Casino Infernale

CHAPTER FOUR Dinner Theatre

For a supposedly secret location, Casino Infernale didn’t believe in hiding its light behind any kind of bushel. We could see the Casino long before we got anywhere near it. The massive building rose up into a cloudless blue sky like a mad cathedral monstrosity on the very edge of the city. Like a mountain manufactured in steel and glass, shining brighter than the sun. The Scarlet Lady tinted her windscreen till the car’s interior was gloomy as a tomb and the light still blasted through. Less and less traffic accompanied us as we approached our destination, until finally we were the only vehicle left heading down the single narrow road to Casino Infernale. The shops were all closed, and even boarded up, and finally disappeared completely, until there was nothing left to look at but the massive structure filling the horizon before us. I was concerned the lack of traffic might indicate another attack, but Frankie quickly put me right.

“This whole end of town is strictly off-limits to everyone but expected guests. The telepaths in the cellar see to that. No one comes here by accident; you only get this close if your name is on the list. No tourists, no gate-crashers, no one who isn’t . . . the right sort.”

“I have never been the right sort in my entire life,” Molly said immediately. “And proud of it!”

“We have so much in common,” I said. “I have to say, I don’t see any obvious security measures in place. . . .”

“You wouldn’t,” said Frankie. “Until it was far too late.”

I looked across at Molly. “Without my torc, I don’t have the Sight any more. Elves could be fighting a war with alien Greys up and down this street, and I wouldn’t know anything about it. Are you Seeing anything?”

“No,” said Molly, frowning. “And since I very definitely should be Seeing something, I can only assume somebody is interfering with my Sight. And there’s not many who can do that.”

“The Shadow Bank doesn’t just depend on telepaths to keep Casino Infernale’s secrets under wrap,” said Frankie. “They also spend big money on major sorcerers, future science tech, and things fresh out of laboratories or straight from the testing bench. If you can name it, they’ve almost certainly got it on the payroll here somewhere. Hopefully on a strong leash. Major league gamblers only come to Casino Infernale because they know they’ll be safe and protected from outside threats. Of course, no one protects the gamblers from each other. You’re all fair game, to each other. That’s part of the fun.”

“Have you ever been inside Casino Infernale yourself?” said Molly.

“Well, no,” said Frankie. “Not as such.”

“Then just how dependable is all this information you’ve been feeding us?” said Molly.

“Want me to electrocute the back seat?” said the car, cheerfully. “That should get some straight answers out of him.”

“You can do that?” I said.

“Wouldn’t take me long to rig something up,” said the car.

“I talked to the staff!” Frankie said quickly. “The waiters and the maids and the cleaning staff! All the little people, that the Big Names don’t even notice. You’d be amazed what Major Players will say to each other, right in front of the hotel staff. Who are all so badly paid they’re always ready to spill the beans in return for cold cash and a warm smile. Revenge and retribution have always been a big part of the class war. If the Casino paid their staff a decent wage, they wouldn’t talk, but that would mean Casino management admitting their hotel employees were people of real value. Casino Infernale only cares about the games and the gamblers. Idiots. Penny wise, pound foolish, and a boon to spies like us.”

I nodded. “That’s why there aren’t any staff at Drood Hall. We do everything ourselves, pretend it’s character-building, and make a virtue out of necessity. They made me clean the brass when I was small, over and over again. You wouldn’t believe just how many brass objects accumulate in a Hall as old as ours. I can get horrible flashbacks, just from the smell of Duraglit. Do I really need to tell you that I don’t own a single brass object?”

“Go on, dear, let it all out,” said Molly. “Vent. . . .”

As we finally approached the front entrance of Casino Infernale, the massive structure revealed more and more of itself. A huge futuristic building made of steel and glass, gold and diamond, rising hundreds of stories up into the sky. Big enough to hold a dozen standard hotels, and a whole army of security people to protect it. The building’s aesthetics were . . . odd. The exterior was made up of long curves and circling lines, endlessly interacting, with great waves of glass rising and falling across the front. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the Martian Tombs—all straight lines and no curves. It did make me wonder whether the Casino building was . . . from around here.

“It looks like some alien starship that’s crash-landed on the outskirts of Nantes,” said Molly.

“Funny you should say that,” said Frankie, leaning forward across the back seat. “The whole thing is supposed to be built around stolen alien tech, though no one’s willing to talk about just where the Casino might have acquired such materials. The whole structure teleports from one location to another, with a blast of such power that space at the other end just sort of shuffles around to make room for the new arrival. Well, wouldn’t you? That Casino is big enough to intimidate Moby Dick’s big brother.”

I pushed Frankie back into the rear seat, and leaned across to talk quietly with Molly. “I can’t help being reminded of Alpha Red Alpha. . . . The Armourer was pretty damned sure we had the only teleport machine of its kind anywhere in the world. I think we owe it to ourselves to take a really close look at whatever it is the Casino uses to jump itself around. And, if need be, shut it down with extreme prejudice and really bad language. I am not happy with the idea that there might be anything in this world capable of sending Drood Hall on its travels again.”

“I thought the Armourer said that he’d taken measures to ensure that couldn’t happen,” said Molly.

“Yes, well,” I said. “The Armourer says lots of things. . . .”

“What are you two talking about?” said Frankie, cautiously, from the very back of the rear seat. “Aren’t we all for one, one for all, and all that?”

“You wish,” I said.

“That is a very big building,” said Molly.

“Size isn’t everything,” I said.

“You wish,” said Molly. And then she elbowed me in the ribs, laughing at the look on my face. “I meant the building, sweetie! Look at it! You could swing Drood Hall around like a cat inside that thing!”

It was big, and seeming bigger all the time, as the Scarlet Lady headed straight for it like a bullet from a gun. The hotel rose up and up before us, an overpowering, overbearing presence that seemed to look right through me and know everything I didn’t want it to know. Which was probably the effect the designers had in mind. The car finally slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel, and parallel parked with a vengeance, bringing us to a juddering halt square in front of the main entrance door. All the other vehicles parked in the vicinity just coincidentally discovered a need to move a little farther away, to give the Scarlet Lady plenty of room. For safety’s sake. Pride, status, and authority just vanished in the face of the Scarlet Lady’s brutal intransigence.

I undid my safety belt with surprisingly steady hands, and clambered out of the front seat. I would have liked to say a great many things, but I didn’t. Never show weakness in front of an ally. I looked up the front of the building, and immediately wished I hadn’t. I had to crane my head right back, and still couldn’t make out the top floors. I felt a kind of reverse vertigo, as though I couldn’t be sure of my grip on the ground, and might go sailing up into the sky at any moment. I looked down at my feet, and then squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. The vulnerabilities of being without a torc struck me at the strangest moments. Molly moved in close beside me. She didn’t say anything, but her hand slipped into mine as she pressed up against me.

“That really is very impressive,” she said. “And we’ve been to Mars. . . .”

Frankie slammed his door shut as hard as he could, just to make a point, and then hurried forward to join us when the car growled at him.

“Try not to look like tourists,” he said kindly. “That’s not going to impress anyone. It’s only a good, or more properly bad, reputation that’s going to keep the rats away in a place like this. You look even the least bit vulnerable, and you can just bet someone will try to take advantage. You practise looking world-weary and dangerous, while I haul the bags out of the trunk.”

