Casino Infernale

CHAPTER FIVE Gambling with Your Life

Uniformed staff arrived with stretchers to take away a dozen or so dead bodies. Presumably the official report would read food poisoning, although food attack would be more accurate. The staff had to hold the stretchers up to head height to manoeuvre them past the people still sitting at their tables. Some guests had left the restaurant, if only to change their clothes, but the vast majority had stayed. Some were actually eating the meals that had just tried to kill them. I suppose you have to have a strong stomach to be a gambler. No one looked at the stretchers, or the bodies on them. Presumably, in case such bad luck might rub off. Molly and I ordered lasagne. It seemed the safest thing on the menu. And the excitement had left us with an appetite.

“Just as well no one ordered the dragonburger,” Molly said finally. “That could have got really out of hand.”

“But, what was the point of all that?” I had to ask.

“I think someone just wanted to see whether we could defend ourselves,” said Molly. “And get a look at what kind of protections people had going for them. You saw Jacqueline turn into Hyde. Which was . . . pretty nasty, actually.”

“Do you want to look at the dessert menu?” I said.

“Of course! It’s free!”

“I think I just want to get started on the games,” I said. “You might remember you found poison in our food even before it rose up and attacked us. Which suggests to me two different attackers. I really don’t feel safe here.”

“Of course we’re not safe here,” said Molly. “This is Casino Infernale!”

And that was when the manager finally turned up. Jonathon Scott just came strolling in, as smart and casual and urbane as ever. Apparently entirely unconcerned with what had just happened. He clapped his hands smartly, to draw everyone’s attention.

“The Introductory Games are about to begin,” he said, bestowing an avuncular smile on one and all. “Might I respectfully remind all of you that attendance is mandatory this year for all of our guests who have not attended Casino Infernale previously.”

Everyone rose up from the their tables, sometimes abandoning half-finished meals or desserts, and headed for the exit. Scott stepped quickly back to get out of their way, still smiling his managerial smile. I was ready to go too, but Molly put a hand on my arm to stop me.

“Not yet,” she said. “Frankie isn’t back. I want to hear what he has to say, before we venture into enemy territory.”

I scowled. “I hate going on missions where I haven’t been properly briefed.”

“Only so you can lecture everyone else,” said Molly.

“True,” I said.

“I do know a few things about the Introductory Games,” Molly said carefully. “I mean, a girl does hear things. . . .”

“Go on,” I said, resignedly. “Tell me what you know. And we will discuss how you came to know it later.”

“The opening games are the only ones where money still matters,” said Molly. “I had hoped we’d be able to skip them, but it seems Parris is playing strictly by the book this year. The Introductory Games are for newcomers, to sort out the wheat from the chaff; make sure you’re wealthy and worthy enough to be here. And, to test your nerves. Because if you can’t cope with these, you sure as hell aren’t ready for the big games.”

“What are we going to gamble with?” I said. “The cash Frankie got for us won’t go far, not in a place like this. We need to be able to bet big, to win big.”

“I do have an account with the Shadow Bank,” said Molly. “With quite a bit on deposit . . . Don’t look at me like that! How do you think I funded myself before I hooked up with you?”

“Stealing things,” I said.

“Well, yes, but . . .”

Perhaps fortunately, Frankie turned up at that point. He slipped past the head waiter at his post with a nod and a wink, and the head waiter didn’t even look at him, never mind announce his name. Frankie pulled up a chair and sat down at our table without waiting to be asked, and Molly and I quickly filled him in on what we’d been discussing. He nodded quickly.

“You can’t use the money in your account,” he said immediately to Molly. “It’s strictly cash in the Introductory Games. Though you make the most money in side bets, gambling with the crowds on how well you’ll do in the games. But listen, you need to know this. I’ve been wandering around, talking with the staff, renewing old friendships and spreading a little bribery and corruption in all the right places, and the word is, the fix is in. The house will be taking even more liberties than usual this year, and squeezing the odds till they squeal. Apparently Parris is determined that this will be the most successful and profitable Casino Infernale ever, so he can take all the credit. Once you’re in there, watch your backs, and be prepared for treachery from all quarters. You can’t trust the games or the players or the staff this year.”

“Just our luck,” I said.

Frankie led us into the Arena of Introductory Games. With such a grand title, I was disappointed to discover it looked much like every casino and gambling house I’d visited in my time as London field agent for the Droods. No real difference from any of the after-hours drinking and gambling parlours that infest parts of the West End. Where you can get in only if you’re a member, but fortunately they sell memberships at the door.

There were roulette wheels, card tables, dice; all the usual means to part a sucker from his money. Deep pile carpeting, neutral-coloured walls, a general sense of opulence and comfort, but nothing distinctive enough to distract you from what you were there for.

The huge room was packed with people, expectation heavy on the air. Though soon enough that would be replaced with the heavier scents of perspiration and desperation. You don’t come to places like this to enjoy yourself; it’s all about the winning and the losing. After you’ve put a few hours in, and nothing’s gone to plan, and the people around you are betting more and more wildly to win back the money they’ve lost, that’s when eyes go cold and hearts grow desperate, and the wise man just chalks it up to experience and gets the hell out while the going is good. And your soul is still your own.

Casinos exist to take everything you’ve got.

Most people were just milling around, seeing what there was to see, not yet ready to commit themselves to a game until they’d seen what everyone else was doing. Waiting for someone else to take the plunge. There were no Big Names or Major Players here. They wouldn’t lower themselves to play this kind of game, in this kind of company. There was a continual low murmur of conversation, as people worked up the nerve to bet everything they had, and then beg for credit to lose even more. No one bets heavier than the man who can’t afford it and is desperate to hide that fact from everyone else. Pride, and face, are everything in the gambling world.

There’s no sportsmanship in games like these, and certainly no sense of fair play. It’s all dog eat dog, and devil take the hindmost. As far as the Casino management was concerned, these people weren’t even players. Just lambs to the slaughter, and sheep to be sheared. Games at this level were designed to bring out the worst in people, to tempt them and watch them fall. And then laugh in their faces when they begged for another chance.

I had been in places like this before, but I’d always had the good sense to stay away from the games.

“It feels . . . like walking into a room full of enemies,” Molly said quietly.

