Brynna

Angelo slouched in his seat, picking at the baize in a way his uncles would have rapped his knuckles for. Presently he looked up at Brynna out of the corner of his eye. The shadow of his brow hid the full force of his gaze, but Brynna was struck by the resemblance to previous generations of Castelloros she'd known.

He said, "You know, Brynna, Uncle Mattia was the only one ever to beat Old Man Luca at cards. Of course, that wasn't long before I was born. The old eyes were tired by then."

Brynna snorted gently and flicked one eyebrow at the boy. "He'd tell you he only got sharper with age, sweetie. He'd say the wrinkles just made him harder to read."

"Maybe." Angelo pushed himself up slightly. "Well, Uncle Mattia was the eldest, but he always said he won the family at cards with Father and Uncle Dino. That's how I remember them – always playing cards, that was when I saw them."

"You learned at their table?" Brynna smiled. The brothers had been like that as boys, too.

"They taught me almost everything I know." Angelo’s attention went to his black-gloved hands for a moment. When he looked up again, his eyes caught the light like amethyst geodes. "I beat Uncle Mattia once, a few months before he was killed. He held sixteen, I went bust on my fourth card and took a fifth, and he folded."

Impressed, Brynna let herself chuckle. "How long did he stare you down for?"

"Dad said it was four minutes."

"Top marks."

Angelo nodded, then picked up his glass and raised it in Brynna’s direction. "To the old men."

Something in Brynna settled, sadly. Maybe it was apt that all she had to meet his toast with was water. "To the young."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Angelo pushed himself upright at some signal Brynna couldn't see. He checked his watch. "Punctual. I thought they'd keep us waiting."

The clock on the wall said ten past ten. Brynna took a deep breath and tried to relax, tried not to feel like a fire waiting to burn. There hadn't been much in the way of talk among the assembled mobsters, but now even the possibility of it seemed to die.

A minute later, the door opened and a uniformed attendant stepped through, holding it open behind him. The first man through after him was unmistakably the Raven, Don Corvino. Brynna didn't need any prior knowledge of his appearance to feel the fearless authority rolling off him. He was short, square-shouldered and filling out his suit with the lines of immense physical fitness. Bald apart from a wreath of still-black hair above his ears, clean-shaven with a wide, flat face. His suit was understated, gunmetal grey with a black tie whose gold pin was his only jewellery.

Behind him filed in a row of taller, heavyset men who Brynna guessed were more likely bodyguards than ranking lieutenants. They could have been pressed from the same mould, except for the shortest, whose hair was a fluffy mess of berry colours and whose lips were subtly glossed. That would be the psychic.

Angelo stood slowly, waited for the Don's attention to reach him, and bowed low from the waist, spreading his hands, palms open. "Don Corvino, welcome."

"Castelloro." The Don didn't move any closer.

"Can I offer you or your men anything to drink?" Angelo straightened, and Brynna marvelled at the control that let him seem at ease. He would, indeed, be formidable to bluff against.

Corvino waited a moment, then said, "Starhope?"

"I don't sense any plot." The psychic spoke softly, but his voice carried. He hadn't taken his eyes off Brynna since they'd first landed on her.

If Corvino's manner didn't become any more gregarious, his tone at least opened up a bit. "Then a Campari soda, thank you. Red for you, Indigo?"

"Thank you, boss,” Starhope said. Psychics tended to have that kind of extravagant name.

"Please have a seat." Angelo gestured to the chair on the players' side of the table, at the end nearer the door, and moved to return to his own, parallel, place. Brynna walked to the banker's position on the opposite side of the table, noting with pleasure that Angelo had had it set with a stool. She didn't sit, though, not yet. There were theatrics to consider.

When the drinks were served, Angelo adjusted his slouch in his seat so that he was mostly facing the Raven. He said, "Do you know why they call my family the eight-leafed clover?"

"The eight-leafed clover?" Don Corvino chuckled, leaning back in his chair and looking up at his men. "That's the problem with these northerners, everything has to be more, more, more, there's no class to it." The assembled mafiosi laughed, too casually to call it 'forced' but too deliberately and ostentatiously to seem natural.

Brynna watched a change come over the young man they mocked. He straightened just slightly in his chair, his shoulders suddenly very square, all his idleness gone. The sharp lines of his face took on the aspect of a stealth fighter jet, launching the quiet missile of his voice. "And is it Calabrian class to pipe-bomb the wives and children of my men?"

The Don's cheeks darkened, and Brynna saw several hands creeping towards what were presumably concealed weapons. She held up one finger. "Enough, gentlemen." She hadn't completely lost her touch. All eyes turned to her, including the now-puzzled mafiosi. Only the psychic was unperturbed, flicking his eyebrow gently in her direction. She turned her attention to Castelloro. "Luca, tell your story."

He glanced up at her with a slight hint of petulance, then grinned lopsidedly and faced the Don. "When he was a young man, my great-grandfather once found himself at a card table, sat across from a beautiful white-haired woman with red eyes. Full of the fires of youth, he charmed her, and asked her to gamble the secret of her heart. Perhaps she was flattered, maybe just amused, but she placed in the middle of the table a blue-white flame, that burned without heat or fuel and left no mark on the baize. Then she dealt him a game of baccarat, and he bluffed with eyes of purple smoke, and he won and picked up the flame."

Angelo flashed his eyes at the Don, so all present could see what his description of his ancestor's irises meant – an uneven and disconcerting lilac that nestled chill in his gold-framed face. "From that day until the day he died, my great-grandfather never lost a bet. He grew rich, bought casinos, and settled here in Rindburg, and when he died he left an empire to his sons, along with the tale of the woman with the red eyes."