Uniformed staff were already hurrying out of the main entrance doors to welcome us. In much the same way that strip club bouncers welcome you by grabbing your arm and hustling you inside, while assuring you that the first drink is on the house. The porters all had perfect smiles, showing off perfect teeth, and they all wore the same uniform of smart black with red trimmings. They headed for our bags like a bunch of piranha in a feeding frenzy. Frankie stopped unloading our luggage, and snapped his fingers imperiously at the uniformed flunkies.

“Help yourself, boys,” he said grandly. “Don’t drop anything; all breakages will come out of your wages. And if anything goes missing so will favoured parts of your anatomy.”

A tall and muscular fellow in the same snazzy outfit snapped to attention before Molly and me, and flashed us a perfectly meaningless smile. “Park your car, sir and madam? Just toss me the keys, and I’ll put her away for the night.”

“In your dreams, sonny!” snapped the car. “I can look after myself!”

The uniformed flunky jumped just a little, despite himself. The car sniggered.

“But still—stick around, sonny. I do like a man in uniform. . . .”

I looked at the flunky. “Run!” I said. “Flee, you fool. Get away, while you still can.”

“That’s all right, sir,” said the flunky. “I have been specially trained to deal with all the most . . . eccentric forms of transportation. Including Artificial Intelligence systems. I can handle anything.”

“Oh, I like him,” said the Scarlet Lady. “He’s got possibilities. . . .”

She opened her front door invitingly, and the poor fool actually dropped me a wink as he slipped in behind the steering wheel. He’d barely got his legs inside before the door slammed shut and locked itself, the engine roared and the steering wheel spun madly, and the car took off at great speed. In what might or might not have been the direction of the underground parking. I could hear the flunky screaming, the sound quickly diminishing as the car disappeared.

“She will eat him alive,” said Molly.

“I’m sure she’ll let him go,” I said. “Eventually.”

The other flunkies blinked at us respectfully, and handled our baggage with even more care. Just in case our bags also had more personality than was good for them. It took a good dozen uniforms to handle everything that had emerged from the car’s trunk, and transfer it through the main doors and into the lobby. Either they were making very heavy going of it, in hope of a bigger tip, or the bags really were very heavy. I wasn’t actually sure what was in most of them, but I was pretty sure most of it wasn’t mine. For all I knew they could be full of bricks, courtesy of the Armourer, just to ensure a good first impression. Appearances are everything, in the field.

Inside the lobby, it was all very rich and luxurious and ostentatiously expensive. The kind of look that says, if you aren’t independently wealthy . . . boy, are you in the wrong place. The dimensions alone were big enough to intimidate most people. The lobby stretched away far and wide, with a ceiling so high you’d have a hard job hitting it with a cricket ball. Fortunately, Molly and I had just returned from the Martian Tombs, which were big enough to make the lobby look like a poor relation. Glass and steel everywhere, decorated with gold and gems and pockets of impressive tech, held together with gleaming expanses of brightly coloured plastic. Not a spot of wood or marble anywhere. The only organic touches were the dozen or so tall potted plants set out across the lobby at strictly regular intervals. Though, of course, they weren’t any kind of plant I recognised, and I’ve been around. Everything I could see, from the furniture to the fittings, to the boutiques selling overpriced tatt, were all determinedly futuristic, designed to impress rather than make you feel comfortable.

You didn’t come to Casino Infernale to feel comfortable; you came to play the games.

“Someone clearly watched too much Star Trek at an impressionable age,” said Molly. “And, oh dear Lord, listen . . .”

I did, and winced. The lobby Muzak was playing tasteful orchestrated versions of old Rolling Stones songs. Someone’s idea of the classics.

There were quite a few people standing around the lobby: men and women of every age and nationality and culture, and even more varying ideas of what constituted formal attire. They all looked Molly, and then me, up and down before quickly deciding that no, we weren’t anybody. Or at least, no one important enough to worry about. They didn’t relax, as such, but they did go back to just staring around or talking quietly in small groups. Some of them leaned against walls, or pretended to browse the boutique displays, but everyone ignored the very uncomfortable-looking chairs. But wherever they were or whatever they pretended to be doing, they all kept a careful watch on the main doors, waiting for someone who mattered to arrive so they could rush forward and offer their services. Like the dedicated little parasites they were, or aspired to be.

“Don’t stare,” Molly said briskly. “They’re no danger to anyone, or they wouldn’t be allowed to hang around the lobby. They won’t be playing the games, so we won’t be mixing with them. There’s no one more snobbish, more elitist, more fixated on caste and status than a big-time gambler.”

“They can still be useful sources of information,” said Frankie, eager as always to be of assistance. “These people have come a long way to offer themselves to their perceived betters, to perform various services and functions. Think of them as the remora fish, allowed to swim safely through the shark’s jaws, to pick crumbs of food from its teeth. Of course, you don’t need them; you have me. They can’t do half the things for you that I can! I can get you anything! There’s a reason they call me Fun Time Frankie. . . .”

“And not a good one,” I said. “Talk to them when you get a chance. See what you can learn.”

The porters finished placing our bags very carefully before the high-tech reception desk, and Molly and I strode unhurriedly forward to meet the concierge. He drew himself up to his full height, which was impressive, the better to show off how fashionably thin he was in his tightly fitting formal suit of black with red trimmings. He had an unhealthily pale face, cold dark eyes, and a lipless smile. He looked like he should be starring in commercials for a cut-price undertaker. Old atavistic instincts made me want to throw something at him and run.

“Your names, sir and madam?” he said, in a deep sepulchral tone.

“Shaman Bond and Molly Metcalf,” I said grandly. “You’re expecting us.”

The concierge looked down his nose at me, as though very much not expecting any such thing, and turned to the computer screen before him. His oversized and very hairy hands scuttled over the keyboard like a pair of spiders, and then his thin smile widened as he studied the information on the screen. He withdrew his hands, turned back to Molly and me, and did his best to seem even taller, so he had even further to look down on us.

“Your names are not on the list. We have no record of any rooms reserved for you. As far as our computers are concerned, you don’t exist.”

I just stared at him blankly. I didn’t know what to say. No one had ever looked me in the face before and told me I didn’t exist.

“We have reservations!” Molly said loudly, and just a bit dangerously. “Look again!”

“The computers are never wrong.”

“I could make you not exist,” I said.

“Threats will get you nowhere,” said the concierge.

“You sure about that?” said Molly. “They always have, before.”

“Threats, backed up by extreme violence,” I said.

“Well, obviously,” said Molly.

Frankie leaned in helpfully. “He wants a bribe. . . .”

“He wants a good kicking,” I said. “And he is going to get one if he doesn’t change his tune, sharpish.”

“Can I change him into something?” said Molly. “I’m in a mood to be innovative. And extremely distressing when it comes to deciding on the details.”

“Security!” said the concierge, in a loud and carrying voice.

Molly and I turned quickly around to stand with our backs to the desk, as a dozen over-muscled thugs in ill-fitting tuxedos came hurrying forward from every direction at once, all of them smiling unpleasantly in anticipation of blood and mayhem. Very big and impressive, and probably quite scary, to anyone else. Molly and I looked at each other, and shared a quick smile.

“I’ll take the starch out of them with a few simple transformations,” said Molly. “How do you feel about sea anemones?”

