Chapter 24 #2
She waited for him to play it—but what could she do, even if he did? Unless someone else at the table had the true king of
spades, there was no way for them to know he’d cheated.
Worse, Oliver folded, as if he knew better than to risk this hand. He was being infuriatingly careful.
They’d underestimated him. And now she was stuck in the card room, wearing an invisibility ring that might lose its conjury at any moment.
But she hadn’t spent two years in hell to be bested by a rich prick from the Society of the Charmed.
She had rare transformation conjury—the very conjury Grace had used to make Oliver his face-changing cards.
The hands were dealt again, and antes thrown, but this time, Emmy did not wait for Oliver to glimpse his downturned card,
instead running her invisible finger along it as she envisioned an ace of hearts. Before the dealer finished, she quickly
touched the burly man’s card, too, giving him the exact same ace.
Fifty-two cards in the deck. Six men at this table, each with one downturned card—and four upturned cards on the way—for thirty
total cards. She couldn’t calculate the odds, not when she could hardly breathe, but if anyone was dealt the true ace of hearts,
there’d be too many fakes for Oliver alone to take the blame.
The true ace of hearts, mercifully, was not dealt in the upturned cards, though with Emmy’s help, both Oliver and the burly
man each received another ace. With a killer hand, Oliver bet even more aggressively than usual, but the burly man matched
him, dollar for dollar. Please don’t fold, she wished fervently, over and over. Don’t fold, don’t fold . . .
“All right, gentlemen. Let’s see ’em.”
With a haughty grin, Oliver flipped his ace of hearts. Murmurs and appreciative whistles spread about the table, and Oliver
began to collect his enormous pile of winnings—but his opponent stood abruptly. “He cheated.”
About damn time. Making herself small, Emmy began to tiptoe toward the door.
“Now, now.” Oliver waggled his finger at the man. “That’s a lofty accusation from someone who just lost, fair and square.”
“You little bastard—look.” The man flipped over his ace of hearts, and the room went so quiet, Emmy had to stop moving.
“Impossible!” Oliver stared at the identical aces. “I was dealt this, I swear!”
The dealer stood up. “Well, one of you’s cheating.”
“And only one of us has been winning all night.”
“All week.”
The burly man glanced around the table. “Should we have a look for ourselves?”
One instant, all six men were seated at the table. The next, they were jumping out of their chairs.
She dove under the table, crashing into the chair legs. Someone bumped her feet, and she curled up in a ball as the men shouted
at each other.
Oliver was pinned to the wall, his shirt ripped open, his jacket shaken upside down. She began to crawl toward the door, but—she
could see her arms. The ring had worn off. And she was trapped under the table.
Panic clawed at her throat. How reckless she’d been, relying on Grace’s conjury. If they saw her, or heard her, Oliver just
might walk—
“What the hell is going on in here?” someone barked.
“I’m being assaulted!” Oliver cried. “And my honor—”
“The Stratton pup is cheating. Found this in his sleeve.”
“I’ve never even seen that before!” Oliver exclaimed. “You must have planted it on me.”
They’d found one of his conjured cards. It had to be.
“Are you calling me a liar, kid?”
“You lettin’ cheaters into your club, Farrow?” someone growled.
“Enough.” The deep voice from the doorway bellowed. “Take him out back.”
“Do you know who I am?” Oliver grabbed the doorway to keep them from carrying him outside. “When my father hears of this—”
Emmy could not risk a peek as they dragged Oliver out. She needed them all to leave, every last one of them, before she made a run for it.
The last boots gone, Emmy darted into the hall. The doorways were full of people who had gathered to watch a cheater punished,
but no one gave a second glance to her waitress disguise.
She caught up to Jack in the stairwell, touching his arm, but he yanked away, giving her a scathing look.
“It’s me,” she whispered, quickly transforming herself back to Winnie.
A slow smile spread across his cheeks. Lightning quick, he kissed her forehead. “I had a feeling you were up to something.”
Shocked, Emmy raised her hand to where his lips had just been.
“C’mon. Let’s see the bastard get pummeled.” With the mob of card players well ahead now, they were alone in the stairwell,
taking the steps two at a time, just as they had at Grimsbane. It was dizzying, how much had changed in a matter of months.
Now Emmy did not even mind Jack tugging her along, the heat of his skin strangely thrilling against hers.
The mob had already brought Oliver outside, and judging by the cacophony of grunts and jeers, they were exacting their own
form of justice. Jack pushed through the back door—
The back alley erupted in screams. Frightened, wordless screams.
Jack ducked back inside, his eyes aflame. “He’s suppressing their movements.”
“The ordinaries?”
“The card players, along with the police who are supposed to be arresting him.”
It shouldn’t have shocked Emmy as much as it did, that Oliver was willing to risk magic’s secret—risk the safety of the entire
charmed community—in order to avoid arrest.
“Damnit.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Jack leaned against the door. “We need to break his concentration so he stops conjuring.”
