by Zoë Archer
“The time draws near,” she said.
Zora was amazed at how far Livia had come since first she appeared to her in Whit’s gaming room; her eyes and wits sharpened with each manifestation. Perhaps the more the ghost interacted with the world, the more her mind anchored. Whatever the cause, Zora was grateful that her and Whit’s lone ally could finally speak sense—even though Zora did not much want to hear sense right now. She wanted this day to last forever. It didn’t.
She and Whit got to their feet, brushing leaves off each other and plucking away stray bits of grass clinging to their hair and clothing. As if they were merely returning from a picnic.
“Have you everything needed for this scheme?” the ghost asked.
Whit drew his pocket watch from his waistcoat. He ran his thumb back and forth over the silver case, his expression brooding. An old watch, much used and, in its way, much loved. Zora remembered seeing him with it soon after he’d taken her to London. The Rom knew the value of objects—not merely their worth in coin, but significance. As roving people, they did not prize land, nor anything too large to easily move, yet what could be passed from one generation to the next was deeply cherished.
Whit had land. He owned many objects, small and large. And seemed to give none of them any thought. Not so this pocket watch. He had told her that it once belonged to his grandfather, a man with the same name as Whit. She had studied him when he had revealed this. Despite the distance he felt from his family and birthright, the pocket watch held meaning for him, a connection even he did not fully understand.
“I have this,” he said, “and my control of the odds.”
“Don’t forget, you have me,” added Zora.
He ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “I never forget, and I never assume.”
Zora tried to speak and found that for the first time she could not. Her throat ached with unsaid words, and something more.
“If you are prepared,” said Livia, urgent, “we must begin. Now, while my power is strong enough.”
“One moment more.” Whit brushed a kiss across Zora’s lips. He might have meant it to be sweet and tender, yet nothing between them could last in so mild a state. The kiss grew hungry. It couldn’t be ignored any longer: this might be the last time they would ever touch.
They pulled back just enough to take each other’s breath. His lips hovered less than an inch from hers.
“A Gypsy and a gentleman gambler,” he murmured. “An unlikely pair.”
“An unbeatable pair,” she said.
They both smiled ruefully, for though she spoke with bravado, neither truly believed her. But that was the nature of the bluff—pretending just enough to reach the desired outcome.
Reluctantly, they stepped apart. Zora signaled her readiness with a nod.
From this point on, there was only moving forward. By the next sunrise, Whit would be either saved or eternally damned, which would damn her, as well.
Having walked into town, Whit now stood in the grimy square outside the gaming hell. His pulse beat thickly, his mouth was dry, and his skin was taut over his muscles and bones. He resisted the impulse to touch the timepiece in his waistcoat pocket. If anyone watched the street from within the gaming hell, the person would surely take note of any gesture he made. He had to appear as any gentleman eager to risk fortune.
He smoothed his hair in its queue and tugged on his coat. Yet before he took a step, a voice stopped him.
“You’ve the same needs, despite your claims to the contrary.”
Turning, Whit watched Bram emerge from the shadows. In his long black coat, his hair dark and his eyes haunted, his old friend seemed made of shadows, separating only a little from their veiled darkness to stand three paces away.
Whit’s hand hovered near his pistol in his coat. “Whatever your purpose here, I have not the time to indulge you.”
“This place”—Bram tilted his head toward the gaming hell—“it’s no different from what can be yours in London.”
“After slicing me with your blade, you still want me to return to you and the other Hellraisers?” Whit could not keep the suspicion from his voice. “Why? To what purpose?”
“Because that is how it is meant to be.” Bram took a step closer, and weak lamplight chiseled his face into a collection of sharp surfaces. “You and I, the others. We carve the world to suit our needs. Almost nothing stopped us before, and with our gifts, nothing can ever stand in our way.”
“We stand in our way. No matter how deeply we’ve fallen, there yet exists in us some honor.”
“I saw enough honor in my military service to know that it’s valueless.”
“But you have value, Bram.”
Bram’s mouth twisted cruelly. “I thought us friends, that you above all knew me. I was mistaken.”
How had Whit not seen it? The corrosion eating his friend from the inside out? Surely Mr. Holliday had known, and preyed upon that, as he preyed upon all of the Hellraisers’ weaknesses. The Devil saw what Whit either could not or refused to see.
“I did you a disservice,” said Whit. “And for that, I am sorry.”
Whatever Bram was expecting, it was not an apology. He could only glare at Whit with a mixture of hostility and confusion.
Whit took a step toward the gaming hell. He could not linger outside, for there was work to be done within. Yet Bram stopped him once more.
“That Gypsy wench. The fiery one.”
Whit tensed. “What of her?”
Bram made a show of looking around. “Her absence is conspicuous.”
“Women aren’t allowed in gaming hells.”
“Then she is nearby.” Bram smiled predatorily. “She might need companionship.”
“Spare her your excellent company.” The edge in Whit’s voice could cut through bone.
Yet Bram was a predator, and when he sensed a weakness, he attacked it. “Here’s a dilemma for you, Whit. Either indulge your need for gaming, or keep me from your woman. Which is it to be?”