“We are,” I said. “No one here is on our side but us.” I looked at Frankie, who was smiling and nodding easily about him, perfectly at home. “You know this bear pit better than us, Frankie; where do you recommend we start?”

“Depends on your strategy,” said Frankie. “You do have a strategy, don’t you?”

“Win big, win fast, then get the hell out of here and on to the games that matter,” I said.

“Well,” said Frankie, “it’s risky, but . . . that’s your best chance, right there. Russian roulette.”

We looked across at the single table, standing empty and alone, with the gun lying on it. Two chairs, but no one sitting on them, yet. A group of people were slowly gathering around the table, looking at the gun with hot, expectant eyes and talking animatedly. While being very careful to stay well away from either of the chairs.

“It’s the old game,” said Frankie. “Two players, one gun, one bullet. Spin the chamber, take your turn, and hope you get lucky. It’s risky, but the odds are really no worse than most of the games here, and the side bets can make you a lot of money in a hurry. As long as your nerve holds out.”

“I can’t believe you’re even considering this!” Molly said angrily to me. “You are, aren’t you? We didn’t come here to die! It’s just another mission!”

“They have my soul,” I said. “I want it back.”

“No, Shaman,” said Molly. “I can’t let you do this. You’re still thinking like you have your armour to protect you. If anyone’s going to do this, it should be me.”

“No,” I said. “You can’t risk it, Molly. Not with your soul already owed to so many. I will do it, because I have just had a really sneaky idea. My Colt Repeater has no bullets in it because the gun teleports appropriate ammo into place, as necessary. You can tap into that magic, quietly and discreetly, and apply it to the Russian roulette gun. Any time a bullet threatens me, you just make it disappear.”

“I can do that,” said Molly. “But I can’t keep the gun empty all the time. Someone would notice. You might have to shoot someone, Shaman. Kill your opponent, to win. Could you do that?”

“He’d shoot me, if he could,” I said. “Are you in?”

“It’s sneaky,” said Molly. “I love it. Let’s do it!”

“You haven’t wasted any time getting into the swing of things,” Frankie said admiringly. “You’ll do well here.”

But I still hesitated. Molly was right. The whole point of Russian roulette is that you only really win when the other player dies. What was one man’s life, against the success of my mission? And any other game, you could get up and walk away when you’d had enough. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be allowed in this game.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Molly. “You always were too ethical for your own good. That’s why I should do this. Pulling the trigger won’t bother my conscience. I don’t have one.”

“They’d detect your magic if you worked it at the table,” I said. “So it has to be me.”

“I really wouldn’t worry about it,” said Frankie. “The kind of person you’ll be facing, you’ll be happy to see them die.”

I moved quickly forward before I could change my mind, pulled out one of the chairs, and sat down at the table. I looked at the gun before me, but didn’t touch it. All around me, people began talking excitedly in loud breathy voices. They looked at me with admiring, condescending eyes, as though I’d just volunteered to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. And some of them were looking at me in an eager, anticipatory way, because they had come to this table to see someone die. A few of them knew Shaman Bond, by reputation at least, and sent my name racing round the circle. And then my opponent pulled back the chair opposite me, and sat down hard on it, and the buzz of his name was much louder than mine had been. Because everyone here knew Gentleman Junkie Jules.

He didn’t smile or even nod to me, didn’t even acknowledge my presence. Just stared at the gun, like there was nothing he wanted more in the world. I’d met Jules before in some of London’s more up-market early hours clubs, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t remember me. Gentleman Junkie Jules was wearing an expensively tailored suit that had seen much better days, like its owner. It hung shapelessly about him, as though it was a few sizes too large, draped unflatteringly about his spindly frame. No doubt the suit fit perfectly when he first bought it, but Jules had been through a lot since then. His face was thin and pinched, and unhealthily pale. His eyes were fierce and fever bright, and his colourless lips pulled back in a mirthless smile.

Word was, Gentleman Junkie Jules was a remittance man these days. Paid regular sums by his very well-off family, but only on the understanding that he would never come home to embarrass them. Jules was never that good a card player, but he always had enough money to get into the big games, and lose it all. Until the buzz of high stakes cards just wasn’t enough any more and some kind friend introduced him to chemical heaven. And Jules found out the hard way that heroin is a harsh mistress. Given how much he’d abused his luck all his life, I was amazed he was still around. But it did make perfect sense that he would be sitting here, opposite me, ready to play Russian roulette. He’d been playing it all his life.

I had to at least make a gesture, for my conscience’s sake. I raised a hand, to draw the attention of the manager Jonathon Scott as he drifted by. He immediately changed direction to approach the table, and the crowd opened up just enough to let him pass. While still staying close enough that they wouldn’t miss a word.

“Is there a problem, sir?” said Scott.

“I object to Jules as my opponent,” I said. “This man isn’t fit to play. I mean, look at the state of him.”

“As long as he can pick up the gun and point it in the right direction, he can play,” said Scott. “That’s all the rules there are in this game.”

“And it’s the only way I can raise enough money to get out of this shit hole, and back into the real games where I belong,” said Jules, in a dry, uninterested voice. He looked at me for the first time and he didn’t see me at all. I was just something to be overcome. Something in his way. “Stop wasting my time. Let’s get this done so I can get on with my life.”

“Do you even know who I am?” I said.

“Shaman Bond,” said Jules, just a bit unexpectedly. “I remember you. Always hanging round the edge of the scene in London looking for some small-time trouble to get into. Scrambling for crumbs from the rich man’s table. How did someone like you even get in here?”

“This is wrong!” said a loud carrying voice, and we all looked round sharply. Leopold the gambling priest was standing nearby, glaring at us all impartially. “Suicide is a mortal sin,” the priest said flatly.

“And gambling isn’t?” said Scott, quietly amused.

“Not the way I do it,” said Leopold.

“Butt out, priest,” said Jules. He’d gone back to staring at the gun again. “No one wants you here; no one wants to hear what you have to say. This is what I want.”

“Of course it is,” said Leopold, his voice suddenly kind. “When you’ve abused your body with as many drugs as you have, only the biggest thrills can even touch you any more. But it’s not too late to step away. You can lean on me, if you wish.”

“Of course it’s too late,” said Jules. “It was too late the day I was born.”

