Devil's Hand

by M. E. Patterson

“There, now. All is well, my beautiful man.”

  “Come on, come on! Stop jerking him off, Trish,” whined Snake. “Dealer! Next hand!”

  The dealer, oblivious to the goings-on, dealt the next round of cards. With a shaky hand, Trent peered beneath his two. An ace of spades and a ten of diamonds. It was a good hand, but all he could think about was demons, Salvatore, the shadow-spider, and those arms from the cloud that Celia had conjured, arms that thrashed and twisted and clawed at the air. The day, it seemed, had gone from bad to worse.

  His voice shaking, Trent muttered, “Call.”

  Snake, disgusted, flipped his cards back at the dealer. One of the cards, spinning horizontal, bounced off the dealer’s chin. He didn’t move or make any indication that he had noticed the slight. Everyone else stayed in.

  The flop came and turned up another ace, a king, and a jack. Tricia led the betting, but folded immediately. Vladimir, his face impassive, pushed ten thousand dollars worth of chips into the pot.

  “Trent,” he said quietly. “We have been watching you for some time.”

  Trent didn’t know how to respond, so he kept his mouth shut.

  Jack and Steel both folded under the weight of Vladimir’s massive bet. It was back around to Trent.

  Vladimir pondered his cards while he talked. “You seem... an anomaly to us. None were given the knowledge of fate and chance save Baraqel and Ramiel, and they fathered no children.”

  With a shaky hand, Trent pushed a matching ten thousand chips across the table to call Vladimir’s bet. “I don’t understand.”

  Everyone else was out of the hand, so the next bet fell once again on Vladimir. The dealer turned over the fourth card on the table.

  “Ace of hearts.”

  That gave Trent three aces, a very strong hand. He watched carefully to see what Vladimir would do, though his own thoughts were still preoccupied.

  Vladimir, without hesitation, pushed another ten thousand into the pot.

  “Oh, but I think you do understand,” he said quietly. “There is more to your ‘luck’ than simple chance.”

  Trent was amazed at Vladimir’s play, although with an ace, king, and jack on the table, it was not out of the question that Vladimir had turned an ace-high straight right from the flop. It would explain the old man’s–old demon’s–tenacious betting. Trent called, matching with another ten thousand.

  Vladimir smiled weakly, peered beneath his cards, and then locked eyes with him. “You know what I have. But yet, you are going to win this hand, aren’t you?” He pushed another ten thousand dollars in, despite his statement.

  Trent, still shaken, mumbled, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  But he did know exactly what the demon meant. And it had occurred to him that this was a moment where he could put the fix in–where he could take the win, even if he didn’t rightly deserve it. This was the kind of hand that he had won a thousand times over, when his chance at the win was virtually nonexistent. This was the kind of hand that had gotten him blacklisted.

  “Call.” He matched the ten thousand. Sixty thousand dollars in the pot. Not enormous for a million dollar game, but still not a small pile of cash.

  “Dealer,” Vladimir said quietly. “Let us see the next card.”

  Trent knew it could naturally go only one way if he were to win the hand. The dealer had to draw the sole remaining ace in the deck, giving Trent four aces. But yet, that was not how it was going to go. This was the unnatural anomaly that Trent had never been able to explain–the aspect of his strange luck that perplexed him, enraged opponents, and baffled casino security. His nerves on-edge, he waited for what was about to happen.

  “Three of clubs,” the dealer said, as he turned over the last card.

  Snake mumbled something inaudible to Steel.

  Vladimir frowned as he surveyed the array of cards on the table. He didn’t bother to look at his own facedown cards.

  “Perhaps I was wrong about you.”

  He pushed another stack of ten thousand chips into the pot. Trent knew then that he was going to take this hand. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. He could feel the win, burning in his ribcage, but he didn’t want to make a huge show of it, not this early in the game, and especially not with the unique nature of his opponents. Instead of a raise, he limped to the finish line with a call and quickly turned his own cards over.

  “Three aces.”

  “I’m sorry, Trent. Perhaps your luck is not as it seems. Perhaps you are no longer the luckiest man alive.”

