16. Helen #2
“You’re just in time, Hellion.”
A woman steps into the light. Her mask is pearlescent and adorned with seashells. Her golden hair spills over bare breasts and the curve of an impossibly narrow waist.
“Take your seat,” Seashell says, gesturing toward a chair.
I step forward and sit.
“This is a silent game,” she continues, now moving behind the table.
For a moment, my focus drifts. A scent moves through the room from somewhere beyond the wall—spice and wood, unmistakably masculine. It reaches me without warning, close and invasive.
I inhale, sharper than I mean to. Seashell’s gaze flicks to me, then moves on as if it changes nothing.
“You are not permitted to speak,” she continues. “Not a word. Not even a sound.”
Then another woman enters.
Good Lord.
For a second, I’m thrown. We could be mistaken at a glance—same height, same silhouette. Though I’m in charcoal and she’s wearing white, bold feathers flare from her mask. A real angel.
Anubis comes next. His mask is matte black, the jackal’s lines angular, the ears rising clean and upright. He sits on the other side of Angel.
Stag enters after him. He doesn’t hurry.
The overhead light is the kind used over a gambling table.
It casts the table in sharp relief and leaves the rest of us half concealed.
His face stays mostly in shadow. I can’t make out his eyes clearly, but I feel that he’s looking at me.
He takes the far-left seat beside Anubis.
And then—
The scent I’ve been tracking grows stronger. I draw in a breath I don’t quite need.
Red Fox.
I stop pretending to watch anyone else. He takes the last chair—on my right. After he sits, he leans forward slightly. The overhead light catches his eyes as he turns toward me, just for a second. Then he leans back and lets the shadow take him again.
This isn’t just nerves. My pulse is everywhere, and not only where it’s supposed to be. How am I meant to stay clearheaded like this?
Helen. This is embarrassing.
I sit up straighter and bring myself back under control. He’s just a man. Different, yes, but still a man.
All three men fall within the same narrow range—similar height, similar shoulders, similar conditioning.
Their hair is cut to nearly the same length.
The masks reveal only the mouth, and even that gives nothing away.
They cover enough of the cheekbones and jaw to disrupt the features that would normally set a person apart.
If Victor is one of them, there’s nothing to separate him from the rest.
The cards are dealt.
No chatter. No banter. Only the sound of felt brushed by fingertips and chips sliding across polished wood.
The first hand is conservative. I fold early, watching tempo rather than cards. Anubis plays cautiously. Stag pushes, asserting dominance through bet size rather than strategy.
Red Fox says nothing, does nothing unnecessary.
The second hand begins, and I stay in.
Stag raises, pushing the pot beyond comfort for the others. Anubis and Angel fold. Red Fox matches instantly.
I wait. Let them wonder.
Only when the river comes down, I push my chips forward.
Stag leans back. His fingers tap the edge of his cards before he slides them into the center face down.
Red Fox shifts closer, barely half an inch.
But it’s enough that I become aware of him along my right side, the line of his thigh, the steady warmth through layers of fabric.
Truly, this is ridiculous. I don’t get shaken because a man leans closer.
But this man doesn’t need to touch me to affect me. And I swear it’s not just the scent.
I cross my legs, careful not to let anyone notice what’s stirring under the table.
I’m certain now he isn’t Victor. And I’m starting to see what the Game is doing. Victor warned me it would test us. Said we’d learn things here. I’ve barely taken a seat and already I’m off balance.
Choose wisely, I remind myself.
I’m not about to lose a hundred thousand dollars because a man in a fox mask thinks I’m easy to corner.
After that brief spiral, he folds too.
The pot is mine.
Seashell collects and redistributes with an approving nod.
By the fourth hand, Angel makes her move first. She builds slowly, drawing Stag in with raises that look almost cautious. He watches her for two rounds, then he springs it—one escalation that forces her to commit or retreat. Within moments, she’s caught, folding under pressure.
After that, it’s just Stag and me.
I match him, raise for raise, neither of us giving ground as the table narrows around us.
The final card turns. I don’t hesitate.
All in.
Stag studies me across the felt, searching for the slightest crack. I give him none.
After a long moment, he pushes his stack forward. The reveal is swift. He has strength.
I have more.
The chips slide toward me in a quiet avalanche. By the time the final hand concludes, the table belongs to me.
“Congratulations, Hellion,” Seashell says, indicating a narrow exit at the back of the room.
One by one, the others stand and leave without glancing back.
Red Fox included.
I rise, collecting my clutch from the table. The chips sit in front of me. They don’t convert to anything. Not really. Or do they? Is this supposed to represent my hundred grand?
Two figures in featureless black masks step into my path. They search my clutch with no attempt at charm. Lipstick. Tissues. House key.
And—
A single playing card, folded flat against the lining.
“That isn’t mine,” I blurt, forgetting the rule about silence.
The guard unfolds it and holds it up.
Seashell studies the card. It’s marked, from the deck we just played. “You cheated.”
Damn. I’ve been set up. At the gate, I handed my clutch to the magician for inspection.
“Oh,” I say. “This is that kind of game?”
But no one smiles.
The guards close in. One clamps onto my arm, his fingers digging in, unyielding. The exchange turns rough yet my mask stays in place. Then a blindfold is placed over it. Light disappears.
“Wait—”
My wrists are caught next. Bare hands. Rough. My clutch slips from my hand and hits the floor. Fabric bunches at my hips as I’m forced forward, heels skidding against stone.
For the first time since stepping through the gate, I’m not sure anyone is playing anymore.