The young Castelloro boss paused, and Brynna felt half the room looking at her. She held still, and Angelo continued. "My grandfather and his brothers spent all their lives searching for that woman, but it was my uncle who found her, down on her luck but not looking a day older than great-grandfather had described her. He aided her, lent her money to get back on her feet, and begged her to offer him the bet of the blue-white flame, but she refused. She had seen what my great-grandfather had done with her boon, and feared giving up that power to anyone.

"For you see, she was no mortal, but a heavenly spirit of luck, fallen from her home realm to wander the world, and the blue-white flame no less than a life-bond of her power."

Don Corvino made a gesture that might, if he'd formed it correctly, have given Brynna a brief headache. Eyes flickering to Brynna and back, he said, "Superstition, a myth."

"Not so." Angelo smiled. He raised his hand towards Brynna. "You know already what I'm about to say. I present Brynna Hynafol, the fox spirit."

Brynna released the celestial muscle she'd all but forgotten – never quite forgotten – she was holding, and her tails bloomed out behind her, white sprinkled with needles of shining copper. She felt her hair move as her true ears rose from the crown of her head, the sounds of the room sharpening like static on silk. The tails were heavy, and she felt them tug at her balance, but with no alcohol in her system she could handle it.

Then she took the longest, deepest breath she could muster, letting them all see her shoulders rise and fall. She pressed her hand flat against her stomach – never the chest, everyone always thought it was the chest but it came from deeper than that – closed her eyes, and drew forth the flame.

The Salon was well-lit, much brighter than the bar where Brynna had once gambled with Angelo’s ancestor, and it washed out some of the colour, but there was no mistaking the ball of fire she held above her palm. Several of the mafiosi, at both ends of the table, muttered or gasped, but the Don was unmoved. He, too, would be tough to bluff with.

Brynna leant forward, reaching over to a spot on the table next to the white outline of the box for the banker's stake. She tipped her hand, and the flame spilled out, coming to rest a quarter-inch above the baize. Just as in Angelo’s story, it left no burn-mark.

The Don pressed no question of her. Instead, glancing slightly toward his own shoulder, he said, "Starhope?"

"It's what he says, boss." There was awe in the psychic's voice. "A life-bond of celestial power."

"Hmph." Corvino's attention came round to Brynna. "What do you want, spirit?"

"This is my stake," she answered. "Against it, you'll bet whatever documentation you have on Soot and all claim to him and his clutch. Angelo will bet all the debts he holds over us, me and Tenebrae both. And we'll play a game."

"Is it worth it?" He said it scornfully, but Brynna guessed he was feigning. "Starhope?"

"It's worth it, boss." The psychic sounded like he didn't want to breathe. "If someone offered to sell me that flame, I would trade everything I own, rob any bank, mortgage any family member they asked for. A clutch of dragons is cheap at the price."

The Raven looked from Angelo back to Brynna, his head nodding slightly. "And that stops you using your powers?" He gestured at the flame.

"That is my power, dear." Brynna put on a teasing, wheedling tone. "Without it I'm just an old woman with a good straight face, that's all."

"She's not lying, boss," said the psychic. "That's how it works with celestials."

Corvino's attention went to Angelo, "And what game do we play?"

The boy raised a hand in Brynna’s direction, smiling. "Banker's choice?"

"What else, sweetie?" She matched his easy demeanour, pushing aside the worry that the Don would fight her suggestion. "With stakes like these and two players? It has to be Royale."

"Royale?" Corvino treated her to a long, sceptical glare.

Angelo said, "The game of princes, Vingt-et-un Royale. You've never played it?"

The Raven's scowl deepened. "You can hardly ask me to stake so much on a game I don't know." Which was a cynical move, since all present knew he had the least at stake of the three parties.

"Think of it as a variant of blackjack – it's older, much older, but that's a good starting point." Angelo spoke breezily, with the long practice his uncles and great uncles had also had in explaining the game. "Fixed blinds and ante, ante to draw, all players must match the stake to stay in." He paused a second. "Dealer can't bluff on twenty-one or bust, usual stuff like naturals pay three-to-two against the bank, aces count one or eleven, to suit the hand." Then he looked up at Brynna. "Did I forget anything?"

"No raising without drawing, that's all," Brynna said. Technically, that was implied by the fixed ante, but Castelloro men always forgot to spell it out.

She watched the Don digest the rules. He did so without any sign of confusion, and quickly. "How did your great-grandfather ever get rich playing a game like this?"

Angelo smirked. "We play other games for commerce. Royale we play for honour."

Corvino thought for a moment, again nodding gently. "Honour, is it? And how do you convert that to chips?"

"What do you say, Brynna, fifty apiece, ante at two?"

Angelo’s enthusiasm for the game was endearing. Brynna resisted the urge to glance at the clock, trusting her instincts for the time. At the Winter Palace, the sun would already be rising. Leaning again into her elderly act, hamming it up, Brynna said, "Come now, sweetie, I'm an old woman, it's past my bed-time. We can settle this with just ten, can't we?"

Angelo snorted, and out of the corner of her eye, Brynna watched the Don watch the exchange, reading it coldly. When he spoke, Angelo was very much the boy. "Have it your way, then."

Brynna chuckled and seated herself. She plucked a stack of white chips from the rack at her right elbow and slid ten to the Don, then ten to Angelo, then counted out fifteen for herself; by convention, the banker played from three quarters of the total chip pool of all players. If the Don had truly never played Royale before, he was a quick study.

The bartender approached the table with a tray on which rested three sealed decks of cards. He showed the tray to Nina and Angelo, then walked around to the Don's seat and offered it to him. The Don glared at the packs for a moment, then picked one. With blunt fingers and flawless dexterity, he unwound the gold pull-tape of the plastic wrapper, pulled out the cardboard sleeve, and tipped the cards into his hand.

