A Plain-Dealing Villain

by Craig Schaefer

  “Hi there,” I said, stepping right into his path.

  Stanwyck stopped in his tracks, off-balance, just in time for Amy to collide with him from the side. He then stumbled into Bentley, coming up on his right and pushing him into me. I caught him by the lapels of his jacket, steadying him, while Amy patted his back. Amy and Bentley hurled profuse apologies at him, buffeting Stanwyck from both sides as he yanked away from me in a sudden panic.

  “It’s fine,” he said, holding up his hands. “It’s fine.”

  Bentley and Amy disappeared into the crowd as quickly as they’d appeared. Stanwyck didn’t notice, too fixated on me standing in his path.

  “You can’t hurt me here,” he said quickly, looking to Trevor. “That’s right, right? He can’t even touch me here.”

  “That’s right,” Trevor said, studying his fingernails and sounding bored. “No fighting. Club rules.”

  “Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, Stanwyck. No, I think the word hurt is way, way too mild for what I’m going to do to you.”

  A shadow pooled at my feet, murky and darker than it had any right to be. Around us, tiny shadows the size of cockroaches scurried to join the growing puddle. Easy, I thought, I get the message.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Stanwyck said. “I just wanted the goddamn dagger. You saw what happened. Coop jumped me.”

  “I saw you shoot him dead. I saw you blast Augie’s skull open. And twice now—twice now—I’ve seen you take a shot at me.”

  “That was self-defense. You were sure as hell gonna kill me, so what was I supposed to do? Damn it, what do I have to do to get you off my back?”

  “Bring Coop and Augie back to life,” I said. “Barring that? I suggest you enjoy your last few hours on Earth. No, he’s right, I can’t hurt you here. Here. But the second the tournament is over and those doors open, I’ll be waiting for you outside. And there’s only one way out of this building.”

  I didn’t know if that was true, but he obviously believed me. “You—you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. There’s gotta be a hundred people here. There’ll be witnesses—”

  “Take a good look around,” I told him. “These aren’t the kind of people who call the cops. And I don’t care what they see. Don’t you get it, Stanwyck? You don’t belong here. You’re an outsider. And you smell like an outsider smells, and you walk like an outsider walks, and not a single person in this entire club—including Trevor here—will shed one tear if I gun you down like a dog in the street.”

  His eyes were wide as his face jerked toward Trevor.

  “Is—is that true?”

  “Which part?” Trevor said. “That nobody will call the police? Yeah, that’s pretty much right.”

  “Then why did you bring me here, you son of a bitch?”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Trevor said, taking a step back. “Because you needed a chance to win some fast money, and I came through. Hey, I didn’t have to sponsor your entry. A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’ll leave you two to talk,” I said. “See you soon, Stanwyck. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  I had no intention of following through on that threat—and besides, given the high-end sports cars sitting unguarded in the parking lot, I had a hunch Management’s protection extended a bit farther than the front door—but from the look on Stanwyck’s face he’d bought the lie hook, line, and sinker.

  I turned and walked away. My shadow shed roach-sized blobs as I strode across the room, and they wriggled away to the darkest corners of the club.

  37.

  When I got back to Caitlin, she was having a chat with Royce. They wore nearly identical expressions of strained politeness.

  “—of course I’m not saying you had anything to do with the attempted theft,” Royce said, “but the human is your property, which makes you at least partially—”

  “And I told you,” Caitlin replied, “that a formal apology will be sent.”

  I shrugged and held up my open palms. “Aw, there I go, causing trouble again.”

  “Oh good, you’re both here now,” Royce said. “I was just explaining to Caitlin that due to…recent events, we’ve been forced to bulk up security for the tournament, and we strongly recommend not testing us on that. Any attempt to disrupt today’s event will be considered an act of grave hostility.”

  “Security?” I asked. “Like the Chippendales Nadine brought with her? I’m not kidding, Royce, I think those guys are off-duty strippers. I hope you’re not paying her a consultation fee.”

  Royce arched one eyebrow. “Oh, no, I think we can do better than that.”