“Sounds sufficiently unpleasant to me,” I said. “Anyone gets past you, I’ll kick them half-way into next week.”

“You pace yourself,” Molly said tactfully. “Remember, you’re not as . . . strong or as protected as you used to be.”

“Thank you, I hadn’t forgotten,” I said. “I can still look after myself.”

“Of course you can,” said Molly.

She gestured sharply at the nearest Security goon, and nothing happened. Molly blinked, tried again, swore dispassionately, and turned back to me.

“Okay, we’re in trouble. There’s a null zone operating here, covering the entire lobby. Presumably generated by Casino Security. Magic won’t work here. Any magic.”

I glared at Frankie, who’d already backed away a fair distance. “You might have warned us!”

“I thought you knew! You said you’d been briefed! And don’t look to me for help . . . I do not do the violence thing. And anyway, if the two of you can’t cope with a few muscle-bound bouncers you won’t last five minutes inside Casino Infernale. So, I’ll be over there, by the newsstand, hiding behind something, wishing you well. Unless you lose, in which case I never saw you before.”

And he departed, at speed. Leaving Molly and me to face the rapidly approaching Security goons. They were almost upon us, grinning nastily and flexing their large hands, eager to do something really nasty to some guests. Instead of just bowing to them and taking their shit.

“Okay,” I said to Molly. “You take the six on the left, and I’ll take the six to the right. First to pile up all six in a bloody heap shall be entitled to Special Treats in the bedroom department.”

“No offence, Shaman,” said Molly, “but are you sure you’re up to this?”

“I was trained to fight by my family,” I said. “Armour’s all very well, but you need real fighting skills to get the most out of it. How about you, without your magics?”

“Are you kidding?” said Molly. “I grew up with Isabella and Louise! And I am just in the mood to hit someone. . . .”

“Never knew you when you weren’t,” I said.

Molly beamed at me. “Nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

And together we went forward to face the Security goons, and something in the way we held ourselves, and something in our smiles, slowed them down for just a moment. Which was all we needed.

I put aside my usual practised fighting skills; they needed my armour’s strength and speed to back them up. Instead, I fell back upon the basic scrapping skills drilled into me from a very early age by the family Sarjeant-at-Arms. As children, we weren’t allowed to use our armour against him in the practise ring; he shut down our torcs and made us fight barehanded. We all learned to defend ourselves quickly, because it was either that or get the crap knocked out of us on a regular basis. No use complaining to the family—they just said it built character. They said that about a lot of things I hated, but there was no denying the Sarjeant-at-Arms taught us how to fight. It was all that kept us out of the family hospital.

Remember: nuts and noses, hit their soft parts with your hard parts, and whenever possible trick an enemy into using his own strength against him. And never hit a man when he’s down; put the boot in. It’s safer, and more efficient. I could hear the Sarjeant-at-Arm’s voice in my head as I went to meet my enemy. That horrid, implacable voice.

I ducked the first goon’s punch, and used the second goon’s overextended blow to throw him over my shoulder. I tripped a third, and took the fourth’s blow on my shoulder. It hurt like hell. I wasn’t used to taking punches any more. I let the pain drive me on. I grabbed the fourth goon by the lapels of his tuxedo, pulled him forward, and head-butted him in the face. He cried out as his nose broke, and blood splashed across my face. I threw him away from me, ducked a punch from the fifth goon, kept moving, grabbed up a tall potted plant, and threw it at the sixth goon. He caught it automatically, and I lunged forward and sucker-punched him in the throat through the foliage. He fell backwards with the plant on top of him, making horrible choking noises.

Fists hit me from every direction, hitting hard, and it was all I could do to keep moving, and try to take the blows in places that wouldn’t put me down. The pain took my breath away, but I kept bobbing and weaving, ducking some punches and doing my best to block the rest. I caught one overextended hand in mine, twisted the man around, and threw him face first into the wall. He hit hard, and slumped to the floor, twitching. A really big goon lunged at me with both arms outstretched, his hands going for my throat. I let him come forward, let his hands fasten around my throat, and then kneed him in the groin with great thoroughness. His breath shot out of his mouth, his grip loosened, and his head lowered. I rabbit-punched him on the back of the neck, just to be sure, and he was unconscious before he hit the floor. Another goon grabbed me from behind; two huge arms closing around me, forcing the breath from my lungs. I stamped hard on his left foot, and felt the bones break in his toes. He cried out in pain and outrage, but his grip didn’t loosen. So I stamped down hard again, grinding the broken toes under my heel, and this time his grip loosened enough for me to surge forward and then back, slamming the back of my head into his face. I felt warm blood splash across the back of my neck. I broke his hold, and spun round to see blood gushing from his smashed mouth. It made me feel good. I hit him hard, just under the sternum, and all the colour went out of his face as my fist compressed his heart. He fell to the floor, and curled into a ball.

The one remaining goon on his feet decided he wanted to box, his huge fists held out before him. He looked like he’d done it before, so I decided I wasn’t going to play. I took off one of my shoes, and threw it in his face. And while he was distracted, I kicked him good and hard in the nuts with the foot that still had a shoe on it. He bent right over, as though bowing to me, and I viciously back-elbowed him in the kidneys till he went down.

The trouble with being big and strong is that you often don’t feel the need to learn how to fight. You just assume that being the biggest man in the room automatically makes you the winner. Well, no, not if you’re up against someone who’s been trained by a family who’ve spent centuries refining the art of fighting dirty. And, if you are someone who has learned how to take on the Drood Sarjeant-at-Arms and walk away reasonably intact, nothing is ever going to frighten you again.

I stood for a moment, bent half over, struggling to get my breathing back under control. It felt surprisingly good, to know for a fact that I wasn’t dependent on my armour to get things done. Nothing like proving to yourself that you can still hold up your end of a ruck to raise the old self-esteem. It’s the man, not the armour. The family always tells us that, but we never really believe it until we find out the hard way.

I put my shoe back on, and then looked around for Molly. Five unconscious and somewhat bloody Security goons were piled up in one corner of the lobby, and Molly was stabbing two stiff fingers into the eyes of the sixth. He screamed briefly, and put both hands up to protect his face. Molly kicked the goon hard enough in the left knee to dislodge the knee-cap, and he fell to the floor, still screaming. Molly kicked him really hard in the head, and he stopped screaming. Molly smiled sweetly, and looked round to see how I was doing.

We moved slowly and just a bit painfully towards each other. She saw the blood on my face, and I quickly raised a hand to assure her it wasn’t mine. We stood together, face to face, not leaning on each other because we didn’t want to appear weak in the face of so many potential enemies. We smiled at each other, as we learned to breathe more deliberately, and our heart-beats fell back to something closer to normal. And then we both turned to look at the concierge behind his desk.

We smiled at him, just daring him to try to run. And then we walked back to the desk, taking our time, while he stared at us with wide, frightened eyes. I stood before the concierge, took out my Colt Repeater, and placed the long barrel right between his eyes. The concierge went even paler, and made a high whimpering noise.

“Check the reservations again,” I said. “Perhaps there’s been an error.”

“An error! Yes, of course, sir and madam! Ha-ha!” said the concierge, smiling desperately. “Here are your names: Shaman Bond and Molly Metcalf! They were here all along—please don’t shoot me.”

“You didn’t even look,” said Molly.

