Revenant's Storm (The Wicked West series)

The Indigo Plume, when viewed from the outside, inspired an exotic and bohemian impression in its onlookers.

Its perimeter was dotted by a row of palm trees with shimmering silver fronds, the trunks adorned with tinsel and the flashing strings of electric bulbs. Its grandiose exterior was painted the signature dark, sultry hue of its namesake. The awnings, fluted roof tiles, and other tasteful accents were capped with a gleaming silver alloy. Sunlight slanted off the many reflective surfaces in prismatic sunbursts.

The dazzling building beguiled even the primmest individuals into glancing wistfully at its romantic visage. The palms, silver accents, and architecture had all been labored over by the most reputed artisans that money could commission.

Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of the casino was its glass-domed roof, which reflected the blinding daylight but at nighttime was illuminated faintly by the golden glow of ambient lighting from within. The cupola encapsulated a solarium, which belonged to none other than Cyrus Englestead, the owner and proprietor of the Indigo Plume, amongst other properties.

Upon pushing through the heavy frame of the resplendent entrance, patrons of the gambling den were immediately tantalized by the luxury of its sumptuous parlor. The opulence of the casino floor, swathed in a plush silvery carpet, contrasted the indigo of the chaise lounges and couches in various sunken conversation pits. Socialites draped themselves over oblong furniture leisurely and sipped sugary cocktails, enjoying the illusion of private conversation. Mirrored pillars braced the mezzanine, where dexterous bartenders deftly mixed liquors atop blue glass counters. But it was the polished silver stairwell, with reflections of flashing neon lights flitting across its tinny surface, that was clearly intended to be the visual focus of the room.

Employees of the Indigo Plume were elevated from its patrons through their elegant white uniforms, fastened with an assortment of gleaming silver tassels and ribbons and buttons.

The casino lacked clocks and windows; a subtle trickery to preserve the illusion of the dreamscape. Patrons misplaced their track of time and stumbled deeper into the winding concentric circles of lounge areas and were lost to the dizzying, rhythmic pops of light.

The true excitement lay at the clamor and bustle of the gaming tables. At one table, the wheel spun, red and green panels whirring so fast they became a single color. It slowed and stopped and the number that came up provoked cheers and jowls alike from the pledged sinners.

The casino was brimming with vivacity and enterprise, exceeding its capacity as it did each evening. To the discerning eye, individuals of prestige, including clergymen and even a few of the councilmen from the Chamber of Commerce, could be seen discreetly indulging their rapacious fantasies.

Fresh faces were interspersed amongst the usual habitués. Councilman Cleary's science conference had lured a new crowd into the nectary Venus flytrap of the gambling den.

Scholarly men with snobbish pretensions staked their pride with newly-funded coffers. They argued emphatically with unsympathetic dealers upon their consequential financial ruin. A man with a shock of red hair covered in skittering robotic insects dropped his head into his hands and sat unmoving for a very, very long time. Jewelry and other valuables in the center of another table, including a shining brass prosthetic hand, were offered as bid when there was no more money left to wager.

Ace watched from his seat at the craps table, a bemused smile on his lips. His hand idly jostled the tumbling dice in his palm.

He loved the bustle and energy of the casino. The sporadic flash of neon lights, the reckless abandon, the delicious hedonism. There was an unspoken camaraderie amongst the loyal devotees of the Indigo Plume. A secretive twinkle in the eye shared between wayward souls who had no intention of setting themselves right.

He knew he was not supposed to be participating in the debauchery, instead stationed along the wall searching for their mark along with the rest of his crew. But where was the fun in that? The bigwig scientist could find their own damn way to Englestead. And Ace, admittedly, indulged himself games of dice and small binoculars.

The moment the dice wobbled capriciously before settling, before the fickle cards were revealed, when his future was suspended in reality and unreality, the threat of losing everything a very real and sharp twist in his gut, was the only time Ace felt as though he were truly, wholly alive. His pupils dilated and his heart raced. It was intoxicating. He had been hooked from his very first hand, five long years ago. The more money he bet? The more intense the feeling. The craving was always there, dry kindling in the simmering heat, waiting to flare up and ignite him with the desire to play. He had figured just a few games would scratch the itch.

