Dangerous Dream

AFTERMATH Ridley

There were lots of ways to forget about a guy. Especially a mostly Mortal guy. Especially one who was only part Incubus, and not even the good part. Especially a dumb guy who kept trying to force you to be something you’re not. Something you couldn’t possibly live up to…

Ridley tried to forget every way she knew how.

She bounced her way through Europe with a broken heart, country hopping the way some guys go barhopping.

She met a handsome Italian football player on a train to Otranto and stayed in a castle for the next two weeks. The Florence of the South, Marco had said.

No more dinners with your mother, Ridley had said. Not even in a castle.

She had cruised down the Dalmatian coast with Bela, a handsome sailor in an even more handsome yacht, from Split to Brac to Hvar to the walled city of Dubrovnik. The orange-red tiles against the blue-blue sky had seemed romantic at first. Then they just reminded her of Link with his Lake Moultrie sunburn.

In Paris, she had grown tired of champagne and oysters, and of Etienne, who had come with them. There were only so many baguettes you could break at Ernest Hemingway’s former table or F. Scott Fitzgerald’s afternoon bar. And the café Les Deux Magots probably meant something about two maggots, so what was that about, anyway?

Berlin was arty; Ridley was not. Moscow liked salty; Ridley liked sweet.

By the time she finally felt like she had left Gatlin behind, it wasn’t just Gatlin that was over.

The whole summer was behind her.

Ridley didn’t know why she’d come back here—to New York or to Suffer. The Dark Caster club didn’t have enough alcohol or enough sugar to keep her mind off all the things she had spent the summer trying to forget.

The one thing—or the one person.

Nothing had helped. Ridley was beginning to think that nothing would, which scared her more than she was willing to admit to anyone, including herself.

The Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil”—the personal sound track that Rid had adopted after the deliciously disastrous winter formal at Jackson High—blasted from her clutch.

Ah! She never gives up.

It was her phone. Her perfect half-Light, half-Dark cousin, Lena, had spent the last two months trying to convince Ridley to put a cork in her champagne bottle and come back to Gatlin.

Ridley was tired of being lectured. “I texted you a hundred times and told you I’m not coming back there.”

“Wow. I was expecting, ‘Hi, Lena. It’s nice to hear from you,’ ” her cousin said. “ ‘I’m sorry I ignored your texts and never returned your calls.’ ”

“You don’t have to be so dramatic,” Ridley said. “I’ve been busy. And I know he put you up to this. But I’m not coming back there.”

I can’t, Rid thought.

“Link didn’t put me up to anything. He’s online all the time looking for an apartment in New York. I called because it’s the end of the summer. Ethan and I are leaving for college next week, and Liv and John are heading to London. I thought you might want to see us before we go.”

“What do you mean, he’s looking for an apartment?” Ridley knew what it meant. He was going without her. As if he’d survive a week here by himself.

Lena sighed. “Leave it alone, Rid. You broke Link’s heart, and he was miserable all summer. I think he’s finally accepted that things would never have worked out between you two. Let it go.”

Ridley felt like someone had kicked her in the stomach. “How do you know he’s accepted it? What did he say?”

“Rid, please—”

“What did he say?” Ridley repeated, her voice growing louder.

“Just that some things aren’t meant to be.”

The words hit Ridley harder than she ever would’ve thought possible. “I gotta go, Cuz.”

“Rid—”

Ridley hung up before Lena had a chance to say anything else. There was no way she was going back to that wretched town. She had stayed there too long. That was the problem.

There was always something—John Breed taking off with her cousin back when he was still one of the bad guys. Ethan jumping off a water tower to save the world, then being trapped in the Otherworld. Ridley coming home to take on Abraham Ravenwood and save Ethan. Then Lena had begged her to stay for graduation. “It won’t be the same if you aren’t there,” she’d said.

Whatever.

Ridley had pretended that she didn’t want to go, but secretly she’d wanted to see her cousin graduate. At least one of them had made it through the mind-numbing Mortal high school experience without being burned at the stake. Ridley had always known it would be Lena. Rid wasn’t cut out for all that insecurity and angst and BFF crap. Best friends forever? As far as she was concerned, it was more like bitches, frenemies, and freaks.

But Lena wasn’t the only reason she had stayed. She’d stayed because of Link, something she would never admit to a single soul.

Wesley Lincoln.

Rid never called him that to his face, or in front of anyone else. But it was the way she thought of him—with his cocky grin, rock and roll dreams, and drumsticks in his back pocket. Wearing a faded Black Sabbath T-shirt and driving the piece of crap Beater—he was the guy who had gotten under her skin.