“You are very definitely booked into this hotel!” said the concierge. “Here is your electronic door key. Do please enjoy your stay.”

“We’d better,” I said.

I stepped back, and made the Colt disappear back into its holster, while the concierge gestured urgently for the baggage boys. A dozen or so quickly gathered up our suitcases between them and headed smartly for the escalators. Molly sniffed loudly.

“They’d better not all be expecting a tip.”

“I’ve got a tip for them,” I said. “But they probably wouldn’t want to hear it.”

Molly looked at me thoughtfully. “How much money have you got on you, sweetie? I mean, actual cash? We’re in France . . . they have Euros. I haven’t got any Euros. Have you?”

“Now that you mention it, no. A field agent usually receives a wodge of local cash along with his legend, but this all happened in a bit of a hurry. Can’t you just conjure some up?”

“Not the kind of bank-notes that will fool Casino Security, no!”

I looked around for Frankie, who was still lurking by the newsstand, and he hurried over to join us, smiling shamefacedly.

“Get us some cash,” I said, before he could say anything. “All denominations. And no, you can’t put it on my credit card. Use your intuition. Go wild. And don’t get caught.”

He nodded quickly, and hurried away. I headed for the elevators, Molly at my side.

“You do know your Colt Repeater wouldn’t have worked under a null zone?” Molly murmured in my ear.

“I did rather suspect that, yes,” I said, just as quietly. “But the concierge didn’t know that. And I could always have clubbed him over the head with the specially weighted butt. That’s a design feature.”

“You’re a class act, Shaman,” said Molly.

“Bet your arse,” I said.

We were both pleased to discover we’d been assigned a whole suite to ourselves on one of the higher floors. Molly and I investigated happily, while the baggage boys dumped all our suitcases in one place, and then gathered together by the door to stare at us meaningfully. I was just considering whether Mr. Colt needed to reappear, when Frankie returned and stuffed folding money into every outstretched hand. The baggage boys disappeared quickly, smiling broadly, and Frankie slammed the door shut in their faces. He then produced large bundles of bank-notes from every pocket, and pressed them into my waiting hands. I riffled quickly through them, but they all looked much the same to me. Foreign currency usually does. I handed half to Molly, stuffed the rest into various pockets, and nodded briskly to Frankie, who all but wriggled like a dog who’s just had his head patted.

“That should last you!” he said grandly. “Try to be generous with the staff; it makes a good impression if you don’t seem to care about money. I do get to put this all on expenses, don’t I?”

“Write it all down,” I said. “And keep receipts.”

Frankie sighed, heavily. “I don’t know why I bother.”

I looked at him thoughtfully. “Why do you bother? The family can’t be paying you enough for all the danger involved.”

“Why does any Bastard like me work for the Droods?” said Frankie. “We all want to earn the right to join the family. We all want to come home.”

“It rarely works out well,” I said, not unkindly.

He just shrugged, so I turned away and joined Molly in looking over the many wonders of our new suite. Wide open with lots of room everywhere, the suite had even more rooms, leading off, and Molly and I spent a happy time running in and out of the side rooms, and sharing reports with each other. There was a double bed big enough to invite several friends in, and what looked like genuine antique furnishings. Bright golden sunshine streamed in through huge bay windows, with a fantastic view out over the city. Every luxury you could think of, including a mini-bar bigger than the fridge freezer in my old flat. Molly ended up running round and round the main room like an over-excited puppy, touching things in passing with trailing fingertips, while whooping at the top of her voice. She finally threw herself onto the double bed, rolled back and forth, and then clambered to her feet and jumped up and down, laughing happily.

“Quick, Shaman! Find things to steal! I’m not leaving this hotel empty-handed!”

She must have realised I wasn’t paying attention, because she broke off abruptly, and came over to stand beside me. I was staring out the massive bay window, not looking at anything in particular. Her hand stole into mine, and squeezed it comfortingly.

“What is it, sweetie?” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“My own father and mother sold my soul, to gamble with,” I said. “How could they do that to me?”

“I’m sure they had a good reason,” said Molly.

“Strangely, that doesn’t make me feel any better,” I said. “I’d only just got my parents back . . . and they do this to me.”

“Don’t be too quick to judge them,” said Molly. “Not until we’ve got all the facts. We don’t know what happened here. Everyone knows things can happen in a Casino that would never happen anywhere else. The stakes are so high here—and it’s not like they were gambling for themselves. . . .”

I turned away from the window to look at her. “Will you forgive the Regent, my grandfather, if he turns out to have a good reason for murdering your parents?”

Molly sighed, and cuddled up against me. I put an arm across her shoulders. And we just stood together for a while. As we often did. Us, against the world.

“We don’t have easy lives, do we?” Molly said eventually.

“Wouldn’t know what to do with them, if we did,” I said.

“Come lie with me on the bed, sweetie,” said Molly.

“Don’t mind me!” Frankie said quickly. “I can always nip out for a bit, make contact with the wrong sort of people, make myself useful. . . .”

“I meant lie down and rest, you horrible little man,” said Molly.

“Damn,” I said, solemnly.

Molly laughed, pushed me away from her, and went to lie down on the bed. She crossed her long legs, and looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling. I opened the mini-bar and took out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Domestic, but it would do. I opened the bottle and poured two glasses. I gave the bottle to Frankie, laid myself out on the bed beside Molly, and handed her a glass. We braced our heads against the padded headboard, and sipped our champagne. I’d been on worse missions. I looked at Frankie, and he snapped to attention.

“All right,” I said. “Make yourself useful. Brief us on all the things we need to know that we should have been briefed on before this.”

“Well, to start with,” Frankie said carefully, “you should both be very careful about which names you use. There are listening bugs and recording devices everywhere, magical and tech. Not everywhere, obviously, but it’s safer to assume the worst and speak wisely. Everyone knows Security is listening—all part of being “protected”—but you should choose your words carefully, Shaman and Molly. Just in case.”

“Got it,” I said. “What else do we need to know?”

“And keep it short and to the point,” said Molly. “Or I will heckle. And throw things.”

Frankie took a long drink from his bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiled brightly. “Lecture mode! This year, Casino Infernale is being run by an up-and-coming, and very ambitious, representative of the Shadow Bank: one Franklyn Parris. Word is, he got where he is today by being even more vicious and ruthless than all the other ruthless and vicious bastards he met on the way up. Coldhearted, too intelligent for his own good, with all the natural charm of a rabid rat with bleeding haemorrhoids. Look, he’s a big-time banker! What else do you need to know?”

“He’s in charge of everything here?” I said.

“He makes all the decisions,” said Frankie, “but he’s still answerable to the managers of the Shadow Bank.”

“Tell us more about the Shadow Bank,” said Molly. “All I have is gossip.”

“They have branches everywhere, underground,” said Frankie. “In the Maldives, the Cayman Islands, Switzerland; all the banking whores of the world. They provide financial practices and services for all their many and varied clientele. Including places to hide or go to ground, where absolutely no one will find you. The Shadow Bank keeps this all very private, very secret and secure, so that all the hidden organisations and secret individuals can keep their finances under the world’s radar. The Shadow Bank makes organised supernatural crime possible.”

Molly looked at me. “Then why don’t the Droods . . .”

“If it wasn’t them,” I said, “it would only be someone else. Better the devil you know . . . and can lay hands on, if necessary.”

