predictable as house odds.
* * *
There’s a short film, a test of sorts. The caption at the start asks you to watch the group of people throwing balls to one another and count the number of times the people wearing white pass the ball. You watch the film and concentrate very hard on the players wearing white. At the end, the film asks, how many times did people wearing white pass the ball? Then it asks, Did you see the gorilla?
Hardly anyone does.
Until they watch the film a second time, people refuse to believe a gorilla ever appeared at all. They completely fail to see the person in the gorilla suit walk slowly into the middle of the frame, among the ball-throwers, shake its fists, and walk back out.
This, Odysseus Grant knows, is a certain kind of magic.
Casinos use the same principles of misdirection. Free drinks keep people at the tables, where they will spend more than they ever would have on rum and Cokes. But they’re happy to get the free drinks, and so they stay and gamble.
They think they can beat the house at blackjack because they have a system. Let them think it. Let them believe in magic, just a little.
But when another variable enters the game—not luck, not chance, not skill, not subterfuge—it sends out ripples, tiny, subtle ripples that most people would never notice because they’re focused on their own world: tracking their cards, drinking free drinks, counting people in white shirts throwing balls. But sometimes, someone—like Odysseus Grant—notices. And he pulls up a chair at the table to watch.
* * *
The next night, it was a housewife in a floral-print dress, lumpy brown handbag, and overpermed hair. Another excruciating stereotype. Another impossible run of luck. Julie resisted an urge to glance at the cameras in their bubble housings overhead. She hoped they were getting this.
The woman was even following the same pattern—push a stack of chips forward, hit no matter how unlikely or counterintuitive, and win. She had five grand sitting in front of her.
One other player sat at the table, and he seemed not to notice the spectacle beside him. He was in his thirties, craggy-looking, crinkles around his eyes, a serious frown pulling at his lips. He wore a white tuxedo shirt without jacket or bow tie, which meant he was probably a local, someone who worked the tourist trade on the Strip. Maybe a bartender or a limo driver? He did look familiar, now that she thought about it, but Julie couldn’t place where she might have seen him. He seemed to be killing time, making minimum bets, playing conservatively. Every now and then, he’d make a big bet, a hundred or two hundred, but his instincts were terrible, and he never won. His stack of chips, not large to begin with, was dwindling. When he finally ran out, Julie would be sorry to see him go because she’d be alone with the strange housewife.
The woman kept winning.
Julie signaled to Ryan, who got on the phone with security. They watched but, once again, couldn’t find anything. Unless she was spotted palming cards, the woman wasn’t breaking any rules. Obviously, some kind of ring was going on. Two unlikely players winning in exactly the same pattern—security would record their pictures, watch for them, and might bar them from the casino. But if the ring sent a different person in every time, security would never be able to catch them, or even figure out how they were doing it.
None of it made sense.
The man in the tuxedo shirt reached into his pocket, maybe fumbling for cash or extra chips. Whatever he drew out was small enough to cup in his fist. He brought his hand to his face, uncurled his fingers, and blew across his palm, toward the woman sitting next to him.
She vanished, only for a heartbeat, flickering in and out of sight like the image on a staticky TV. Julie figured she’d blinked or that something was wrong with her eyes. She was working too hard, getting too tired, something. But the woman—she stared hard at the stone-faced man, then scooped her chips into her oversized handbag, rushing so that a few fell on the floor around her, and she didn’t even notice. Hugging the bag to her chest, she fled.
Still no tip, unless you counted what she’d dropped.
The man rose to follow her. Julie reached across the table and grabbed his arm.
“What just happened?” she demanded.
The man regarded her with icy blue eyes. “You saw that?” His tone was curious, scientific almost.
“It’s my table; of cou
rse I saw it,” she said.
“And you see everything that goes on here?”
“I’m good at my job.”
“The cameras won’t even pick up what I did,” he said, nodding to the ceiling.
“What you did? Then it did happen.”
“You’d be better off if you pretended it didn’t.”
“I know what I saw.”
“Sometimes eyes are better than cameras,” he said, turning a faint smile.
“Is everything all right?” Ryan stood by Julie, who still had her hand on the man’s arm.
She didn’t know how to answer that and blinked dumbly at him. Finally, she pulled her arm away.
“Your dealer is just being attentive,” the man said. “One of the other players seemed to have a moment of panic. Very strange.”
Like he hadn’t had a hand in it.
Ryan said, “Why don’t you take a break, Julie? Get something to eat, come back in an hour.”
She didn’t need a break. She wanted to flush the last ten minutes out of her mind. If she kept working, she might be able to manage, but Ryan’s tone didn’t invite argument.
“Yeah, okay,” she murmured, feeling vague.
Meanwhile, the man in the white shirt was walking away, along the casino’s carpeted main thoroughfare, following the woman.
Rushing now, Julie cleaned up her table, signed out with Ryan, and ran after the man.
“You, wait a minute!”
He turned. She expected him to argue, to express some kind of frustration, but he remained calm, mildly inquisitive. As if he’d never had a strong emotion in his life. She hardly knew what to say to that immovable expression.
She pointed. “You spotted it—you saw she was cheating.”
“Yes.” He kept walking—marching, rather—determinedly. Like a hunter stalking a trail before it went cold. Julie followed, dodging a bachelorette party—a horde of twentysomething women in skintight minidresses and overteased hair—that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The man slipped out of their way.
“How?” she said, scrambling to keep close to him.
