In The Company Of Dead Things

[Briarheart]

[[Solo.]]

[Briarheart]

The only sound in the room was the soft scraping of cardboard as I thumbed open the tuck case.

It was a dark thing, a pitch black that matched my gloves. The art depicted a battle between a heavenly host and a demonic horde. Finely sketched by the hand of a master, at that. The detail on the chariot that led the angelic forces in particular was striking.

I slid the cards out and tossed the box onto the table beside me. The art on the back of the cards singled out the angel in the chariot, declaring war against her enemies. The art was flipped onto the other half of the card, so nobody could cry about the cards being “marked”. Holding them tightly in one hand, I fanned them out. The action was smooth--almost too smooth. A dealer's dream. A mark's nightmare.

I set the deck down onto the green felt-covered surface of the hexagonal table. The surface was perfectly flat, the fabric stretched taught without any unsightly knots visible. With a deft motion, I spread them out in a perfect line.

The other five people assembled exchanged unreadable looks as I went about trying to grip the last card on the left with my thumb and forefinger. Amber light flickered from my eyes in frustration as the leather of my gloves slid off the finish of the card once, twice, three times.

“Hang on,” I muttered, not caring if the others heard me. I tore my gloves off, stuffed them into my back pocket, and gripped the card without a problem. More than one of the others recoiled in disgust at my briar-knit hands. Fuck 'em. With a flick, I flipped over the entire line.

“All cards are present,” I said into the darkness, making eye contact with each of the players present.

One of them raised a finger. Middle-aged man, three days of stubble, a small scar on his left cheek. “Jokers wild?”

I grabbed the two in question and slipped them back into the tuck case. They were marked with large demonic faces, horrible, twisted depictions that sent a small chill down my spine. “Nothing wild.”

The man scoffed and went back to nursing his drink. Meanwhile, I scooped up the cards in a single sliding motion and began.

Three riffle shuffles with bridges. One Faro. Another Faro. A Waterfall to dazzle and impress the others while calming my nerves a bit with the rippling crack of the deck as card met card.

I continued to work them into some semblance of a random pile of numbers and suits as I tried to empty my mind of all thought.

Focus on the cards.

Breathe deeply.

Exhale.

Focus.

The Jack of Diamonds slipped out of my hands and fell face-up onto the table. One of the others tried to stifle a condescending snicker, I couldn't tell which one. Maybe I'd deal them a Two and a Seven off-suit three hands in a row, that'd shut them up.

I quickly returned to a routine of riffle and bridge, riffle and bridge. A few quick cuts. Riffle and bridge.

One of the two other ladies cut across the icy silence that choked the room. “Can we get on with it?”

I shot her an empty look that lingered for a long, uncomfortable second. “We have all the time in the world.”