Leopold nodded slowly, and walked away. Heading for the big games, where he belonged. The manager went with him, perhaps just to see that the priest kept going. Cheating and assassination attempts were all very well, but nothing and no one could be allowed to interfere with the games at Casino Infernale.

A uniformed flunky turned up, to oversee the Russian roulette. A small characterless man with a brisk, efficient manner. He picked up the gun from the table, and showed it to the crowd. A Smith & Wesson .45, much used, brightly polished, well maintained. The flunky opened the gun’s chamber, to show it was empty, and then produced a single bullet, and pressed it into place. He closed the chamber, spun it, and placed the gun back on the table, exactly half-way between me and Jules. People pressed in close around the table, determined not to miss a thing. Some looked at the gun, some looked at Jules, and a few even looked at me. They wanted to be in close, for the kill.

They looked . . . hungry.

They disgusted me. Jules didn’t even notice them. He had eyes only for the gun. He rested his hands on the green baize tabletop. They weren’t shaking at all, but beads of sweat were already appearing on his face. I felt sick to my stomach. I was the only one there who knew the fix was in; that I had already condemned this poor broken man to death. For the mission. But there was no other way . . . I couldn’t even get up and walk away now. The Casino wouldn’t permit it, not now that I’d committed myself. If I tried, at best they’d throw me out of Casino Infernale. And then the plan would be a bust, and there would be a war in the streets over Crow Lee’s Inheritance. Blood and slaughter, inevitably spilling over into the everyday world, all because of me.

I looked Gentleman Junkie Jules in the eyes, and it was like there was no one there, looking back. Or was that just what I wanted to believe?

The flunky put his hand on the gun, and sent it spinning round and round with a practised movement. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Wasn’t the first time two men had sat down at this table, and only one of them had walked away. How many men had died, sitting in my chair? All the surrounding sound stopped, as everyone watched the gun spin round and round, gradually slowing, finally coming to a halt with the long barrel pointing in my direction. I sat up straight. Jules picked up the gun, with a steady hand. The crowd made a small, almost intimate sound. Jules aimed the gun at my head, right between my eyes. I sat very still. I knew the gun was empty, knew it had to be empty, but still my heart was hammering in my chest, and my breathing was fast enough to be painful. Jules’ hand was entirely steady. His overly bright eyes were fixed on me now, and he was still smiling his lipless smile, showing dirty yellow teeth. He didn’t seem to be breathing at all. He pulled the trigger, and there was a hard firm click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

The crowd let out the breath they’d been holding, with a sound that was almost orgasmic. Jules looked at the gun as though he couldn’t understand what had just happened. And then he slowly lowered the gun and placed it on the table before me. There was a loud buzz of conversation round the table, as money changed hands in the first run of bets, and everyone hurried to bet again. I waited for the flunky to give me the nod, and then I picked up the gun, spun the chamber, pointed the gun at Jules, and pulled the trigger. Again, an empty chamber. I put the gun down. Jules hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched, barely seemed aware that anything at all had happened. The sound from the crowd seemed angry, this time. I’d cheated them out of the drama they craved. I didn’t care.

More money changed hands; more bets were made.

Jules picked up the gun again. He held it a while, considering it, and then he spun the chamber with a hard, angry motion. He aimed the gun at my left eye. I didn’t move. Didn’t react. The crowd had gone silent again. Jules’ face was slick with sweat, but his hand was still steady. I looked down the barrel of the gun. I’d never seen anything so fascinating. I knew the gun was empty, believed with all my heart that it was empty, but I didn’t trust the gun or my heart. The flunky gave the nod, and Jules slowly pulled the trigger. On another empty chamber.

There was a fierce babble of sound all around us. The crowd was really getting into it now. Jules slowly lowered the gun onto the table, and took his hand away. I looked around. Money was changing hands freely, as many bets were paid off. Voices were raised, and hands waved excitedly as new odds were set for the next round. I could see Molly and Frankie moving quickly through the crowd, making the rounds, taking bets wherever they could, backing me to win. I hoped they were getting good odds.

I picked up the gun. The butt was wet with sweat from Jules’ hand. I put the gun down again, took out a handkerchief, and carefully wiped the butt clean. Jules said nothing. I put the handkerchief away, and took up the gun again. It felt heavier now, as though just the significance of what we were involved in added to its weight, its reality. I spun the chamber, aimed the gun at Jules’ flat unwavering gaze, waited for the flunky, and then pulled the trigger. Nothing.

I put the gun down hard, almost snatching my hand away. I didn’t like the feel of it—how it made me feel. I hated the gun. Hated myself for what I was doing. I carefully didn’t look at Molly, but I couldn’t help thinking, Don’t stretch this out. Put the bullet in the chamber, get this over with. Let the poor bastard die. Don’t torture him like this. Don’t torture me.

Jules picked up the gun. He hefted it, almost thoughtfully. We looked into each other’s eyes. He could see me now. The gun had made me real to him. The man who might kill him. The contact between us was direct, without barriers, almost intimate. I knew what he was feeling; he knew what I was feeling. Two men, bound together by a death that hadn’t happened yet. I had killed men before, when it was part of the job. I prided myself they were all people who needed killing. That the world was a better, safer place without them in it. But I’d never had to sit opposite them, stare them in the eyes, while I did it. I could feel sweat on my face now. Jules and I were both breathing hard, almost in time with each other. As though we were both complicit in whatever happened next.

The crowd had fallen silent again, caught up in the moment. Their breathing was oddly synchronised, as though they had become one great organism. All of them stretched taut, by the painful anticipation of killing to come. I couldn’t see Molly. I couldn’t look away from Jules, and the gun. There was a bullet in it. I could feel it. And to my surprise, that made the moment easier to bear. Made it better. The danger felt very real and I was getting into it. All my life, the armour had been there to protect me. But now, sitting here, staring death in the face, I had never felt so alive. But . . . I only had to look into Jules’ horribly fascinated eyes to see where that kind of feeling led you. Jules wanted to be here, but not to win. He wanted to play. He pointed the gun carefully at my right eye, and his hand was shaking now, just a little. With the thrill of the moment.

And then Jonathon Scott shouted, “Stop!”

Jules looked round sharply as the manager’s hand came down out of nowhere, and forced Jules’ hand down onto the table. Scott forced Jules to let go of the gun, wrestling it out of his hand. Jules suddenly stopped fighting him. The moment was broken. The manager picked up the Smith & Wesson, and stepped back from the table. There were raised angry voices to every side—men and women cheated of their sport. The manager glared coldly about him and the voices fell silent.