He needed to focus on his mission. Instead, he blew cool air over his closed fist, winked at the blonde beauty seated across from him, and released the clattering dice onto the table. He sent a quick, sloppy prayer to his lucky star.

His lucky star must have been occupied, because he promptly lost. The beauty stifled a giggle behind a lacquered hand. Ace made a wounded expression and placed his hand over his heart in mock offense, but could not smother his good-natured smile.

Another damn loss, he thought remorsefully before shaking his head to dislodge the nagging thought from his mind.

The trick to avoiding life's misfortunes, Ace had discovered, was never to take anything personally. It was a good mindset to have, particularly in his line of work. Conflict rolled off him like oil on water. Esmeralda said it was a look she liked, and he had always figured that was the reason she doted on him more than her other Hounds.

The job she had given them was simple enough, but he always felt a little jittery at the prospect of her work, like the hum and snap of electricity from an open wire. It would only take one misstep, an innocent bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time, a single gunshot, for chaos to shatter the revelry of his precious casino. The Hounds, after all, were there to ensure that didn't happen. Luckily, Ace performed at his absolute best under duress.

Ace touched the silver pistols holstered at his belt, drawing comfort from their constant presence. He kept his hands there while he scanned the crowd for his mark, and the turquoise handles warmed under the pads of his thumbs.

Now who here looks like a Theo Hartmann?

He spied Goliath seated at a nearby craps table, his gaze slowly and methodically careening from left to right, left to right. Although the brute lacked the mental acuity to parse the nuances of humor or sarcasm, Ace had nevertheless found Goliath's bumbling simplicity to be oddly comforting. The sentiment was not reciprocated, and Goliath regarded Ace as one would a pesky, irksome gnat.
Across the gambling den, lanky Armelio shuffled from foot to foot in an anxiety-riddled jig. Ace stared a little bit longer and harder than necessary at the baby-faced recruit.

"Too fresh. Gonna get us all killed," he muttered sourly under his breath.

Although he could not spy Quicksilver or the Spider from his vantage point, he had a feeling they were around and much nearer than he cared to imagine.

At last, Ace grudgingly let his eyes fall upon Domingo. The silent, stoic man was leaning against the furthest wall, already staring at him, arms crossed.

The large pearly scar on his left cheek dragged the aged skin downwards in a perpetual droop, like a snag in fabric. The effect was akin to a funhouse mirror, off-kilter and unbalanced. His tanned and weathered face was so still, Ace suspected it might have been hewn from stone.

Domingo was Esmeralda's right hand man. The sexagenarian had been the first member of the Hounds and her statuesque sentinel for as long as anyone could remember. There was something fierce and ruthless under the facade of calm, a sharp slash of danger simmering under every measured movement. If his age burdened him, Domingo certainly never showed it. Ace had never heard Domingo speak aside from the rare and gravely command barked out during a job.

Now Domingo stared unfalteringly into Ace's eyes, his steady gaze heavy with distaste. It was an unspoken command to stop gambling and focus on the task at hand.

Something heated in Ace's belly in response, the foolhardy folly of youth, a fire warming to meet the challenge. Ace stared back coolly, jaw tight and shoulders tense.

The craps dealer gestured over the table and removed his silver gloves. It signaled the end of his shift. All seasoned gamblers knew a change of shift was bad luck.

Aware of Domingo's searing attention, Ace winked again to the beauty across from him, and then once more at the glaring gentleman seated beside her, before sauntering off to roost defiantly at another table.

His eyes flicked combatively to Domingo one last time. Ace forced a sharp smile and tipped his hat in acknowledgement. He caught a flash of muscle twitch in Domingo's sandpaper jaw before the man tipped his own hat downwards, obscuring his face, and melted into the shadows.

When Ace found an empty seat, he clapped his hands together once with delight and flashed the table a dazzling smile. Now this looked promising, how lucky.

Ace had long learned what to search for in a mark. He believed that if you understood where a person was coming from, if you tried to see the world from their perspective, you could anticipate the trajectory of their actions. This was a critical skill for a seasoned gambler.

