Page 39 of Summoned
13
Nicole
Resisting the Black Joker’s attempts to intimidate me is much easier than resisting his compliments. Because when he offers the latter, my heart races.
It’s a trap—another one of his tricks to manipulate me. Tonight, he couldn’t scare me with his macabre show, not the way he’d hoped, so now he’s switching tactics.
The game he proposes is a trap, too. I can smell it from a mile away. Yet, the prospect of questioning the Black Joker ignites a reckless curiosity in me.
And besides…the Deliborovs’ ball was a disaster, my father lost his temper and took it out on me again, and the Black Joker saw me naked. The night really can’t get any worse, can it?
If Gaetano wants to play a game of questions, then we’ll play.
“Be a gentleman and let me start. Why can’t you be held anywhere?” I ask.
A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “Not so fast, Baroness. The questions are asked during a card game.”
“Card game?” I echo, with a touch of sarcasm.
With a flick of his wrist, he conjures a deck of cards into his hand. His fingers shuffle them with the precision of someone who’s played this game too many times. “Yes. The game’s calledBlack Joker.”
Of course it is. I roll my eyes. “Oh no, no sign of a god complex there…”
“On the contrary. Though I get the feeling I’m not the only one.” He fans out the deck with a flourish. The cardshover in mid-air between us, as if gravity doesn’t hold them. Their backs are black, and their faces have illustrations I don’t quite understand.
My arms fall to my sides, but I’m already too intrigued. Above us, the cards drift and spin.
“What are the rules?” I ask.
He grins, and a dimple appears on his cheek. It draws my attention more than it should. Then, with a casual sweep of his hand, a square table and two chairs materialize between the bed and wardrobe, resting on the chocolate-colored rug carefully chosen in terms of design. The Black Joker takes a seat. It’s far too small for his size, highlighting how broad he is. He leans back in the chair, stretches one leg out, and gestures toward the other seat.
With a resigned sigh, I lower myself onto the conjured furniture.
“We take turns drawing a card.” He points a finger at the hovering deck. The cards drift toward us and settle on the table, face down. “Drawing asafecard allows you to ask a question. Aspecialcard means you’ll need to complete its task before earning the right to ask. If you draw the Black Joker card, you lose the game.”
My fingers clutch the arms of the chair. “How can I be sure you’re not rigging the deck?”
He tilts his head, never breaking eye contact with me. “You have my word.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“A wise choice, Baroness. But if you don’t trust my word, you can trust the magic.” With a snap of his fingers, the table trembles. The cards shuffle themselves, guided by an unseen force. “The game is ancient. Once it starts, it can’t be manipulated. The only one in charge of the outcome is luck.”
My gaze darts between the black cards and his face. He’s observing me with the cool stillness of a hunter who’s already caught his prey. What he doesn’t realize? Luck or not, I hate losing. That’s why I never do.
I lean forward and flip a card. The illustration depicts a large mirror, with a black, rune-engraved frame. A shadow moves within it, a distorted face twisting in the glass like smoke, threatening to seep beyond the edges. And at its center: a question mark. “What the hell is that?”
“A safe card. You’ve earned the right to ask,” Gaetano says.
I allow myself the smallest breath of relief. “All right. Why can’t you be held anywhere, even if you want to be? What did you mean by that?”
Gaetano’s expression remains inscrutable. “I’m bound to my castle in a particular way. I can’t remain far from it for long. If I try, it pulls me back. By force.”
I frown. That doesn’t match his all-powerful witcher image. “Why?”
“My turn.”
He flips a card. The picture is different: a skeletal hand clutching a golden chain, a key dangling from it. Above it, in bold black letters, it reads:Il Prigioniero.