Apparently, he was the one guy who had let her walk away.

Some things aren’t meant to be. Ridley stiffened at the thought of him saying those words. After tonight, they won’t be.

She planned to make sure of it.

The line in front of Suffer snaked around the block. It was the Dark Caster club of the moment, outranking Exile in terms of music (live bands instead of an aging Incubus DJ), clientele (the unattractive need not apply), and trouble (the more, the better). Not that Ridley cared about the line, since she had no intention of standing in it… until she noticed a few delicious guys waiting behind the black velvet ropes. A little window-shopping before she went in couldn’t hurt.

Ridley ran her hands through her blond hair, with its signature pink streak, to give it that I-could-have-just-rolled-out-of-your-bed look. She zeroed in on a dangerous-looking Incubus at the front of the line.

Rid took one last lick of her cherry lollipop and tossed it into a Dumpster. She didn’t need her Siren’s Power of Persuasion to turn heads. Tonight, she was doing it old-school, platform heels and mile-long legs, with a little pink lip gloss and something to prove.

Bring it.

“Let me get that for you.” The Incubus practically tripped over himself trying to unhook one of the velvet ropes so that Ridley could slip in line beside him.

“Aren’t you sweet. What do I owe you?” She put one hand on her hip and leaned toward him just enough.

“I’ll have to think about it,” he said.

“Blond in the black leather skirt.” The doorman pointed at Rid. “You’re in.”

Ridley smiled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. The Incubus started to follow her, but the doorman shook his head. “Just the lady.”

She tapped a long silver nail against the Incubus’ chest. “Sorry, Tall, Dark, and Dangerous. Maybe I’ll see you inside.”

Or not, she thought.

She shimmied past the doorman and stopped at the brick wall in front of her.

“Nice trick,” Rid said, glancing back at him before she stepped right through it. The wall was a test. The doorman was an Illusionist, and if you weren’t smart enough to know it, then you didn’t belong at Suffer.

Inside the club, spotlights suspended from the ceiling tinted everything a deadly shade of red. The crowd pulsed on the dance floor that hovered in the air, three stories above Ridley’s head.

“You’re just going to leave me here?” a girl whined, a few feet away.

The guy—who was probably her boyfriend, judging by the guilty expression on his face—caught her arm as she started to turn away. Ridley smiled. The girl obviously wasn’t a Siren, like Ridley, but at least she knew how to get her boyfriend to do what she wanted.

“I have to set up the game, Baby,” the guy said. “It’s the last night. Winner takes all.”

Ridley moved closer to the bar, and the couple’s conversation. Now things were getting interesting.

“What do you care?” she snapped. “It’s not like they’re going to let you play. They treat you like an indentured servant.”

The guy stiffened. That’s when Ridley noticed his eyes. They weren’t the gold eyes of a Dark Caster or the black eyes of an Incubus. His eyes were blue—Mortal blue.

“It’s not like that,” he said. “I’m part of the band.”

The girl laughed. “You’re their roadie. You can’t even get yourself in the game.”

“No one can get in the game!” he shouted.

As amused as Ridley was by the argument, she was more intrigued by this mystery game. It sounded exclusive. Why hadn’t she heard about it?

Before she had a chance to find out more, the Mortal’s Caster girlfriend stormed off. He slumped against the polished metal bar. The bartender reached over the Mortal’s shoulder, handing Blood Incubuses tall glasses of the club’s signature drink, O Positive.

The Mortal must have been telling the truth about being with the band, or those glasses would’ve been filled with his blood. Mortals weren’t welcome at Suffer unless they were payment for one of the dozens of illicit substances available in the Underground, the darkest part of the Caster world.

Ridley couldn’t stop staring at his blue eyes, lost in the sea of black and gold. In the Mortal world, he would’ve had the girls falling all over themselves to get his attention. But in a room full of sexy Dark Caster boys, he didn’t even show up on their radar.

The song ended, and the opening band stopped playing. The spotlights trailed over the crowd until they reached the stage and the lead singer. “The headliner tonight needs no introduction. Give it up for the Devil’s Hangmen!”

Ridley rolled her eyes. The Devil’s Hangmen? That was original. It sounded like the name of a failed eighties heavy metal band. It was almost as bad as the name of Link’s band, Meatstik. She felt a pang of something at the thought of Link, but she pushed him out of her mind—a skill at which she excelled.

The crowd erupted into applause.