When Whit said nothing, holding himself taut and still, Bram’s smile widened.
“Enjoy your night’s sport. I know I shall.” Bram sauntered away, his long coat a black wake as it billowed behind him.
It took several moments, but Whit eventually unclenched his fists. He could do nothing for or about Bram. Now, his only goal lay on the other side of the gaming hell door. He strode up the steps, conscious the whole time of the slight weight of his pocket watch.
Before he could raise his hand to knock, the door opened. The gaming hell’s bully filled the doorway, then stepped back and, with his giant hand, waved Whit in.
“Lord Whitney.”
Of course they knew him, and his intentions. Whit only hoped that was all that comprised their knowledge.
He straightened his shoulders and stepped inside. The door shut behind him.
For all that he had anticipated what might be inside this place, he still gave an involuntary start when he saw the face of the bully. It wasn’t a man, not even a very big man.
It was a demon. Dressed like a man. The creature had leathery red skin, a protruding brow, horns and tusks. Yet it wore a waistcoat, shirtsleeves, and breeches. No shoes upon its huge, taloned feet. A demon footman in Manchester.
“Down the hall, to the back,” it grunted. Sounds of play rang out from the gaming room, the cacophony of men’s shouts, coins clinking, and the rattle of dice. That, at least, was familiar.
As Whit moved toward the gaming room, a heavy clawed hand gripped his shoulder.
“Weapons with me, my lord.”
He did not want to disarm himself, but it was to be expected. He divested himself of his pistol and hunting knife. Now he was armed only with his mastery over probability and the plan. They both could not fail.
Satisfied, the massive demon jerked its head to indicate Whit could move on. He gladly did so.
He walked down a corridor lit by dozens of reeking tallow candles. Framed pictures portrayed
men surrounded by wealth, food and drink worthy of a feast, and soft, pale women largely bereft of clothing, smiling beguilingly. Every man’s fantasy. Peering closer, he noticed that the women had snakes’ tongues, the food was rotten, and the piles of coins were tarnished. He wondered how many patrons bothered to look carefully.
Certainly none of the men he passed in the corridor gave much thought to their surroundings. They staggered in from smaller side rooms, holding cups of wine, roaring with laughter or cursing one another.
Whit followed the growing din. Until at last he found himself in the gaming room. His heart kicked, to be back amidst the world he knew so well, the thrill of chance that continued to pull at him. And here was chance in abundance.
Blistering heat. A press of bodies. Sulfurous candlelight turning desperate men’s faces into sweat-filmed, red-eyed grotesques. They crowded the tables, waving fists, throwing dice and slapping down cards. The chamber shook with their voices, harsh and discordant. He could taste despair and hopelessness in the air, turning the atmosphere rancid. At the far end of the chamber, a blaze burned in a massive fireplace, throwing long shadows over the walls.
In all of this, the chamber was much the same as a multitude of gaming hells. The men were a little rougher than his usual London crowd—though most here had means. The gestures toward decoration were minimal and poorly kept, yet the tables for hazard and piquet were familiar. Even the looks of desperation on the patrons’ faces were recognizable, if less disguised than normal.
The patrons did not surprise Whit, but the staff did.
More demons. Of every size and shape. They were clothed like men, but there was no escaping the fact that they were, indeed, demons.
Some were small, bat-winged imps. These creatures fetched wine on dented pewter plates. The piquet dealers stood the same height as men but had the bulging eyes and gray, bumpy skin of toads, their hands webbed, their mouths filled with jagged teeth. Other creatures were bones—not skeletons, but collections of bones held together by some sinister power in the rough shape of men. Finger bones and ribs and teeth and bones belonging to parts of the anatomy Whit could not begin to speculate. Embers burned in the eye sockets. Dice rattled in their bony hands as they presided over the hazard tables.
This truly was a gaming hell.
None of the men within it noticed. They continued on in their play, deep in their games, and entirely unaware that they gambled amidst creatures from the underworld. They had no idea that what they staked was more than money.
The crowds parted and a man appeared, as if summoned by Whit’s thoughts. Even across the room, Whit recognized him. The man was no man, yet it shared Whit’s face, his shape, his gestures. His dark self.
His geminus.
“Excellent timing, my lord.” The creature played the affable host, smiling, arms open. “The game is about to begin.”
“What is it to be? Piquet? Vingt-et-un?” The geminus guided him forward, offering anything a gambler could want.
“Hazard,” said Whit.
The geminus smiled wider. “Of course. I should have known. This way, my lord.”
Whit followed the creature to a corner of the room, near the colossal fireplace. The flames within threw off blistering heat, and as he neared, sweat coated his back and his clothing stuck to him like someone else’s skin.
He and the geminus took up their places at a table covered in dark red baize. A bone demon stepped forward and bowed, its body creaking with every movement. It presented Whit with a pair of dice. The carved ivory pieces were almost indistinguishable from the bones of its hand, save for the small black pips marking the dice.
Cold bones brushed Whit’s hand as he took the dice.
“What shall we play for?” The geminus maintained its cordiality, and, in a way, Whit was glad, for it meant that the creature suspected nothing.
“A thousand pounds.”
