Page 80 of Devil in the Details

Even though she’d known that already, Delia’s stomach still felt as if it had dropped to the gaudily patterned carpet beneath her feet.

“Which of course is why they had to hold the tournament here,” Delia said.

“Exactly,” Pru replied.

The whole tournament was some kind of activation mechanism, Delia realized. Once the circuit was made at the poker table, it would be like throwing a switch that connected all those various properties simultaneously, creating a river of unholy energy flowing right through the heart of town.

Movement out of the corner of her eye made her glance up from her phone. Aaron Sanchez was walking swiftly toward her, his movements smooth, purposeful.

Deadly.

She told Prudence, “Gotta go,” and shoved the phone back in her purse as she prepared to flee.

But it was too late. Aaron’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with inhuman strength. His skin felt wrong — cold and somehow slick, like a snake’s scales, even though it looked normal enough to the naked eye.

“You should have stayed away,” he said in a hissing undertone. “This was never your fight.”

“Let go of me.” She tried to yank her arm out of his hand, but his grip only tightened, feeling like a band of iron around her bicep.

A reddish light flickered in his coal-black eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

His other hand reached for her throat, and Delia recoiled. No one nearby seemed to be paying any attention to them, and she wondered if he was using some sort of demonic power to make sure their gaze was focused elsewhere, to ensure no one would intervene to prevent him from choking her to death then and there.

If that was the case, then there wasn’t much point in screaming.

But then he was catapulted backward, his grip on her arm releasing with shocking suddenness as he was thrown to the ground like a rag doll by some invisible force. Ty Carter materialized in the space between them, the shock of his presence sending ripples through the supernatural energy field.

“Run,” he told her. “Stay close to Caleb, no matter what.”

Caleb could feel it all around him, a sensation impossible to ignore…even if he really wished he could.

The heavy, pulsing energy hung thick in the air as he took his seat at the final table. Most of the spectators crowded behind the velvet rope or over in the VIP section probably couldn’t sense what seemed to surround him like a miasma of choking smog, but he still saw a few people rubbing their arms or looking around in confusion, as if they could tell something wasn’t quite right even if they would never have been able to explain the sensation.

A man named Ted Miller sat directly across from him. On the surface, the other man seemed to be exactly who everyone expected him to be — a previous World Series of Poker contender, someone known almost as well for his endless parade of loud Hawaiian shirts as he was for his cool, deliberate play at the gaming tables.

But Caleb could see past the façade now. The man’s eyes were too bright, almost feverish, and his hands moved with an unsettling precision as he fiddled with his chips.

The other two players had already been eliminated far too quickly, as if the powers controlling Ted had decided there was no point in stringing this out, not when it was obvious how the tournament was supposed to end. Just as Ty predicted, it had come down to this — Caleb against whatever Ted Miller really was.

The dealer began spreading cards, and Caleb felt the energy concentrated inside the casino spike like a seismograph during an earthquake. The overhead lights flickered, drawing nervous murmurs from the crowd, although no one seemed inclined to leave the casino for the safer open-air spaces outside. Off to one side, Hank Bowers watched the proceedings, a look of supreme satisfaction on his face.

He probably thought he had Caleb right where he wanted him.

Focus, Caleb told himself. Just play the game.

But it wasn’t simply a game anymore. Each hand felt charged with supernatural significance. Every chip pushed into the pot seemed to amplify the power building inside the casino. Caleb’s demon blood throbbed in his veins, responding to the energy that crackled through the room, even as he did his best to ignore the uncomfortable sensation.

You’re mostly human, he thought fiercely. So act like it.

He looked up from his cards and caught Ted staring at him, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his thin-lipped mouth. The other man’s fingers traced patterns on the felt of the table — patterns that made Caleb’s eyes hurt if he looked at them too long.

That same knowing smile was echoed on Hank Bowers’ features as the dealer announced the final hand.

The lights dimmed again, staying dark for much longer this time, and Caleb heard whispers of confusion from the watching crowd. But no one left. They couldn’t. The energy was holding them there, weaving them into whatever ritual Hank and his accomplices had planned.

Caleb’s cards seemed to burn in his hands. He knew without looking that Ted had been dealt the exact hand he wanted. This wasn’t about skill anymore — it was about power, about who could control the forces building to a crescendo around them.

Movement caught his eye, and he realized it was Delia pushing through the crowd, Ty Carter only a pace behind her. Her face was pale, her jaw set with determination. She gave him a very small nod, and it was as if he could hear her voice in his head.

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