“This game is suspended,” said Jonathon Scott. “Jules is disqualified, for cheating.”

I sat back in my chair. Breathing hard, shaking in every limb. Adrenalin was still rushing through me, and my heart was pounding painfully. And all I could think was I made it. I’m alive. I’m alive. . . .

The game’s uniformed flunky put his arms around Jules, and held him still, while Scott searched roughly through Jules’ pockets. He soon found what he was looking for. He held up a small bone amulet so that everyone could see it. The crowd murmured angrily.

“A hidden charm, to affect the bullet in the gun,” said Scott, in a loud and carrying voice. “It didn’t work, of course; this whole room is covered by a null zone, cancelling out any magics that might affect the games. But it was such a small charm it took us a while to work out who had it, and what it was doing.” He looked at Jules contemptuously. “He was trying to force a bullet into the chamber of the gun when it was facing him. Because he wanted to die. Not just because he owed more money than he could ever hope to pay back. But because he saw this pathetic death as the ultimate thrill.

“As the injured party, Shaman Bond is hereby declared the winner. All bets placed shall be paid off in his favour.”

He gestured to the uniformed flunky, who dragged Jules out of his chair with surprising strength, and hauled him away. Jules tried to fight him, tried to pull away, and couldn’t. There was a more than natural strength in the flunky’s hands. Gentleman Junkie Jules was dragged from the room, kicking and screaming all the way. The doors slammed shut behind him, cutting off his hysterical voice. A low heavy murmur moved through the crowds, as all bets were settled. They weren’t sure whether they felt cheated or not. They hadn’t seen a man die, but the unexpected drama had been almost as satisfying.

I looked at Scott. “What will happen to him? Will you have him killed, for cheating?”

“Of course not,” said Scott. “I have a much better punishment in mind. Jules will be thrown out of Casino Infernale, and then we will pass on the word, to ensure that he is banned from every other major gambling house. As a proven cheat. Let him live with that. We won’t kill him, Mr. Bond. That’s what he wants. We’re not here to do people favours.”

He smiled briefly, meaninglessly, and drifted away. The crowd went with him. I sat in my chair, looking at the gun on the table. Molly and Frankie hurried forward to join me. Molly was stuffing handfuls of assorted bank-notes into a red leather reticule that Frankie was holding for her. There looked to be a hell of a lot of money there, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I looked dully at Molly.

“The manager said there was a null zone. No magics would work here.”

“I know!” said Molly. “Found that out the moment I tried to work one. But there was nothing I could do to warn you, not once you’d sat down at the table. I’m sorry, Shaman, but you played two rounds of Russian roulette for real.”

“I know,” I said. “I think . . . I need a drink. A lot of drinks.”

“Me too,” said Molly. “Let’s get a bottle. Each.”

“I’m afraid there’s no time,” said Frankie, forcing the last of the money into the reticule and snapping it shut. “You need to keep playing while you’re still hot and people are still interested in you. We have to keep the side bets going! Remember, it’s the privilege of winning, as well as the money, that will prove you worthy to leave here and rise to the next level!”

“You chose Russian roulette,” I said to Frankie. “I’ll choose the next game.”

I stood up and looked around the room. I was back in control again, awake and focused. I studied my surroundings with an experienced eye, and the first thing I noticed was that there weren’t nearly as many people gathered around the roulette wheel as I would have expected. People like to play roulette. They think it’s glamorous and exciting, and fun to play, because they don’t really understand the rules, or the odds. But those who were standing around the wheel and the table were studying it with far more than usual fascination. They studied every move of the ball and the wheel, as though their lives depended on it. In fact, I would have said they looked scared shitless.

“Explain to me,” I said to Frankie, “what is going on with that roulette wheel?”

“Ah,” he said. “You’ve noticed. That’s not your usual, everyday game of roulette. You use chips to gamble there, but they don’t represent the cash you paid for them. You bet years of your life.”

“What?” said Molly. “How the hell does that work?”

“Oh, it’s very ingenious,” Frankie said earnestly. “A game unique to Casino Infernale. You bet red and black, you see, and the number you choose is how many years of your life that you’re betting. Not the years you’ve lived, but your future years, the years you still have left to live. You’re betting your future. If the wheel turns, and your number doesn’t come up, you lose the number of years you’ve bet. To the house. That’s the Casino’s cut. So if you bet, say, twenty-one on red or black, and you lose, you become twenty-one years older. But if you bet on twenty-one and you win, then you gain twenty-one years of extra life!

“See? Not at all complicated, once you get your head round it, is it? All right, yes, the odds are stacked against you right from the start . . . but this is roulette we’re talking about.”

“So you can die right there at the table of old age, if you keep losing?” I said.

“Happens all the time,” said Frankie. “That’s part of the thrill of playing—to watch someone else check out, right next to you.”

“Is everyone here crazy?” I said, loud enough to turn several heads in my direction. “Why on earth would any sane person want to play a game like that?”

“This is Casino Infernale,” said Frankie. “The risk is part of the attraction. Sane people don’t normally come here.”

“How does the wheel work?” said Molly, tactfully changing the subject while I calmed myself down again.

Frankie shrugged. “Some kind of future tech. Fell off the back of the Nightside. Supposedly, it started out as some kind of medical technology, where a future doctor could give you extra years of life, topping you up as and when needed. Trust Casino Infernale to make a game of chance out of something intended to save lives. This roulette wheel is a game of life and death; but then, aren’t they all?”

“Don’t get smug,” I said, “or I will slap you a good one and it will hurt. Right here, in front of everyone.”

“Don’t blame the messenger for the message, boss,” said Frankie.

“I get to play, this time,” said Molly, very firmly. “You took all the risks before, even the ones you didn’t know about. Look at you, you’re still shaking. I won’t let you put yourself through that again.”

“I’m not arguing,” I said. “You’re right. I’m not in any shape to play sensibly.”

“Do you want to go back to our room and lie down?” said Molly.

“And leave you to play alone?” I said. “Not going to happen. Too many sharks in these waters. Besides, someone’s got to keep an eye on Frankie while he’s handling the money from the bets.”