The Mortal roadie’s head snapped up. He rushed through the wall of bodies toward the front of the club as the ragtag group jogged onstage—a lead singer the size of a linebacker, sporting leather pants and enough tattoos to pass for a T-shirt; a female bass guitarist in a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt, who tripped over the microphone cord; a pretty-boy punk with a blue faux-hawk and a guitar to match; and an Incubus who sat down at his drum kit wearing earplugs. If these were the Devil’s Hangmen, the Devil was slacking.

Rid glanced at the door. Maybe it was time to bail.

The drummer cracked his sticks together three times, and the band came to life in one thunderous heartbeat. And if you ignored the subpar drummer, they were actually good—a Pink Floyd Red Hot Chili Peppers mash-up, if you liked that sort of thing. Ridley didn’t, but then again, she didn’t like any bands. Not anymore. She’d trained her ears to tune out all music; it had been her way of dealing with the abuse that was Meatstik.

The music throbbed, and she spun around, reaching for the ceiling, and danced until she couldn’t think about anything—or anyone—except catching her breath and getting a drink with something sweet in it.

As she tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned back toward the bar, a weird feeling came over her, eclipsing the noise and the heat and the energy in the club.

Someone was watching her.

Ridley rapped her glitter-coated nails on the bar. If someone wanted a good look at her, she’d give the person a minute before she used her Power of Persuasion to convince them to punch the doorman in the face on their way out.

Payback’s a bitch. She couldn’t help but smile.

She turned around slowly, letting her black tank slide up just enough to reveal the edges of the Dark Caster tattoo that encircled her navel. Her gold eyes zeroed in on the edge of the stage immediately.

The Dark Caster stood perfectly still next to the heavy black curtain that framed one side of the stage. He stared back at Ridley as if they were the only two people in the room. He was almost as tall as the Goliath lead singer, but this guy was no linebacker. He looked more like a Greek sculpture—lean and muscular, with chiseled features and tanned skin that made his gold eyes glow. His dirty-blond hair curled around the collar of the steel gray shirt underneath the fitted black sweater that looked as if he’d been born wearing it.

He let his eyes wander over Ridley leisurely, drinking her in. From the long pink streak in her hair, over the dangerously low-cut neckline of her tank, to the mile-long bare legs, he enjoyed every inch.

Suddenly, the room felt hotter and the music sounded louder. Instead of reveling in the attention, Ridley wanted to shrink back into the crowd and disappear—a feeling she had only experienced in the presence of Sarafine, Lena’s Dark Caster of a mother, and Abraham, the ancient Blood Incubus who had trapped her in a gilded birdcage. The one Link and John Breed had killed.

There was something about this guy that sent her flight instinct into overdrive. This Caster was powerful, and he knew it.

Ridley’s hands curled into fists at her sides, and she stared back at him intently. She would never let anyone make her feel powerless again. This guy was not Abraham or Sarafine. The days of bargaining for her life were over.

The set ended, and the band jogged offstage.

Someone touched Ridley’s shoulder, and she practically jumped out of her skin. “What the—” She spun around, eyes blazing.

The roadie stood in front of her, his hands raised in surrender. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Ridley snapped as she stalked toward him, pointing a long, glittery fingernail at his chest. “I just don’t like Mortals touching me. It’s a hygiene thing.”

He backed away, matching her step for step. “Sampson sent me over. The lead singer from the band. I’m supposed to find out if you wanna hang out after the gig.”

“If by ‘hang out,’ he means sleep with him, I’ll pass.”

The roadie shook his head. “I’m totally screwing this up. He’s gonna be pissed. He noticed you before. He’s just inviting you—”

Ridley cut him off. “To the big game?”

The Mortal’s blue eyes widened. “No. To have a drink backstage. How do you know about the game?”

“A little birdie told me, Blue Eyes.” Ridley unwrapped a lollipop. Using her powers to extract a little information from a Mortal was certainly not the same as using them to get what she wanted from Dark Caster boys. “Now, why don’t you tell me all about it.”

The Mortal stared into Ridley’s gold eyes, transfixed. “They’re playing Liar’s Trade, tournament-style. One winner takes all.”

Liar’s Trade was a Caster take on the Mortal card game known as bullshit. Except Casters didn’t play for money.

“What are they trading?” Rid asked.

“TFPs.”

“Are you screwing with me?” Ridley must have heard him wrong.

“Talents, favors, and powers. That’s the buy-in,” he said.