Thumbing quickly through, he took out the jokers and placed them face-up to his left, right at the end of the table. Then he spilled the cards out in a neat line, face-up, the suits in order, ace to king of hearts and clubs, king to ace of diamonds and spades, so all could see that none were missing. With equal deftness, he swept them up again and shuffled.

As the cards danced between his hands, Brynna felt the tension in the room settle, the way an electric kettle's hissing will quiet for a moment just before the water starts to roil. He was a thorough, straightforward shuffler, pleasantly undramatic to watch. After a few moments, he tapped the deck straight and passed it to Angelo, who cut it and passed it on to Brynna.

Her fingers tingled as they touched the cards for the first time. It was not magic – or at least, no more magic than the beauty of the game and the fading away of the years since she had last played. She stretched her free hand wide for a second, then pressed her thumb to the top of the deck. "Highest card takes first bet?"

To their nods, she dealt, sliding the top card out between her thumb and forefinger, relishing its crispness even through the shiny laminate these modern cards came with. She placed it on the table, pushing it carefully towards the Don. Then she did the same towards Angelo.

The Don picked the corner of his up with his thumb at the corner, then chuckled once, mirthlessly, and flipped it over. The King of Spades. Angelo turned his card face-up without looking first. Eight of Clubs. He shrugged.

"Bad luck," said the Raven, passing his card back to Brynna.

Angelo smirked back at him. "Call it the eight of clover."

Brynna watched the Don as she picked up the cards and quickly shuffled them back into the deck. He took a sip of his Campari and nodded in apparent pleasure. He was a prideful man, and had doubtless sat at negotiating tables far more fraught than this one. Royale required more than a poker face, though; would he see that Angelo was already bluffing?

Satisfied that the deck was ready, Brynna took two chips from her meagre stack and placed them beside her flame in the marked square. The hairs on the back of her hand prickled at their proximity to Celestial power, even though it was her own. First Angelo and then Corvino pushed forward their two-chip blinds.

She smiled at them, the smile that always made Thessaly call her 'mom'. Then she began to deal. One card face-up to the Don, the jack of hearts. One to Angelo, six of spades. One, face-down, to herself. The ten of diamonds to the Don, and she allowed herself a wince. His twenty was a bad first hand to play against. Seven of clubs to Angelo, giving him thirteen – he'd want to draw on that, up the ante for an early attack. Then, finally, her own face-up card, five of clubs.

Corvino wasted no time tapping his cards to stand. Angelo looked from him to Brynna and added two chips to his stake. She slid him a card, face down this time, and he left it there, waiting. From thirteen, the average draw would add six and a half to his hand, since the ace would have to count low or he'd be bust. Brynna’s five meant she was on a maximum of fifteen, so the hidden card was likely to beat her unless she drew a card herself. Angelo didn't need to bluff her, so there was no reason for him to risk giving a hint of what was on the card if he looked at it.

Taking her time, Brynna slid her thumbnail under the corner of her face-down card, pinching its centre against the baize with her middle finger and lifting till she could just see the red 'K'. The King made her hand fifteen, unplayable against either Angelo or the Don. There was too much risk of going bust, and no point raising her stake in order to do so.

Shrugging, she flipped her five face-down and slid her two chips from the stake box to the Don, plucking out two more to pass to Angelo. She had eleven, they now each had twelve. A poor start, but she wasn't worried. The hand had been stillborn, there was a lot to play yet.

Angelo left Brynna’s chips where they lay, pulling back his own pair. The Don took another sip of his Campari and carefully added the chips from Brynna to his stack. Idly, she wondered how long he would keep stacking his chips neatly, and when he would get bored and let them huddle.

She gathered up the cards and handed them to Angelo to shuffle. Angelo was a flashy shuffler – no surprise – but his fingers were unerring in their pace, forceful each time he tapped the deck square. As Corvino watched, he lifted his free hand, palm open. One of his men placed a pair of thick-rimmed sunglasses in the hand, which the Don then unfolded and put on.

Brynna ignored the insult, but Angelo, apparently without looking up, said, "Glasses, huh?"

"I heard your story. Or did you think I would ignore you bragging about your magic eyes?" The Don took another sip of Campari. Behind him, the psychic was taking his wine even slower.

"No magic to it." Angelo passed him the cards, his movements lazy and uninterested. "But if you feel you need them, go ahead."

Was the Don's cut a little sharper than it might otherwise have been? He probably didn't need the glasses to help with bluffing. He'd intended it to be a posture of strength or aggression, daring them to object, but Brynna knew better. Anyone who needed to cover his eyes for a game of Royale was an amateur.

Again they each set out their initial blinds. Brynna took the cards and began to deal, first to Angelo this time. Seven of spades, then the queen of clubs to Corvino. Face-down to herself, then ten of diamonds to Angelo, then the two of spades to the Don. Her own face-up card became the eight of hearts. She set the deck down and met Angelo’s eyes.

He looked so like his forebears. The lighting in this room was much brighter than when she'd met his great-grandfather, and where the elder Angelo’s eyes had been shaded by cigar smoke, the younger's were revealed in all their uneasy glory. Smiling, he tapped his cards – no point drawing on a seventeen, especially before seeing how Brynna reacted when the betting came to her.

This time it was the Don who upped the ante, pushing forward two white discs. She slid him a card and he checked it immediately, his face unmoving. His face-up twelve was weak but very playable; he only needed to bluff if he'd pulled a ten and gone bust.

Again she checked her own face-down card, pausing a moment before deliberately raising one eyebrow. The other red eight. Sixteen. Too risky to draw and guaranteed to lose to Angelo, but while she still had chips to play with it would be good to play and get a feel for the Don's resolve. And for Angelo’s, for that matter; he would know as well as she did that anything better than an eight – including an ace this time, since it would count high – would beat his hand.