  He snapped his fingers at one of Nadine’s men, who walked over leading a shaggy German shepherd on a long black leash. I caught a crackle of stray magic, and the faint glow behind the dog’s sharp eyes told me what we were dealing with. The shepherd had a hijacker.

  I’d seen this kind of security before—Lauren Carmichael had guarded her corporate headquarters the same way. Forcing a spirit into a guard dog’s body gave you the best of both worlds: a canine’s power, speed, and keen senses mixed with the intellect and creativity of a lower demon or a captive soul. The “intellect” part was the challenge. Given the humiliation factor, it was hard to find a skilled entity who would willingly take the job.

  “I just wanted to reintroduce you to an old friend,” Royce told us. “Say hello, Pinfeather.”

  The dog pushed its ears back and growled.

  “Well hello,” Caitlin said, eyeing the shepherd. “The last time I saw you, you were wearing your heart on your sleeve. Because I ripped it out and put it there.”

  Royce bent down and rubbed behind the dog’s ears. “Pinfeather is being given the rare opportunity to make amends for his failures. And if he’s a very good boy, in a hundred years or so we might give him a human body again.”

  He nodded to the dog’s handler. Pinfeather turned and padded away at a tug of the leash, still growling.

  “Now that’s arrogant,” Caitlin said. “You lecture me about my court’s behavior, then bring him over here?”

  “Anything Pinfeather told you about his mission—before you killed him, let me point out, and you did not have to do that—was purely a desperate fantasy. He was a rogue agent, acting without my prince’s sanction. Also, we wrote a letter of apology. Don’t know what else you want from us.”

  “That’s funny,” I said. “I didn’t get one. Did you send it to my old apartment? That must be why. See, it burned down while I was protecting that asshole from the Redemption Choir.”

  “I’ll see that you get a copy,” Royce said. “Just understand that we’re watching all of our contestants for any signs of cheating or underhanded behavior. I want a nice, clean tournament.”

  “Does that go both ways?” I asked.

  “Well, of course it does. I pride myself on working at the highest possible level of integrity. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s almost time to get underway.”

  I waited until he walked away before I looked at Caitlin. “That means he’s gonna cheat his ass off, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s roughly the highest possible level of integrity for him, yes.”

  I offered her my arm. “Shall we?”

  * * *

  The pedestal at the heart of the gaming parlor had been replaced by something new: a human-sized figure standing under a tattered black shroud.

  He stood perfectly still in the center of the room, surrounded by a ring of brass-rimmed green felt tables. At first I thought it might be a veiled statue, until I saw the shroud rise and fall with his slow, ragged breath. As Caitlin and I filtered in with the rest of the crowd, the figure turned. Eyes stared out from two uneven slits in the fabric. Wide, mad, and bloodshot eyes, one hazel and one blue.

  “Cait,” I murmured, “what the hell is that?”

  “A conduit. They must have brought it here so Prince Malphas can watch the tournament through its eyes.”

  Caitlin’s people had a conduit too, back in Vegas, l
iving in filth and darkness in the sub-sub-basement of a nightclub. Conduits existed in two realms at once, a living bridge between Earth and hell.

  I’d been told they were human, once. I didn’t know how they were created, and I didn’t want to.

  “It’s staring at us,” I said. The figure turned to follow our movements as we circled the room.

  “Well, Malphas knows who we are.”

  I paused. “So he’s watching us, right this second?”

  “Most likely.” Caitlin folded her arms. “And you will remember that we are diplomatic guests here and not commit whatever petty mischief you were just thinking of.”

  “How do you know I was—”

  “You get a certain look.”

  “Fine, fine.” I sighed. “You never let me have any fun.”

  Caitlin gave me a mock glare. “He said to the woman who just put up five thousand dollars so he could play a card game.”

  “Ouch. Touché.”

  She squeezed my shoulder and smiled. “Fight well. I’ll be watching.”