No one played for TFPs anymore. Wagering your powers and talents in a game was insane, even if most people only bet enough to lose their powers for a few weeks. Rid knew what it felt like to lose her powers, and she would never risk feeling that way again.

Still, there was always a way around the rules—especially if you were a Siren.

Ridley sucked on the lollipop for a second, then pulled it out of her mouth with a loud pop. “Get me in the game.”

His expression clouded over in confusion, and he shook his head. “It’s impossible.”

She leaned closer, until she and the Mortal were nose to nose. “Anything is possible, Blue Eyes. If your life depends on it.”

If the stakes were high enough, it might take her mind off the one thing she couldn’t stop thinking about.

And how easily he had let her go.

Ridley had never seen so much blood. Commercial refrigerators lined the walls of the club’s back room. Inside, plastic freezer bags filled with blood were stacked next to bar staples, like bottles of orange and cranberry juices.

Rid glanced from the bags to the Mortal. “You’re okay with that, Blue Eyes?” Most Mortals were squeamish when it came to the Dark side of the Caster world.

He shrugged and opened a cellar door in the floor. “Better than what I had waiting for me back home. Being a Mortal is harder than you think.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ridley lied. She remembered every second she’d spent as a Mortal—life at the mercy of circumstances that were always beyond her control, and the constant sense of hope that tricked her into believing that her life could be different. That she could be different. Suffer would’ve been a better name for their world. What’s a little blood compared to that?

“You’ve played Liar’s Trade, right?”

“Of course,” Ridley lied again. She’d seen other people play, which was almost the same thing, and she didn’t actually intend to play, anyway. Just to win. Being a Siren gave Ridley the only edge she needed.

She followed the roadie down the damp stone steps and through the tunnel at the bottom. Ornate crystal sconces adorned the walls, throwing soft light on the reddish-brown water sloshing at their feet.

A rat scurried past one of Ridley’s platform heels. “Classy place.”

“It’s the Incubus VIP lounge,” he said.

For a moment, Rid tried to imagine Link hanging out in a bloodstained tunnel decorated with chandeliers that looked like they belonged in Ravenwood Manor. But she couldn’t. Even though he was a quarter Incubus now, there was nothing Dark about Link.

What a stiff.

They reached the end of the tunnel and stood before the mirrored doors of an elevator. “You’re sure you want to do this?” the roadie asked.

“Don’t worry about me, Blue Eyes. I’ve got this.” The elevator doors opened and Ridley stepped inside.

A withered Caster with dull yellow eyes manned the elevator. “Going up?”

Where else would she be going?

“Does this thing go to the Underground?” Ridley asked.

“Don’t know. I’ve been taking it up to the thirteenth floor and back here for a long time.” The doors closed, and the Caster pushed one of the two buttons on the panel: 13.

“Maybe you should broaden your horizons and find out.” Ridley raised an eyebrow. She unwrapped a piece of gum, then wadded up the wrapper and tucked it in the roadie’s jacket pocket.

“Can’t,” the Caster said. “I’m paying off a debt.” He sounded pathetic, and Ridley wasn’t in the mood for his sob story. So she ignored him until the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Ridley stepped into the hallway. Thousands of cigarette wrappers were glued to the walls, like someone locked in solitary confinement with nothing but a lifetime supply of cigarettes had gotten creative—or bored out of their mind.

Rid could relate.

As she and the roadie turned the corner, the cigarette wrapper wallpaper disappeared and was replaced by a hotel hallway right off the Las Vegas strip—black lacquer, gilded mirrors, and a bad Michelangelo-style ceiling mural. Except this hotel had only one door in the hallway.

Number 13.

The door opened before they knocked. The doorman stood on the other side. Ridley could tell he was a Sybil by the way he studied her face, as if he were reading a book. It was exactly the same way Rid’s older sister, Reece, looked at her every time they saw each other. Sybils could read your face and see your past, your present, and sometimes even bits and pieces of your future. They could also tell if you were lying, the Caster power Ridley hated most.

“She’s with me.” The Mortal nodded at Ridley.

The Sybil didn’t take his eyes off Ridley. As she stepped across the threshold, he held his arm in front of her. “Your powers stay at the door, Siren.”

“Excuse me?” Ridley tried to push past him, but the Sybil didn’t budge.

“You heard me. Caster rules. Mortal-style.” He looked her in the eye, reading her face. “That means no powers.”

No powers.

Ridley glanced at the end of the hallway and swallowed hard. She couldn’t see the cigarette wrappers papering the hallway, or the withered Caster manning the elevator. But she knew he was there.