An austere older woman with a long, thin cigarette holder tapped ashes onto the carpet. With her other hand, she drummed the impressive stack of chips in front of her with silk-gloved fingers. A ruddy young man postured beneath his tweed suit, face flushed and prickled with beads of sweat, trying to catch the eye of the disinterested yet stunning dealer. The chips before him were unimpressive in color and few in number, and the dealer coolly avoided his gaze. A rumpled man slumped back into his chair, reeking of whiskey. He precariously swirled an amber liquid in a glass, sloshing some onto the exquisite carpet every few minutes or so. He had a single purple chip in front of him on the emerald-felted table.

Ace made note of the last face face and made a vow to pay him a visit later. Esmeralda liked to collect on her debts early on, and Ace could tell this man was about to dive into his headfirst.

See Domingo? I'm working, Ace thought, loftily. He puffed out his chest.

A few stragglers had appeared to spectate. There was only one vacant seat directly to Ace's left. A few interested parties hesitated, scanning the other tables for a better game before committing.

A young woman hovered closer than the rest, peering curiously at the table. She was a dainty little thing, with rose-brown hair twisted into a long braid. Upon closer inspection, he spotted pretty, freckled skin beneath giant wire-framed spectacles. She looked sweet like honey, and Ace had a sweet tooth. But Ace was also a connoisseur of anything doe-eyed and easy to look at.

He inspected her closer, applying the lens of reality that his profession required. Her pale blue cotton dress was feminine but conservative. The fabric was faded and thinning in patches from years of use. Her brown leather boots had simple laces tied in tidy little bows. There was an openness to her posture, always slightly leaning forward in perpetual interest. It only took Ace one glance to confirm that she was the textbook example of a complete and utter mark. The casino preyed on people like her, not that it was any of Ace's business.

Well, at least until I'm paid to make it my business, he thought cheerfully and without consequence.
Her inquisitive gaze suddenly snapped to him, her eyes a startling shade of cornflower blue.

Elsewhere in the casino, chips rattled and dice clattered and lights shimmered and popped. The smoke from imported cigars casted a gauzy effect over the den.

His heart faltered in surprise at the intensity of her full attention. If he were another person, Ace could have paused to peer back at her, to truly breathe in the experience of the moment.

But Ace was no one but himself. He flirted on reflex, without really thinking it through. His voice came out suave instinctually. A charming smile spread easily like melted butter. "Will you just be batting your eyes, darlin'? Or will you play?"

She looked startled at the question and blinked, once, in confusion. Ace found it comically endearing.
A thickly accented voice tumbled incredulously out of her. "Batting my eyes?"

He stared at her for a moment before a smile split his face and a laugh, solitary and barked out in sudden amusement like the crack of a whip, ricocheted out of him.

She frowned, perplexed.

His eyes crinkled in delight as explained, "It means someone who stands around, spectating. There's an empty seat right next to me." He looked her up and down slowly, then prompted in a low, flirtatious voice, "Will you play?"

See? Ace thought again with self-satisfaction. I work, Domingo. I'm drumming up business for the casino. No wonder Esmeralda loves me.

To his surprise, the woman looked him up and down right back, in the same slow rake, hands propped on her hips. A challenge lit her bright eyes and she took the seat beside him, arranging her skirts before decidedly plopping down into the cushion.

The dealer expertly shuffled the deck of cards, and Ace generously pushed some of his chips before her.

"How do you play?" she asked him. She was soft-spoken, but her voice had a ring of certainty to it. The effect left an impression of earnestness on him, of great diligence.

Ace smiled before he realized that he was doing it, a lopsided thing that dimpled his left cheek. He raised an eyebrow. "Different rules from where you're from?"

"I have not played this game before," she admitted. He stared at her, dumbfounded, and she continued casually, "Explain it to me." When Ace gave her a skeptical look, she laughed and insisted with a devious smile, "You may find that I am a quick study."

Ace looked down to the table, weighing the sin of his participation in this innocent's impending downward spiral, and then promptly looked back up at her and let out a deep, theatrical sigh. "Ah, what the hell. Why not?"