She slid her pair of chips forward, taking no card for herself but matching Corvino's bet. Angelo nodded, tapped his cards again and tossed two chips towards her. His boredom was feigned, playing up his age. Brynna knew it was a show for the Don's benefit.

Corvino shot her a look that might have been the irritation of an adult required to attend to children, but she didn't reciprocate. He looked at his face-down card again, then flipped it over. It was the three of clubs. Fifteen.

Brynna treated him to a gentle smile and turned up her sixteen. He responded with a one-sided shrug and pushed his four chips over. She passed her own four to Angelo and split the Don's, two to her stake for the next hand and two to her stack. Castelloro sixteen, Corvino eight, Hynafol still on eleven. She corralled the deck and passed it to Corvino to shuffle.

As she did so, she noticed the Nosa Costra psychic's glass was still almost full, the wine dark in his pale hand. He saw her looking, tipped her an ironic toast, and drank. He would be busy, of course, invisibly monitoring Angelo’s purple-haired boy to ensure he wasn't interfering, and vice versa. That he could do so so casually was impressive.

The deck, freshly cut by Angelo, came back to her. A tall tumbler full of what was almost certainly cola now stood at his right hand. Hard to guess if that was his genuine preference or just another deliberately boyish gesture.

Brynna dealt. Four of clubs to the Don. Two of diamonds to Angelo. Face down to herself. Nine of diamonds to the Don. Three of hearts to Angelo. Three of spades to herself, which she treated to a long, sceptical look as she set the deck on the table.

His manner still deliberate and precise, the Don pushed two chips forward. Brynna slid him a card, face-down, and he gathered it in. He lifted his hand as if to check it, then his head tipped slightly toward Angelo and the hand went flat on the baize instead. Well, he was paying attention, at least.

Angelo tossed two more chips forward, as he absolutely had to with a hand of only five. He didn't even reach for the card she passed him. Then it was her turn. She took a long look at Corvino's thirteen, the silent back of Angelo’s face-down draw, then lifted up her hidden card. Seven of clubs, for ten. Finally a hand she could play on.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Her blood felt lighter as she upped her stake, leaving her to second-guess whether the lift of her arm was too steady, too eager. She thumbed her card from the deck and placed it face-up beside her three of spades. It was the jack of clubs, his sneering, aristocratic nose rendered beautiful by the company he kept, so that it took all of Brynna’s century of practice to hide the race of her heart. Twenty. Near invulnerability.

It was a hand for theatrics, for bluffing that she was a bad bluffer. She hunched forward, elbows on the edge of the table. Angelo would see through her, of course, but she almost certainly had him beat on this hand anyway. This was to see what the Raven might bite on.

Black glasses impassive, lower face unmoving, he looked at his draw from the previous round. He let it lie flat again, tapped it on the back, and then picked up his drink. Brynna turned her attention to Angelo. The boy had been taking a drink of his own, and set his glass down before checking his card. He picked up two more chips and slid them towards her.

She frowned at him, looked at his cards, and slid him a fourth. Then she pulled herself up as if taking a deep breath and matched his raise, tapping her cards to indicate she declined to draw. Corvino called without drawing, too, then looked to Angelo.

The Castelloro boss checked his fourth card, then flipped it and its neighbour upright. They were the five of hearts – a lousy first deal on such a low hand – and the eight of spades. Brynna straightened, neutralising her posture, letting the weight of her tails sway gently, and, with a soft "Sorry, sweetie," turned her seven up.

Angelo chuckled. "I was screwed from the five."

Together, they turned to look at the Don. He took a long drink, then, still moving with that accountant's precision, turned over his hidden card. Seven of diamonds, giving him a twenty to match Brynna’s. It was her turn for a rueful laugh as Angelo slid her his six chips. Corvino didn't join the levity. Brynna seventeen, Luca ten, the Don eight.

The cards were gathered, the blinds pushed forward. While Angelo shuffled, the host appeared beside the Don to offer him another drink, which he took. Although he was still losing, his hands were steady when he took the deck from Angelo and cut it. There was no hesitation as he passed the cards to Brynna.

She dealt: queen of clubs to Angelo, six of hearts to Corvino, one face-down, three of spades to Angelo, eight of spades to Corvino and the five of clubs to herself. Thirteen, fourteen, and then five-plus-something for herself. Both men would likely draw, and she was likely to be chasing them from something around an eleven. It would not be a quick hand.

Angelo took a card crisply and without hesitation, and Brynna saw in his posture a shift out of his boyish performance. The Don took longer to make his decision, but it was mathematically the correct one. His fourteen wasn't terribly strong on its own, he had room to draw, and he needed to win some chips. This time when he took his card he looked at it, the movement of his arm efficient but not swift.

Brynna checked her hand; the hidden card was a red two, for seven total. She added two chips to her stack and turned up… the six of spades. Thirteen, wretched enough that she felt the frisson of superstition, that the deck had chosen to dislike her. She would have to draw again.

Angelo checked his draw, placed it neatly with his two face-up cards, and tapped them. The Don tapped too. Brynna waited in practiced stillness for her thoughts to gather. Both players were up on her unless they were bust, and folding with the stake already raised once would show weakness. She slid two more chips forward. Only a nine, ten or face card would bust her. She slid a card askew atop the deck with her index finger and plucked it up with her thumb.

Jack of diamonds.

Stillness, stillness. This was the moment the two men opposite her would watch most closely for signs of her disappointment. She was bust even without turning the miserable two face-up, since the Jack, five and six already made twenty-one. She flipped it anyway. She had to be steady as a robot without any of the stiffness as she passed the six chips by her flame to Angelo, then another six to the Raven.