“Well, really,” said Frankie. “Anyone would think you know me. . . .”

We wandered over to join the crowd round the roulette wheel. Just in time to see someone bet on Red twenty-one, and the ball jump into the slot at Black twenty. The whole crowd made a sound as though they’d been hit, and we all turned to look at the poor loser—a woman of a certain age in a dress and makeup far too young for her. Even the man she’d clearly come in with backed away from her, as though she’d suddenly become contagious. The woman shot him an angry look of betrayal, and then turned reluctantly back to face the croupier. He was smiling, and it was not a good smile. He held up a small hour-glass, and everyone around the table held their breath. The croupier turned the hour-glass over, and as the sands started falling, the woman grew older. Twenty-one years weighed down on her, cruelly and implacably. Her face wrinkled, and her body shrank in on itself, until an old woman stood beside the roulette wheel, weeping helplessly for her lost years. No one did anything, said anything, to help her. Most of those watching were smiling a smile very like that of the croupier. This was what they were there for. The old woman stumbled away from the table, and left the room. Alone.

I looked at the roulette wheel. “If it was up to me I’d smash that bloody thing into splinters . . . I don’t like this, Molly. Far too many random factors involved.”

“But if you win big here, you win really big,” said Frankie. “Extra years of life, handfuls of cash from the side bets, and major prestige. And it’s not like any of the other games are going to be that much easier, or fairer. Winning against the odds is the whole idea.”

“And we do have an edge, this time,” said Molly. “An edge that can’t be affected by any null zone. Remember the potion the Armourer gave us?”

“Remember it?” I said. “How could I forget? I’ll still be able to taste that muck when I’m dead and six months in my grave!”

“A potion to let us see the patterns in any game,” Molly said patiently. “Just looking at this game, I can sense the weight of the ball and the stresses in the wheel. All the patterns that decide where the ball turns up. I am pretty sure I can predict which number the ball will choose, every time. And since the potion is a part of our system, the Casino won’t be able to spot it, and the null can’t affect it.”

I looked at the roulette wheel, and she was right. I could see the patterns in the play, clear as day. Given the mechanical workings of the wheel, predicting the outcome was child’s play. It was like reading a pack of marked cards. I could feel the weight of responsibility sliding off my shoulders.

“Okay,” I said. “Go play, Molly. Have fun. Bet big, and take that smiling little croupier for everything he’s got. And Frankie, get the best odds you can from the crowd.”

“No problem,” said Frankie.

He moved off into the crowd, grinning and glad-handing everyone who didn’t run away fast enough, while Molly elbowed her way forward into a prize position at the side of the table. I hung back. I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as though anything could go wrong, this time. But I didn’t trust that feeling any more. People at the table realised they were standing next to the infamous wild witch Molly Metcalf, and quickly fell back to give her room. She smiled sweetly at the croupier, and exchanged a whole wad of money for a single chip to play with. The croupier smiled and nodded and went out of his way to flatter her, and Molly slapped him down with a single look.

People came hurrying forward from all over the room as the word spread that Molly Metcalf was playing roulette. Some clearly wanted her to win, some just as clearly wanted to see her lose hard, and most just wanted to see the wild witch in action. Frankie moved among them like a shark with his mouth open, taking them for everything they had. The people might admire Molly and her reputation, but no one believed she could beat the wheel.

Molly took her single chip and placed it firmly on Red twenty-one. Biggest bet you could make: twenty-one years of your life. One way or the other.

The croupier looked round the table. “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen!”

Everyone played, but no one else wanted to place a chip beside Molly’s. The croupier spun the wheel, the ball went whirling round and round, clattering from place to place, and finally ended up in Black seventeen.

“No!” I said. “That’s not possible!”

No one paid me any attention. They were all looking at the small steel ball, and then at the young woman who’d just lost twenty-one years of her life. I was the only one there who knew just how wrong it was. Given that ball, in that wheel, there was no way it could have ended up in Black seventeen. Until I looked really hard—and saw the hidden mechanism behind the wheel. The croupier cheated.

Molly looked slowly around her. Everyone was backing away from her. Partly so none of her bad luck would rub off on them, partly so they could get a better look at what was about to happen. The croupier smiled at Molly, and held up his hour-glass. Molly looked coldly back at him.

“Do your damnedest. My sisters will avenge me.”

A shudder ran through the crowd at that, and even the croupier balked for a moment. The croupier had cheated, diverted the ball, and looking into Molly’s eyes, he knew that she knew. But who would believe her? I knew, but how could I prove it without revealing how I knew? Without revealing I was a Drood, and throwing away my mission?

I was here to prevent a war. To save who knew how many lives. I couldn’t risk my mission, just to save Molly from something she could probably undo herself, given time. She would understand. The croupier held up his hour-glass and waggled it in front of Molly, taunting her. And I reached for my Colt Repeater. Because no one messed with my Molly.

And that was when a harsh, buzzing artificial voice shouted out, “Cheat!”

The croupier glared around him immediately. “Who dares call me cheat?”

“That would be me,” said the Thirtieth Century Man. He stomped forward, with loud crashing footsteps. An incredibly tall, broad, and heavy man, in an outfit that seemed to consist mainly of black leather straps. His marble white flesh was whorled with long streaks of steel, the meat and the metal fused seamlessly together. He was a cyborg, from some unknown future; a mixture of living and nonliving materials. His face was a collection of flat surfaces, with glowing golden eyes. I’d encountered him before, wandering through the sleazier flesh pits of old London town, trying to find something to interest him. He didn’t know how he ended up in our time, and was desperate to find a way back. People said he had an affinity for all things mechanical, and could see how anything worked at a glance.

(Other, less kind people said he was queer for machines.)

He gestured roughly at the roulette wheel, with one oversized hand, and the ball jumped from one slot to another as the cyborg worked the hidden mechanism, calling out each number in advance. The croupier’s face went white, and he started edging away from the table, looking for the nearest exit . . . but Jonathon Scott was already walking towards him, with two large Security men.

“This . . . is intolerable,” said Scott. “Two proven cases of cheating in the first hour of Casino Infernale! This could damage our reputation beyond repair! And that it should be one of our own staff who is caught this time . . . ladies and gentlemen, allow us to make proper recompense.”

