Page 85 of Heart and Soul
I wink at Jay. “It helps that we brought our hammer.”
He cracks his knuckles, but otherwise gives no response. I can’t imagine what must be going through his head right now, after literally facing his demons. Honestly, I’m impressed by the restraint he showed. I’m not sure he’ll be able to hold back if there’s a next time.
We ascend the steps into the massive ballroom, and let me tell you, when it comes to vice, demons aren’t just experts—they’re artists. Booze, sex, gambling, and violence are all on display in pools of purple and green light from magic torches. A full bar turns out a constant stream of drinks via half-naked servers wearing bunny rabbit masks. One passes by us with a tray full of colorful drinks topped with swirls of tantalizing whipped cream.
In a boxing ring, two East Side demons brawl. Their brutal attacks are met with polite clapping from the crowd. When one guy uses a baseball bat to shatter the other guy’s kneecap, a murmur of approval rises from the sea of masks, and money is exchanged.
I don’t see a DJ, but music fills the ballroom. It’s trancelike, exotic and dreamy, yet driving, relentless. I don’t know this music, but I know exactly what its purpose is—to put people in the mood for dark, uninhibited escapades. A chorus of pleasureful moans hint at vigorous orgies in the shadows behind pillars.
We need to be inconspicuous, but it’s hard not to stop and gawk. Our expectation—our hope—was a smallish elite gathering of sorcerers and East Side demons. After all, this is a disreputable collaboration. Besides the risk of damage to social status for sorcerers associating with demons, there’s the almost guaranteed consequence of punishment from the FUA. And yet, this place is packed with sorcerers in tuxedos, ball gowns, and masks.
And there are even more demons than sorcerers. Unashamed of this unholy communion, they don’t wear masks, other than the bunny rabbit servers. The demons are here to work, not play. They run the gambling tables and bar. They lure sorcerers into their pleasure dens. Their guards cover every door with assault rifles.
My mouth goes dry. Half of Detroit’s most powerful sorcerers together in a room with a horde of fully-armed demons? If shit goes sour, there’s no chance of getting out of this hell without an army on our side.
When Hillerman says, “Spread out,” I head straight for my comfort zone—the poker table. After changing a thousand dollars for chips, I take my favorite seat on the end, where I can easily keep an eye on all the other players. It only takes me a few seconds to know that nobody else at the table is a pro. Half of them are half-drunk, most don’t keep their chips organized, and none of them so much as pause before eagerly looking at the cards dealt to them. Just my luck, right? The one time I sit at a table full of easy money, I’m too preoccupied to enjoy it.
My eyes go to the windows lining the walls; they’re all boarded up. I study the ceiling—it’s got big holes in it, but there’s no moonlight shining through into the attic, which tells me the roof is still intact; no escape there. It’s looking more and more like I’ll need to blow a hole in the wall to get us out of here, but I doubt bazookas are on the menu. Frustrated, I take one look at my cards and toss them away.
I fold five more times before the table suddenly becomes interesting. Alfred adds a chair to the other end of the table, opposite me. With a snap of his fingers, he summons two bunny rabbit servers. One places several large stacks of chips on the table; the other fills a double rocks glass with silver alcohol, then ignites a torch, setting the drink on fire. He pours the flaming liquid back and forth between two glasses. Each time, the flames travel down the waterfall of booze, a mesmerizing sight. He sets the flaming drink next to the stack of chips, and Alfred shoos the servers away just as the VIP arrives—a sorcerer in a king mask.
He can’t see for shit—not from the mask, but from the demon chick climbing his torso like a tree to suck his face. They bump into the empty chair, and then the table. Several players grab their whipped cream drinks to steady them. The couple doesn’t seem in any hurry to end their noisy make-out session. The demon girl groans vigorously, as though devouring her favorite dessert. I notice that nobody comments or makes eye contact. The dealer waits patiently. Whoever this douche-dandy sorcerer is, he must be a big deal.
Their strenuous workout cuts off abruptly when the sorcerer curses in pain. The demon girl bit his lip. Shoving his face away with a laugh, she drops off of him into the open chair as he stumbles into the crowd. I’m intrigued by the reversal—he’s not the big deal. She is.
Looking at her, I’m reminded of the street junkies I used to run into downtown when Dumpster diving as a fox. Ratty clothes, ratty hair, but a face that might be beautiful under the grime. Hard to tell with this one, since her greasy brown hair hangs in front of her face. I can see one of her eyes, surrounded by heavy black eyeshadow.
She organizes her chips with the bigger amounts behind the smaller amounts. When the dealer issues our starting cards, she doesn’t look at her own, choosing to watch a few of the other players as they check their hands. Good for her.
Then, noticing the flaming drink next to her chips, she sweeps the hair from her face and blows out the fire, giving me a great look at the glossy strip of scar tissue running down her chin and throat.
Tabitha Durran is nothing likeI expected. How is this hot mess a worthy adversary for Hillerman? I know they’re the same age—Hillerman said they went to high school together—but Tabitha looks and acts much younger. Besides being short and too thin, she has a round baby face and wears a threadbare hoodie over a tank top and sweatpants. Looking at her, you’d think we were at a college rager. She laughs loud and often, heckling anyone at the table who dares to bet against her.
She’s a great poker player, I’ll give her that. It takes her all of five minutes to read the skill of every player at the table and form a plan of attack. She plays hyper aggressive against most of the table, betting big even when she’s in a weak position. A few of the players earn enough of her respect that she occasionally backs off, losing small pots of chips here and there. Her approach to me is flattering but frustrating: she refuses to play at all. If I bet, she folds. If I check, she folds. If I stay in the hand for any reason, even in the worst position, she bails. It’s a little eerie to be acknowledged by her without a single word or look shared between us. She’s definitely much sharper than she lets on, which is annoying, because playing the sleeper is supposed to bemything.
One sore loser in a snake mask shoves half his chips at Tabitha and says, “If you’re going to take all my money, you could at least make it worth my while.”
She scoffs. “Oh, I’m sorry. Free hookers and booze isn’t enough?”
“I would like for us to get down to business. I didn’t come here to play poker.”
“I think that’s obvious to all of us.”
A sorcerer wearing a goateed devil mask asserts himself with a bit more tact. “What my colleague means to say is that the evening grows late, and yet there’s been no discussion of current events.”
“Current events,” a woman in an eagle mask adds, “which have serious ramifications for the future of our enterprise. Frankly, I’m concerned, to say the least.”
“Are you talking about Netflix raising their prices again?” Tabitha says. “Because I agree—that shit makes me want to riot.”
Snake head guy pounds the table. “We’re talking about Henry Stadtherdead. His whole clan wiped out!”
“If I were you, I’d be more worried about that Jack of diamonds on the table. With the snap call you just made, I’m guessing you’re sitting on a straight draw? Do you realize the odds of hitting that?”
Dazed, he checks his cards, then flings them away. It’s the last straw. He stands and begins collecting his small pile of chips.
“Please, my friend, keep your seat,” says a gentleman’s voice. He stands beside the dealer, wearing no mask, smiling pleasantly at the snake head. He’s in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a beard and the rugged type of good looks that only improve with age. Based on his impeccably tailored suit and pleasing eyes, I’d say he’s definitely not a demon, unless there’s such a thing as a glutton for charm. No, my guess is that he’s not only a sorcerer, but the ringleader of this secret society. “I can assure you that Summoner Durran is more committed to our cause than anyone, but not often is she able to enjoy a night of leisure. You must allow her reluctance to mix business with pleasure.”
The snake man sits, immediately changing his tune. “Yes, of course. I meant no offense.”