She had five chips left, Angelo was back to sixteen, and the Don now held fourteen. Corvino left her holding the deck out to him to shuffle for a long moment while he took a drink. Angelo sat straight-backed, face dull like a schoolboy's in a math class. Suppressing hungry enthusiasm, if Brynna was any guess.

With the blinds made, Brynna had only three chips spare at hand. Angelo cut the deck. Brynna dealt; nineteen to the Don, sixteen to Angelo, and the king of clubs next to her face-down card. The Don tapped, Angelo tapped – had there been a flicker of motion behind him? – and then it was Brynna’s turn.

The feeling inside her skin was an odd mix – the fizzing thrill was still there, enfolding everything, as it had to be. Even with her flame taken out and placed on the table beside her, this was still her being, this table a prayer to her, of sorts. But at the same time, her chance of beating a nineteen was-

It was the ace of spades. A natural twenty-one. She flipped the card upright, not even trying to hide her relief. Let them think she didn't know how to hide it if they wanted to. Apparently feeling something similar, the Don finally let out a sullen chuckle. When he pushed his chips over, he didn't put much effort into it, and Brynna had to reach to gather them up.

Hynafol nine. Castelloro fourteen. Corvino twelve. Her glass of water had been surreptitiously topped up. Angelo’s cola was two-thirds empty, the Raven's Campari still mostly full – his second, of course. Angelo’s fingers frolicked their way through his shuffle, and then Corvino cut like the action of a guillotine. Brynna felt the surge of renewal rise through her as she received the deck.

She dealt. Five of clubs to Angelo. Jack of spades to the Don. Face-down in front of her. Five of diamonds to give Angelo an incongruous pair. Six of spades to Corvino. An eight to herself. And then, stillness. Poised relaxation, back straight, fingers laced together in front of her, looking at nothing in particular and thinking that her hidden card probably wouldn't give her enough to beat the Don's sixteen but if it didn't it would probably be playable anyway, and bluffing would be important.

Angelo upped his bet and drew; she slipped him his card, shiny back catching the light. The Don took a small sip of his drink and matched Angelo’s bet, tapping his sixteen to stand. Brynna turned inward. In the space below her spine where her power normally resided, there was a hollow, and she hung there like a sleeping bat, preparing. The trick was that if she wanted to bluff, she had to react instantaneously to whatever she saw under the pink cardback in front of her. Different cards mandated very different bluffs.

Middle finger pressed to the centre of the card's back, thumbnail under its corner, she looked. Ace of diamonds. Her blood flooded with fireworks, but she let her shoulders droop. Not too much. No theatrics this time. No fake bluffing. This time she had to make them believe the hand sucked.

Because, in fact, an eight with a hidden ace was one of the most powerful hands the banker could hold in Royale. If it had been a nine in place of the eight, it would have been the hand known as the Emperor, the hand that allowed the banker, in secret, to choose the whole shape of the play. You could stand on the Emperor as a twenty, if you wanted to be almost certain of a win and one of the players was driving the ante up – as Angelo had to, with his pair of fives. Or you could draw on it as a ten, upping the ante yourself if the players were passive.

The eight only made it nineteen or nine, not quite as powerful but the play options were the same. If she drew, only a three, four, five or six would leave her short of the Don's sixteen, with only a six absolutely too high to draw again on. If she stood, she was safe unless Angelo had pulled a ten or face card; if his draw was low, he might draw again, pushing the ante to six with still only very poor odds of squeezing between her nineteen and going bust.

The trick now was keeping both players in the game and matching the ante. If she could beat them both, it would take her close to victory. She kept her posture low, but not sagging. Allowed the tips of her tails to droop slightly. Not so much that the two men would notice, consciously, just enough to subliminally diminish her in their eyes. Let them think of how much more she had to lose than either of them, of Phoebe’s hopeless vulnerability.

Moving just a little slowly, she picked two more chips from her stack, put them on the baize and pushed them towards her fire. She didn't look at her players, let her eyes go unfocussed as she brought her hand to the deck, picked up a card and slid it over to the two already in front of her. The motions were as automatic as they would appear from across the table; she had lifetimes of experience to train them.

Even with all that, she barely held it together when she turned up the ace of hearts. Ace-nine was the emperor, a rare and precious hand. Ace-eight-ace was sometimes jokingly called the eternal emperor; the emperor who could do the same again on the following round. A hand with the same alternate values as the emperor, but even less likely.

Brynna knew the maths precisely. From the perspective of a player looking at the dealer holding ace-eight and a face-down card, with five other cards dealt, the odds of the face-down card being another ace were three in forty-six, just a hair under one in fifteen. If the first ace had turned her blood to fireworks, now her body felt like the whole factory going up. She had to keep her bluff going.

If the hidden ace was unlikely, a hidden two would have given her blackjack, and she'd have had to reveal it and end the hand. If the hidden card was any higher than a six, the players would know she wouldn't have drawn, for risk of going bust. So, unless one of them guessed she had the second ace, they had to think she was now somewhere between twelve and fifteen total, pinned by the Don's sixteen.

Angelo had ten and a hidden card that was probably worth about seven. If the odds were rules of physics, then Brynna was all but beaten, her stake of four meaning that a loss to them both would take her down to her last chip. She had to sell that through her body language – the defeat, and all it meant for her and Phoebe and Thessaly and Tenebrae – while still looking like an experienced gambler with a fearful poker face.

She let her shoulders rise and fall with a long, slow breath, then took a drink, looking to Angelo’s decision. He checked his card, gave a lion's broad-shouldered version of a feline stretch, looked her squarely in the eye and pushed two more chips to his stake. For the first time, he truly looked like the scion of his family.

She slid him his card. She had him. Time for the Don. She looked not at the man himself, but at his cards, the six hiding the jack's face, the mediocre sixteen that she had to convince one of the most feared mobsters in Occidens she was scared of. He could presumably calculate the odds if he didn't already know them. The question was whether he understood that in Royale, the odds are a distraction from the bluff.