  I didn’t have to wait long for the shenanigans to start. I’d just found my table and gotten comfortable when Nadine swooped in.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but we have a last-minute table change. Come with me, please?”

  “I thought the table assignments were random?”

  “They are.” Her smile lit up the room. “We’ve just made it more random. We’re all about fairness here.”

  As soon as she walked me to my new table, I figured out the scam. Royce waited for me, already seated and with a glass of mineral water in his hand, eager for a showdown. I knew he couldn’t risk one of us getting knocked out of the tournament before we had a chance to play against each other. He wanted to be the one to send me home.

  When I saw who was with him, though, I knew the fix was in.

  “Calypso,” I said, “funny meeting you here.”

  The lean, dark man in the cream-colored suit chuckled as he lit a thin cigarette. I’d last encountered the bargaining demon in Reno, where we’d done a little gambling ourselves. We’d both walked away a winner and a loser that night.

  “Daniel Faust,” he said, his voice a honeyed rumble. “You know me. I go where the fun is. And I’ve been known to do a tiny bit of card-playing in my day.”

  Nadine pulled out a chair for me. I sat down, surveying the competition, and gave Royce a tight, humorless smile.

  “Let me guess,” I said, “the ‘totally random’ seating method just happened to put the best players in the tournament at this table.”

  Royce sipped his water. “Are you familiar with the word apothecia? It’s the state of finding significance in random, meaningless data. It’s a very common flaw in the human brain.”

  The meaning was loud and clear: he’d stacked the decks to make absolutely certain I went down hard, pitting me against the best of the best. If he couldn’t beat me, he’d at least guarantee that Prince Sitri’s champion went home in defeat.

  The tables at the Bast Club were smaller than what I was used to in the casinos back home. Thirty-six players spread across six tables, all aiming for one grand prize. I didn’t recognize the other three contenders at my table, but the closest, a spectacled man with thinning blond hair and a bulky turtleneck sweater, reached over and offered me his hand. He had a shaky grip, and his skin had a waxy, cheesecloth feel that reminded me of Halima.

  “I’m Herbert,” he said. “You’re not a local, are you?”

  “Daniel, and no, I’m from out of town.”

  He smiled. I thought his cheeks were unusually ruddy until I realized they didn’t have any natural color—he was wearing a light shade of blush.

  “I knew it. I know all the locals. I’m a doctor. Well, a mortician these days, but I am medically trained. If you ever need a little off-the-books patching up while you’re in town, come see me.”

  “Oh, he’ll need it,” said the player on Herbert’s left, a lanky kid with moon-crater acne. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, dressed in ripped jeans and a concert T-shirt for a band I’d never heard of. “You are all getting your asses kicked.”

  “You know,” I said, settling back in my chair, “most of the people who threaten me are old enough to shave. You might wanna wait a few years.”

  “No threat, just math. Name’s Orville. Josh Orville. You might have heard of me.”

  He said it like there wasn’t a speck of doubt in his mind. I took a little pleasure in deflating him. “Nope. Should I have?”

  “Hello?” He looked like I’d kicked him in the teeth. He wagged his wrist at me, showing off a white-gold bracelet studded with a glittering constellation of diamonds. “Josh Orville? MIT prodigy? Sole inventor of the Orville Matrix Gambling Strategy? Youngest player to ever win the World Series of Poker? Yeah. You’ve heard of me.”

  “I don’t get out much,” I told him.

  “So sorry,” Calypso said, waving his cigarette in a slow circle. “I should have asked before I lit up. Does anyone mind if I smoke?”

  “Duh, yes,” Josh snapped at him. “It’s a filthy habit. And it’s making my eyes water. I have very sensitive—”

  “But I don’t like you,” Calypso said. “Does anyone else mind, or are we all copacetic?”

  The last player, sitting back with mirrored glasses and a broad-brimmed hat slung low over his face, held up a cigar wrapped in yellowed parchment. “I don’t mind if you don’t,” he said in a thick Oklahoma drawl. “So we gonna play some cards or what?”

  Royce rose to his feet, taking another sip of water before setting his glass down.