Luckily, Rid knew something else, too. Something no one in the club or the building or room number 13 could possibly know—the kind of something that just might save her life.

She was ready for them.

Before leaving the club, Ridley had grilled the roadie about the details of the game. A Mortal’s will was no match for a Siren’s Power of Persuasion, especially if the Siren was Ridley Duchannes. The roadie had spilled everything he knew. The no powers rule, and the Sybil at the door to enforce it, turned out to be the only valuable pieces of information. But it was all the information Ridley needed to figure out a way to sidestep the ridiculous rule.

It all hinged on a little trick she’d picked up from Abraham Ravenwood while she was trapped his giant birdcage. Now Ridley was about to find out if she had remembered the spell correctly.

She looked the Sybil in the eye and smiled. “No problem. I stripped downstairs.”

Even as she said the words, Ridley shuddered inwardly at the thought. The idea that Casters would willingly perform a spell to temporarily strip themselves of their powers was crazy. Not only did it make her vulnerable in the worst possible way, but what if her powers didn’t come back when she performed the counterspell? After living as a Mortal when Sarafine had stripped her of her powers, Ridley couldn’t think of anything worse.

Abraham Ravenwood, your mojo better work, you dead pain in the ass, she thought.

The Sybil studied her face. Instead of seeing a Siren with the Power of Persuasion, he saw her in the tunnel on her way here, whispering the incantation that had rendered her temporarily powerless.

He nodded at the Mortal. “Take her back.”

As Ridley slipped past the Sybil, he grabbed her arm. “This isn’t a game, Siren. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Ridley twisted a strand of pink hair around her finger. “I always know what I’m doing, sweetheart.”

If only it were true.

Rid crossed her fingers as she stood in the ladies’ room, reciting the lines of the counterspell that would restore her powers.

Come on!

As she waited, every second felt like an hour.

Then the familiar buzz that started in her fingers spread through her body like a charge of electricity.

Power.

Hello, sugar. Welcome home.

Rid sauntered out of the ladies room and into the suite, which smelled like whiskey, sweat, and stale cigarettes. It looked like Liberace had decorated it. Ridley hadn’t seen so much white satin in one place since the winter formal in Gatlin. A Devil’s Hangmen song played in the next room, and judging from the cloud of smoke in the doorway, that’s where the liars were trading TFPs.

Ridley didn’t wait for the roadie to lead the way. First impressions were all about owning it, and no one knew how to own it better than Ridley Duchannes. She strode into the smoke-filled room, her red patent platforms splashing across the white carpet like blood.

There were five black felt poker tables set up inside, and all eyes were on a Caster standing in the center of the room. The lead singer, Sampson, stopped in midsentence when he saw Ridley.

“Am I late?” Rid feigned shock, as if she actually cared what time the game started. She sighed and cast the roadie a disapproving glance. “Blue Eyes over here is so slow.”

Sampson looked at the roadie, who stood next to Ridley, fidgeting. “I didn’t know anyone else was playing tonight.”

But you sure are happy I came, aren’t you? Ridley stared into his eyes, transferring the thought into his mind.

For a moment he didn’t respond, and she began to silently calculate the distance to the door.

Sampson smiled. “But I’m glad you made it.”

“We’ve got an empty seat over here.” The bassist from the band nodded at the empty seat to her left. Her Pink Floyd T-shirt reminded Ridley of Link, which made her dislike the girl immediately. Thinking about Link was the last thing she needed tonight.

Ridley walked over and lowered herself into the empty chair.

“I’m Floyd,” the girl said.

Ridley glanced at her shirt. “How… clever.” She gave the girl a sticky-sweet smile. “Ridley.”

“Interesting name.”

“I’m an interesting girl.”

The Caster standing in the center of the room rapped on the table in front of him. “Time to get started, boys and girls. The game’s Liar’s Trade. One deck per table, and we’re playing Mortal-style. You’re playing for TFPs—talents, favors, and powers. Everyone registered their bets when they came in. Once you sit down at the table, there are no changes. Whatever you registered is what you lose.”

Ridley hadn’t registered a wager. She hadn’t even considered what to offer if she lost. Based on the looks of this crowd, most of these guys would probably like to have her as their personal genie-in-a-bottle for the day.

Like that’s happening.

The Caster was still addressing the players. “Everyone stripped their powers before they came in, so tonight it’s balls to the walls. The player at the table to get rid of all their cards is the winner and moves to the next round. Last man standing takes it all.”

Ridley wanted to ask exactly what she was going to walk away with at the end of the night, since there was no doubt in her mind that she was going to win, but the dealer was already tossing the Caster cards around her table.