Molly gave Frankie a hard look. “Do you know who’s behind the Shadow Bank? Who owns it; who’s really in charge? Who profits?”

“Well,” said Frankie, “to be honest, for a long time a lot of people just assumed it was the Droods . . . but of course no one believes that any more. The truth: these days, no one knows. A lot of very powerful people have made some very determined efforts to find out, but the Bank’s internal Security really is first class. May I continue with the briefing? Thank you.

“Casino Infernale is always run by the Shadow Bank’s finest young sharks, determined to make a name for themselves. The Casino is where those most desperate to prove themselves get their chance to show what they can do, and jump several rungs up the promotions ladder. They run all the games here, make sure all the right people get invited, and make sure the Casino runs at a very generous profit.

“Franklyn Parris is here to make sure that everything goes as it should, and to stamp down hard on anyone who looks like they might be trouble. He is personally responsible for all Casino Security. Casino Infernale is a major money earner for the Shadow Bank, as well as a major source of prestige. So a blow to the eye of the Casino is a kick in the balls to the Bank. And God help the Casino manager who screws up. If anyone were to break the bank here, Franklyn Parris would be lucky to keep his life. Or his soul.”

“Let us think of that as a happy bonus,” I said.

“Yes, let’s,” said Molly.

“You are not taking this nearly serious enough!” said Frankie. “The Big Names, the Major Players, the really big-time gamblers, all come to Casino Infernale to show off . . . to wipe out the opposition and make or lose fortunes overnight. Often just on the turn of a card. If you can beat these people at their own games, you could wipe out any number of Major Players and Big Names, most of whom have very definitely got it coming to them. And if you can, by some absolutely amazing chance, break the bank here, it would be a severe blow to the Shadow Bank.

“At least, temporarily. It would cost them a lot of money, undermine their prestige and dependability, as well as putting them in a position where they wouldn’t be in any position to loan money to anyone . . . but you must realise, it wouldn’t last. Just slow them down a bit . . .”

“A win,” I said.

Molly and I toasted each other with our glasses of champagne. Frankie took a quick drink from his bottle, and then cleared his throat, meaningfully.

“I do feel I should point out that this is all purely theoretical. It’s never actually been done. Never! No one has ever broken the bank at Casino Infernale. Not even come close. Not since it began, hundreds of years ago.”

“How many hundreds?” said Molly.

“No one seems too sure,” said Frankie. “The origins of the Shadow Bank, and all its works, are cloaked in mystery. And you can be sure the Shadow Bank likes it that way.”

He and Molly both looked at me, and all I could do was shrug.

“I’m sure someone in the Drood family knows,” I said carefully. “But don’t look at me. I only know what I need to know to get the job done. And I’m only interested in the present, not the past.”

“Try to damp down the enthusiasm, sweetie,” said Molly.

“Need I remind you that I was chosen for this mission because I have a reputation for winning against the odds?”

“You never met odds like the ones at Casino Infernale,” said Molly. “Get cocky around here, without your usual protections, and you could get both of us killed.”

“And me!” said Frankie. “So let us all be very careful. Word is, Franklyn Parris is determined that nothing will be allowed to go wrong on his watch, this year. His first in charge. Casino Infernale is going to run smoothly and perfectly or someone is going to pay for it. To make sure of this, he has hired some very special Security muscle: the Jackson Fifty-five.”

“Oh, wow,” said Molly. “I’ve heard of them! Fifty-five clones of the same highly experienced and very deadly mercenary, Albert Jackson. Biggest, blackest fighting man ever. So they say . . .”

“Are we talking about a group mind, operating in fifty-five bodies simultaneously?” I said. “Or fifty-five separate versions of the same fighting man?”

“The latter, I think,” said Frankie. “No one’s ever got close enough to ask, and survive.”

“Well, that’s all right, then,” I said, returning my attention to my glass of champagne. “For a moment there, I thought we might be in trouble.”

“Fifty-five!” said Frankie, loudly. “Which part of fifty-five are you having trouble with?”

“Maybe we can trick them into fighting each other,” said Molly.

“Of course, the sudden disappearance of Patrick and Diana has put Franklyn Parris on his guard,” said Frankie. “Which will only make things even more difficult for you two.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “What are the chances of two sets of people coming here determined to break the bank? They’ll never see that coming. Especially since, as you already pointed out, no one has ever done it before.”

“The point is,” Frankie said doggedly, “Parris will have already ordered his entire Security staff to be on the lookout for anyone and anything out of the ordinary!”

“In this place?” said Molly. “Good luck with that . . .”

There was a knock on the door. We all froze, and looked at each other. Frankie became extremely tense. I got up from the bed and faced the door, and Molly was quickly there beside me. We drank off the last of our champagne, tossed the glasses carelessly onto the bed, and glared at the door. None of us made any move to answer the knock.

“Are we expecting anyone?” I said.

“No,” said Frankie, very definitely.

“Assassins?” said Molly.

“They’d hardly knock, would they?” I said. “Hello, we’re the polite assassins! Would you mind awfully if we killed you now, or should we pop back later?”

“Could be complimentary room service,” said Molly. “But it doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

“I am feeling a bit peckish,” I said.

“Then you open the door,” said Molly.

“Not that peckish,” I said.

“Well, someone’s got to answer the door!” said Frankie. “Unless we’re all going to hide under the bed. And I don’t think there’s room.”

“You looked!” Molly said accusingly.

I drew my Colt Repeater, stepped towards the door, and said, “Come in!”

The electronic lock worked from the other side, the door swung open, and a very civilised gentleman strolled confidently in. Medium height and weight, middle-aged and distinguished, very well-tailored, calm, smiling, courteous. I distrusted him immediately. He raised an eyebrow at my Colt, but didn’t appear particularly impressed. He smiled at Molly, and when he spoke to her his English held only the faintest and most charming of French accents.

“Hello. I am Jonathon Scott, the hotel manager. I understand there was, regretfully, some degree of unpleasantness earlier, at reception. I am here to apologise on behalf of the hotel, and make it very clear that we will not tolerate any rudeness to our guests. The concierge is gone. You will not see him again.”

I couldn’t help noticing that he was paying nearly all of his attention to the infamous Molly Metcalf, and only glancing occasionally at the merely notorious Shaman Bond. Which was, of course, as it should be. Frankie didn’t even get a glance.

“You know who I am,” said Molly.

“Of course, Miss Metcalf. Your reputation precedes you. Welcome to the Casino hotel! Please don’t break it. It’s the only one we’ve got, and it is of great sentimental value.”

“Casino Infernale’s reputation precedes it,” I said. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t put the gun down. I wouldn’t want to be suddenly gone, like the concierge.”

“Of course, Mr. Bond,” said the manager. “I have heard of you. And we will be counting all the cutlery before you leave.”

“We’re here to play the games,” I said. “And we’re here to win.”

“Of course, sir,” said the manager. He turned back to Molly. “May I ask, very politely, whether your sisters will be joining you here at any point?”

“Unlikely,” said Molly.

“Oh, good,” said the manager.

“I get that a lot,” said Molly.

“As a mark of our regret for the earlier unpleasantness, I have been instructed to inform you that all your food and drink is on the house, for the entirety of your stay,” said the manager.

“Instructed?” I said. “By Franklyn Parris, perhaps? Has the big man himself taken an interest in Molly and me?”

