Molly was there, in the front row, waiting for me. She threw her arms around me as I left the circle and hugged me tight, as though she’d never let me go. I held on to her. The only thing in my life that always made sense in my ever-changing world. We finally let go, and stood back, and I grinned at her.
“The old legends are always the best. Did you get good odds on me?”
“Hell, yes!” said Frankie, joining us. “Mostly from people who’d never heard of Shaman Bond.”
“We won over three hundred souls betting on you!” said Molly.
“Three hundred and twenty-two,” said Frankie.
Molly glared at him. “Isn’t that what I said?”
“What are you planning on doing with all these souls?” I said.
“Use them as collateral for future bets,” said Molly. “We’re here to break the bank, remember? Can’t do that, if we haven’t got the souls.”
“I’m still concerned about what happens to these souls afterwards,” I said.
“Well, of course you are, because that’s you,” said Molly.
“Don’t think about it,” said Frankie, quite seriously. “You can worry about all that later, if there is a later. For now, please concentrate on the Games before you. Because from now on any lack of concentration will almost certainly get you killed. Change War was an easy Game against a relatively unskilled opponent. It gets harder, and more complicated, from now on.”
Another generic flunky approached me. I didn’t bother asking if we’d met before. He bowed briefly, and presented me with a single small coin. I hefted it in the palm of my hand, and could barely feel the weight of the dull metal.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll bite. What is this?”
“An obol, sir. A chit from Casino Infernale representing one soul. The soul of the Little Lord, won in the Change War.”
I looked at the coin again. Small, roughly milled edge, the markings almost worn away. “This is a human soul?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not very big, is it?” said Molly, leaning over for a closer look. “Rather humbling, I suppose, when you think about it.”
“The obol represents the soul,” said the flunky. “Your receipt, sir, if you like. Don’t lose it. Casino Infernale is not obliged to offer a replacement.”
“We didn’t get any coins from our side bets,” said Molly.
“The Casino keeps a record of all such exchanges and transactions at the Games, miss,” said the generic flunky. “Even if it’s not immediately obvious. The Casino sees all, knows all. The record is all you need, to make further wagers. The obol is . . . ceremonial. A prize, to the winner of the Game. Apparently, humans value such things. I am told I wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I do,” I said. I put the obol away, carefully, in an inner pocket.
The flunky bowed, turned, and departed. I looked out into the stone circle, where two other uniformed generic flunkies were dumping the still unconscious Little Lord on a stretcher. They carried her out. Some of the crowd laughed at her, and booed, for letting the side down. I hoped the flunkies found her top hat.
“She would have taken your soul, if she’d won,” said Frankie, trying to be kind.
“An obol,” Molly said thoughtfully. “Isn’t that the coin the ancient Greeks used to put on the eyes of their dead to pay Charon the Boatman to ferry their souls across the river to the land of the dead? Maybe you’re not the only one here who’s thinking about the old legends.”
“You’ve been watching the History Channel again,” I said. “Because you have to say something at moments like that.”
I looked back into the stone circle. The Little Lord was gone.
“What will happen to her?” I said to Frankie.
“She has nothing left to bet with,” he said. “She lost her soul to you, so she can’t play in any more Games, or wager on them. The Casino will hold on to her until the Games are over and her final fate can be decided.”
“Don’t get sentimental,” said Molly, sternly. “She would have been quite happy to see that happen to you.”
“She just wanted to go home,” I said. “Where will they put her, Frankie?”
“There’s a place in the hotel,” Frankie said carefully. “Somewhere safe and secure, for all the losers.”
“As a face, in the corridor?” said Molly.
“No,” said Frankie, immediately. “Those are the souls the Casino owns. They don’t own the Little Lord’s soul. You do, Shaman.”
“Liking the Medium Games less and less all the time,” I said.
“You have to play, to win,” said Frankie. “If you really are going to break the bank.”
“My turn now!” Molly said briskly. “Come on, Frankie, we need to escalate things. What’s a good Game for winning big?”
Frankie pointed across the rows of seating at a short cheerfullooking black man, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. He had close-cropped white hair, a hard-worn face, and an easy smile. And yet the people all around him still seemed to be going out of their way to give him plenty of room.
“That,” said Frankie, in a surprisingly respectful tone of voice, “is the Bones Man. Got his name from old triumphs with the dominos, which were always known as bones in the Caribbean community of old London. Do I really need to tell you he’s a voodoo practitioner?”
“I don’t know the name,” I said, frowning. “Not really my territory. . . . Is he dangerous?”
“Of course he’s dangerous!” said Frankie. “Or he wouldn’t be here. He’s not a good man to play Games with; he has a reputation for needless cruelty. Likes to play with his victims before finishing them off. A bit too nasty, even for this crowd. I think they’d like to see him take a fall, but they’d still bet on him. Which is something we could take advantage of . . . You have a pretty bad reputation yourself, Molly, enough to perk the interest of the crowd. Challenge the Bones Man and win, and we could be talking serious souls.”
“What game?” said Molly. “Change War?”
“He wouldn’t lower himself,” said Frankie. “Far too entry-level, for someone like him. No, I recommend you challenge him to a Game of World War.”
“Hold everything, go previous,” I said. “That sounds . . . excessive.”
“Not that kind of World War,” said Frankie. “This is all about creating worlds, right there in the Arena. Whoever creates the realest world, with the most dangerous and most threatening inhabitants, wins. By overwhelming your opponent’s world.”
“I can do that,” said Molly. “I’ve been around.”
“That’s true,” I said. “You have. But are we talking about real worlds here, or imaginary creations?”
“Little bit of both,” Frankie said cheerfully. “It’s all about what you bring to the circle. That’s what makes the Game so exciting.”
“One world overwhelming another,” I said. “To the death?”
“Can be,” said Frankie. “Usually . . . but you can always submit. Yield to a greater player.”
I looked at Molly. “Don’t be proud. If you’re losing, quit. We can always play another Game.”
“You never did have the knack for pep talks,” said Molly.
And before I could say anything to stop her, or even slow her down, Molly strode off through the stone seats to confront the Bones Man. He knew she was coming, even though he had his back to her, and stood up to turn and face her at the very last moment. Still smiling his calm, implacable smile. I was already hurrying after her, determined not to be left out, with Frankie in my wake, but I stopped far enough short that she wouldn’t think I was fussing over her. Molly could get very upset if she thought that.
“Molly Metcalf,” said the Bones Man, smiling almost fondly on her. His voice was rich and dark, almost avuncular. “Your reputation precedes you, me girl. What is it you want with me, now? You think to challenge me, little witch?”