“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.
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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.”