“We’ve all heard of Molly Metcalf,” said the manager. It wasn’t an answer, but he made it seem like one. Scott smiled graciously. “The games will begin in one hour, madam and sir. Five p.m. sharp. Please note that full Security will be in place throughout the games, for the protection of the hotel. Not the guests. We expect the guests to be able to fend for themselves.”

“Oh, we can fend,” I said. “We can fend like crazy if we have to.”

“Suddenly and violently and all over the place,” said Molly.

The manager smiled briefly at Molly, nodded to me, and left, closing and locking the door behind him. I put my gun away.

“Did you see how he completely ignored me?” said Frankie. “That’s class, that is!”

“He didn’t pay that much attention to me,” I said.

“I did notice,” said Molly.

“He couldn’t do enough for you,” I said.

“I noticed,” said Molly. “Still—free food and drink . . .”

“Best kind!” said Frankie.

“All a bit easy, though, I thought,” I said.

“He doesn’t know the real you,” said Molly. “I’m sure you’ll have an opportunity to make him wet himself before we leave.”

“He was a bit smug and overbearing,” I said. “How would you like to help me burn this place down, later?”

“Love to,” said Molly. “He was rude about my sisters.”

“Okay,” said Frankie. “You two are making me very nervous. So I think I’ll leave you to your own devices, or whatever it is you’ve got in all those suitcases, while I go take a quick look around before the games start. Get a feel for the place, and the players.”

“Go,” I said.

He left. Molly and I busied ourselves opening the suitcases. Clothes, clothes, and more clothes. Molly had clearly been very busy in the Drood wardrobe department. She threw dress after dress onto the bed, smiling happily, and after a while I just let her get on with it. Until finally she produced a magnificent tuxedo outfit, with all the trimmings, and threw it at me.

“We are changing for dinner, and the games,” she said.

“I could eat,” I said.

We both took our chosen outfits into the bathroom, and started stripping off. It took a while, as we both kept stopping to wince at pains acquired during the fight. When we were finally both naked, we stopped to look at each other. I had bruises all over me, already shading towards purple. Molly had bruises too. We’d both taken our lumps in the lobby. And being who we are, tried to hide it from each other. Molly stood before me, and ran her fingertips lightly over my bruises. I let my fingertips drift gently over hers. Molly took a cloth from the sink, wet it under the tap, and gently mopped the dried blood off my face, and from the back of my neck. I stood still, and let her do it. And then we just stood there and held each other for a while.

Then we got dressed for dinner.

We stood before the full-length mirrors, admiring ourselves. I thought I looked rather fine in my tux, but Molly looked magnificent in her full-length evening gown of gleaming gold. Molly brushed invisible dust motes from my shoulders, patted me down, and then moved to stand behind me, her arms around my waist, looking over my shoulder to take in my reflection in the mirror.

“I can still see your Colt Repeater, bulging under your jacket,” she said.

“I think that’s the point,” I said. “To warn the others off. And I can see all sorts of bulges under the front of your dress.”

She slapped my shoulder playfully, and came forward to stand beside me. I thought we looked pretty damn good together. Exactly the kind of high-rolling gamblers who would turn up at Casino Infernale. It took me a moment to realise Molly wasn’t smiling any longer.

“You do realise,” she said, “that all of this . . . is just a distraction. Something to keep me busy. The Regent is not forgotten, nor forgiven.”

“Of course not,” I said. “Neither are my parents. But for now, let’s just do the job. And try to enjoy ourselves, as much as we can.”

“You still have your soul, sweetie. I can See it. All the Casino has . . . is a claim on it, if they can enforce it. You should see the list of those who’ve got a claim on mine. Or think they have.”

“You can See my soul?” I said. “Your magics are working again?”

“Oh, sure,” said Molly. “The null zone only covered the lobby, as a Security measure. I felt my magic come back the moment I stepped into the elevator. There’s bound to be more null zones, scattered across the Casino . . . to secure the games and keep the peace. But I’m pretty sure I could break a null zone. If I really had to . . .”

“Of course,” I said.

You don’t have to be in a relationship long to discover that being economical with the truth is nearly always going to be the better part of valour.

We went back down to the lobby, where everyone present went out of their way to give us plenty of room. A few even ran away and hid. There was a new concierge in place behind the desk, smiling desperately at us. Molly and I stuck our noses in the air and strode straight past him, following the hand-written signs to the hotel restaurant. Which turned out to be very large and very civilised, and probably quite impressive if you weren’t used to places like the Casino.

Molly and I . . . have been around.

The great open space was packed with tables, under brightly gleaming white tablecloths, with only the narrowest of trails left between them. Most of the tables were occupied, but there was barely a murmur of conversation anywhere. The guests just sat quietly at their tables, very obviously on their best behaviour. None of them wanted to risk being thrown out of Casino Infernale for something small.

Molly and I stood just inside the doors, waiting for someone in a waiter’s outfit to acknowledge us. There was a head waiter, standing tall and proud behind a podium, but he clearly wasn’t even going to admit we existed until we were on our way to a designated table.

I couldn’t help noticing that most of the guests were sitting alone. Some with food, some with drinks, just staring off into the distance. A few groups here and there, but even only two or three to a table. And everyone studying everyone else, surreptitiously. I pointed this out to Molly.

“People don’t come here to make friends,” said Molly. “It’s entirely possible you might end up having to kill anyone you meet here, given that everyone else is a potential threat. Or rival. You wouldn’t want to hesitate at the killing point, just because you liked someone.”

A waiter finally slouched over to stand before us, a surly young man in a dazzlingly clean white uniform and apron. He jerked his head in our direction and then plunged into the maze of tables, leaving us to hurry after him. Molly and I exchanged an amused glance and went after him, quietly plotting future revenges. As we passed the head waiter, he raised his head just long enough to announce Molly’s name, and mine, in ringing tones. What conversation there was in the room stopped immediately as everyone looked up, heads turning to consider us thoughtfully. Most of them looked at Molly, rather than me, and none of them looked for long.

The waiter finally stopped before an empty table by the far wall, and gestured impatiently for us to sit down. He pulled a chair out for Molly, but didn’t bother with me. This boy gets no tip, I thought. I considered the possibility of a reverse tip, where I picked his pocket and stole his wallet. But I didn’t want to push my luck with the Casino establishment. Not this early, anyway. The waiter dropped two oversized menus onto the table, and then shot off before we could actually order anything.

“Wait a minute!” said Molly. “The little bastard . . . he’s sat us right next to the toilets!”

“Good,” I said. “I hate a long walk to the loo. I always feel like everyone’s watching me.”

I gave my full attention to the menu. Which was ugly and laminated, with all the entries handwritten in half a dozen languages. With thoughtful descriptions and tactful warnings for the inexperienced. No prices anywhere, of course, but in a restaurant like this you wouldn’t expect any. As the old saying goes: if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. But the hotel manager had said all our food and drink was on the house, so . . . I decided to order big portions of everything, just on general principles. And the very best wines. And ask for a doggie bag.

“Oh, look!” said Molly. “They’ve got Moebius mice; they stuff themselves. I love those! Dragonburgers, flame-grilled, with a twist of lemming . . . Mock Gryphon soup. Baked baby chupacabra . . .”

“Oh, that’s not nice,” I said. “It’s things like that make me feel like becoming a vegetarian.”