Emmy fumbled for the invisibility ring on her finger, turning it in case there were drops of conjury left. But nothing happened.
She checked her pockets, but she hadn’t anything on her.
“Transform me back.” Jack glanced at the empty stairs. “Quick, while we’re still alone.”
“Have you lost your mind?” she hissed. “You can’t let him see you!”
“And we can’t let him get away.” He ran his hands over his face, as if whatever plan was forming was tearing him apart. “Transform
me. I’ll catch him by surprise.”
She wouldn’t. It was reckless and brash—and if he faced Oliver as Jack, Rose’s prophecy just might come true.
“For one goddamn time, can you trust me?” Jack’s eyes bore into hers, his bottom lip jutting in that infuriating pout. “Please?”
If only she had a better idea, but she could not think straight while he looked at her like that, so she grabbed his face.
“If you die, I swear to God, I will never forgive you.”
His grin was all too fleeting.
How easily she recalled his likeness, from the strong line of his jaw to the sweep of his dark lashes, even the little scar
in his right brow. His hair formed chocolate waves once more, falling over his forehead like they had when he slept. Nathaniel
was beautiful in the way that the Strattons’ estate was beautiful, manicured and perfectly designed. But Jack’s true face
was like Mistfield. Like his flames. Dark and lively and entirely unbidden.
Once she was finished, he cupped her chin. “Thank you.”
She grabbed his arm as he lunged for the back door. “At least take Rose’s—”
“Keep it.” Jack flashed her his true grin, the vexing one she hadn’t seen in weeks. And then he was gone, sprinting outside
before she could retrieve his sister’s relic.
All she could do now was follow.
There were nearly a dozen men in the alley—the card players, the manager, and the police officers she’d passed earlier—all
of them making strange vowel sounds, for they could not move their lips. Their fists were raised, their postures leaning at
impossible angles. One officer was midstride. All of them were watching her, their frozen expressions frightened.
It hurt to look at them, but the only way to help them was to stop Oliver.
She rounded the alley corner just as Jack was hurling himself at Oliver, full speed. At his footsteps, Oliver turned, his
eyes widening.
As Jack Fontaine punched him in the jaw.
Oliver slammed into the wall behind him. Before he’d raised a hand, Jack struck him again, this time in the stomach, and Oliver
crumpled to the ground.
Jack hovered over him, grinning like the goddamn devil. “Miss me?”
“No,” Oliver rasped, all the color draining from his cruel, handsome face.
“You didn’t miss me?”
“You’re dead!” Oliver tried to scurry away, but Jack blocked his path. “They pulled your body from the river.”
In Emmy’s periphery, the men unfroze, falling over themselves.
Jack’s expression was as vicious as it had been in Grimsbane. “You killed my sister.”
“That wasn’t supposed to happen!” Oliver rubbed at his eyes as if willing Jack to disappear. “You’re not real. You’re a goddamn
ghost.”
“You killed Elizabeth Windsor, too.”
“I had no choice!” Oliver shouted. “She was going to turn us in!”
Something brushed Emmy’s arm, and she let out a little yelp. Jack turned, squinting in the dark, but it was only the police
officers, paying her no mind as they ran into the alley.
It happened so quickly. One moment, Jack was looking at her, and the next, Oliver thrust his weight forward, headbutting him.
Jack tumbled back, off-balance.
The officers shuffled closer, guns raised.
Jack fell to his knees, his hands catching the ground.
The cops froze, midstride. Emmy, too.
Jack was still on his knees, unmoving, as Oliver unsheathed a knife from his ankle.
The drawing. One second, Jack had been hovering over Oliver, but now, Oliver stood above him with a knife— This, right here,
was Rose’s prophecy.
Emmy tried to shout, but the panicked noise that she spewed was utterly useless. She tried to run, but Oliver had frozen everyone
in the alley. Hushed, frightened conversation still wafted from the Bronze Door, and Emmy willed those men to help, but she
hadn’t Caleb’s gift.
Jack was going to die. He was going to die, and she was going to watch. And it would be her fault, because she’d transformed
him, knowing damn well that he wasn’t safe facing Oliver as himself. Even though she knew better, she’d let him talk her out
of her instincts, let him run off without taking the relic so he could defend himself. And now he was going to die.
With a wild laugh, Oliver whipped his arm back, readying to swing that knife.
Jack looked stricken, and she wanted to scream. Just like Papa. Just like that night.
In one fell swoop. Oliver brought down his knife.
But it disappeared.
He tripped forward, staring at his empty fist. The knife was gone—evaporated.
As if an invisible hand had stolen it away.
“Mary!” Oliver bellowed, swinging about wildly for the maid, but he’d let go of his conjury, and Jack scrambled to his feet just as the cops flooded the alley, guns raised. Oliver realized his mistake, his eyes narrowing with effort. But not quickly enough.
“Fuck you, Stratton.” With a vicious grin, Jack slammed his fist into Oliver’s face.