"Cards?"
That one word, softly spoken by someone behind you was enough to silence the easygoing chatter in the pub and chill the air. All eyes were on you, waiting for your reaction and hoping you knew what to do, knew what to say and most importantly - knew how to die quietly.
As fortune would have it, you were prepared enough to force the word "Blackjack" out, letting the unseen force use your vocal chords to draw you into a game or life, death and chance. You were turned around by the fellow on the stool next to you, you felt too cold and too in-focus to do much more than breathe.
You remembered that it was a temporary effect, something to keep their prey docile and within arm's reach while half-full glasses were taken away, spillages dried and the deck shuffled by hands that moved too swiftly, too fluidly to be human.
It dealt two cards - one each and its first one face up. It meant to be the dealer and it meant for you to lose. The second it dealt the second cards you felt warmth flowing back into your bluish fingertips and you jerkily pulled your hand closer.
Dazed as you'd been, you were still able to count the cards as the deck flowed between those inhuman hands. A quick glance at your hand confirmed your suspicions. It was rigging the game against you and judging by the smug tilt of its head, it didn't suspect a thing.
From what you'd heard around, all those little whispers from teens who just wanted to help and older folk who didn't think you were within earshot, all you had to do was win fairly and you'd be fine. You already knew what happened to losers.
Well, your sister knew. Her body had been split into 52 chunks and each chunk cut into 52 thin slices and dried to form the same cards it had dealt to you. That may have been almost thirty years ago but the memory of finding her on her bed, cut up so neatly and perfectly, wouldn't leave you.
So with her and the countless others who lost in mind you said two words that made the air turn to ice.
"Hit me."
That one word, softly spoken by someone behind you was enough to silence the easygoing chatter in the pub and chill the air. All eyes were on you, waiting for your reaction and hoping you knew what to do, knew what to say and most importantly - knew how to die quietly.
As fortune would have it, you were prepared enough to force the word "Blackjack" out, letting the unseen force use your vocal chords to draw you into a game or life, death and chance. You were turned around by the fellow on the stool next to you, you felt too cold and too in-focus to do much more than breathe.
You remembered that it was a temporary effect, something to keep their prey docile and within arm's reach while half-full glasses were taken away, spillages dried and the deck shuffled by hands that moved too swiftly, too fluidly to be human.
It dealt two cards - one each and its first one face up. It meant to be the dealer and it meant for you to lose. The second it dealt the second cards you felt warmth flowing back into your bluish fingertips and you jerkily pulled your hand closer.
Dazed as you'd been, you were still able to count the cards as the deck flowed between those inhuman hands. A quick glance at your hand confirmed your suspicions. It was rigging the game against you and judging by the smug tilt of its head, it didn't suspect a thing.
From what you'd heard around, all those little whispers from teens who just wanted to help and older folk who didn't think you were within earshot, all you had to do was win fairly and you'd be fine. You already knew what happened to losers.
Well, your sister knew. Her body had been split into 52 chunks and each chunk cut into 52 thin slices and dried to form the same cards it had dealt to you. That may have been almost thirty years ago but the memory of finding her on her bed, cut up so neatly and perfectly, wouldn't leave you.
So with her and the countless others who lost in mind you said two words that made the air turn to ice.
"Hit me."
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