“Try that here and they’d probably serve you a triffid,” said Molly.

In the end we both settled for an old favourite: thunderbird paella. Lots of meat and lots of rice, and a whole bunch of other things absolutely guaranteed to be bad for you. (The thunderbird is a huge winged creature from the deep South of America. Supposedly extinct, but there’s always someone who can get you a carcass, for an extortionate price. I think they clone them. . . .) I looked around for our waiter and eventually spotted him leaning against a wall, in desultory conversation with another, equally bored, waiter. They looked like they were trying to out-sulk each other. I raised a hand to catch our waiter’s attention and he deliberately turned his head away, so he could pretend he hadn’t seen us.

“He is going to regret that,” I said.

“It’s another test, like in the lobby,” said Molly. “If you can’t master a lowly waiter . . .”

I picked up the knife set out for me, hefted it a couple of times to get the balance, and then threw it with practised skill and uncommon force, so that it sank half its length into the wall right beside our waiter’s head. He jumped back with a startled shriek, and looked wildly around. I waved and smiled at him.

“Just think what I could do with the fork,” I said, loudly.

The waiter hurried over to take our order, almost dropping his little notebook trying to get it out. He crashed to a halt before our table, and smiled at Molly and me in a wobbly sort of way.

“Ready to order, sir, madam?”

“What do you think?” I said.

“I think they’ll let anyone in these days,” said the waiter, defiantly. “I’m only doing this job to raise enough money to put myself through college. What do you want?”

“Molly,” I said. “I don’t think this young man is sufficiently impressed. Take out his appendix, the hard way.”

“I could do with a starter,” said Molly. “I’m told it goes very well with some garlic butter and black pepper.”

“All right, all right!” said the waiter. “Look, this is me, being impressed! Just give me your order. No respect for the working man . . .”

We told him what we’d settled on, and he wrote it down in nice neat handwriting.

“Five minutes, tops,” he said. “They don’t sweat the simple stuff here. And by the way, my appendix is in a jar at a Paris hospital.”

He grinned at me, and I couldn’t help grinning back.

“What wine would you recommend?” I said.

“Avoid the clarets, they’re an abomination in the sight of God. And the Médocs are all malignant. Everything else is overpriced and an abuse of your taste buds. I’d stick to the house red, if I were you. That’s what we drink, in the kitchen. It’ll get you there.”

“Bring us half a dozen bottles,” I said. “And, I need a new knife.”

“Right away, sir,” said the waiter.

And just like that he was gone, off and running before his fellow staff could accuse him of fraternising with the enemy.

While we waited for our food to arrive, Molly and I stared openly around us. Everywhere I looked there were familiar faces with bad reputations. Big Names and Major Players from every scene, in every city. It soon became clear to me that I knew pretty much everyone in the restaurant by face or reputation. And not in a good way.

“I didn’t realise how much I knew about this place,” said Molly. “I mean . . . I never wanted to come to Casino Infernale before. Not my thing. But the stories and legends that surround the Casino are just so big, so pervasive, they sort of force their way into everyone’s conversations. Casino Infernale, where you can test whatever nerve and skills you think you have, against the biggest and most dangerous gamblers in the world. I do see the attraction. . . .”

“Oh, dear God,” I said. “Look over there! Is that who I think it is? Is that Jacqueline Hyde?”

“Yes . . . poor thing,” said Molly. “What the hell is she doing here?”

I knew Jacqueline Hyde’s story. Everyone in our line of work does. It’s one of the great cautionary tales from the Nightside. Jacqueline started out as a Society girl, happy spending Daddy’s money, leading the most comfortable of lives, partying till she dropped . . . until she couldn’t resist trying this marvellous drug: Hyde. It had been around for ages, in one variation or another. Harvested from the body of Edward Hyde (because that was the body Dr. Jekyll died in), the drug had been doing the rounds in various strengths and mixes ever since. Bouncers and thugs for hire used a much diluted strain as a kind of super-steroid. Others mixed and matched the drug with other chimerical compounds, so they could turn into other people. For commercial or recreational purposes. Hyde was a vicious and unforgiving drug, and hardly anyone was stupid enough to take the original formula. Jacqueline knew better, but she never could resist a dare. And so she became Jacqueline Hyde, a Society girl and a monstrous man, bound together, forever.

Her family disowned her. Daddy cut her off without a penny. She went from party girl to homeless in a matter of weeks. She had no idea how to look after herself. Spent some time living on the street, in Rats Alley, along with all the other unwanted monsters of the Nightside. But that isn’t the real tragedy.

Jacqueline and Hyde are in love with each other, but they can only meet and experience each other in that extended moment when one turns into the other. The long love letters they write and leave for each other have turned up in most of the major auction houses of the Nightside. They’re collectible.

Jacqueline Hyde—a lot of people have found a use for her, and him, and their fortunes have fallen and risen many times. But neither of them were ever rich enough to attend Casino Infernale.

“Someone’s funding her,” said Molly. “But why?”

“Another distraction?” I said. “A wild card thrown into the mix . . . or, just possibly, she knows something we don’t.”

Jacqueline herself was small, painfully thin, neurotic; sitting uncomfortably at her table, scrunched up and eyes down as though trying not to be noticed. Her dress would probably have looked attractive on anyone else. She had a sharp-boned face with piercing eyes, a tight-lipped mouth, and ragged mousy hair. She didn’t bother with her appearance, because she never knew how long she’d stay that way. Hyde came and went. She glanced about the restaurant, but never looked at anyone for long. She had a bottle of whisky on the table in front of her, and was drinking steadily through it, one glass at a time. Didn’t seem to be affecting her much, but then, once you’ve had Dr. Jekyll’s Formula, everything else is always going to seem like a poor relation.

And then I saw who was sitting at the table beyond, and I forgot all about Jacqueline Hyde.

I knew the face, and the reputation, from Drood files. Earnest Schmidt, current leader of the reformed Brotherhood of the Vril. Back in the day, the original organisation was a mystical supergroup, and a major supporter of the Nazis. The Vril supported Hitler on the way up, and once he was in power, he showed his appreciation by supplying them with all the warm bodies they wanted for their special experiments. Sometimes, they let him watch.

The Vril loved being Nazis, and playing with innocent lives and deaths. But once the war was over they quickly discovered they had no friends and a hell of a lot of enemies, so they just grabbed as much loot as they could and disappeared into the jungles of South America. Along with so many other war criminals.

The Brotherhood of the Vril split and schismed so many times, they effectively neutered themselves. But just recently they’d shown signs of pulling themselves together again. They’d run out of war loot long ago, but they were finding new funds from somewhere . . . which might explain what a Nazi scumbag like Earnest Schmidt was doing here, at Casino Infernale.

A portly, dark-haired man in his early forties, he sat stiffly at his table in a tuxedo almost the match of mine. Though he didn’t wear it nearly as well. He held his head high, as though to make clear to everyone present that he was not a man to be trifled with. His eyes were a pale blue, his mouth a flat line, and he had a single glass of brandy in front of him that he didn’t touch. Nazis always were big on self-denial, except for when they weren’t. Schmidt didn’t wear a single swastika or Gestapo death’s head. Or even the SS double lightning bolts. He might have passed for just another successful businessman, here for the games and the thrills . . . except for the look in his eyes. The way he looked down on everyone else in the room for not meeting his exacting standards.