He was giving her the poker treatment, his black glasses reflecting her face back at her in miniature, his jaw and lips unmoving. He waited, so she lowered her eyes again, resting them somewhere between his hand and the cards. Let him think she was beaten, he was the kind of man to be lured by that.

After what he probably thought was a very long time, the Raven lifted his fingers, inched them forward, and tapped his cards. With his other hand, he slid two more chips forward. Inwardly, Brynna sneered. It was a performance out of TV poker, from someone whose idea of good gambling was statistical.

Still, she had him where she wanted him. Now, even if Angelo’s draw was good and the Don folded, his six would balance what she had to pay Angelo. Time for the fox to bear her fangs to the cat. She straightened, looked into the lilac smoke of his irises, and pushed two chips forward. Six of the nine she'd brought into the hand. Lose now and she was bust.

The boy didn't flinch. He held steady even as she tapped her cards, declining to draw, more or less declaring her earlier pose of defeat a bluff. He would have to throw out all his previous reasoning about her hand.

He had to break eye contact to check his fourth card. Still no flinch. His had been the last raise; if he made no change to his bet, the hand was over. He paused for a moment, hand hovering over the table. Then he sat back and looked at his chips. Six forward, eight to his side. Would he go for it?

His hand moved again, picked up two chips; he looked at them, thoughtfully, and – again there was a faint touch of movement behind him, too quick for Brynna’s eyes to catch. She tried not to let it draw her eye, focussing on the white plastic turning over between his fingers.

Behind Angelo, on that side, was the slight, short figure of his psychic, easily the smallest man in the room. Locked in his invisible duel of surveillance with his berry-haired Nosa Costra counterpart, the young man's face was perfectly, eerily impassive. The fancy white coat he wore was long, hanging well below the edge of the table. It was just possible that what she'd seen was Angelo tugging it, out of sight.

Of course, owner of the casino or no, he wouldn't dare to have his psychic try to affect the game itself. That would backfire instantly. But there were other things a psychic might do for the eight-leafed clover even in this almost-frozen moment. It could be as simple as relaying a report from the building's security staff, or maybe helping Angelo himself stay calm, smoothing away the accumulating stress toxins.

If the coat hadn't been so pristine, it probably wouldn't have caught the light well enough to show the movement. Brynna returned her attention to her opponent. The chips stopped moving in his hand, and he set them down, waiting for a long moment before pushing them forward. Brynna thought the gesture seemed a fraction less proud than before, but it would be easy to imagine that after catching what might have been a tell.

She slipped him a card and turned again to the Don. Again, he waited for a moment, poker-faced. Then, with a sullen sneer, he flipped his sixteen face-down and pushed his six-chip stake over to the middle of the table. It was the right call, but he was wrong if he thought the hand was over, or that his performance wasn't being noted.

Relishing the moment, spreading her gesture slowly across the room like honey on perfectly-golden toast, Brynna looked at Angelo. Unerring, her fingers found two of her last three un-staked chips, led them gently over to warm themselves by the heatless light of her flame. Then she turned her palm up, inviting him to make his next call.

He looked down at his cards, reached over and flipped up all three without even checking the one he'd just been dealt first. Four of spades; queen of diamonds; king of clubs. He'd been bust since the queen. He started to push his chips forward – after all, it didn't matter now what Brynna’s hidden card was – but she held up her hand to stop him.

She needed him to know how she'd beaten him. This was the moment. The Raven had already shown himself out of his depth, she had time to finish him off. Angelo, though, really knew what he was doing, and she'd bluffed him and then broken his bluff on the same hand. It was time to put him to flight.

She slid the hidden ace up between thumb and middle finger, turned it over so as to tuck it in between middle and forefinger, and let it catch the light. The single red diamond gleamed in its middle. Someone behind Angelo – after all, his lieutenants had to know the game pretty well too – let out a low whistle.

All Angelo said, quietly, was "Hype…" He finished pushing his chips over, and BrynnaNina gathered them in with the Don's. She was up fourteen, to twenty-three, with Angelo and Corvino both on six. She corralled the cards luxuriously, passed the completed deck to the Don for shuffling.

As the Nosa Costra boss methodically worked the cards, Angelo chuckled. "I've only seen it once before."

Brynna took a sip of her water. Letting Angelo talk while the Don stewed in his loss was probably a good move. "Go on, sweetie."

"Yeah, in college." He picked at the baize again, and she wanted to smack him on the back of the hand. That might be pushing it a bit, though. "I was trying to teach some of my friends the game, and this girl I liked got the eternal emperor and didn't realise what she had. She invited me home with her after the game to explain, but I don't think she actually got it."

"Oh, sweetie," Brynna laughed, "She definitely didn't want you to explain a rare hand in a niche card game."

"I know, I know, I was young, ok?" He pushed two chips forward. The Raven was holding out the deck for him to cut but he drained his glass before taking it. "I know better now."

"You're still young, sweetie." Brynna made her own bet, tidying her remaining chips into four stacks of four and one of five. She could fold a hand or two, now, if she needed to wait for better odds. "But you're good at the game, I'll give you that."

He handed her the deck and nodded. His glass had already been refilled; opposite it at the other end of the table, Corvino's looked almost untouched. The Nosa Costra boss was slow to push his blind forward. Brynna couldn't tell for sure where he was looking behind those dark glasses, he kept his head very straight, but she'd have bet he at least glanced at the four chips still standing by his left hand.

Time, if the cards obliged, to put the game to bed. She dealt to the Raven, three of clubs, then Angelo, six of hearts. A face-down card for herself. Jack of spades, four of spades and then, in front of her, the nine of diamonds. She smiled at her players.

