Page 92 of Mistress of Lies

Samuel nodded, glancing over at the conversion chart. It was an easy enough transaction, and he pulled the money from his coin purse. He placed it on the counter, and the teller shot him a coy smile as she made the trade. “Welcome, Lord Aberforth,” she purred. “May luck be on your side.”

He grabbed the stack of coins, but she caught his wrist, placing a velvet bag in his hand. It was embroidered with a fox’s face, the creature looking strangely fey and wild. “On the house,” the teller said. “For every new patron.”

Samuel nodded, slipping the chips into his pouch. Anton already has his tucked away, slipped back into his pocket where he wouldn’t lose them. Samuel held onto his, feeling the weight of it in his hand. It was a small sum to many Blood Workers, but what he held in his hand in this moment would have fed him for months in his old life. Strange to think that such a small thing was the ruin of so many people. It was, in a way, harder to even think of it as money in this form. They were just chips—bits of colored wood—signifying something far more valuable than themselves.

“What’s your poison?” Anton asked, turning away from the teller. He walked to the edge of a small balcony, staring down into the pit where the games were run. Samuel followed wordlessly, taking in the sights. There was roulette and hazard, vingt-et-un and piquet. All around the room were dozens of people, men and women, laughing and betting and flinging their coins against the tables like they meant nothing.

And they probably didn’t—they probably had so much more where that came from.

That bitter old hate rose in him, and he clenched his bag of coins hard enough that it hurt. But all he said was “I am not overly familiar with gambling.”

Anton nodded at him, neither surprised nor impressed. “Let’s start simple. Vingt-et-un is easy enough.”

“I know the principles. Don’t go over twenty-one.”

“Good.” Anton led him down the stairs, giving him a quick rundown of the rest of the rules as he went.

Here it was easy to slip into the crowd, just another one of the dozens who came to drink and gamble the night away. If he got a few looks of recognition, well, they were quickly pulled back to their games of chance, too busy losing money to ponder the appearance of the Lost Aberforth.

It was freeing, and Samuel hated how much he enjoyed it.

Anton found them seats at an open table and they settled in to play. The dealer winked at Anton, smiling like he was an old friend, and Samuel supposed he might be. A reputation like his didn’t come out of nowhere.

“Go easy on my friend, Sarah,” Anton said. “It’s his first time.”

The girl—Sarah—smiled at him, though the effect was chilled by the fact that her lips were painted the color of blood. She was a pretty girl, clearly Unblooded, given that she worked here, but there was something about her that seemed almost ethereal. “I’ll be gentle,” she promised, laying down the cards, and Samuel smiled.

Until he lost his first hand.

The night went quickly after that, Samuel learning the game—winning some, losing more. He had a feeling that Anton was folding more often than he normally would to give him a chance, but he found he didn’t mind. He was fun to play with, and Samuel thought he would really enjoy these card games if they were played for fun and not for money.

But that was not the case, and with each successive hand Samuel grew more bitter. It didn’t matter that the money he was losing was, relative to his accounts, negligible. Nor did it matter that he was one of the cheapest gamblers.

It was the principle of the thing.

Here both Blood Workers and Unblooded came together, money slipping carelessly through their fingers, money that could be better spent throughout Dameral, helping those who needed it.

Perhaps he slapped his cards down too hard, perhaps his frown was too severe. But Anton swept up his chips and gestured for Samuel to do the same. “Thanks, darling,” he said to the dealer, flashing her a wink.

She gave him a smile and a wave, then turned to Samuel. “Come back any time, my lord.” She fanned her cards in front of her, too over the top to be taken seriously, and Samuel had to laugh.

Anton gestured towards a door, nearly hidden away against the design of the wallpaper. If it hadn’t been pointed out to him, Samuel wasn’t sure he’d have ever noticed it. But Anton was already there, and Samuel had no choice but to follow or be left alone in a gambling hell full of strangers.

He hurried after him.

Anton had already passed through the door, which hid a staircase. It wound up and up, curling around itself as they rose above where the gambling floor had been. “Where are we going?”

“To the High-Rollers’ Lounge,” Anton said, over his shoulder. “You looked like you could use a break, and I could always use another drink.”

“Oh.” It made sense now that he thought about it, that the Fox Den would have one of these, but he didn’t think that Anton would be one of the members. For one, he was Unblooded, and for another, given the rumors about the LeClaire fortune, it didn’t seem wise for them to spend their money so frivolously.

“I can feel your judgement, you know,” Anton said, as they emerged into what looked to be the lushest parlor he had ever seen. Into a wide room, filled with low couches and chairs in deep colors. The glow of witch light shimmered down from above, casting the room in low light.

It was much less crowded than the gaming floor downstairs, small groups of people gathered around tables as they spoke in quiet voices. It was still so rich that Samuel felt like he was a bit of an impostor for being there at all, but some of the tension still ebbed away.

“What do you want to drink?” Anton asked, already shifting towards the bar.

“Tea, if they have it.”