“Vril,” said Molly. “I hate those little shits. You think he set those Pan’s Panzerpeople on us, on the way here?”

“He does seem to be looking at everyone else in the restaurant apart from you and me,” I said.

I picked up the croissant by my plate, and threw it at Schmidt with devastating accuracy. It bounced off his head with enough force to make him cry out. He put a hand to his head and looked round sharply and saw me smiling at him. He sat very still, and then turned away again. Saying nothing, doing nothing. Perhaps because he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge the existence of such an obvious inferior as myself.

I reached for the water jug. Molly put a hand on my arm to stop me, smiling even as she shook her head.

“Why not?” I said. “I can hit him from here.”

“Because we don’t have any proof he was behind the attack,” said Molly. “And because you never know who you might need as an ally in a place like this.”

“Him?” I said. “The only use I’d have for that evil little turd is as a human shield. Or possibly a battering ram.”

“Anywhen else, yes,” said Molly. “But this is Casino Infernale. The rules are different, here. You never know when you might need to make a deal against someone else. Someone worse, or just more immediately dangerous. You must remember, Shaman, we can’t depend on our usual protections. Either of us. We really don’t want to start a fight we can’t be sure of winning.”

“You’re no fun when you’re right,” I said.

I looked around for someone else to interest me, and immediately recognised a person of interest I knew from Drood files. A large and fleshy man in a scarlet cardinal’s robes, smiling easily about him. Smiling constantly at some private joke on the rest of us. His face was kind and calm, even serene, until you got a good look at his eyes. Fanatic’s eyes, fierce and unyielding. I knew his story, too.

Leopold, the famous gambling priest. The man of God who went from one gambling house to the next, playing every game of chance there was to raise money for his Church. The priest who never lost because he had God on his side, murmuring in his ear. Or so he claimed. He certainly had a hell of a reputation for winning against all the odds. Backed by the Vatican banks, Leopold had spent the last twenty years cutting a swath through all the great gambling houses of the world, and taking them to the cleaners. Not for him, never for him. All the money he won went straight to his Church. But this was the first time I’d ever heard of him attending Casino Infernale.

“Maybe the Vatican wants him to break the bank here, to bring down the Shadow Bank,” said Molly.

“Unlikely,” I said. “The Vatican banks and the Shadow Bank have a relationship that goes back centuries.”

And as I watched Leopold watching everyone else, it occurred to me that everyone in the restaurant was looking at everyone else, in their own quiet, surreptitious ways. A lot of people were looking at Molly, and some were even looking at me. The only completely detached person in the room was Jacqueline Hyde. And, maybe Leopold, who seemed to find the whole situation deeply amusing.

The food arrived. Two huge plates of richly steaming paella. It looked and smelled amazing, and I had my knife and fork in my hand before the plates even hit the table. But Molly stopped me with a harsh look, and I made myself sit back and watch as Molly produced a long thin bone needle from somewhere about her person. Unicorn horn—a simple and effective test for poison. Molly thrust the bone needle deep into the paella before her, and we both watched grimly as a purple stain rose up the white bone. She tried my plate, and the poison was there, too.

The waiter backed away from the table, shaking his head rapidly, to make it clear that none of this was anything to do with him. Molly rose to her feet, but before she could even accuse anyone, the whole restaurant went insane.

The spaghetti in front of the man next to us shot straight up into the air, and tried to strangle him. White ropy stuff whipped around his throat and tightened, stretched taut and immovable in a moment. More and more of the stuff sprang up into the air, wrapping itself around his head, burying his face under layers of ropy pasta. He grabbed at the white ropes with his hands, but couldn’t break them. His eyes bulged, and his mouth stretched wide as he gasped for air.

Earnest Schmidt’s salad exploded upwards, growing and shaping itself into a single massive green arm, studded with razor-sharp thorns. The green hand grabbed the front of Schmidt’s suit and lifted him right out of his seat and into the air, shaking him viciously. He grabbed at the green arm with both hands, only to cry out as he cut himself on the vicious thorns.

Jacqueline Hyde was quickly on her feet and backing away from her table, as the steaming curry in front of her took on new life. A horribly monstrous form, all hot steaming flesh, with reaching hands and snapping jaws. It towered over the small woman, a monstrous thing of bestial angers and appetites; and then it stopped, abruptly, as Jacqueline became something much worse.

Leopold’s baked baby chupacabra rose up off its plate, levitating on the air. The tiny stitches holding its mouth and eyes shut all snapped at once, and it fixed the gambling priest with terrible glowing eyes as he rose abruptly to his feet. It said something awful to him, in Spanish. Leopold stood his ground, his face twisted with loathing, and began an exorcism in old-school Latin.

The thunderbird exploded right out of the paella before Molly and me; all the meat slamming back together to re-form the great flying bird it had once been, with a long bony beak and flapping skinless wings. It was dead and it was alive and it stabbed viciously at me with its beak. Screaming horribly, as though seeking revenge for its death, for our meal. I dodged the beak and punched it in the head, and hurt my hand. Molly yelled for me to get out of the way, and hit the thunderbird with a fireball. It scrabbled across the tabletop, burning fiercely, flapping its fiery wings, not dying because it was already dead.

“Why isn’t the hotel dropping a null zone on all this?” I said.

“I don’t know!” said Molly, hitting the flapping bird with another fireball. “Maybe they approve of competitors thinning out the herd, before the games start.”

I looked quickly about me. The whole restaurant was in an uproar, with everyone fighting off what had been their meals just a moment before. No one was trying to work together, and no one was interested in helping anyone else.

I grinned at Molly. “I’ve got an idea!”

“About time! These fireballs are barely slowing it down. What’s your idea?”

“Grab a wing!” I said.

And we both grabbed a flapping wing, gritting our teeth against the flames, and ripped the wings right off the firebird. The fight went out of it. Slowly, it stopped struggling, and then it just lay there on the tabletop, a very overdone piece of blackened meat. The wings turned into mists in our hands, and disappeared. And the burns on our hands disappeared, too. Which made me wonder just how real the whole experience had been, anyway.

I looked to Jacqueline, but she was gone. Hyde was there. A squat, ugly, barrel-chested figure, with a dark face and a beast’s eyes; an angry vicious brute that hated everything in the world, except the one person he could never have. He tore the curry monster to pieces with savage exuberance, laughing aloud as he did it. It was a horrid sound that raised all the hairs on the back of my neck. Hyde looked around, knowing he was feared and hated by everyone else in the restaurant, and loving it.

He turned back into Jacqueline, and for a moment I seemed to see both of them at once, two people superimposed on the same spot. It looked like they were holding hands. And then Jacqueline was back; her head down and her shoulders slumped. As though she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

And then everything stopped. The food attacks crashed to a halt, as all the food went back to being food again. And that was when I realised Leopold had finished his exorcism. We all looked at him, and he looked coldly back at all of us. He didn’t look calm or serene any more.

“Yes,” he said. “I saved you. Not because any of you are worth saving, but because there’s no fun in winning against second-raters.”

He turned his back on all of us, and strode out of the restaurant, his scarlet robes swirling around him. Molly turned to our waiter, who was still standing by our table, shuddering and quaking. She smiled sweetly at him.

“Could we order something else? I don’t think this paella agrees with us.”