He gestured to his two Security men, who moved quickly forward to grab the croupier by the arms and hold him still. He didn’t even try to struggle. He was already in enough trouble. Scott took the hour-glass from the croupier’s hand, and held it up so everyone could see it.

“This man is the guilty party, so it is only proper that he should pay for his crime. Molly Metcalf, please allow the Casino to pay you the twenty-one years you rightfully won, courtesy of the man who cheated you.”

He turned the hour-glass over with a dramatic flourish, and as the sands began to fall, so the extra years fell upon the croupier. He was a young man, and he cried out miserably as the best years of his life were taken from him; until a middle-aged man stood slumped between the two Security men. Weeping silently, for what he’d lost. I might have felt sorry for him if I hadn’t seen him enjoying it so much when it happened to other people. I looked at Molly. She threw back her head and laughed out loud. She didn’t look any younger, but she practically glowed with new energy. I turned to thank the Thirtieth Century Man, but he was already gone.

“This roulette wheel is closed,” said Scott. “Until we can have it replaced. Please continue with the other games! Enjoy yourselves!”

He strode away, and the Security men dragged the still sobbing croupier after him. A number of people who’d played the wheel before hurried after him, raising their voices. Scott just kept going. I cautiously approached Molly.

“How do you feel?” I said.

“I feel great! Marvellous! Full of energy . . . I feel like I could take on the whole damned world!”

“Never knew you when you didn’t,” I said, and she laughed and calmed down a little.

“There was no way the croupier was running that scam on his own,” she said briskly. “The Casino made him the scapegoat to avoid awkward questions. Frankie was right. We can’t trust anyone here.”

“So,” I said, “does all this new energy mean you’ll be able to break the null zone from now on?”

“Unlikely,” said Molly. “Doubt it. I don’t think the Casino would give me anything I could use against it.”

“Good point,” I said. “Does it mean you’ll live twenty-one years longer now than you would have?”

“I don’t know . . . in theory. But in practice, given the kinds of lives we lead . . .”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I really don’t like this place, Molly. I think it’s bad for us. Whether we win or lose.”

“What did you expect?” said Frankie, sauntering over with another red leather reticule, bulging with cash. “This is a place of temptations. Win or lose, it’s bound to affect you.”

I looked round sharply as the Thirtieth Century Man came over to join us. I hadn’t heard him leave, and I hadn’t seen him come back. Which, given the sheer size and weight of the man, should have been impossible. I was thinking vaguely about cloaking shields when he nodded brusquely to me, and addressed me abruptly with his buzzing artificial voice.

“I thought you should know, you have friends here. From the Department of the Uncanny. But this is the only time I can assist you openly. Can’t help you again without risking my cover, and I have my own mission.”

“What are you doing here?” I said. “Did the Regent . . .”

“Hush,” said the Thirtieth Century Man. “Not a name to use in a place like this. Point is, he got word there might be a working time-travel device tucked away here, somewhere. Just a rumour, nothing solid. But one, we don’t want people like this to have it. And two, it could be a way home for me. So, you continue with your mission, and leave mine to me.”

He strode away, and we watched him go. It wasn’t like we could have stopped him to ask more questions, even if we’d wanted to. I looked at Molly and Frankie.

“That’s twice we’ve been saved at the last moment, by someone else. I think we’re pushing our luck.”

“Come on!” said Frankie. “It’s a casino! Pushing your luck is what it’s all about. So, what next?”

“A chance to catch my breath would be nice,” I said. “But I think the sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

We looked around the room. None of the other games appealed to me, for all kinds of reasons. Too small, too slow, too risky . . .

“You only need one more big win,” said Frankie. “I suppose . . . there is always the Arena.”

“You have gladiators here?” said Molly.

“Not as such,” said Frankie. “They call it the Pit. Just a big hole in the ground, really. The usual: two men enter, one man crawls out barely alive. Everyone else bets on the outcome, and makes lots of money. It’s win or die, hand-to-hand fighting, no weapons allowed.”

I remembered looking down the gun at Jules, wanting him to die so I could win.

“I’m an agent,” I said. “Not an assassin. I came here to gamble, not kill people.”

“I don’t think anyone here cares what you want, sweetie,” Molly said carefully. “But you’re right. This isn’t for you. You don’t have the killer instinct. So I’ll do it. I can take care of myself in a fight, and the way I feel right now I could kick anyone’s arse!”

“And that’s why you can’t do it,” I said. “All those extra years have gone to your head. I’ll do it. But whoever they put against me, I won’t kill them unless I have to.”

“You’ll have to,” said Frankie.

Through the far doors and out beyond the Arena of Introductory Games . . . there was a really big hole in the ground. Just like the man said. A pit, some ten feet deep, with a packed earth floor and walls. Surrounded by a huge baying crowd, several ranks deep, all of them pushing and shoving each other in their excitement, struggling for a better view of what was going on down in the pit. Molly and I forced our way to the front, with a lot of elbowing, while Frankie stuck close behind. I looked down into the pit, and there was Jacqueline’s Hyde, fighting a French savate kick-fighter. The Frenchman was fast and skilled and vicious, just a blur in his movements as he danced back and forth. Sweat gleamed on his bare chest, over jodhpurs made from the French flag. His blows came out of nowhere, savage kicks striking home again and again. And none of it meant anything, because he was fighting Hyde.

Everyone in the watching crowd hated Hyde. They booed and hissed him, screaming obscenities, men and women alike. Just the sight of Hyde seemed to infuriate and unhinge them. I could understand why. It wasn’t just that Hyde was ugly, though he was. Brutish, short, and powerfully muscled, hunched over by the sheer mass of musculature in his back. His square bony head thrust forward, dark feral eyes glaring from under a protruding brow. Long black hair fell down around a face marked with every sin that man is heir to. Just to look at him was to hate him, because he was everything inside us that we hate about ourselves. Only he gloried in it. He loved being what he was. Free of all inhibitions and restraint. I wanted to draw my gun and shoot him dead, just for the sin of being what he was. Just for existing.

Robert Louis Stephenson put it best. He said Edward Hyde had the mark of Cain on him.

Fresh blood dripped from Hyde’s hands and arms. He’d fought other men before this in the Pit. I could see bits and pieces of them scattered across the packed earth floor. And great dark splashes of blood all over the earth walls.