She beamed at him, beatific, and he shot a dazzling smile back at her. He leaned back in his chair and appraised her. "You know what?" he drawled. "I like you. You've got enthusiasm. Okay, so here's the rules. Fifty-two cards in a deck. Four suits in a deck."

"Thirteen cards in a suit," she mused, leaning forward enthusiastically.

He grinned at her. "Ding, ding, ding! Give the pretty lady a prize. Suits are snakes, crows, lizards, and hawks. Numbers go..."

They huddled together, completely engaged in the other's company. When one of the wait staff passed, Ace intercepted them from his chair and relieved them of their platter of hors d'oeuvres. Ace and the pretty foreigner smiled conspiratorially and popped the sour cream-and-scallion stuffed jalapeño peppers into their mouths as the dealer began the game.

Their blatant flirtation was sickening.

Domingo, from his vantage point within the shadows, turned away. He did not care to watch whatever charade this was. He was a man on fire, his rage a slow inferno churning him from the inside out. And Ace was nothing but a stray dog, wagging his tail and begging for scraps at whoever gave him any semblance of kindness. Pathetic.

Domingo had been imploring Esmeralda to dispose of Ace for a long time now. He was a disgrace and a liability, and the Hounds would be better off without him. Domingo would make her understand that, today, once and for all. He stalked around the perimeter of the tables, edging towards the hidden room in the secret annex of the casino.

He passed an errant poster tacked up on the wall near the staircase. It was out of place in the splendor of the casino, a homemade thing with a grainy photograph of a dapper young man printed onto it and a hefty reward listed underneath. It had been posted in a hurry, haphazardly, perhaps in desperation not to get caught by any of the Hounds or Englestead himself.

It was not a wanted poster. Domingo had no need for those since joining this gang so many years ago, although he kept an impressive stack of them from finished jobs in his youth.

No, this was a missing persons poster, signed and sealed by Councilman Jules Lewis of the Chamber of Commerce. It was unheard of in this treacherous land where people went missing and no questions were asked. Someone loved this boy enough to search for him for this many years, despite all odds.

The realization was a spur in Domingo's side. He reached up and tore it down, crumpling it into his shaking fists. Heat burned in his chest as his anger flared.

Everyone was so weak. The only way to get what you wanted was to take it. Domingo had learned that very early on. The boy was long dead, and his father was a fool to search for him.

He ducked, still furious, into the hidden corridor. Towards Esmeralda and her sinister parlor.

Back at the table, Ace had won the first hand. When the chips were collectively pushed towards his stack, he peered over at the woman. She was frowning, staring hard at the newly-shuffled deck of cards atop the green felt.

He couldn't help himself. Ace picked up her hand, moving cautiously like one might around a skittish animal, and she startled. He slowly brought his lips to her knuckles and winked at her.

"And that," he drawled with a crooked grin, "is how you play the game."

He expected her to be flustered at the advance, to blush and demure, or to spit out a curse and slap him in the face. Instead there was a defiant twinkle in her eye as she slowly retracted her hand back into her lap. A competitive smile curved her lips. "Well played."

Ace understood how the next hand would play out. He had a feel for the other players and their moods now. The older woman with the silk gloves had the most chips and would up the ante to flush out the weaker players. She was a seasoned gambler and had almost taken the pot during the first hand. Ace knew that she was his only real competition in the game. The man in the tweed suit, that had been vying to gain the attention of the dealer, straightened, clearly resolving himself to do better this hand. The drunken man had slumped back in his chair, unconscious, and had been removed by silent employees in crisp white uniforms.

The dealer did what she did best. The players made their bets and looked at their hands.

When they all discarded, he noticed that his new companion watched the pile growing in the center of the table with a rapt intensity. Her gaze was like a cat tracking the movements of a sparrow through a window.

Ace wondered if the rules were still a jumble in her head, having only recently explained to her. He wondered if he should explain again, but then shrugged off the responsibility and dismissed the thought.

They made their bets anew, and the woman with the silk gloves did exactly as he predicted.
Ace called the bet and raised.

The spectacled woman, his new friend, saw the high wager and reviewed her moderate pile of chips. She hesitated.