  Vladimir used a withered finger to tip his two cards over, face-up. A king and a queen. Vladimir only had a pair of kings, not a straight. As he viewed his cards, he raised a thin eyebrow in curiosity.

  “Holy shit,” said Snake.

  Vladimir raised a hand for silence. His raspy voice came out quiet and slow as he addressed Trent. “You knew that I had the straight before, didn’t you?”

  Trent had assumed a straight in Vladimir’s hand. Years of poker had left him with a knack for predicting the cards, but unlike most gamblers, Trent could actually do something about it. The one strange caveat to his odd luck was the occasional ability to affect change–the rare moment that surfaced when Trent found himself able to bend reality to his will. Normal gamblers never noticed, their minds seemingly content to accept the new reality without question. But these players–demons, apparently–could spot the change.

  Trent shrugged. “Well, I guessed that’s what you had. I didn’t expect you’d bet so strong otherwise.”

  “He has the gift,” said Steel. “The Prophecy is true.”

  He spoke infrequently, but when he did, it seemed to carry significant weight with the other players.

  Jack Mars grinned. “See, Vlad. That’s why I banned him. Don’t know how he does it. Maybe Baraqel had some kin after all?”

  “No,” replied Vladimir without hesitation. “There have only been two creatures in twelve-thousand years who could command this manner of change. The Prophecy is impossible. Unless...” The old man seemed lost in thought.

  The dealer had already pulled and re-shuffled the cards. He pushed the large stack of chips in front of Trent. “Congratulations, sir.”

  “Uh...thanks.”

  The dealer began to distribute the next round of cards.

  Jack shook his head, still looking at Vladimir. “You don’t think–?”

  “It would be very unusual. But many things are possible.”

  Trent built up enough courage to ask, “What?”

  Vladimir turned to him, his face deadly serious and his eyes glowing bright red.

  “When we are done here tonight, there is one you should speak to. But we will discuss this more in time. For now, there are things you have earned the right to understand.”

  “Oh,” was all Trent could think of to say.

  The play continued around the table.

  “This world is older than most believe,” Vladimir began. “And far more dangerous. What have you learned of religion, Trent?”

  Trent shrugged. “Not much. Just what they taught me in Sunday school.”

  Vladimir suddenly changed topic. “You seem to be traveling with a dangerous companion.”

  Trent glanced at Celia. He felt bad about all the things she had had to witness today, all the nightmares come true.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he replied. “That old man’s been hunting her all day. And that spider thing is after me. One of your friends?”

  “Oh?” Vladimir seemed surprised. He turned to Jack, “You didn’t say they had been running from a Render.”

  “I thought they were just running from the cops and the grig,” Jack replied. He looked at Trent. “You know, Metro thinks you’re the kidnapper.”

  Trent nodded. “Yeah, I’d gathered.”

  “So, wait,” said Snake, with a sly grin on his face. “She’s not your niece? Oh, this gets even better!”

  “Quiet, Snake!” Vladimir shot back. “If she is as I suspect,
then you’re running from Zamagiel. That is his true name.”

  Trent recognized it as the name Charlie had mentioned. “Goes by Salvatore now,” he murmured.

  Vladimir smiled. “In his current body, perhaps. I pity the poor, unfortunate soul whose life he has usurped, though I’d imagine he hasn’t forgotten who he is, and who he was. But your fate is greater than his, Trent. If you are who you seem to be, then you will destroy him for us.” Vladimir’s red eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “And you will continue to do our bidding, to cleanse the world of more of his kind. The Prophecy foretells it.”

  Trent hated being told what to do. It was a character trait he had picked up from his adoptive father.

  “I’ve already taken him down. He’s bleeding out as we speak. And the only people I did it for was her”–he aimed a finger at Celia– “and my wife, Susan.”

  Vladimir shook his head. “He’s not as easy to destroy as that.” He frowned. “And what makes you think the death of Zamagiel will end all of this? Is revenge ever that simple?”

  “It can’t hunt us anymore if it’s dead.”