  “Absolutely,” he said, “just let me make a few opening remarks. I think the room’s ready.”

  Nadine strolled over and ran her fingertips along Josh’s shoulder. She leaned in to whisper in his ear.

  “Oh, hey,” I said. “Kid. Seriously, you’re playing with fire there. Whatever she’s telling you, it’s nothing you want to hear.”

  The kid was obnoxious, but that didn’t mean I wanted him dead—or worse. I wasn’t prepared for the smirk on his face when he looked over at me, mirroring Nadine’s expression.

  “What, are you stupid? Mistress Nadine brought me here.”

  “We’re quite proud of Joshua’s exploits,” Nadine said. “He plays an almost perfect game of poker. Almost perfect. And he hungers for greater things. He’s ideal Roses material.”

  Josh rapped his knuckles on the table. “I win this tournament? I’m in. They’re gonna make me the best in the world. The best poker player in history.”

  I started to say something but fell silent when I caught the look on Calypso’s face. Wistful amusement gleamed in his eyes as he took a drag on his cigarette, shaking his head at me.

  “Sometimes,” he rumbled, “people have to be dragged kicking and screaming to the edge of perdition. And sometimes…they jump right in. Like they wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  With the tables full—and Prince Malphas’s shrouded conduit watching the room in slow shuffling circles, as if it were standing on a turntable—spectators packed the parlor and lined the walls. I looked back to see Caitlin, about ten feet behind me. She winked and blew me an air-kiss. I snatched it out of the air and pressed it to my heart.

  Then I took a longer look around, spotting Margaux, Bentley, and Corman in the crowd. Everybody was exactly where they needed to be.

  38.

  The room fell into a hush as Royce raised his hands. He strode in a slow circle around the shrouded conduit and grinned like a rock star.

  “Friends. Visitors. Honored guests. Welcome. These annual games are a time-honored tradition, as established by my predecessor so long ago—both as a tribute to our benevolent Prince Malphas and to the entire Choir of Greed. After all, what better way to promote the virtue? We charge you to attend, then set you at each other’s throats as you try to win your money back.”

  That got a laugh from the crowd. He paused, waiting for the ripple to subsi
de.

  “The original games were gladiatorial fights to the death. We had to revise that after a few years because, well, people stopped signing up. Now our bouts are bloodless, but no less exciting.”

  Herbert leaned my way and murmured, “Not always true. In ’08, that was the first and only year we played Monopoly. Four people died.”

  I blinked at him. “How do people die playing Monopoly?”

  “House rules.”

  “This year’s grand prize,” Royce said, “in addition to a cash pot of fifty thousand dollars, is a rare treat. A Tyrian shekel from our prince’s private art gallery, formerly owned by Judas Iscariot. A piece of living history—and who knows what dark powers it might possess?”

  “Ain’t got none,” the man with the Okie accent drawled in a low voice as he unwrapped his cigar. “Had my lab rats check it out while it was on display. Just a fancy coin is all. I’m here for the paper money. You got a light, mister?”

  Calypso turned his empty hand in a flourish, and a silver lighter sat nestled between his fingertips. He slid it across the table.

  Royce clapped his hands sharply. “And now, the rules. The game is Texas Hold’em, no limit. You will each be issued ten thousand dollars worth of chips, and there will be no rebuys. When you’re out of chips, you’re out of the game. The ante will start low and steadily increase over the course of the tournament. As we begin, the small blind is one hundred dollars, big blind is two hundred.

  “Games will last until we’ve lost enough players to consolidate tables, at which point we’ll resume after a brief intermission. Now, I shouldn’t have to say this, but we expect a clean tournament. Any cheating, be it through sleight of hand, chicanery, or the magical arts, will be punished by torture and death. Torture which, I assure you, will only be the beginning of your eternal misery once our people catch up with you in hell. I do hope we’re all on the same page here.”

  While Royce aimed that barb straight at me, I was entertaining myself watching Stanwyck at the next table over. I’d seen literal ghosts that weren’t as pale as his face.