Fine. Let’s do this.

The only differences between Liar’s Trade and the Mortal card game were that they were using a Caster deck and they were betting with TFPs instead of money. In a game this big, players logged their markers at the door. Luckily, Ridley had avoided that sucker move.

The game was simple. Two players per table. The dealer dealt all the cards in the deck, then drew a name. He pulled Floyd’s name, which meant the bassist had to go first and discard an ace. The next player had to discard a two or a king—the card above or below the ace—and any cards that followed, if they were lucky enough to have any of them in their hand. The object of the game was to be the first player to get rid of all your cards.

But there was a catch. The cards were discarded facedown, so players could bluff and toss whatever they wanted—at least until someone called them on it.

Rid handily won her first game without even flexing her powers. She sauntered over to watch Floyd play a Caster wearing a dog chain around his neck. Bike Chain Boy threw in a card that he claimed was a nine.

Floyd took a swig from the beer in front of her. “Liar.”

Now Bike Chain Boy had to show his card. If he’d discarded a nine, then Floyd would have to pick up the entire pile. But if Bike Chain Boy had lied and thrown a different card, he’d have to take the pile.

You didn’t need to be a Sybil to read the Caster’s face. He stood up and grabbed the bottom of his chair, flipping it over.

“Cool your jets.” Floyd leaned back, clearly enjoying herself. “You must’ve wagered a serious TFP.”

“Shut your mouth,” Bike Chain Boy snapped. “Everyone here did.”

Except Ridley.

She played Floyd next, who was her only real competition. Everyone else sucked, even without Ridley’s influence. Rid waited until it was Floyd’s turn before she made her move.

As Floyd studied her cards, Ridley gave her a nudge with her powers. You want to bluff on this hand and dump as many cards as you can.

Floyd hesitated for a moment, then dropped three cards onto the pile. “Jack. Queen. King.”

Rid stretched her arms over her head, as if she’d just woken up from a long nap. Then she gave Floyd a big smile. “Liar.”

Floyd seemed dazed, and she blinked a few times before responding. “Damn. Guess I won’t be turning myself into Roger Waters again anytime soon.”

Floyd was obviously an Illusionist, like Ridley’s idiot brother, Larkin. Her brother used his powers for ridiculous things like picking up girls. The fact that Floyd used hers to fool people into thinking she was the lead singer of Pink Floyd was even more pathetic. Ridley had never met an Illusionist who actually created illusions worth seeing—unless Lena’s mother, Sarafine, was breathing down their neck.

After another round, Ridley didn’t have a single card left in her hand. Ridley kept tabs on how games were progressing around the room. Grown men were reduced to sobbing babies in her presence as they lost everything from the temporary use of their powers to the permanent loss of talents. She kept a mental record of every loss: a Necromancer who’d be spending a lot more time with the living; a Shifter who wouldn’t be able to change water into ice for at least six months; a Caster poet who was going to need help finding a rhyme in a Dr. Seuss book; and a handful of entirely forgettable losers.

Three players were left: Ridley, Sampson, and the band’s crappy drummer. She hadn’t even bothered to learn his name.

As Ridley approached the table designated for the final games, Sampson pulled out Ridley’s chair. He was playing the winner of the game between Ridley and the drummer, which meant he’d be losing to her next.

Up close, Sampson was even taller than she’d thought, close to seven feet, if Rid had to guess. He had the physically menacing posture of an Incubus without the reflective black eyes, a feature that all Incubuses shared. His eyes weren’t Caster green or gold, either. They were steel gray, ringed in smudged black liner that made him look even more dangerous, as if he hadn’t slept in days and didn’t care. He was obviously wearing colored contacts, which was too hipster for Ridley’s taste.

Link would’ve made fun of this guy.

He held out a tattooed hand. “Sampson.”

This guy looked more like Goliath.

“Ridley.”

He smiled. “I heard.”

“Tonight or previously?” Rid asked, only half-joking.

“I’m Ace.” The drummer, and her opponent, stared at her from across the table like a lion eyeing raw meat. She was going to enjoy kicking his ass.

“Of course you are.” Ridley rolled her eyes.

“Now, if everyone has decided who they’re taking home tonight, we’ve got a game to play,” the dealer said, cutting the cards.

Rid watched him shuffle, the king of blood and the ace of fire flipping through his fingers. Floyd and the pretty-boy punk with the blue faux-hawk stood behind Ace.