  “But others will. Zamagiel and his associates are raising an army. An army, Trent. They intend to take this earth–from you, from us, from everyone. It will become a place of shadow, a place of unnamed horrors. They will bring about the End Times, and the Great War will leave this place in ruin. Everything you see, everything you love, will be gone.”

  Trent spoke quietly. “Everything I love is already gone.”

  “Gone, Trent? Or sacrificed?”

  Trent snorted, but refused to answer. Instead, he opted to counter with his own question. “Then why don’t you kill him– all of them– whatever? You’re demons, right? You deal with this!”

  Vladimir sat back in his chair and sighed. “There are rules. There have only been two wars in Heaven, and both were quite terrible.”

  The others stopped playing cards. Even the dealer stood back from the table. Trent noticed that Snake’s head bowed slightly, his eyes closed. Tricia drummed her fingernails on the table, not impatient, but nervous.

  Vladimir’s eyes narrowed. “Many of us were destroyed for what we believed. And when the War ended, God decreed that no more would an angel be permitted to destroy another. The punishment is eternal execration in the places of shadow. Only when the next war comes will any of us willingly enter into combat with those of our own kind. For now, a mortal must fulfill the Prophecy. It has been written thus.”

  “So you think I’m your loophole, huh? You get me to fight your battles by proxy so you don’t go to jail? That’s honorable.”

  Tricia winked at him. Her voice was a whisper of nostril-burning cinnamon and rotten eggs. “We never said we were honorable.”

  Trent sniffed, trying to clear his sinuses of the pungent aroma. “So what if I say no? What if I walk away from all of this? What if I leave?”

  “Do as you wish.” Vladimir shrugged. “Zamagiel will cleanse this place in his mad quest to restore the Garden. And then the War will break upon the mortal shores. You and Celia will be running for the rest of your short lives, as will all of the others of her ilk.”

  “Others?”

  Vladimir raised an eyebrow.

  “You think she’s the only one of her kind? Many of the grigori children are awakening. And every last one of them will be hunted and captured. Many will be killed. Those who are not will join in willing or unwilling allegiance with their Watcher ancestors. An army, Trent–they will first bring forth an army of power-hungry grigori and abaddi, the shades from the Realms of Darkness. And then the grigori will enlist their twisted children and scores of mortals weak-willed enough to bend to their seductive words. An army you will have to face, whether you like it or not.”

  “Why now? Thousands of years and you’re just now getting around to starting your third war?”

  “This war has been raging quietly for millennia. But true Armageddon looms when Man begins to lose faith. And Man has lost so much faith. Look around you. How many of your kind would bend to a voice that offers them untold power? How many of your kind followed Hitler? Stalin? Milosevic? Hussein? How many of your children slaughter each other in the streets? How many, Trent?”

  By the end of his speech, Vladimir was nearly shouting and had risen a little from his seat. He relaxed and settled himself. His voice grew quiet and raspy again.

  “I would imagine it comes as no surprise that things in this world have reached a tipping point. Your strange gift may permit you to tip things in the favor of your race, a situation that would also favor ours.”

  Trent spent a long minute considering. The others resumed play. He didn’t like being used, and it was all a bit much to swallow. But after the things he had seen in only a handful of hours, it was hard to ignore Vladimir’s words, and those red, red eyes.

  They had reached the end of a round of cards and Trent quietly turned his cards over to reveal a pair of jacks. Everyone else at the table turned over theirs to find something only marginally worse. Trent eyed each of the demons carefully.

  His voice was tired. “And why should I join your side, the side of the demons? How are you any better than the grigori, the Watchers? Or these ‘shades?’ And what about the angels? Some of them are left, right? Shouldn’t I join them?”

  “The Watchers have allied with the Realms of Shadow. Together, they seek no less than the destruction of your world. They will fill this place with black nothing, and the dark ones will pour across the face of the earth. We, the pride-fallen, are content with the current status quo. We see no purpose in destroying this place or its inhabitants.”

