Chapter 18 #2
Grady Tadros and a few other Luminary students—present and a couple of recent grads, I think—have just swaggered in. They swing into the lounge area to snatch several appetizers.
One of them raises his eyebrows at the others and rustles his pocket with a faint click. “I got the good stuff.”
Grady grins. “Brilliant. Lead the way.”
The liquor behind the bar looked plenty “good”—better than anything I could have afforded in my old life—so I doubt they’re talking about a drink. Maybe whatever it is will loosen their tongues and I’ll hear something interesting.
I stroll up to the second floor a careful distance behind them, just near enough to see which of the smaller rooms upstairs they head into. A few snorts and a buoyant laugh heighten my suspicions about what sort of substance they’re getting into.
I pause outside the door they’ve left ajar, ears pricked.
More laughter carries through the room. One of the guys makes a disparaging remark about Professor Kwong. Another starts talking about a drab “chick” he hooked up with the previous night.
A grimace tugs at my lips—and a throat clears just behind me.
I whirl around to see Byron standing a few feet away, his eyebrows slightly arched. “Did you lose your way?”
For a second, my mind scrambles. Then I remember he isn’t seeing Elodie Devine but a random club employee.
I still have to grope for a suitable excuse. “I was going to see if they wanted any refreshments brought up.”
Byron’s gaze flicks toward the doorway. The disdainful curl of his lip suggests he’s perfectly aware of what our schoolmates are up to. “I don’t think they need more than they’ve already got.”
I push my own mouth into a prim smile. “I find it’s best not to make assumptions about the members’ needs.”
Byron’s expression turns oddly pensive. Did I let a little edge creep into that last statement, or did my vocal illusion waver?
“What’s your name?” he asks.
My throat goes dry. “Chuck.”
He studies me for another torturous moment and then tips his head toward one of the other second-floor rooms. “Join me for cards, Chuck. I came up to play, and no one else is here yet.”
Entertaining the patrons in whatever way they wish is probably in my job description, but I balk instinctively. “Sir?”
Byron is already turning as if assuming I’m going to follow. “I won’t make you gamble whatever they pay you here. We can play without stakes. Do you have a preference about the game?”
My mouth opens and closes and opens again, but no excuse comes to me that will extract me from this situation without getting fake-Chuck fired—and banned from uncovering any more information on the premises.
My Byron never showed any interest in card games after we matched. Maybe it’s a hobby he developed in the past few years—or one he cultivated in this reality but not in mine.
What’s a reasonably genteel sort of game to suggest? I don’t think he’ll approve of Crazy Eights or Go Fish.
The words tumble out. “How about Euchre?”
He glances back at me with a tick of his eyes—surprised by the suggestion? But it’s the only non-childish game I know.
Well, I was a child when Mom taught me. I still remember her soft shake of her head and the nostalgic cast that came over her face. “This was my grandfather’s favorite game.”
She got all closed-lipped right after that, as if she felt she’d slipped up by mentioning it.
But even though she never mentioned that grandfather again, I insisted on playing Euchre with her over and over across the years, as if I might learn more about her background through some weird kind of osmosis.
Did my great-grandfather learn it from friends he met in this country? Or maybe some generations back, Mom’s family lived in the UK like Byron’s did.
More mysteries that went cold long ago.
At least Byron seems familiar with the game. He motions for me to come along. “That works.”
The room he leads me into was probably the main bedroom in the original house, expansive enough to hold four smaller cards tables and a large wooden one that looks ready for a poker tournament.
Each has a deck of cards waiting on its polished surface.
I’m guessing professional dealers staff the room when there are enough eager players.
Byron sits at one of the smaller tables and starts sorting through the cards while I pull out my chair. He shuffles the reduced deck and deals out the correct layout with practiced efficiency.
“You pick trump,” he says, in what he’d think of as a gesture of fairness.
My palm prickles with his close proximity. Tuning the sensation out as well as I can, I look at the four cards in my hand and the four visible on top of their hidden counterparts in the row in front of me.
It’ll be better if I lose. Better to bore him than to present an interesting challenge. Byron is the type to be intrigued rather than offended by someone else’s skill.
I’ve got a ten of hearts showing and the jack of diamonds in my hand, but that’s it, and Byron’s got the queen of hearts turned up. Looking at our other cards, I should be safe with that.
“Hearts.”
Byron plays a tight game with no real conversation, using his visible cards as often as possible so he can flip the ones underneath and taking the first three tricks without hesitation.
I have to take the nine of hearts he plays, and I turn up the king underneath. Which then means I have to take his queen. Two more turns, and the ace and jack I’ve unearthed are staring up at me.
As I hesitate, Byron watches me from across the table. A small furrow has formed in his brow, since he’s no doubt confused about why I picked hearts without knowing I had three of the top four cards.
“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he says, his steady baritone startling in the quiet of the room.
My face flushes without consulting the rest of me about my reaction. I manage not to swallow my tongue. “I know.”
I submit to my inevitable victory with all the confidence I can summon. When I meet Byron’s gaze, the gleam in his dark eyes looks more interested than bothered, just as I feared. “Good game.”
I shrug. “Beginner’s luck.”
“You’re a beginner?”
I did suggest the game. My mind scrambles. “I mean, I’ve only played a few times. It just seemed… appropriate.”
One of Byron’s eyebrows ticks upward again. He shifts in his seat, leaning toward me—and then catching himself.
A chill shivers down my back. He’s looking at me like Cole did for just a moment the other day when I talked back to him, like I never saw any of my matches look at me before we sparked our bond in my own reality. Like I’m a gift he might want to unwrap.
And he doesn’t even know I’m anything but waitstaff.
The prickles jab deeper into my palm, forceful enough that I have to squeeze my fingers against them. My gut has started churning.
It’s the bond. That’s the only explanation.
The one I formed in my own reality fractured when I was torn from the men I matched with, but fate knows I’m still Elodie Devine and that I’ve already found my mates.
It’s dragging us back together, compelling not just me toward them but them toward me for reasons they can’t possibly understand.
Is that why Salvatore has started harassing me with obnoxious flirtation rather than all the other sorts of banter he could use? Why Cole can’t seem to stop himself from questioning my commitment at every opportunity?
How much stronger will the effect get if I keep finding myself in close quarters with these men who aren’t really mine?
Panic skitters through my pulse. I find myself pushing back my chair. “I should see if I’m needed downstairs. I hope you enjoyed the game.”
“I did,” Byron says dryly.
He doesn’t follow me, but his words do, all the way back to the lower hall.