The Don pushed two more chips forward, took the card she passed him, and caught himself before looking at it. Angelo was smoother, but dispassionate. He moved economically, without expression. Falling back on simpler strategies while he reeled internally from his broken bluff? Or just waiting for the hand to develop any intrigue?

Brynna checked her hidden card. The two of clubs. She had eleven; it was safe, even necessary, to draw. The trick was whether she could keep the men in the game for another round of raising, get them all in. Little point feigning weakness with so many chips to hand, even though her odds of beating them were only even.

She picked up two chips and placed them on the baize in front of her, making a sort of bird-cage with her fingers. Then she looked at the Don. Keeping her voice casual and easy, she said, "Do you like to gamble, dear?"

He grunted. "There are better ways to make money."

"Not if you win tonight." She nodded at the flame, still burning ethereally above the table. She looked, pointedly, at his cards and his stake and his two remaining un-bet chips. She wanted him to feel the edge he was on; if he had a tell, it would be more likely to show the more agitated he was.

She moved the chips over to join her stake and – stillness, stillness – turned over a card from the top of the deck. Seven of hearts. Face-up, she had sixteen; that she hadn't gone bust or turned up a twenty-one told the other players she held no more than a four. With an actual score of eighteen, her hand was strong, probably too strong to get the Don to commit further.

It was his choice. If he didn't change his stake, the hand was over. If his draw was good, a six, seven or eight, he had her. If it was a two, three or four, he was as good as done – too risky to draw in case he went bust, too low a score to beat her. He might draw again on an ace, needing a five, six or seven to beat her, but it would be dangerous to go all in on those long odds.

He checked his card, nodded once, and pushed forward his remaining chips. Brynna could almost feel the weight of his gaze fall on her despite his glasses. She dealt him a card, holding her face quiescent as she re-checked her maths.

Without hesitation or trepidation, he lifted the second card and looked at it. A smile spread slowly up his cheek. Not a gambler's smile, but something crueller and much more chilling. It was the smile of a powerful man who had held lives in his hand many times, the smile he would smile to remind you he held your life in his hand. The smile of a mafia boss, a power-play in a game much larger and deadlier than this table.

But why, that was the question. It was obviously a deliberate gesture. Had he actually drawn the ace and seven that were the only cards that, mathematically, justified his play and still gave him an unbeatable hand? Or was it a threat, an attempt to scare her into folding regardless of the cards?

"Well, I can be a good sport," Angelo said, a little too loud, and tossed his last chips in, back to his careless-boyish act. "All in. Hit me."

That was definitely for the Don's benefit, if he'd brought blackjack lingo to his uncle's card table he might actually have gotten hit. Brynna felt her blood sparkling, her spinal column a rod of flame. She had to win this now. Everything about Angelo’s behaviour screamed that he was bust and out of the game, ramping up the pressure on whatever bluff the Don was trying to pull.

If she beat Angelo, then she had to beat the Don or she'd be head-to-head against him for at least a couple of hands. Head-to-head Royale weakened the banker's position, since she couldn't balance a loss against one player with wins against others. It was also just no fun at all, and the time was ticking on.

Brynna passed Angelo his final card, and he left it where it lay. Then she turned to Corvino. That smile was still on his face, giving him a bit the aspect of a butcher looking at a particularly fine carcass. Guessing where his eyes were, she did her best to meet them. She didn't need to see her hand to pick up two more chips and ponder them with her fingers.

What was his bluff? A sixteen or seventeen that he was trying to convince her was a twenty? A twenty-one that he was trying to convince her was a sixteen or seventeen so that she'd match his bet and dig him that much further out of his hole? Was he bust and trying to get her to fold? Or about to order his bodyguards to violence?

Beside him on the edge of the table, his glass of pink Campari stood still well over half full. Had he drunk at all since the start of this hand? Early on he'd drunk quickly. Light gleamed on glass just behind his head, too, the berry-haired psychic's wine, now almost finished. There had been that slow, deliberate toast he'd paid her, out of sight of the Don.

Brynna put her chips on the table, close to her stack at first, one last attempt to make him flinch. Did the smile falter a touch? No, he was too skilled for that, at least. Slowly, drawing it out as her insides rose to a frothing boil, she slid her hand left and forward, closer and closer to the blue flame.

She feigned hesitation, right on the threshold of adding the chips to her bet. As soon as the chips crossed that line, the hand was over; neither player could draw again, and Brynna, on at least a seventeen, couldn't risk going bust.

She jabbed her chips over the line, grabbed her face-down two and flipped it.

Eyes still a mystery behind his glasses, the Raven lifted a hand and gestured to Angelo. "Master Castelloro?"

Etiquette was that players would show in order, which would mean the Don first this hand, but unlike some of the unspoken rules of the card table, it wasn't terribly rude to do differently. There were all sorts of reasons, especially in a game as theatrical as Royale, to want to shake up the order. The question was still which of those reasons the Don was applying.

Angelo chuckled through a lopsided smile, suddenly looking neither the boy nor the gambler, but just a successful young man rueful over the result of a well-played and pleasurable game. He flipped over the two pink backs next to his six and four. It was the four of clubs and a red face card. Bust. He'd had to draw on the fourteen to have any chance, and, like so many young men down the centuries, been pranked by the jack of hearts.

Brynna turned her attention back to Don Corvino. His threatening smile hadn't slipped at all. In front of him sat the three of clubs and the jack of spades. Beside them, two face-down cards and his last six chips. What was his bluff? It was almost more irritating than intimidating now.

Slowly, carefully, precisely, he picked up his third card and flipped it lengthwise, placing it down on the baize. Two red hearts pointed their prows at one another like opposing spaceships on the shiny cardboard. It took all Nina's long-trained gambler's reflexes to keep her jaw from dropping.