  Vladimir sneered. “And as for the so-called angels– I do not believe you will want to meet them. Your race has ruined the world they sought to preserve. I think you will find them far less accommodating than we. They do not trust your kind any longer.”

  “Doesn’t God have something to say about all of this?”

  “God.” Vladimir paused for a moment, considering the question. “God, in His infinite wisdom, permits the cards to fall as they may. His purposes, His motives, are inscrutable and unknowable. And all of us have a hand to play.”

  The dealer finished shuffling the deck and began to distribute the final round of the game.

  Vladimir continued, while peering beneath his newly dealt cards. “As is often the case in this world, you must play the hand that you are dealt.”

  Trent looked beneath his cards. He had been dealt a pair of sixes.

  “There are things, Mr. Hawkins, which you will need to come to terms with if you intend to confront one such as Zamagiel.” The old man pondered his cards. “And then there are the Realms of Shadow, which your prophets called ‘Abaddon.’ It is the only place between Heaven and Hell that God will not judge in the final days. It is the place where all mortals go upon death, before they are chosen to go above or below. Those who are not chosen, remain in the shadows forever.”

  “Purgatory?” Trent muttered.

  “In a sense, yes, but it is more than simply a waiting room for mortal afterlife. There are things in that place that are truly incomprehensible. And the grigori have established deals with the Prince of Shadow, deals that enable them to bring the foul creatures into this world. And the Prince himself sends his own hunters to this plane–”

  Snake interrupted. “You actually survived a fight with a Render?”

  “Yeah. Two, actually.”

  Snake nodded, looking impressed. “It’s a kind of shade. Things are really good at sniffing out gibbori, Watcher-kids.” He gestured at Celia. “Like your chicky over there. Can smell ‘em for miles away.”

  “It was after me, I think.”

  Vladimir cut back into the conversation. “I highly doubt it,” he said. “But in either case, it must be destroyed.”

  “Will bullets work?”

  To Trent’s surprise, Steel answered, his iron-filled voice booming, “God created all things in this world. He left these things for Luc
ifer to name. Lucifer, preoccupied with his creation of Adam, failed at this task. Those beasts that went unnamed were lost to the shadows. But they are still creatures.”

  “They can harm it, can send it back to the Realms of Shadow for a time,” replied Vladimir, frowning. “But they cannot end it. Only fire or an angel’s blade can do that. Trent, you must understand fully what is happening here. As I said before, this is a war and you cannot fight it alone, no matter how many bullets you carry.”

  “So I should choose your side. You’ve made that pretty clear already.”

  “That choice remains to be seen. It is one you will have to make.” He paused and then turned toward Celia. “It is a choice she will have to make as well.”

  From beneath the momentary silence, Celia cried out, her voice strained, full of anger and horror and grief.

  “What am I?!” she screamed, her eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming down her face. “Am I a monster?!”

  She began to sob, momentarily exhausted by the question. But another wave of fury rose in her, even as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Tell me!” she yelled.

  The outburst shocked Trent to silence. All around the table suddenly seemed on-edge. All except Vladimir, who stood slowly from his chair and faced the corner of the room where Celia wept. He raised his voice louder than it had been at any time during the evening.

  “My child, you are first a mortal. One of the Race of Man. But what you will become–” He paused, searching for the exact words that should come next. “That is for you to choose.” He whirled on Trent then, anger in his eyes. “But know this! You have a part to play in this war, Mr. Hawkins. Whatever your choice, the Prophecy has been written, and you seem to fit the riddles. You are involved, whether you like it or not.”

  “And what if we don’t want to be on your side of the war?” Trent stood up from his seat to face Vladimir on his own level. He leaned in. “What if I destroy Zamagiel and then walk away, from all of this, from you, from the demons, from the grigori, from your ancient war? What will you do to me then? Kill me?”

  Vladimir’s hand shot forward, striking Trent square in the forehead. The hand was withered, pale, and ended in claws. The blow to Trent’s head knocked him backwards, sending the chair clattering to the floor and Trent with it. In a flash, Vladimir was above him, his desiccated grip wrapped around the fallen man’s wrist.