Disquieting, seeing the geminus offer the precise expression of careful boredom Whit implemented so often at the tables. “Trivial,” it drawled. “Yet a fitting way to commence.”
“If my lord would be so kind as to call your main.” The hazard table attendant’s voice was a rasping scrape, the disturbing sound of bone against bone.
“Six.” Whit rolled the dice. As he did, he delved into the patterns of probability, knowing he would have to play his strategies carefully.
The dice came up a five. This number would now be his chance. He would have to roll again, and hope for a five.
“A side bet,” said the geminus. “Two thousand pounds that your main will come up before your chance.”
“Done.”
He rolled twice more, letting control over the odds go as slack as a cast fishing line before reeling it in. His chance came up.
“Five,” intoned the bone demon. “A nicks. You win, my lord.”
Whit indulged in the briefest pleasure—he still enjoyed winning, no matter the circumstances.
The geminus yawned. “These bets are inconsequential. And, I’d wager, not why you came here this evening.”
“Higher stakes would add some piquancy.” He, too, could affect the proper boredom, even as his ribs felt tight and his mind raced.
“Then wager something of significance.”
“If I’m to risk something I value,” Whit said leisurely, “it is only fair that you, too, make a meaningful wager.”
The geminus laughed—Whit’s laugh, the same he utilized at the gaming table, the one that showed superficial amusement.
“By all means,” the creature said, smirking, “let us not waste time on the preliminaries. If you win this next round, I shall grant you fifteen more years on top of your original life span.”
Whit was tempted to ask how long he was slated to live, but he did not truly want to know the answer. He did know that fifteen more years merely delayed the inevitable, if Mr. Holliday still possessed his soul.
“And if you lose this next round,” the geminus continued, “you shall give me the Gypsy girl.”
Whit’s hands ached as he gripped the edge of the table, struggling to keep from beating the creature senseless. At that very moment, Bram prowled the streets of Manchester in search of Zora. Whit spoke through clenched teeth. “She isn’t mine to wager.”
The geminus raised a brow. “The latest intelligence suggests otherwise.”
“Whitston. That is my wager. Unless you have taken it already.”
“My subordinates ran your servants and tenants off, and have made themselves comfortable. You have already met them.”
Whit struggled to keep from choking the life out of the geminus, remembering the demon-borne illness that nearly cost Zora her life. He took some comfort in knowing that the staff and tenants had not been truly harmed. As for the house and lands, they were valued but hadn’t the worth of human life.
The estate had belonged to Whit’s family for centuries. It provided the source of their wealth, the foundation of their power. He had other estates, yet none of them carried the significance of Whitston.
The geminus knew this. It grinned, an awful parody of himself. “What is left of the house and its lands is still yours. Yet, at this juncture, there is something I must disclose. Only sporting of me.”
“Yes?”
“The gift that Mr. Holliday granted you. Power over probability. It operates differently in this gaming establishment.”
Whit stilled. “Tell me.”
“In here, your mastery over the odds is reversed. The more important the wager is to you, the less control you have over probability.”
Whit took a moment to absorb this. “I will lose,” he said tightly.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is truly gambling, not certainty.” The geminus gave another ghastly smile. “You remember gambling, don’t you, my lord? There was a time when you lived for nothing else. So, shall we play?”
He stared at the creature. Continue on, or turn back? His gaze moved down to his left hand, covered by the Devil’s ma
rk. He thought of Zora, his vibrant Gypsy, the heat in her eyes and fire in her soul. He wore her ring around his neck. Retreat was impossible when it meant losing her.
“We play.” He scooped up the dice. “Eight.”
He cast the dice, diving into the shifting structures of probability. Just as the geminus had predicted, he now found the structures of probability difficult to hold. Like wriggling snakes, they struggled to slip from his grasp. As the pieces of ivory rolled across the table, he fought to hold and shape probability as he needed it.
The dice came to a stop. Two sixes.
“Twelve,” announced the bone demon. “A nicks. You have won again, my lord.”
A thin smile from the geminus. Yet Whit did not feel much sense of victory. He was about to take his biggest gamble.
Zora hated this, hated knowing that Whit was out there, alone. His strength and skill were never in doubt, but he faced an enemy that obeyed no rules and had limitless power at its disposal. Even with his fighting ability, his manipulation of probability, he was still at a huge disadvantage. He needed someone at his side, someone to watch his back, face the inevitable treachery with him.
She burned with impatience. This has to end now.
Yet there was nothing for her to do. For now, all she could do was wait. Her time was coming. Soon.
“Only preliminaries, as you say.” Whit braced his hands on the table. He drew upon his wellsprings of calm, the gambler’s lack of affect that was at one time more familiar to him than open laughter or anger. Zora had dragged him from his self-imposed impassivity, the blank emptiness within giving way to unbridled feeling. True, it was easier to feel nothing, free from true pain or loss, yet that meant living less than half a life.
She had blazed into his world, waking him from cold dormancy. Blood and sensation filled his body. His thawed heart. Because of her.
“My purpose is doubtless clear to you,” he said.
“To gamble for your soul.” Thoughtful, the geminus frowned. “Why should I wager my master’s valuable possession? It already belongs to him.”