"It's all right to fold, darlin'," Ace whispered, keeping his voice warm to soothe any agitation. He did not know her well enough to gauge if she was a sore loser, and decided it would be best not to offend. "If you don't like what you see, the next hand might be kinder to you."

The woman pinned him with her pale blue gaze and then called the bet, raising the stakes higher than it had been before.

Gutsy. Ace grinned and shook his head, amused.

The silk-fingered woman smiled in a way that chilled Ace's spine.

The man in the tweed suit deliberated for a long moment, conflict warring internally, before begrudgingly sacrificing the necessary chips to the pile.

Her attention never wavered from the growing discard pile. And then it was here at last. The final chance to raise the stakes had come upon them.

The moment was heavy, fraught with tension. The players eyed each other, gazes consuming one another in pursuit of any inkling as to what might happen.

All except for the bespectacled foreigner, who relaxed back into the plush cushion of her chair, stuffing another jalapeño into her mouth.

The older woman raised the bet.

Ace met it but did not raise further.

The woman with the braid and the glasses, still munching her appetizer, pushed all her chips into the center of the table without any preamble.

The man in the tweed suit made a noise of frustration tossed his cards onto the felted surface, some spilling onto the carpet below, and stalked off. Coincidentally, it was the only time during the entire game that the dealer glanced at him.

Ace was flabbergasted. Was this woman sane? He had misjudged the players upon first glance. It was not the drunken man who he would need to track down for Esmeralda, but instead his new and nameless friend. The thought was a twist in his gut.

He realized with some shock that he would hate the things that Esmeralda would do to her to collect the debts.

He worried his lip. Feelings like these were not the reason why he gambled. Ace was reckless by nature. So why was it that this stranger caused him such unprompted grief?

For a moment he started to wonder if Domingo might have been right, but his stubborn pride would not allow him to pursue that line of thought any further. This wasn't any of his damn business, anyway, and if he were wise, he should keep it that way.

The aristocrat watched the younger woman sitting across the table with predatory intent. They both turned to Ace, who sent an honest-to-saints authentic prayer to his lucky star this time around.

He made an offhand decision and tucked it away in his pocket, like an interesting stone one discovers while on a walk. It was a commitment he made without considering the consequences, and it fit snugly into the pattern of all the previous commitments he had ever made in his life.

He would bail her out if she lost. He would convince her to stop playing afterwards, but in order to do that he would have to win first. He considered his hand, which was good, but not great. He resigned himself. It would have to do. Ignoring all premonitions of impending failure, he wholeheartedly focused the totality of his attention on his lucky star.

They revealed their cards.

The older woman hastily lit a cigarette with a shaking, satin hand. The cigarette fell out of its perch in the ridiculously dramatic holder and burned a hole the material of the table.

Ace gawked, open-mouthed, as the dealer pushed the mountain of chips in front of the bespectacled woman. The woman that he thought he had read like a book. The alleged mark. Who was she?

She smiled at his obvious confusion, delicately picked up his hand, and pressed a featherlight kiss to his knuckles. She peered up at him through her lashes and winked.

Ace's heart felt like it was being strangled and hogtied by a lasso. Heat instantly flushed his face and warmed his ears. The suave, flirtatious belvedere was in utter disarray. What the hell was that? he thought, erratically.

He was distressed, fighting to untangle the mess of his emotions. Suspicion. Alarm. Relief. Humiliation. Bewilderment. Of all things, arousal. He could not extinguish the heat in his cheeks, could not pry his eyes from her sweet, smug face.

"And that," she said in a quiet voice reserved only for him, her accent clipping the syllables in its foreign lilt, "is how you play the game."

Ace felt like he was under a spell. She abandoned the table before the next game started, claiming to be needed elsewhere for a previous engagement. The dealer rounded up the chips for an easier pilgrimage to the cashier's booth.

Before she departed, she paused to push a small portion of her winnings toward Ace's meager pile of chips. It wasn't until she had disappeared into the crowd that Ace realized it was the exact amount he had lent her at the start of the first game.

He puzzled over it long after she was gone, like a frustrating riddle, truly at sea over the cheeky girl who had swindled the swindler.