A two. He'd held fifteen, and he'd gone all-in to draw again. It was disgraceful, a fool's play. He'd known she held something from seventeen to twenty, and he'd drawn, needing a two, three, four, five or six to have a chance to keep his game alive. And with a three, a four and a six already face-up on the table! He'd gone all in to draw again on no better than a forty percent chance, with almost every other possibility being enough to bust him. Insulting.

And now he sat there, smiling that bastard smile at her. He hadn't won, had he? He couldn't have pulled the card he needed, could he? He couldn't have gone all-in on a fifteen and actually beaten her, surely? Nina glared at him, unable to soften her face, hoping he would take it for irritation at his slow dramatics and not evidence of a building urge to scream.

He turned over his last card and Brynna reeled. The seven of diamonds. If – IF – his first card had been the ace that was the only card that justified, maybe, going all-in to draw against her face-up sixteen with a hidden card, then the seven would have given him twenty-one, the hand, and a whole new lease of life.

He'd been bluffing that he'd drawn the ace.

And she'd called him on it.

And now he had twenty-two, bust, out of the game.

Now Brynna really wanted to scream. She wanted to lunge across the table and seize his wretched scumbag tie in her claws and shake him until his shirt shredded. He dared to go all in to draw on a fifteen in front of the celestial fox of luck herself?

Angelo started to clap, quietly but easily. The Castelloro lieutenants, Royale veterans to a man, joined in in what, at least to Brynna, was clearly a sincere appreciation of the game just concluded. Brynna watched the Raven as he took off his glasses and handed them back to the bodyguard behind him. Then he sat forward, nodded slowly to Angela, and faced her.

When he spoke, it was with equanimity. "Well played, Madame Hynafol. Starhope?" He held up his left hand, over his shoulder towards the psychic.

The man he addressed stepped forward to put his now-empty glass on the table beside Corvino's still-mostly-full one. Then he reached into his jacket and took out a slim white envelope. Brynna felt a fresh crackle of electricity run through her. The psychic handed the envelope to his boss, who placed it on the baize and slid it forward. "Cokiry's original registration form for Soot. You may trust that we have kept no copies. I wish your young rider well for her championship bid."

Brynna leant forward and scooped up the envelope, still watching the mafioso. His composure was immaculate, but as just demonstrated he was no great bluffer. Despite his infuriating final play, she nodded briefly in his direction. "Thank you."

The Don stood, and Angelo did the same. Feeling suddenly overshadowed, Brynna rose as well, stretching out her hand to recover her flame. Angelo glanced at it as it flickered out, and winced, just slightly. Brynna let herself smile, folding her tails away and compressing her celestial gift back down into the root of her spine, where she could almost ignore it.

Corvino offered his hand to Angelo to shake. "A fascinating game. I should like very much to play again."

Luca didn't lift a finger. "Then take it back to your dens in Calabria and play it there." Now he looked and sounded not like his jovial, spirited great-grandfather but his icy, murderous uncle. "You and your gang will not be welcome in any Castelloro casino. Not while I pay pensions to the widows of my men."

For a moment, there was a new edge of tension in the air, felt in minute shifts in the posture of the Nosa Costra bodyguards. Then the Don shrugged, turning his offered hand into one half of an open-palms gesture. "A shame. In the bigger game, we might have done some good business."

"Do you play that game for honour," Angelo said, voice level, "or commerce?" He finished with a sneer.

It had certainly not been for profit that Nosa Costra had gone to war on the Castelloro family. The Raven's expression soured, and he turned on his heel. One of his bodyguards already had the door open, and another preceded him outside as he stalked away.

The psychic lingered a moment. He faced Brynna and said, in that silky voice, "My lady." Then he treated her to a full courtier's bow, right hand over his heart, torso almost parallel to the floor. He straightened, smiling, and then hurried to follow his master outside.

Angelo let out a long sigh of relief that turned into laughter. He pushed past his men and clapped Brynna on both arms, holding her just shy of a hug. "You did it, Brynna! Hype!"

He was almost shaking her. Not wanting him any closer, she gave his forearm an awkward pat. "Your uncle would be proud of you, sweetie."

"Thank you." He looked over his shoulder and pointed to the bar, snapping his fingers. "Drinks. Champagne for me, open a good one. And whatever Brynna wants." Then he turned back to her. "How'd you do it? How'd you know I was bluffing?"

Gently, Brynna pushed his arms away, giving herself a little space. "When I played your great grandfather, he played alone."

Realisation turned Angelo’s face to a snarl. "Ziwan-!"

"Angelo stop!" She cut him off half-way through rounding on the purple-haired psychic, whose eyes had gone shockingly wide. When the Castelloro boss turned back to her, his intensity making his neck almost creak, like a gargoyle coming to life, Brynna said, "The boy was a statue. It was his coat twitching when you tugged it that caught my eye." She smiled at him, gently, "Have him wear grey next time."

That did the trick, and Angelo laughed again. "Well, you win. I'll forgive your debts and Phoebe’s, I can't say fairer than that." Then he sobered a little. "You'll come back and play again, though, right? I haven't had a game like that since dad died."

"I came here for Phoebe and Thessaly, Angelo. I hope I never have business with the Castelloro family ever again." She kept her voice as level as she could – she truly didn't mean to be unkind – but her words robbed Angelo of all his maturity, his power, his status. He was still young, and he'd lost his father and uncles to violence tied to their ancestor's prowess at games like this one. With the casualties inflicted by Nosa Costra, she wondered how many connections he had left to his family.

Brynna reached over and squeezed his arm. "I'm glad you didn't win, sweetie. I'd have hated to do to you what I did to your great-grandfather."

"What do you mean?" A touch of alarm. "What did you-?"

"Gave him his prize." She waved a hand at the room. "And now look at you. Goodbye, Angelo Castelloro."