For the first few rounds, no one spoke as the two players sized each other up. Ridley was biding her time, waiting for just the right moment to make her move. She was also testing the waters, determining exactly how hard she needed to push Ace. When he hesitated too long after dropping two cards into the pile, Ridley gave him a little nudge. You can get away with one more. Go ahead and throw it. He tossed the card within seconds.

It was on his next turn that he made a fatal mistake and blew her a kiss.

“Seven. Eight,” Ridley said, dropping her last two cards facedown on the discard pile.

Ace gave her one of his perverted smiles. “You wouldn’t be lying now, would you, Baby?”

Ridley’s eyes narrowed. She tolerated it when Link called her Babe, because he was Link and things were… complicated between them. But there was no way this scumbag was going to get away with calling her Baby. “Are you calling me a liar, or just asking? I mean, either you have the balls or you don’t.”

The dealer stifled a laugh.

“Someone should teach you how to act like a lady,” Ace snapped.

Ridley leaned over, the edge of a red bra peeking out of her top, and looked the second-rate drummer right in the eye. “I’ll get right on that. As soon as someone teaches you how to act like a man.”

Ace stared at her like he wanted to set her on fire.

Ridley gazed into his gold eyes. You know I’m lying. Go ahead. Call me a liar.

It only took a second for him to react. “Liar.”

She leaned back in her chair, savoring the moment. “You must’ve bet something major to make it all the way to the big girl table. What are you going to lose if I flip those cards and I’ve got a seven and an eight?”

Floyd was standing behind Ace’s chair. “Shit.”

Sampson glanced up at his bandmate. “What did he bet?”

The color drained from Ace’s face, as if he had just figured out what Floyd seemed to sense. Ridley wasn’t lying.

Floyd shook her head. “His sticks.”

Ridley immediately understood. The crappy drummer had bet his talent—at least, what little he had. If he lost, he wouldn’t be able to play anymore. Which wouldn’t be a huge loss, from Ridley’s point of view.

She flipped the cards over one at a time.

Seven of stars and eight of blades.

Ace sprang out of his chair, and Sampson yanked her from hers before the drummer overturned the table. “You bitch!”

The dealer signaled one of the bouncers lurking along the edges of the room. “Get him outta here.”

Even though Sampson had rescued her, he looked almost as pissed off as Floyd, who was pacing and cussing under her breath. The punk boy with the blue faux-hawk gave her a hard stare and whispered something to Sampson.

“Pull it together, ladies,” the dealer shouted at everyone left in the room. “We’ve got one more game to play.”

Ridley tried to look nervous, but fear wasn’t an emotion she experienced often. The effort was exhausting, and she dropped down into a chair at the black felt table. There was a lot of money on the line, enough to let her hole up in her favorite five-star resort in Barbados for weeks. Close enough to visit a few relatives, and far enough away to get twenty-four-hour room service and cause some serious trouble.

She was trying to remember the name of the hotel with the cabanas—the ones that came with their own private chefs—when the dealer sat down with a fresh deck.

“You know the rules. The winner’s looking at fifty grand and a share of the take.”

A share of the TFPs—that’s what he meant.

Sampson was all business now. “You ready, Pink?”

She gave him a cold stare. “Sure thing, Goliath.”

They didn’t say anything else as the cards slid across the table. Rid hadn’t noticed how well Sampson played until now. He was definitely counting cards, which was a solid strategy if you didn’t have a Siren’s Power of Persuasion at your disposal.

Ridley bluffed a few times, testing her powers on Sampson the same way she had with the loser drummer.

Sampson required a little more encouragement.

You don’t want to call me on that discard. The stakes are too high to screw up.

The huge Caster looked around as if he’d actually heard her voice, then did exactly what she wanted.

The initial rush from sneaking in with her powers had faded, and Ridley was getting bored. Time to wrap this up, she thought.

Within a few hands, both Ridley and Sampson were down to one card. Sampson studied her with his steel gray eyes, waiting to take his turn.

“Hold the game,” a deep voice called from behind her.

The dealer put his hand over the discard pile. “Hold your cards.”

What the hell?

When Ridley turned around, the guy from Suffer—the gorgeous stranger she’d caught staring at her from the edge of the stage—stood in the doorway.

“You came in late,” he said to her. “I don’t think we have a record of your marker.”

Her marker.

Ridley hadn’t even considered what to wager, since winning the game was a guarantee. “I don’t know. What do you want?”

The Caster strode toward her. When he reached her seat, he leaned down until Ridley could feel his breath on her neck, and whispered in her ear.

