Page 135 of Summoned
He braces his hands on either side of me, pressing his forehead against my own. “Fuck, Nicole.”
I remain silent, because I know what he means. Whatever this is between us, it defies reason, but it’s extraordinary.When he lifts his head and meets my eyes, his irises are unusually dark, shimmering with a strange glint. Something tightens in my chest—a sudden wave of unease I can’t explain. As if I’m absorbing it from his gaze and reflecting it with my heart.
Gradually, his expression shifts and settles into the cold, hard resolve of the Black Joker. “It’s showtime,” he says.
I trail a finger along his collarbone, tracing the rune carved into it. “Not before you walk in through the hotel lobby. I’m sure the receptionist can’t wait to catch a glimpse of Signor Neri.”
* * *
A black silk shirt, semi-transparent under the light, highlights Gaetano’s chiseled chest. It’s complemented by a black belt with a metal buckle in the form of a skeleton. Tight leather pants cling to his thighs like a second skin, disappearing into black boots.
He moves with composure, unfolding his magic as if it were art.
Dark streaks snake across the carpets, reminiscent of creeping roots or veins. The linen curtains disintegrate into tatters, replaced by heavy crimson drapes embroidered in black. The furniture remains, but looks on the brinkof decay—armchairs marred with scars; the table’s wood etched with deep scratches. At its center a skull-shaped bowl takes shape, its hollow cranium filled with chocolate candies and other sweet temptations.
The space between the furniture and the wall extends outward, opening into an area wide enough to accommodate a dance floor for forty to fifty people.An isolated corner forms near the windows—an easel with a blank canvas, two high-backed armchairs, and a small table with brushes, charcoal, and glass containers filled with ink.
The lighting fractures through candles that burn not with a flame but with a smoldering blue glow. Thick cobwebs cover the bar counter’s glossy surface. The labels on the bottles transform into warped symbols that shimmer with an uncanny radiance. Crystal glasses sparkle under the soft light.
Distinct piano chords linger in the air. They carry supernatural vibrations, causing the hairs at the back of my neck to bristle. As I turn around, people come into view. A group chats near the bar, each holding a glass. Two young women laugh by the window, and just a meter away, a middle-aged man stares at his phone. When I focus on him, I notice the slightly unnatural tone of his face, the lack of emotion, and the erratic movements of his fingers on the screen.Illusions.
Yet the greatest illusion is by the door. There, a dark alcove rises. A hostess stands beside it, cradling a golden box in her gloved hands. Inside the box lies a deck of cards, each bearing a unique symbol on the front and a line of text on the back. Guests will each draw one. Peeking at others’ or trading is not allowed. Their card determines their role for the night—perhaps the Princess, the Puppet, the Cuckoo, the Devil, Death, or something else altogether. They’ll betold that one card holds a rare and powerful symbol: the Black Joker.
The rules of the game are simple: identify the guest who holds the Black Joker. If you suspect someone’s role, you may read aloud the inscription on the back of their card. If your guess is correct, they must surrender their card and make you the new Black Joker.
At the end of the night, the winner is whoever holds the Black Joker card. The prize? A secret, one-of-a-kind artifact: “an object of envy, interpretations, and rumors.”
Everything appears to be part of an “interactive performance.” No one will suspect that the text on the back of each card is, in fact, the summoning spell for the Black Joker.
“Not everyone will read it through, and not every time,” Gaetano says, “but the more the words are repeated over the course of the evening, the stronger they become. And when the moment for the summoning arrives, the words will tear from their lips as if of their own will.”
I shudder at the thought of how many things could go wrong. Will enough guests show up? Will they agree to play? Will they let Gaetano carry out what he’s planned? Will they recite the words…
How will I continue, knowing I’ve sacrificed eleven people?
Instinctively, I reach beneath the hem of my tight black dress, my fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh. I’ve become oddly attached to it these past few days. It’s Gaetano’s first gift to me.
But as its icy surface presses against my skin, a fresh wave of fear coils in my chest. Gaetano seems to sense my unease because he steps in front of me and takes my hands in his.
“We’ve been reviewing the plan for two days, but we haven’t discussed the most important part,” he says with concern. “The moment of the harvest. You’re going to see things that might haunt you for the rest of your life. But you don’t have to watch. You don’t have to go through with this at all. Just say the word, and I won’t do anything.”
His words ignite a fire in me.
“A lioness doesn’t back down when she senses danger. On the contrary, she steps forward to see if there’s something to tear apart.”
His lips twitch at the corners, but there’s an element in his smile I can’t quite read. Maybe a hidden sadness?
Without saying anything more, he focuses on the door. A second later, the sound of the private elevator signals the arrival of the first guests.
Gaetano leans in for a quick kiss, whispering, “Don’t engage anyone in conversation. It’ll be easier for you that way. And don’t forget, you can’t leave the room until I’ve created the contracts. If you do, the magic will pull me back to the castle.”
45
Gaetano
This is my moment.
Time to perform.
