The Gambler’s Prize
Chapter 1
Grimes
I’m the only sober one in the whole casino, except for the staff.
It’s sweaty as shit in here. The air is thick and cloying with the scent of spilled, over-sugared alcohol and too many people’s smoky breaths.
Windows are pushed wide open, but night air can’t compete with the heat in here.
I shut my eyes, claustrophobia closing in.
For a moment I almost hear phantom shouts and arguments from down the corridor.
I almost expect to hear my cell door clank shut. The turn of the key.
Someone jostles my arm. My eyes snap open, and I’m back in the present.
I take a few breaths as the casino rematerializes before my eyes.
Musicians on a raised stage preside over a swaying, grinding crowd on the dance floor.
Glasses clink. There’s raucous laughter, the swoosh of the roulette wheel.
Wails of despair as someone is ruined. Shrieks of triumph as someone wins enough to live in luxury for the rest of their life.
Those come a lot less often. My hood muffles the noise as I pass silently through the crowd.
A half-naked young man puts a pretty hand on my arm, asking if I want to buy him some chips.
I shake him off, ignoring his annoyed pout.
So many distractions, no time to think. That’s why the house always wins.
That, and the fact that most of the games are rigged. Except tonight. Tonight, I win.
I’m not stupid enough to play against the house.
I have one man in my sights: Lord Florian Southland.
My prize. He sits at an afi table, watching the dealer from behind a glass of something sweet and strong and expensive.
He’s very pretty. Long shining dark hair, tied back with velvet.
Deep, bright blue eyes, like a cloudless sky.
Pretty, lightweight muscles. He’s been poured into those butter-soft breeches that cling to him like a second skin.
His white shirt is buttoned low, exposing his chest almost to the belly.
His skin is light. He’s Rhennian, like me, but he must have some Vennan blood to be so pale.
That physique he’s so eager to show off is in good shape, but his athleticism comes from rich-boy pastimes like fencing lessons and horseback riding.
Not the bone-deep power of years of backbreaking labor.
Not like me. I could break him like a twig.
He takes an umbrella from his drink and spears a cherry, popping it into his mouth.
Through the whole orchestrated move, which I’m sure he’s practiced in front of a mirror, he holds eye contact with another man.
The man looks across the smooth green playing surface with wide, hopeful eyes, like all his birthdays have come at once.
I can see why. Lord Florian really is very pretty.
His eyes are innocent-looking, even as he flaunts himself.
But he’s no innocent. He has plans for tonight.
Plans I’ll be absolutely delighted to ruin.
I slide into a spare seat at the afi table, waiting for the other gamblers’ tacit permission to join the game.
The dealer won’t deal me in until they all nod.
I’ve gotten used to hiding my thoughts over the last few years, but I avoid eye contact with Lord Florian. Just in case he’s unusually perceptive.
I wonder why he came to this city at all.
My investigating tells me that he’s lived here for the last six months.
Galbrava is a frontier town built on goldmining and not much else.
The people are rough, the liquor kicks like a mule, and the laws are rudimentary.
There are none of the fine restaurants, coffee houses, theaters, dance halls and gentlemen’s clubs that Florian loved to frequent back in Rhennes.
Still, Galbrava is just within the Rhennian empire.
The King and Queen tolerate the city’s many flaws because of the steady stream of gold that runs from this desert city all the way back to Rhennes.
Maybe that’s why little Lord Florian lives here.
Perhaps he likes to dance with danger. He’s one of the few aristocrats here at the casino tonight.
Most of the customers are from humbler origins, but there are always a few wild, rich young men who like to play tourist. Play with fire, and go home safe.
But Lord Florian Southland won’t be going back to his boarding house tonight.
He’ll be coming home with me.