The bloodlust in the watching crowd filled the air; hot and vicious and overwhelming. They wanted to see a death. Preferably Hyde, but deep down they weren’t fussy. They’d reached the point where anyone would do. The Frenchman hit Hyde again and again, terrible blows that slammed into him with devastating force and speed and accuracy. Just the sound of the impacts was enough to make me wince. But no matter how hard the Frenchman hit Hyde, or how often . . . he couldn’t hurt him. Hyde took every blow without flinching, not trying to evade any of them. He didn’t react at all, taking no pain or damage that anyone could see. He just smiled at his opponent—a cold, crafty, infuriating smile. Waiting for his moment.

And eventually, inevitably, the Frenchman tired and slowed, and one great gnarled hand shot out and fastened on to the Frenchman’s ankle, stopping a blow in mid-kick. The Frenchman looked at Hyde with wide, startled eyes; caught in mid-move with one leg fully extended. And then Hyde just ripped the leg right off. Casually, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. The leg came away with a terrible tearing sound, and blood spurted thickly on the air from the awful open wound at the Frenchman’s hip. He crashed to the ground, and lay there, shaking and shuddering, too shocked even to scream as his life’s blood ran away to sink into the earth floor. The crowd were utterly still, and silent, watching with avid eyes as the Frenchman died. No one was interested in helping him. By the time I realised that, and started forward, the man was dead.

Hyde leaned against the earth wall, and ate big chunks of meat from the leg he was holding. This was too much, even for a Casino Infernale crowd, and they screamed and shouted abuse at him. Those at the front surged forward, as though they would jump down into the Pit and attack Hyde, overwhelm him by sheer force of numbers. But the Casino Security people got there first, and forced the crowd back. Because no one could be allowed to interfere with the games.

Hyde threw what was left of the leg away, wiping his bloody mouth clean with the back of his huge hand. He smiled arrogantly up at the crowd. Soaking up their rage and hate like approbation. And then, quite casually, he turned back into Jacqueline. There was no great transformation of the flesh; she just seemed to rise out of him, as though her presence had been implicit in him all the while. And, perhaps because I was watching so closely, in the moment when they changed . . . I saw Jacqueline and Hyde touch fingertips tenderly, just for a moment.

Jacqueline Hyde looked round the blood-soaked Pit, holding the tatters of her dress to her. If what she saw bothered her, it didn’t show in her face. The crowd watched silently. Looking on in awe at this small slender woman, who held a monster inside her. Jaqueline moved slowly over to the single iron-runged ladder that was the only way in and out of the Pit, and climbed out. When she reached the top, no one offered her a helping hand, or tried to push her back in. They just fell silently away, to give her space. Out of something like respect. A uniformed flunky came forward to offer her a robe. At arm’s length. Jacqueline accepted the robe, without saying anything, and wrapped it around her. She walked away, and everyone let her.

In case Hyde might come back.

More uniformed flunkies filed down into the Pit to recover the dead body and gather up the body parts scattered across the earth floor. It took them a while to manhandle everything back up the ladder.

The barker in charge of the Pit came forward—a large cheerful fellow in a chequered suit. He grinned around him, as though he knew us all, and knew what we were there for.

“Hello, hello, boys and girls! Come on in, you know you want it! Welcome to the Pit, where the killing’s easy and the dying is hard, and you get to enjoy every last bit of it! So step right up; who’s going to be our next volunteers? For the winner: prestige, and money, and the sheer joy of being alive! Let me tell you, you never feel more alive than when you stare death in the face and head-butt him!”

I looked at Frankie. “That’s it? Just the prestige, and happy to be alive? No prize money?”

“Not here,” said Frankie. “People play this kind of game for the fun of it, to show courage and gain instant respect. If you win. There is a lot of money to be made in the side bets, but this is really all about courage and skill and being completely fucking insane.”

“And this is your idea of what we should do next?” said Molly.

“It’s risky, yes, but a good win here would be more than enough to guarantee you access to the next level. Whilst also ensuring that everyone you meet there would be seriously scared of you.”

I nodded, and strode forward. Before I could get a rush of good sense to the head and change my mind. I made myself known to the barker, and he flashed me a wide and knowing smile, clapped me on the shoulder, and roared out my name to the waiting crowd. They managed a few good-natured cheers as I climbed down the iron-runged ladder into the Pit. There were a few taunts and insults, but I ignored them. I wasn’t here for the crowd. I walked slowly round the Pit, getting the feel of the place. It was surprisingly cold, and the air stank of blood and spilled guts, of sweat and testosterone. It felt like a bad place to die.

And then my opponent came swarming down the ladder, jumping the last few rungs in his eagerness. He spun round to face me, smiling coldly, and my heart sank. I knew him. And not in a good way.

The Dancing Fool strutted round the Pit, bouncing on his feet to test the resilience of the packed earth floor. The fastest fighting man in the world. He could hit you so fast you wouldn’t even know you’d been hit till you woke up in hospital. He liked to claim his particular brand of martial arts was based on old Scottish sword dances, which was bullshit, but it didn’t stop him from always wearing a kilt. In a tartan I knew for a fact he wasn’t entitled to. His edge came from his very own special gift: to know what you were going to do, before you did it.

Déjà fu.

He was big and broad, and moved like the professional he was. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a darker heart. And he knew Shaman Bond was really a Drood, because we’d worked together before.

It hadn’t ended well.

Lots of people in the crowd recognised the Dancing Fool, and roared his name approvingly. Just by being here, he guaranteed a show—blood and death in the grand manner. He smiled and waved at all the hot watching eyes, and I just knew the odds against me were going through the roof. Hopefully Molly and Frankie were keeping on top of it. The Dancing Fool finally strode forward to face me, and I sighed, and nodded to him.

“Hello, Nigel.”

His smiled disappeared in a moment, and he scowled fiercely at me. “Don’t call me that, Shaman. Only my friends get to use my given name, and you never did qualify. Even when I thought we were both working on the same side. Never thought you’d see me again, did you, Shaman?”

“You’re looking well,” I said. “Considering Walker shot both your knee-caps off at Place Gloria.”

He sniffed loudly. “You can get anything repaired, if you have enough money. And if you’re motivated enough. I swore I’d have my revenge on you, Shaman! And so when a little bird told me that you’d be coming here . . . and that you wouldn’t have your precious armour to hide behind . . . well! How could I resist? A fair fight at last. I’m going to tear you to pieces, Shaman.”