“What?” She must have heard him wrong.

He can’t be serious.

This time, his mouth was so close to her ear that she felt his lips against her skin. There was no mistaking what he said.

Ridley shuddered, and goose bumps crawled up her arms.

“Like I’d ever agree to that,” she tossed off, trying to keep her cool.

“The way I see it, you don’t really have a choice.” He walked over to the wall in front of her and leaned against it. “Everyone has to register their marker before they play, or the house gets to choose.” He didn’t take his eyes off her. “House rules.”

“Tell her, Lennox,” Floyd said.

Ridley tossed her hair nonchalantly. “Well, I didn’t know anything about that. So I’m sure you can make an exception.”

Lennox—whoever he was—gave her a long look. “I can’t do that. You’ll have to play this one out.”

There was something strange about the way he said it, but Ridley couldn’t put her finger on it. “Fine.”

This situation was anything but fine. Even though Ridley knew she could manipulate the outcome of the game, this guy, Lennox, made her antsy. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would risk anything on a card game, especially not one he didn’t already know he would win.

Just like me, she thought. So I guess he’s met his match.

“We’re back on play,” the dealer said, lifting his hands off the discard pile.

Rid waited until Sampson’s attention was focused on her before she made her move. Bluff. She’ll never figure it out.

He hesitated, the way he had the last time she used her powers on him. Then he dropped his card. “King.”

“Liar.” Ridley let the word roll off her tongue slowly.

Lennox moved closer to the tables, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Sampson bit his lip.

Poor baby.

Ridley barely noticed when he flipped his card over—until someone gasped. The Caster card rested on the top of the discard pile.

King of fates.

Ridley couldn’t hide her shock. “No. That can’t be right.”

“Why? Because you used your Siren song on him?” Lennox asked.

It felt like the floor had dropped out from underneath her. How the hell did he know? More importantly, why the hell didn’t it work?

“Don’t worry, Little Siren. You haven’t lost your touch,” Lennox said, as if he could read her mind.

“How did you know?” She choked out the words, still in shock.

“I’ve known all night.” He didn’t answer the question.

Ridley stared across the table at Sampson. “He put some kind of Cast on you, didn’t he? So my powers wouldn’t work on you.”

“He didn’t need to,” Sampson said. He smiled, for the first time all night. “Your powers don’t work on me.”

Ridley’s head was spinning. She wished she had her friend John Breed’s scorpion belt buckle so that she could dematerialize and Travel like an Incubus. “What kind of Caster are you?”

Sampson watched her with those steel gray eyes. “I’m not a Caster.”

He couldn’t be a full-blooded Incubus. There was no way to hide the black eyes of an Incubus behind a pair of gray contacts. “Then what are you? Some kind of hybrid Incubus?”

“No.” The corner of his mouth turned up into a smile. “I’m something else.”

Lennox stood behind Sampson. “He’s a Darkborn.”

“What the hell is that?” Ridley had no idea what he was talking about.

“When the Order of Things was broken, it changed things,” Lennox said. “You should pay a little more attention to the world around you.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said calmly.

But inside she was starting to panic.

Ridley rose, her knees wobbling, and looked up at Lennox. “You guys cheated, so the game doesn’t count. I’ll see you around.” She started to turn away, and the bouncers moved toward her.

Lennox walked between the bouncers and stood in front of Ridley. He tucked a stray strand of pink hair behind her ear. “No. You cheated, Little Siren. Now you’re going to pay the debt you owe me.”

“You weren’t even in the game.”

Lennox smiled. “Sampson was playing for me. His debts are mine, and so is his take.”

Ridley remembered what he had whispered in her ear—what he wanted from her—and she felt sick. She couldn’t do it.

Never.

He ran his finger gently down her cheek and across her lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

When he reached the door, he stopped and turned back to look at her. “I almost forgot. I’m opening a new club in New York, and these guys are my house band.” He glanced at the members of the Devil’s Hangmen.

Ridley gave him a blank stare. “That concerns me because?”

“You owe me a drummer. And you’d better find one before my club opens,” Lennox said. “In Liar’s Trade, the winner calls in his markers whenever he chooses. I’m calling that one in now. You might want to study up on the rules before you play at the big girl table.”

Ridley tried to keep her expression unreadable.

Lennox winked. “Next time.”

He disappeared down the hallway, and Ridley stared after him.

His marker.

A drummer.

New York City.

She frowned.

Even for her, this was cold.

Still.

Ridley twirled a strand of pink hair. “I think I know just the guy.”