I put the gun down hard, almost snatching my hand away. I didn’t like the feel of it—how it made me feel. I hated the gun. Hated myself for what I was doing. I carefully didn’t look at Molly, but I couldn’t help thinking, Don’t stretch this out. Put the bullet in the chamber, get this over with. Let the poor bastard die. Don’t torture him like this. Don’t torture me.
Jules picked up the gun. He hefted it, almost thoughtfully. We looked into each other’s eyes. He could see me now. The gun had made me real to him. The man who might kill him. The contact between us was direct, without barriers, almost intimate. I knew what he was feeling; he knew what I was feeling. Two men, bound together by a death that hadn’t happened yet. I had killed men before, when it was part of the job. I prided myself they were all people who needed killing. That the world was a better, safer place without them in it. But I’d never had to sit opposite them, stare them in the eyes, while I did it. I could feel sweat on my face now. Jules and I were both breathing hard, almost in time with each other. As though we were both complicit in whatever happened next.
The crowd had fallen silent again, caught up in the moment. Their breathing was oddly synchronised, as though they had become one great organism. All of them stretched taut, by the painful anticipation of killing to come. I couldn’t see Molly. I couldn’t look away from Jules, and the gun. There was a bullet in it. I could feel it. And to my surprise, that made the moment easier to bear. Made it better. The danger felt very real and I was getting into it. All my life, the armour had been there to protect me. But now, sitting here, staring death in the face, I had never felt so alive. But . . . I only had to look into Jules’ horribly fascinated eyes to see where that kind of feeling led you. Jules wanted to be here, but not to win. He wanted to play. He pointed the gun carefully at my right eye, and his hand was shaking now, just a little. With the thrill of the moment.
And then Jonathon Scott shouted, “Stop!”
Jules looked round sharply as the manager’s hand came down out of nowhere, and forced Jules’ hand down onto the table. Scott forced Jules to let go of the gun, wrestling it out of his hand. Jules suddenly stopped fighting him. The moment was broken. The manager picked up the Smith & Wesson, and stepped back from the table. There were raised angry voices to every side—men and women cheated of their sport. The manager glared coldly about him and the voices fell silent.
“This game is suspended,” said Jonathon Scott. “Jules is disqualified, for cheating.”
I sat back in my chair. Breathing hard, shaking in every limb. Adrenalin was still rushing through me, and my heart was pounding painfully. And all I could think was I made it. I’m alive. I’m alive. . . .
The game’s uniformed flunky put his arms around Jules, and held him still, while Scott searched roughly through Jules’ pockets. He soon found what he was looking for. He held up a small bone amulet so that everyone could see it. The crowd murmured angrily.
“A hidden charm, to affect the bullet in the gun,” said Scott, in a loud and carrying voice. “It didn’t work, of course; this whole room is covered by a null zone, cancelling out any magics that might affect the games. But it was such a small charm it took us a while to work out who had it, and what it was doing.” He looked at Jules contemptuously. “He was trying to force a bullet into the chamber of the gun when it was facing him. Because he wanted to die. Not just because he owed more money than he could ever hope to pay back. But because he saw this pathetic death as the ultimate thrill.
“As the injured party, Shaman Bond is hereby declared the winner. All bets placed shall be paid off in his favour.”
He gestured to the uniformed flunky, who dragged Jules out of his chair with surprising strength, and hauled him away. Jules tried to fight him, tried to pull away, and couldn’t. There was a more than natural strength in the flunky’s hands. Gentleman Junkie Jules was dragged from the room, kicking and screaming all the way. The doors slammed shut behind him, cutting off his hysterical voice. A low heavy murmur moved through the crowds, as all bets were settled. They weren’t sure whether they felt cheated or not. They hadn’t seen a man die, but the unexpected drama had been almost as satisfying.
I looked at Scott. “What will happen to him? Will you have him killed, for cheating?”
“Of course not,” said Scott. “I have a much better punishment in mind. Jules will be thrown out of Casino Infernale, and then we will pass on the word, to ensure that he is banned from every other major gambling house. As a proven cheat. Let him live with that. We won’t kill him, Mr. Bond. That’s what he wants. We’re not here to do people favours.”
He smiled briefly, meaninglessly, and drifted away. The crowd went with him. I sat in my chair, looking at the gun on the table. Molly and Frankie hurried forward to join me. Molly was stuffing handfuls of assorted bank-notes into a red leather reticule that Frankie was holding for her. There looked to be a hell of a lot of money there, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I looked dully at Molly.
“The manager said there was a null zone. No magics would work here.”
“I know!” said Molly. “Found that out the moment I tried to work one. But there was nothing I could do to warn you, not once you’d sat down at the table. I’m sorry, Shaman, but you played two rounds of Russian roulette for real.”
“I know,” I said. “I think . . . I need a drink. A lot of drinks.”
“Me too,” said Molly. “Let’s get a bottle. Each.”
“I’m afraid there’s no time,” said Frankie, forcing the last of the money into the reticule and snapping it shut. “You need to keep playing while you’re still hot and people are still interested in you. We have to keep the side bets going! Remember, it’s the privilege of winning, as well as the money, that will prove you worthy to leave here and rise to the next level!”
“You chose Russian roulette,” I said to Frankie. “I’ll choose the next game.”
I stood up and looked around the room. I was back in control again, awake and focused. I studied my surroundings with an experienced eye, and the first thing I noticed was that there weren’t nearly as many people gathered around the roulette wheel as I would have expected. People like to play roulette. They think it’s glamorous and exciting, and fun to play, because they don’t really understand the rules, or the odds. But those who were standing around the wheel and the table were studying it with far more than usual fascination. They studied every move of the ball and the wheel, as though their lives depended on it. In fact, I would have said they looked scared shitless.
“Explain to me,” I said to Frankie, “what is going on with that roulette wheel?”
“Ah,” he said. “You’ve noticed. That’s not your usual, everyday game of roulette. You use chips to gamble there, but they don’t represent the cash you paid for them. You bet years of your life.”
“What?” said Molly. “How the hell does that work?”
“Oh, it’s very ingenious,” Frankie said earnestly. “A game unique to Casino Infernale. You bet red and black, you see, and the number you choose is how many years of your life that you’re betting. Not the years you’ve lived, but your future years, the years you still have left to live. You’re betting your future. If the wheel turns, and your number doesn’t come up, you lose the number of years you’ve bet. To the house. That’s the Casino’s cut. So if you bet, say, twenty-one on red or black, and you lose, you become twenty-one years older. But if you bet on twenty-one and you win, then you gain twenty-one years of extra life!