“Walker was right,” I said. “I should have let him kill you.”

And I went straight for him, even before I’d finished talking. There was no point in hanging about, and there was always the chance I’d catch him off guard and get one good punch in. But of course he was expecting it, and he was so very fast. . . . My fist whooshed through the empty air where he had been just a moment before, and he hit me in the side, hard. I staggered away, clutching at myself, half-blind with pain and gasping for air. I was fast and skilled, well trained and experienced, versed in all the really dirty tricks . . . but he was just so damned fast. I spun round, head down, hands up to defend myself.

I never stood a chance.

The blows came out of nowhere. The first fist slammed into the side of my head, and the earth floor jumped up and hit me in the face. I didn’t even realise I’d fallen until he kicked me again and again in the ribs, to get me moving again. I heard ribs break, felt splinters grind in my side. I coughed hard, and blood filled my mouth. Not a good sign. I forced myself up onto my hands and knees, and a fist came flying down, hitting me so hard in the back I was slammed right back to the earth floor again. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The pain blotted out everything else. I squirmed around on the floor like a fish hauled up out of the water, hardly able to breathe. The only thing that saved me was that the Dancing Fool took time out to go strolling round the Pit in a lap of honour, smiling and waving to the screaming crowd.

I spat out a thick mouthful of blood, and forced myself up onto my feet. I was swaying, and I could barely raise my fists without crying out, but I was up. The Dancing Fool looked around, saw me, and laughed delightedly. He got to play some more. He came at me again, impossibly fast, dancing round and round me, hitting me wherever and whenever he wanted. Every blow hurt like hell, and every blow did damage, but I stood my ground and took it and wouldn’t go down again. Because I had a plan.

I was outclassed, and we both knew it. I was a good scrapper, but he was a professional. I’d only ever beaten him before because my armour protected me, and made me as fast as he was. Now all I had was stubbornness, and one desperate plan.

At first, the crowd cried out and applauded every time he hit me, yelling out suggestions on the best ways to break and kill me. But as I rocked back and forth, taking the punishment but stubbornly refusing to be beaten, parts of the crowd came round to my side, yelling out encouragement. They did love an underdog, even if they wouldn’t bet on one.

I staggered back and forth across the increasingly bloody earth floor, protecting my head as best I could, because one good shot to the head would leave me dazed and vulnerable. And that would be the end of it. More bones broke, more blood flew on the air, as the Dancing Fool spun and stamped around me, enjoying himself. My left arm hung broken and useless at my side, and I couldn’t see out of one eye. I hoped it was just puffed shut. And still I wouldn’t fall, wouldn’t give in. Because bit by bit the Armourer’s potion was kicking in. Showing me the patterns in how the Dancing Fool moved and held himself and planned his attacks.

Until I could read the cocky little bastard like a book.

I put my back against the wall, as though I hadn’t known it was there, as though I had nowhere else to run. The Dancing Fool came in close to throw a punch, and I saw it coming. His fist slammed towards my head with incredible speed, and I turned my head aside at just the last moment, so that his fist flashed by my head and buried itself deep in the earth wall behind me. Just as I’d planned.

I heard bones crunch as they broke in his hand. I saw the look of shock, and then pain, in his face. And then more shock, as he discovered his hand was trapped, buried deep, locked fast in the earth wall. And in that brief moment, as he put all his attention into trying to pull his hand free, I summoned up the last bit of strength I’d been saving and punched him savagely in the throat. I felt his trachea break, felt his windpipe collapse. Blood shot from his mouth, and all the sense went out of his eyes. He was still trying to pull his hand out of the wall, even as he made horrid choking sounds. I hit him again, with my one good hand; a vicious blow that slammed in right under his sternum. Hit a man there hard enough, and you can disrupt the rhythm of his heart. The Dancing Fool fell to his knees, his face blank, his eyes rolling up. One arm still stretched above his head, from where his hand was still trapped in the wall. He couldn’t breathe, and his heart was struggling. I looked down at the exposed back of his neck, and I rabbit-punched him.

The first blow probably killed him. I hit him six more times, as hard as I could, just to be sure.

I killed him. Not because he might have revealed who I really was and put an end to my mission. Not because he was a professional killer who needed killing; not because the world would be a better place without him. No. I killed him because he hurt me so badly, and because he would have killed me.

The crowd was going wild at the unexpected victory. Jumping up and down, clutching at each other, screaming and shouting like they’d never stop. I could barely see them, and the sound seemed to be coming from a long way away. I didn’t care. I was looking at Nigel, lying dead before me on the cold earth floor. A small, broken, pathetic thing. I leaned over, and spat blood on his face. And then I turned away and limped slowly back to the iron ladder. It took me a long while to climb back up, with only one working arm.

Molly and Frankie were waiting for me at the top. Molly looked at the mess the Dancing Fool had made of my face, and swallowed hard. She and Frankie helped me over the edge of the Pit, and then held me up between them as they half-led, half-carried me away. I tried not to cry out, but every movement hurt so much. Molly put my good arm over her shoulders, so she could carry more of my weight. Her face was white with shock, and her eyes were full of rage. Wherever she looked, people fell back to give her more room.

“Hell of a fight, Shaman!” said Frankie. “Hard core!”

“Shut up,” said Molly.

People came forward to congratulate me from every side, and Molly drove them back with hard looks and harsh language. Frankie left us for a while to collect the winnings from his side bets. He came back laughing.

“You wouldn’t believe how much money we’ve made, betting on you!” he said happily. “No one thought you stood a chance!”

“Shut up,” said Molly.

“Is that it?” I said. “Have I done enough to get through to the next level?”

“Hell, yes!” said Frankie. “Major prestige! Dangerous prestige! But I have to say . . . you look like crap. Just saying, but . . . maybe you should quit now? While you’re still ahead?”

“No,” I said.

“Let’s get you back to our room,” said Molly. “Once we’re out of the null zone, I can work my healing magics on you.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, or thought I said. After a while, I managed a small smile. Blood leaked from the corners of my mouth.

“What?” said Molly.

“Those were just the Introductory Games,” I said. “Can’t wait to see what the next level’s like. . . .”